Wine

In the last installment of these cheery chronicles, I had occasion to mention aligoté, the second most widely planted white grape in Burgundy. I say “second most,” but it is a distant second. Only about 6 percent of Bourgogne is planted with that ancient grape, a crossing of pinot noir and gouais blanc, a nearly extinct varietal known as the “Casanova of Grapes” because it is a parent of scores of grape varieties. Until fairly recently, aligoté was second in another sense as well. It seldom ripened fully by harvest time and the resulting wine, though taut and full of mineral notes, tended to be a bit astringent. It’s usual fate was as the muscle behind the cocktail kir, the elegance being supplied by crème de cassis. Two things changed that: nature and nurture.

I have always wondered whether The Compleat Angler, Izaak Walton’s piscine classic, would have enjoyed its wide and longstanding recognition absent the antique spelling “compleat.” I somehow suspect that a book titled The Complete Angler would not have made the same impression, especially on modern readers. First published in 1653, the book went through many editions in Walton’s life and after. It is a charming, leisurely guide, “not unworthy,” as its original title page observed, “the peruſal of moſt Anglers.” (Those long “s”es add a little something, don’t you agree?) It is said that Walton, a staunch anti-Cromwellian, good fellow, was particularly fond of the saying “Study to be quiet.

Some years ago, I edited and provided an introduction and notes for an edition of Walter Bagehot’s book Physics and Politics (1872). The book has nothing to do with physics in the modern sense of the word (though an argument could be made that it does bear on the original meaning of the Greek word physis, nature. Rather, its elaborate subtitle sheds light on the book’s content: “Thoughts on the Application of the Principles of ‘Natural Selection’ and ‘Inheritance’ to Political Society.” Bagehot was writing a scant dozen years after the publication of On the Origin of Species.

Malbec, observed Hugh Johnson, is a “conundrum.” Sometimes it is light in color as well as body. That’s what it tends to be like in the Loire, where the grape is called côt (apparently its original name). It used to be grown in Bordeaux, where it was used primarily as a sort of filler, rounding out the cabs and merlots. In Cahors, its major French venue today, it is sometimes called côt noir or Auxerrois. There malbec tends to be bold, spicy and dark. “Dark,” in fact, is one of the wine writer’s favorite adjectives for this allotrope of malbec. This was the “black wine” that Thomas Jefferson would sometimes add to his claret to deepen its color. But malbec is a fussy grape. The French climate is a challenge.

Most wine columns resemble recipes from Larousse Gastronomique or Mastering the Art of French Cooking in this way: they have happy endings. This column, alas, proceeds with a melancholy burden. The world of wine, it pains me to report, is in the doldrums. Is it because of a new infestation of phylloxera, the blight that devastated French vineyards in the 19th century, or some other pest? Is it some novel tyranny of teetotalers, outlawing the production and consumption of wine? No. It is something closer to original sin or what Immanuel Kant on a dreary afternoon called “the crooked timber of humanity” out of which nothing straight can be fashioned. In short, it is the news that the wine industry itself is dying. Why?