Of course I do. I adore the stuff.”
“And Chablis?”
“Boy, do I love Chablis! I had the most marvellous bottle the other day. Fantastic. Flinty, really flinty. Like biscuits, you know.
Just great.”
Will was about to point out that the Chardonnay grape was used to make both champagne and Chablis, but decided not to.
It was fashionable, amongst those who knew very little, to decry Chardonnay, but it was still a great variety, even if its reputation had been damaged by the flooding of the market with vast quantities of inferior wine.
“Of course I’m much more New World than Old World,”
Bruce went on, scanning further down the list. “France is finished in my view. Finished.”
Will looked surprised. “France? Finished?”
Bruce nodded. “Washed out. They just can’t compete with the New World boys – they just can’t. If you sit down with a bottle of good California – even a modestly-priced bottle – and then you sit down with a bottle of Bordeaux, let’s say, the California wins every time – every time. And a lot of people think like me, you know.”
Will looked doubtful. “But don’t you think that these New World wines wane after two or three mouthfuls?”
“No,” said Bruce. “Not at all.”
Will smiled. “But, you know, these New World wines give you a sudden burst of delight, but don’t you think that they rather drown the flavour? French wines usually are much more complex.
They’re meant to go with food, after all.”
“You can eat while you’re drinking New World wines, too,”
said Bruce. “I often do that. I have a bottle of California and I find it goes well with pasta.”
“Red or white?” asked Will.
“White with pasta,” said Bruce. “All the time.”
292
They both looked at the menu.
“Here’s one for me,” said Bruce. “I’m going to get a half bottle of Muddy Wonga South Australian. That’s a big wine – really big.”
Will looked at the Muddy Wonga listing. “Interesting,” he said. “I’ve never heard of that. Have you had it before?”
“Lots of times,” said Bruce. “It’s got a sort of purple colour to it and a great deal of nose.”
“Could be the mud,” suggested Will quietly, but Bruce did not hear.
“And you?” asked Bruce. “What are you going to have?”
“Well,” said Will. “I rather like the look of this Bordeaux.
Pomerol.”
“A left bank man,” said Bruce.
“Actually, it’s on the right bank,” said Will quietly.
“Same river,” said Bruce.
Will agreed. “Of course.”
“Of course at least you’ll get it with a cork in it,” said Bruce.
“None of those ghastly screw caps. Do you know I was at a restaurant the other day – with this rather nice American girl I’ve met – and they served the wine in a screw cap bottle. Can you believe it?’
“Screw caps are very effective,” Will began. “There are a lot of estates . . .”
Bruce ignored this. “But can you believe it? A screw cap in a decent restaurant? I almost sent it back.”
“Corked?” ventured Will.
“No, it had a screw cap,” said Bruce.
They ordered their wine, which was served to them in a few minutes. Bruce poured himself a glass and held it up to his nose.
“Superb,” he said. “The winemaker at Muddy Wonga is called Lofty Shaw. He had some training at Napa and then went back to Australia. Here, smell this.”
He passed his glass under Will’s nose.
“Blackcurrants,” said Bruce. “Heaps of fruit. Bang.”
Will nodded. “It’s a big wine,” he said.
“Huge,” said Bruce. “Muscular. A wine with pecs!”
