Although the wine was still full of fruit, it was also cloudy and murky, so dark and ugly that it could be studied only by somebody wearing a miner’s hat. The Paul Bocuse sommelier insisted it had been stored impeccably. We decided the only way it could have looked the way it did was if the waiter assigned to bring it up from the cellar had tripped on the steps and shaken up the sediment. I found it entirely without pleasure and left almost all of my share in the glass.
If the finest white wine (and possibly the best value) of the trip was the ’92 Coche-Dury Corton-Charlemagne at Le Louis XV, the two best red wines came from the cellars of Troisgros, a restaurant of unparalleled finesse. Unrivaled was the 1971 Romanee-Saint Vivant Marey-Monge ($700), a profoundly rich, impeccably aged Burgundy with a hint of pleasing gaminess. The moment I tasted, I blurted,
“This is it.” Almost as impressive was the 1985 La Turque ($820). The release of this celebrated wine in the late eighties incited a stampede among collectors, but since then it has been largely ignored. I tried it young and thought it was good. This bottle was magnificent. It had hints of smoke and licorice, and the structure was unusually elegant for a Rhône.
3 0 8
A L A N R I C H M A N
.
.
.
Finally, my time came. Weary of my complaints, my friends announced that I could select all the wines at Guy Savoy, a small, austere establishment down the street from the Arc de Triomphe. I went to the restaurant early. I grabbed a wine list. A kindly captain served me slivers of foie gras while I made my choices. My budget was $3,000.
By now I knew what everybody liked, and I was certain I could come through. The Ostertag Pinot Gris served blind to begin the meal was just a tease. I planned to follow it with 1995 Gagnard Batard-Montrachet in magnum, several 1985 Domaine de Montile Pommards and a magnum of 1985 Dujac Clos de la Roche. If they wanted to go for the jackpot, I would suggest 1947 Gaunoux Pommard Rugiens ($1,470).
I announced my selections, and praise came showering down upon me. I was declared a man of perception, taste, and thoughtfulness.
Then they picked up their wine lists, chatted with the sommelier and overrode everything. They didn’t order a single bottle I wanted. When I requested an explanation, Wine Collector No. 2 said, “I have to say we didn’t find the wines we really wanted until the professionals got here.
By “the professionals,” he primarily meant himself.
Later, I asked the group what I had done wrong. One friend told me I hadn’t spoken loudly or authoritatively enough. Another said I had lost confidence in my own selections. I was about to protest, but then I remembered something.
It would do me no good to complain. Wine collectors never admit they’re wrong.
Food & Wine, july 2003
G R A T U I T Y
“ P L E A S E , P L E A S E , M O R E ! ” G A S P E D S H A R O N S T O N E
She canceled three times while she was in California, offering explanations a gentleman would have to accept: the rescheduling of a movie opening, a debilitating case of food poisoning, the tragic death of a friend. When she came to New York, she had ingenious new excuses for not dining with me. I always lied and said I understood.
What I was never certain of during the long months of eager invita-tions from me and effortless cancellations by her was whether Sharon Stone was acting like a woman or like a movie star. I have dined with both, and neither satisfies my fantasy of an ideal table companion. Dining with stars tends to be rushed, simplistic, and humorless, although Oprah Winfrey was a magnificent exception during her chubby, all-you-can-eat years. Friends reporting to me from the Coast suggested that Stone was another glorious anomaly. They said she appeared to possess the two most precious dining attributes, curiosity and capacity. In other words, she was a woman who knew how to eat like a man.
When it comes to dining with women, I have become skeptical. I simply don’t bounce back from those experiences the way I used to.
Once I was wonderfully resilient, but these days I question the fundamental concept of men and women going to a restaurant together. I even wonder where it all began, when the dinner table became the preferred venue for men and women to get better acquainted. It is now one of the burdens that men bear.
3 1 2
A L A N R I C H M A N
I have been dining with women for well over a quarter-century, and I feel as exhausted as a war-weary veteran approaching retirement. I understand that younger men, those about the age of the Bordeaux I enjoy, might feel otherwise, that they still look upon a meal as the setting for a seduction, but I am beyond such expectations. All I desire after a long, languid dinner is a long, languid night’s sleep.
Young men, for the most part, are blessed. They can look forward to the companionship of callow, indulgent females who have not yet metamorphosed into dinner-table dominatrices. All the women I know start snarling instructions the moment they are seated: Don’t touch the rolls! Hands off the butter! (My wife is so irrationally against bread that I now think of her as the Anticrust.) They glare when men order foie gras, the health food of southwest France, and they believe a creamy mille-feuille followed by a plate of petits fours is the same as having two desserts. They fail to understand that the tiny cookies and candies
