Bordeaux 2010 Primeurs: Pomerol
It is a Friday afternoon in April, 2010. Alexandre showed the last of the visitors out of the cellar, and closed the door of polished wood behind them. They were the last of his scheduled appointments for the week, and that meant, for Alexandre, it was the end of the 2009 primeurs week. It had been a fine few days of tastings; Alexandre always felt comfortable when the wine was this good. Sure, the blend was a little different, being only 8% Cabernet Franc, much less than the usual 25%, the rest mostly Merlot plus a little Cabernet Sauvignon. Some people had been a little uneasy about the Merlot dominance, he could tell, but on the whole the feedback had been positive. He had enjoyed regaling the fleeting crowds as they tasted, a chance to display his knowledge of old Pomerol vintages, a knowledge unparalleled within the appellation. “This is just like the 1950″, he had told that party of posh Brits. Genius! They lapped it up! Problem was, how could he top it next year, when they return to taste the 2010?
It is a Wednesday morning in July, 1952. The gleaming silver DeLorean thudded to a halt outside the cellars at Vieux Château Certan, flames licking around the smouldering tyres, feathery plumes of smoke enveloping the car before quickly evaporating to reveal the machine, complete with nuclear-powered flux capacitor, in all its radiant glory. The gull-wing doors swung upwards, and from the right-hand side emerged Dr Emmett Brown, unmistakeable thanks to his threadbare laboratory coat, the mad wisps of white hair atop his head, and his ever-so-slightly crazed facies. From the left-hand side clambered a less familiar sight, a slim figure who slowly straightened out to reveal a stature at least six feet tall. He wore a baseball cap, and sleeveless red puffer jacket. Not so much Michael J. Fox, more Alexandre J. Thienpont (I’m not sure what Alexandre’s middle name might be, but it could be Jacques or Jean – cut me some slack here). It takes only a second or two for the vigneron to orientate himself before he sprints forward and darts behind a familiar polished wooden door. A moment later he emerges, his arms cradling at least half a dozen bottles. One or two fall on the way, but he tosses what he has kept hold of into the car and, within moments, the time-travelling twosome have accelerated to 88 mph, and together they head….back to the future.
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