Bordeaux 2023
Monsieur Propriétaire took his seat at the head of the conference table. Although it was early morning and still dark outside, through the glazed doors on the far side of the table he could just make out the vineyard bursting into life, the young and tender vine leaves twitching in the April breeze. The 2023 growing season had begun.
He turned his attention to the small group of people gathered around the expanse of polished African Blackwood.
Immediately to his left sat one familiar face, his trusted technical director Aubin Jefaidesbulles; a very ‘hands on’ man, his weathered features told a tale of long years of service in the vineyard as well as in the cellar. To his immediate left sat the estate’s financial director Alonzo Bistroducoin, clad in his usual armour of bespoke, tailor-made business suit. He had a less weathered appearance, yet seemed weighed down by some heavy burden. Monsieur Propriétaire had a feeling that he knew the source of this burden; after all, he had seen the books.
Despite having brought in a bumper crop in 2022, thanks to their ‘accidental’ irrigation of the vineyard during the summer drought, the château was running in the red. Having released the 2022 vintage at their highest price ever, the response to their en primeur offer had been disappointing; so far, barely 12% of the volume had sold through. And the cellars were piled high with older vintages; Monsieur Propriétaire had been hoping the deal with the Muscovite merchant Jebois Smirnoff would see a lot of the old stock move, but of course that had fallen through after the invasion of Ukraine. And despite hearing persistent rumours that other properties were moving stock into Russia via a small handful of Swiss merchants, he had experienced no success in breaking into the scheme, which was naturally all done by word of mouth and a handshake. He had not been able to identify the ear into which he should whisper, or to shake the right hand. Or perhaps he just had the wrong type of handshake.
“I’ve been in the region ten years and it’s clear I am still an outsider, not a part of the club. Of any club. I suppose it takes time, but I hope one day it will come,” he sighed to himself.
He was right of course; it takes time. Typically two or three generations. If he kept at it, perhaps his grandsons or great granddaughters would one day be regarded as something other than outsiders.
He realised he had allowed his mind to wander, and his attention suddenly snapped back to those in the room. Outside, the sun began to peak over the horizon, lighting up the sky with brilliant shades of amber gold and iridescent red. It was a new day. And, he felt, a new beginning.
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