Bordeaux 2023 Primeurs: Pessac-Léognan, White
“I think I’m in love,” sighed Taylor.
I didn’t bat an eyelid. I didn’t really have a clue what was coming, but after one-and-a-half weeks of subliminal criticism and bitchy eye-rolls, I was quite certain I was not the object of her affections. Only the object, potentially, of her next song. Or maybe an entire concept album.
“Oh really,” I replied, pretending not to be interested.
A long silence followed. Like being back at the lakeside. I was in no mood to fill the air with words for the sake of it, so I allowed the situation to linger for as long as I could. Which, being honest, would probably be up to the moment my head hit the pillow, once we had worked our way through the full day of tasting ahead of us.
Trying to busy myself with something else – anything else – I turned the key in the ignition, and the other Swift in my life dutifully burst into life. Well, coughed and spluttered into life might be more appropriate, but I don’t have to be literal about everything, do I? I dipped the clutch and put it into gear, and watched the headlights which now illuminated the château in front of us brighten and then dim once more, as I momentarily revved the engine. We really needed to get going.
“Like I said,” repeated Taylor, raising her voice above the mechanical chatter in a manner that was clearly not going to be ignored, “I think I’m in love.”
Silence was clearly no longer an option. I had survived less than a minute.
“Oh, go on then, do spill the beans.”
Taylor turned to me in a flash and, reaching out, grabbed my forearm in the process and squeezed it tight. This abrupt breaking of the invisible barrier which separated us – the only physical contact in ten days of driving, tasting and keyboard-tapping – made me start. My foot slipped from the clutch, stalling the engine, and immediately the headlights died, and we were in darkness once again.
But not total darkness. A shimmering light illuminated the dashboard.
Turning to look at Taylor – or rather my primeurs spirit guide manifested in the likeness of Taylor Swift – I saw the origin of this light. Her entire being glowed an icy white, and she seemed seven-feet tall (which is difficult in the front passenger seat of a Suzuki Swift, believe me). And her eyes! Her eyes were ablaze, two pools of flame flickering a passionate scarlet red, like a fire burning up from deep below, from her soul perhaps. If primeurs spirits even have souls, that is.
I was entranced. Captivated. I stared into her eyes. I mean, where else was I going to look?
She returned the gaze, before mouthing the words I had longed to hear, for so long.
“I’m in love with 2023 Bordeaux whites,” she exclaimed with glee, squeezing my forearm a second time. “Oh my God, the acidity!”
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