Bordeaux 2025 Primeurs: Pessac-Léognan, White
We left Twingo parked down by the riverside, looking out over the waters of the Dordogne, in the direction of St Emilion. The BG-100 – in Björk’s likeness – was still in the Union des Grands Crus de Bordeaux workshop getting her software upgraded. Taylor and I strolled from the old stone quay up to the centre of Branne, until we reached the door of the town’s renowned eaterie, La Caffe Cuisine. The eternal gentleman (no sniggering at the back please), I held the door open for Taylor, and then followed her inside.
At last, it was just the two of us.
Of course, I had telephoned ahead, and made sure they knew that an international superstar would be taking a table at their restaurant this evening. Not strictly true of course – my Taylor Swift is a spirit guide fashioned in her likeness, her role being to escort me around the region, monitoring my ability and reporting back to the UGC – but the truth is I can’t tell the difference between her and the real thing. So I figured they would not be able to either.
We were escorted upstairs, to a corner table on the new rooftop terrace.
We ordered – both selecting the grilled white asparagus, followed by the restaurant’s renowned entrecôte – which is not served in the traditional dangling slab as in many French bistros, but as a layer of individually sliced steaks of modest thickness. We laughed about our matching orders, especially when I revealed that I had thought her to be vegetarian. It is sad, but somehow inevitable, that you can spend so much time with someone without ever really getting to know them.
We locked eyes, and they seemed to speak new words to me. Secret words of tenderness and togetherness.
She reached into her voluminous handbag – funny how I had not noticed that before this moment – and pulled out a bottle of conveniently chilled Haut-Brion Blanc, in the 1989 vintage. More strangeness – how on earth does one carry chilled wine around the primeurs? She turned the label towards me so I could see it clearly, and I trembled with excitement as she winked at me. She seemed to be bathed in an aura, and dusted with sparkles and glitter.
“Let’s go!” she exclaimed.
“Huh?” I responded. “Oh, OK, yeah, I see what you mean. Yeah, let’s go with this. I’ll see if I can get a corkscrew.”
“Let’s go!” she repeated. Leaning over, she gave my shoulder a powerful shove. “Come on, let’s go!”
I opened my eyes. I was sitting in Twingo’s driver’s seat, in the side road close to Château Haut-Brion. Having arrived twenty minutes early, I had taken the only sensible course of action; I parked on this convenient street, and grabbed a quick nap.
I blinked a few times, absorbing the deflated sensation.
“Come on, let’s go,” she continued. “It’s time for your appointment.”
-o-
It is important to never damn a wine, or a vintage, with faint praise. And never allow the very good wines to be overshadowed by the excellent.
