I’m often asked by friends, and the occasional curious observer, why wine has achieved such an elevated status in my long list of eclectic predilections. Aside from being a marvelous intoxicant, I almost uniformly cite the inextricable aspect of storytelling. Wine is a product of its place, both in geography and time, and is an expression of those generational elements, patiently encapsulated, awaiting emancipation. Like the reading of great literature or the meditation of a melodious Nocturne, wine is a form of art that speaks directly to its consumer on an intensely personal level. Founded by an Irish aristocrat in the 18th Century, passed down to an astute (albeit acrimonious) son, seized by French authorities during the Revolution in 1793, re-purchased in 1821, and classified, at the behest of Napoleon III, as a Troisièmes Crus in 1855. The
tells the story of what Jancis Robinson called, “perhaps the greatest vintage of the Century”. Long warm days and cool brisk nights delicately gathered in the vines to yield one of natures great gifts. In the glass you’ll find a deep, vinous purple nectar with notes of stewed sweet plum, wild blackberry compote, cedar wood, English pipe tobacco, cassis, damp forest floor, and a perfume of dried violets.