Have any of you bothered to read the script posted earlier this week? If not keep reading after this entry.
This week continued in the theme of letting go. Wine tasting without fancy pretense. There has to be deeper, darker places to be found with this so-called luxury item. And a trip to the old neighbourhood rediscovered that grit. That true feeling of 'streetness.'
Old digs were around King's Cross. For those who don't know, the man is building a new Eurostar station there. The Waterloo berth will be 86'ed come '07. This construction coincides with all those other smoke and mirror tactics cities throw at vacant swaths of centralised land to justify the billions being spent. The old neighbourhood will soon have new malls, fake rock climbing walls, pay-per-parking stalls… all you need to call a neighbourhood clean.
The police have spent the last three years booting bums and hookers out of the King's Cross area. People who have migrated north, into the old neighbourhood. And, the local kids made sure they didn't stick around for long. Two years ago, there were near daily scenes of 12-year-olds sucker punching hobos, who would never raise their hand in protest, lest they drop their tins of souped-up lager.
Soon enough, the bums had worked their way further north, sadly to Jacob Gaffney's current neighbourhood, leaving the 12-year-olds to return to doing what they do best: stealing bikes.
Stepped off the bus. Headed to the meeting with a wine friend. Passed a group of kids. They smoke weed. The bums have their beer. For me, it's the wine. And that is what I was after.
Walked onto the housing estate where my friend lives. Out of the 80 or so dwellings, good money says he is probably the only one who rents. Sucker.
Popped round and had a chat. Lighting was dark. Music loud. He asked what I wanted. I told him I only had five pounds. He sent his girl upstairs. She came back with a bottle. 2002 Chateau Lafitte Mengin, Premieres Cotes de BORDEAUX.
"It's more than a couple of Euros," he told me, like there was a need for convincing. "Worth more than five quid at any rate."
So there must be a catch, no? "I get to try it with you," he said. Handed a thick glass. Can't taste anything with that. He looks at me, seeing what will happen. "Strong nose," is the predictable venture. A glance over to me says he's thinking that that’s obvious. And it is.
Think, think, think. Can't think with this glass! Can't get my head around it. Thankfully it's a non-smoking flat.
Run to the cupboard. Find the thinnest glass. That'll cut through the muck. Pour it in, swirl it around. Take a sip and breathe. Everything is nice now. Another sip, things get nicer. Still getting looks, thinking, thinking, there is one smell left that is aggravating and hard to place.
"Another Columbine-style shooting," shouts his girl, laptop open to Google news, "this time in Montreal." It's an old trick for a reason, this distraction, probably because it works.
Hmm. Where was I during Columbine? The mind wanders… Oh yes, working at the ABC affiliate in… WAIT! Concentrate. Focus.
Be Serious. If only for the wine's sake.
Another sip. Smell. Taste. Body. FEEL. "Good structure, body a bit heavy, but that's just the oak. Ripe fruits. Vine fruits. Blackberry mainly. Some pepper." But that one, unnamed ingredient is still nagging.
"Blair transition not going as planned," she reads, "Hizbollah claims victory in Middle East conflict." Oh yeah. She's good.
Then it hits me. Clear as day. GREEN BEANS. "Just like your grandmother used to make," I say. The comment gets a giggle. A good giggle. The same knowing laugh that the farmer's daughter slips out the side of her mouth as she sits on the fence watching her pa's animals being led to slaughter.
Feeling sheepish.
"Notable wine writer mistakes green beans for ripe fruit," is the next headline she reads. Damn, it's already online. Happens so fast. Bordeaux 8.5
My friend is more impressed. He agrees.
Time to go. What else is there for a fiver? She goes back upstairs. Rustling about, as if the wine bottles are hidden under 45 layers of taped-up bubble wrap. She hands me the 2002 Beronia Rioja. Crianza. That means it's been aged in oak a bit to mellow the tannin.
Time to say goodbye and out into the rain. The wine bottles sloshing around in my man purse. Standing at a bus stop, something doesn't feel right. Head two stops down, to the one under the overpass. Water drips on either side. A fast train carrying tired souls zips above my head. Even the shadows are intimidating. Now, this is more like it.
Once home, the Spanish Beronia is popped open. Fresh and damp. Predictable and sincere. Oaky and oompfy. With, hold the phone, that characteristic smell of dill. The euphoria washes over. The simplicity of the wine. A choice made just for me. 8.8
May be ten pounds lighter, but feeling all the more richer.
Read the script.
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