Mayhem in Margaux by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page A

Bordeaux each year have cork taint. That’s a chemical compound created when natural fungi in the cork came in contact with chlorides and other substances found in a winery’s sterilization products. The percentage seems insignificant, but it translates to some eighteen million bottles that can’t be drunk because they smell and taste soggy and rotten.”
    “So is that an argument for screw tops, Mr. Cooker?”
    “Some French vintners are following the lead of vineyards in Australia, New Zealand, and Chili, and have adopted an aluminum cap with a gas-tight seal. It does solve the problem of cork taint, my good man, but still, that is no way to store wine. Nothing could ever replace the cork, with its flexibility and ability to breathe and enhance aging.”
    “Well, how then do you get rid of cork taint?”
    “I don’t think it could be entirely eradicated, but insisting on quality corks would go a long way toward minimizing the problem. Wine is a living thing,” he concluded with conviction. “We’ll be lost if we forget that!”
    “That may be true,” Barbaroux said. “But to claim, as some do, that wine has a soul—that’s going too far!”
    “Of course wine has a soul!” Benjamin said, raising his voice. He could feel his cheeks getting red. “You need to read Baudelaire.” He cleared his throat.
    “One eve in the bottle sang the soul of wine:
    ‘Man, unto thee, dear disinherited,
    I sing a song of love and light divine—
    Prisoned in glass beneath my seals of red.’”
    “I’m not one for poetry, Mr. Cooker.”
    “Wine has both a life and a soul. Without a cork, the angels cannot take their share. And where you exclude the angels, you exclude God and His miracles. What fools would commit such sacrilege?”
    “I’m not really following you.”
    “Those who would try to force perfection—by using an aluminum cap, for example—are bound to fail. You see, perfection is an illusion. It’s never attainable. Miracles, on the other hand, happen all the time. And they often masquerade as mistakes. Take Sauterne. It’s an accumulation of coincidences, approximations, trial and error. It’s the most beautiful mistake there ever was!”
    “That’s true,” Barbaroux admitted. “By the way, I enjoyed the section on sweet wines in your guide.”
    “Vanity is also a factor in this whole issue of perfection. I’ve seen people put a bottle on the table as though they were dropping their pants and showing off their cocks. You know—bigger is always better. Excellent vintage, prestigious label, exorbitant price. It makes you important and gives you power. At least it affirms your social status.”
    “Wow, how you can go on! Showing off their cocks—seriously?”
    “Yes, except even the most extravagant and perfect-looking wine can be flawed.”
    “That’s a possibility, I suppose.”
    “It’s the same thing when you find yourself in bed with a woman for the first time. She looks sublime. You undress her, and then, when you see her without her clothes on, her breasts aren’t the way you imagined them. Her stomach isn’t as firm as you thought, or maybe her scent and skin don’t excite you. I’m sure women have a similar reaction when they wind up in bed with a man whose paunch is too big or whose balls are too hairy.”
    “Cork taint.”
    “Absolutely. You’re following me. It’s part and parcel of the mystery that we must preserve. You have to risk being let down if you’re open to experiencing wine in all its miraculous wonder. I’m a hundred percent for bad surprises, disappointment, exasperation, exaggerated remarks—and why not exorbitant price tags—if it makes you excited about the adventure. And to thoroughly appreciate that adventure, you must allow wine to be itself. As far as I’m concerned, too many producers have just one pragmatic aim: making a profit. They’re entirely too willing to keep their wine sealed under plastic, locked under a cap, hopelessly impenetrable if