by HENRY FRENCH HOLLIS

A MAN once launched, at a club dinner in Paris, a successful career as a judge of wines. His undoubted knowledge prompted him to attempt the identification of a Burgundy that was not on the menu. He did not see the label. I watched with interest because I knew the club purchased its Burgundies from a house in Beaune whose wines all bore a family resemblance, and besides smelled of the caravan. One sip was enough to tell me that this bottle had no distinctive taste. It was a cheap wine from Gamay grapes below the road — not from Pinot grapes on the slopes above.

There was the usual pursing of lips, sucking of air, and apparent mental struggle. The conclusion was “a Corton of a recent vintage from the Côte de Beaune.” The label supported the verdict. Congratulations followed. The recipient was modest about it, saying that Corton had an unmistakable flavor of bamboo — quite correct for a genuine Corton. The party broke up.

On the way home I remarked to my wife: “That chap must be a mind reader. The wine had no taste of Corton, or of bamboo either.”

“No,” she said, “he’s no mind reader, just a lip reader. I was watching his girl friend in the mirror, and I saw her frame the word Corton with her lips. She framed the vintage too, but he was too dull to get it. So he took refuge in ‘a recent vintage.’ ”

I missed a similar chance to easy fame one night after the liberation, while dining with the staff of an American Air Force outside Paris. One Colonel was keen on wine and eager to learn — willing to spend his money too, which is quite as important. After the first wine was served, he asked my opinion. It was obvious: anyone could see that it was a white wine, poured from a Bordeaux bottle. And it had the clean, sea-shell taste of a dry Graves.

“A good sound Graves sans année” was my reply after tasting. “When you dine with us tomorrow night, I shall serve a Graves 1918, the only really good white Graves bottled at the château — Château Carbonnieux.”

The Colonel was alert at once. “ Château Carbonnieux is a red wine, isn’t it?” he queried. I replied that it was usually white, but there was a red Carbonnieux; I hadn’t tasted a red one for years.

Now how did this beginner know that there was red Carbonnieux? It was as much a signal as those ruby lips in the mirror. But I did not think it out. I turned to the ruby lips at my right, more interesting at the moment than the color of wine.

When the next bottle came along, it was wrapped in a napkin. I had a glance as it passed and saw that the capsule was red and fresh, and I gained the impression that the bottle had the champagne shape. It was routine and without conscious thought that I set myself for a red Burgundy of a recent year. Would it be a Côte de Nuits, or a Côte de Beaune? The Colonel said no word, but raised his glass.

I smelled of course before tasting. The bouquet was young and fresh to match the capsule; but it was too slight to shake me out of my trance. Next a sip — and then bewilderment. Expecting a round, fruity savor, my mind was well out on the wrong track. But the taste was not pronounced. I was lost in a maze familiar to any wine lover, victim of a mistaken hunch. It seemed minutes before my mind could stop, turn about, and come back for a fresh start. And when it became apparent that I was tasting a claret, and not a Burgundy, my bolt was shot — my powers of identification were exhausted. The best. I could do was to confess that I had been thrown off the track by mistaking the shape of the bottle; that the wine was a claret — but I did not recognize it.

This was honest, and good so far as it went. But I could see that the Colonel was pleased with the thought that I was not infallible — that I was not so far ahead of him after all. He informed me that I was drinking a red Carbonnieux. I remarked that after ten years the flavor had slipped my mind and let it go at that. But if I had not been misled by my glance at the bottle, I should almost certainly have detected the sea-shell flavor, mentioned above, common to white and red Graves alike; and then my mind would have been prepared to draw the proper deduction from the Colonel’s knowledge of red Carbonnieux. But the ball had been tossed to me — breast-high — and I had muffed. If I had caught it, I hope that I should have been honest enough to own up like a man — to explain my deduction. But one cannot be sure; wine amateurs are a vain lot. They are prone, as we have seen, to accept the breaks and make no explanations — like mediums.

Sometimes an expert will recognize the distinctive flavor of a wine or spirit as he will recognize the peculiar features of Winston Churchill, or the towering mass of General de Gaulle passing in the street. But when he has never tasted the wine before, he falls back on elimination.

For example, I clearly recall the first, time I encountered a Château Carbonnieux; this time it was white, and the bottle was clearly high-shouldered. It was on the Maréchal Joffre, a canal boat moored in the Seine one summer just off the Place de la Concorde, rigged as a pleasant restaurant. I was lunching there, the guest, of an American friend.

An excellent dry wine came with the fish. I liked it and looked for the label; but the bottle was in an ice bucket, so the label was covered. I was puzzled. My mind ran over the dry white wines I knew — Meursault, Montrachet, Chablis, Vouvray, even Pouilly Fumé and Muscadet. But none of them fitted. At length I caught that sea-shell taste, and recalled the praises I had heard bestowed on Château Carbonnieux.

“Is it a Chateau Carbonnieux?” I inquired of our host.

“Look at the label,” he replied with seeming indifference, though I knew he was flattered at my interest. He probably did not know himself what the wine was; some men are like that—willing to spend a lot on wine and food, but careless enough to leave the choice to the waiter or to order something because it is dear. An amateur de vins, on the contrary, takes pride in finding an inexpensive wine, or an unfamed restaurant, that will surprise his guests by its quality.

My elimination test worked; the wine on the Maréchal Joffre was indeed a Château Carbonnieux 1922 — a very good year in that bottle.

It pays to look at labels — always. The printed word seems to help fix the flavor in the mind and to associate the flavor with the vintage. And of course it confirms a sound deduct ion and reinforces a shaky one. A glance at the sideboard as one enters the dining room may disclose the presence of old friends and possibly some strangers, so that one must watch his step. And it makes a good impression to be able to recognize a label across the room, too far off to read print but not too far to distinguish color and design. A true amateur de vins should be able to recognize at a glance and a long way off all the labels for the principal châteaux — Lafite, Latour, Margaux, and the rest; they are all distinctive.

I recall another occasion when I was invited to name a wine of whose identity I had no hint. The incident arose from the faith displayed in my abilities by a charming woman in Paris, and the incredulity of her husband, an important client of mine. His wife was much interested in my search for rare bottles and in what I had to say about different wines and vintages. Her faith piqued her husband, who made no secret of his skepticism; to him it seemed like piffle. So he determined to show me up. His wife did not tip me off like the lady in the mirror scene. But I was not hurried; I took no chance shot. I proceeded to a methodical elimination. It went like this.

I received one day by messenger from my client two bottles of white wine with the request that I identify them — tell him their origin, their kind, and their vintage. There was no label of any sort, no stamp on the corks, and no help from the shape of the bottles. In fact the bottles were misleading. They had the shape common to Champagne, Burgundy, Rhône wines, and Vouvray, but the contents were none of these. A sip of each was enough to show that they were twins, and that they were sweet — undoubtedly Bordeaux. But there are scores of sweet Bordeaux wines; even Graves is often sweet. But why those Bordeaux wines in Burgundy bottles? I must cover that in my reply if I could discover the reason.

I took my time, studied the problem, and then answered my skeptical client as follows: —

“We seldom recognize a wine as we should recognize Lloyd George if we met him in Piccadilly — never of course if the wine is one we have not tasted before. There are thousands of wines, and few stand out as does the small, big-headed Welshman. In the case of an unfamiliar wine we must work it out by elimination, step by step. Here are my steps with your wines.

“When I see, before the corks are out, that your wines are white, my problem is much reduced, for there are many more red wines than white, and white wines have greater diversity of taste. For example, there are excellent white wines that are sweet, but there are no sweet red wines that commonly appear on the table.

“When I taste, I find your wines not only sweet, but honey sweet. Moreover they are old — twenty years at least. This brings me down to two sorts; for I know they must be wanes of repute or they would not have been kept so long, and there are only two really good sweet wines in France — Sauternes and Monbazillac — of which Sauternes is easily the finer. But I catch the flavor of a Monbazillac I have in my cellar — a Chateau Labrie 1916. I bring up a bottle and compare them. I was right about the similarity in taste, but your wines have more distinction — more race. So I conclude that they are Sauternes.

“My problem is now greatly simplified, for there are fewer than twenty high-class Sauternes, of which the greatest is Chateau Yquem. I happen to know the flavor of Yquem, and your wines do not have it. With other Sauternes I am not familiar; as a rule, I avoid them. In the first place I do not care for sweet wines; then again they are not just the drink for a man who inherits a tendency to gout and a high blood pressure. But I find in your bottles the flavor of a certain Sauternes of high degree which 1 have tasted once — only once, mind you — a Chateau Rieussec. So I plump for Rieussec.

“And now for the vintage. Your bottles are getting a little seedy — letting down a bit, though still delectable. This might be due to a leaky cork. But since I have tasted two bottles and found them both past their prime I cannot fairly blame the corks; it is hardly likely that both would be defective. So your Rieussecs must be older than my Chateau Labrie 1916, a lesser wine, but sound as a rock. Back of 1916 there is no vintage of good conservation till we come to 1911, which is a three-star year; but a Rieussec 1911 would be in perfect shape now. There is nothing good to be said for 1910 or 1909, but 1908 is sound in white Bordeaux — a two-star year. So I shall call your wines Chateau Rieussec 1908. The years 1906 and 1904 are both better than 1908, but a Rieussec of either of these famous vintages would hardly show signs of age; so I exclude them.

“Perhaps I ought to add that your wines were bottled in Paris. H.F.H.”

My client’s reply was generous: “You are right as rain,” he wrote. “The man who sold me those bottles owns a restaurant in Paris. He says they are Rieussec all right, but he is not sure of the vintage. He thinks they are 1906, but he is inclined to agree with you that a 1906 would be in better shape. On that point your guess is as good as his. Accept apologies for my doubts, and my compliments on your Hawkshaw gifts. I was mean enough to send you two bottles, hoping you would be misled, and give them different names or at least different years. Please tell me why you put an ‘s’ on the end of ‘Sauterne’ when you speak of a single bottle. And how in hell did you know that these wines were bottled in Paris? My friend says this is so.”

I answered: “Sauternes is a Bordeaux wine and there is no one in that region who would put a fine Sauternes in anything but a white Bordeaux bottle. These were in Burgundy bottles, so I concluded that the wine was brought in the cask to Paris and put in any old bottles that came handy. It was easy to tell from the taste that both were filled from the same cask at the same time. Even if you are speaking of one bottle, there is always an ‘s’ at the end of ‘Sauternes.’ It is the name of a wine district near Bordeaux. Yours for good wine and better spelling. II. F. II.”

Another occasion comes to mind in which elimination played no part; the Lloyd George method was dominant from the start.

It was a large formal dinner on the left bank. At my right was a gushing widow who opened on me as follows: “I am so interested in wine, Mr. Hollis; they tell me you know all about it.”

I disclaimed any approach to omniscience, but admitted that I was an earnest student — an amateur. We began to talk about wines and where to find them.

After I had assured her that there was practically no genuine Burgundy in Paris, and that few people could tell whether Burgundy was genuine or not, she asked me if I could identify the wines that would be served that evening. I did not hesitate, but bowed a prompt assent. She raised her finger archly and said; “Better watch your step. I shall remember and put you to the test. Here comes the white wine. Don’t look at the label.”

Her admonition was not exactly whispered. Those near us heard it and began to take notice.

The white wine was poured. My fair American seized her glass and began to drink. After a gulp or two, she turned to me and said, “Haven’t you smelled it long enough? Why don’t you taste and tell us what it is?”

I took my time and smelled the wine. “There are not many white wines as good as this,” I said, thinking aloud, “wines that show no weakness after twenty years in bottle — long enough to develop this rich and satisfying bouquet. I should say it is a Chablis — a really great Chablis is rare.” More smelling.

“Yes, it is a Chablis — but quite unusual — not mentioned in the books — a Chablis Clos des Hospices of the wonderful vintage 1911. I do not have to taste to know that. But I shall taste and drink my share with pleasure. I advise you to drink with attention and remember well, for you may never see its like again. The only place I have found it is at Marguery’s on Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle.”

She glanced at the label and then at me. “Absolutely correct,” she said, “even to the Marguery label.” Perhaps she thought I should stand up and invite applause! Two or three guests opposite did indeed raise their glasses and drink to me. But they were old friends.

“And now about the red wine,” pursued my neighbor. “ Can you tell that as easily as the white — and as correctly?” I replied that I would do my best; but there were so many kinds of red wine, I might have to taste it — perhaps more than once.

“Here it comes,” she announced presently, as much to those near us as to me. Perhaps half the guests were watching. Up went her finger once more. “Now don’t ask the man.”

She and the others kept careful eyes on me as the wine was poured — as I smelled it attentively, then tasted, and tasted again. She seemed to count it a personal victory that I had to taste, and more than once.

“This wine is also unusual,” I declared at length, unconsciously assuming a formal tone, like a professor in a class. There was ample reason, so many were hanging on my words. They were not exactly hostile; but none of them recognized the wine, and all seemed to hope that I would miss this time. Even those who make no claim to be amateurs dislike to feel inferior.

“It is certainly a claret,” I continued with conviction and loud enough for all to hear. “A Pomerol — Chateau Gazin, I should say.”

“Yes,” assented my widow, who had possessed herself of the bottle. “It’s a Chateau Gazin all right. But how about the vintage?”

“Oh, the vintage?” I mused. “This wine is younger than the Chablis — a 1920, perhaps. Am I right?”

“Exactly right,” said my side partner so that all might hear. And then she proceeded to chatter about my exploit across the board and around it. You may believe it lost nothing in her telling. But the widow was not yet satisfied. She turned to me once more. “Now I want to know how you can tell?” she demanded.

“No mystery, madame,” I spoke up, loud enough for all to hear. “Our hostess, as it happened, had no wines on hand good enough for a dinner like this, so I gave her these out of my own cellar.”