Andrew Jefford
As the full extent of Covid-19 became apparent, I was working in Burgundy. Three of us needed dinner; we anticipated a near-empty restaurant. Gulp: not at all. It was disconcertingly full, jolly, ‘normal’. A large table, alpha males, was sharing a bottle of Rousseau Chambertin with much back-slapping and shouting. The joker-in-chief was hoarse, several sweaty.
The table behind us was chatting in
Italian; unlucky Italy was, then, the viral epicentre. The waiter, amid the restaurant noise, leaned breathily close to take our orders. The meal was simple, ample; the wine delicious. Beaune Bressandes 2016 from Henri Germain, lithe, pert, grippy. Might its qualities, I thought as I trudged anxiously back to the Hotel de France opposite the railway station, extend to prophylaxis?
As I write this, we have no idea of the fatal reach of the first global pandemic of my lifetime, though we know it is shatteringly serious, with both Italy and Spain already registering more deaths than China. The developing world looks uniquely vulnerable; South Africa has just banned all alcohol production, though vintage there has been allowed to finish. A health crisis has become an economic crisis; modest millions have lost their means of livelihood. To dwell on a luxury like wine under such circumstances seems culpable. So I won’t; or not merely.
What’s also been lost over the last month or two is our social innocence. It will be hard, now, to become one with the crowd at a football or rugby match, to squeeze gamely into a packed train carriage or to head off in eager serenity to a bustling pub on a sunny public holiday. We have to spurn the friendly handshake, resist the affectionate peck on the cheek. A couple of months ago, no one knew what ‘social distancing’ meant; now we’re devout practitioners.
Hermits were once viewed with curiosity mixed with disdain; they’re the new righteous. Yes, the crisis will come to an end. No, nothing will ever be the same again.
Wine will hurt. This matters. It may be a passion for most readers, but it’s a livelihood for a substantial minority. One of the several reasons we love wine is its ability to melt otherness away. We come together for wine (tasting group, dinner party, restaurant) and leave heart-warmed and united. Wine is for sharing; wine teaches generosity. What could be more despicable than draining a great bottle in unconditional isolation?
A shadow has fallen over wine’s geniality, and that will be our community’s biggest challenge in the months and years to come. We won’t mingle over the glasses as innocently as we once did. I’m not prophesying doom; tastings will of course start again, friends will come round to dinner and restaurants will re-open. But Covid-19 has given us a psychological reset. Our conjoinings must be circumspect. That circumspection must temper demand.
We will, though, need wine more than ever. It is, remember, not just the space between human beings which wine can abolish; it also brings us closer to our earth. Wine is the solace nature itself first brought to forest-dwelling primates, as we gorged on fermented fruits. It is the way we can taste places, and the differences between places.
Wine’s implication in our planetary fabric – soils and skies and seasons – is direct, intimate, translatable, scrutable. Wine endeavour spreads like mycelium through every temperate latitude. And via wine, we can travel the world without ever getting up from our kitchen tables.
As I write, none of us can go anywhere; we are bidden to stay glued to our kitchen tables. Yet from cellar, supermarket and merchant, we can drink Italy tonight. Tomorrow we can sample Chile, Romania the day after. We may not be able, for the time being, to journey back to wine’s sources – but wine is still coming to us, bringing us the nourishment of earthly difference as it does so.
DAndrew Jefford is a Decanter contributing editor and multiple award-winning author
‘One of the several reasons we love wine is its ability to melt otherness away’
Château Viella Prestige 2015 from Madiran, a wine that cost me all of €14.40 back in December 2017. I’m halfway through my small stock, yet it’s only now beginning to inch towards maturity: deep, forthright, savoury, unintimidated, generous in texture and flavour, warming, courage-inspiring. Just what’s needed in these strange days.