Some people, they say, love the romance of cork. Any residual notion of such evaporated in my mind just a few hours ago. For the last three days we have enjoyed a house guest, the highly regarded winemaker John Wade. For a small dinner to conclude John’s stay we thought we’d open the special bottle of red he brought, a Pichon-Longueville Lalande La Comtesse 1990, which recently sold at Langton’s for $212 per bottle. I thought I’d put that opposite an Australian classic of the same year, Penfolds’ Bin 90A Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon Kalimna Shiraz, which last fetched $215 at Langton’s. The white wine entree for these reds was that chardonnay still regarded by many as the finest ever made in Australia, the Giaconda 1996. It, incidentally, fetched $145 at Langton’s last time it went up for grabs. The Pichon was the only bottle of that wine that John brought over from the West. The Penfolds was the only one of its kind I ever had. The Giaconda was the last bottle of a dozen I had purchased at release. Not one, not two, but each of the three wines were corked. The Giaconda was completely unapproachable; and while the Penfolds and the Pichon were distressingly close to perfect, the qualities of each were frustratingly difficult to appreciate once the crushing effect of the cork had become apparent. I also opened a bottle of Cannibal Creek Sauvignon Blanc earlier this evening. This is the finest Australian sauvignon blanc going around today. That bottle was corked, badly. So was the bottle of the same wine I opened yesterday. Surely it deserves a screwcap! So, $572 of wine – which in itself shows how depressed the secondary market presently is – went down the drain. We have no recourse, although each of the wines came directly from the maker immedately after release. And I’m ignoring the sauvignon blanc in these comments. Three cheap bits of bark from cork oak trees, costing no more than a few cents each, stuffed an entire evening’s pleasure, totally and completely. Had these bottles been sealed with screwcaps, I wouldn’t be writing these words. Think about this, if you love the notion of the romance of cork. There was absolutely nothing romantic in the sound of what should have been four unbelievable bottles of world-class wine being tipped down my kitchen sink without providing any of the intended recipients with a single ounce of pleasure.
