The terroirist…

Posted on | September 23, 2006

“Good morning Sir, you are booked on the two-ten flight to Nice. May I see your passport please.”

As an inveterate traveller I am used to the procedure so I had my passport ready. I passed it across the desk and after a quick glance at the photo the clerk looked up into my face. I searched her eyes for any glimmer of sympathy for the time which had passed since the photograph had been taken, now almost 8 years ago. Or, indeed, whether she noticed that the sitter for the portrait was not quite upright as it was taken immediately following an excellent lunch of dover sole and the perfect accompaniment of a couple of bottles Muscadet sèvre et maine sur lie.

“Any luggage to check in Sir?”

“Oh no, just this small holdall”.

I tried to lift my packed hand luggage to show her its dimensions but felt a sudden spasm in my back as the weight of the two bottles of wine inside and my chosen read for the weekend - A short History of Jazz (some 1000 pages) - demonstrated the physical weakness inherent in ones shoulders under certain contracting movements. I smiled to cover up the wince.

“Please put it on the scales”.

I lunged forward and plonked it delicately on the rubber conveyor. Without looking at me, seemingly concerned with some kind of urgent administration on her desk she enquired:

“Has this bag been with you all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pack all the items yourself?”

“Well, apart from the wine - they were bottled at the châteaux”, and smiled. She didn’t respond with any humour.

“Did you know that you can no longer carry any liquid on the flight?”

“No I didn’t I replied,” sighing the words as I had a feeling of what was to come. In an attempt to preempt her I ventured: “you’re not really suggesting that they’re dangerous?”

“The Home Office has issued a warning that bomb makers can manufacture devices from liquids they carry on board an aircraft.”

“Of course, household detergents perhaps, acids maybe, but this is a bottle of Château l’Arrosèe 2003 and the other an older vintage of Tua Rita-Redigaffi. Anyone trying to make bombs out of these would be mad - they’re far too good to waste in bomb-making.”

“Precisely Sir. MI6 doesn’t believe that the bomb makers appreciate the better vintages or the up-coming stars of Tuscan Merlot. Those are the new rules. The Prime Minister has however allowed a special dispensation for English wine to be carried on board - apparently it’s not suitable for bomb-making.” We exchanged meaningful glances.

“Does that mean I’ll have to pack them and have them carried into the hold?”

“No, we don’t allow that any more either. All the bottles have to be specially tasted and sampled by our security staff to prove that they are what they purport to be.”

“What, you mean that burly security guard over there who looks like he wouldn’t know a hamburger from a frankfurter is going to pop open a bottle of champagne during his lunch break to issue his judgement as to whether it’s the real McCoy? I would have thought a sweet Kentish ale would be more his line.”

“Oh no Sir. MI6 has discovered that most wine critics are very poorly paid and few have any proper salaries. They were able to get a job lot of ex-newspaper journalists. They are grateful for the secure income and it provides them with most of their tasting notes for their columns.”

“How many bad bottles have you found?”

“None so far, but as you know critics never like to talk about the bad bottles of wine, only the good ones.”

I picked up my bag.

“Excuse me… but but I’m not about to let any salaried wine journalist get their noses into my wine. They should be poor and freelance in my view. I’d rather not fly anywhere.”

And with that noble gesture of defiance I made my way to the underground.

Hugh Stanley

Comments