Drink - Victoria Moore sets a blind-tasting test
In the same way that I always wanted to be Paul Daniels' stage assistant - so that I could throw a spanner in the works of his magic rabbit-producing hat and wreck his mind-reading tricks with my insubordination - I've always wanted to supply the wines for a blind tasting. I know they do it on telly, but I just don't believe it's possible to guess a wine and its vintage, given that there are dozens and dozens of different wine grapes and thousands of vineyards across the world, all with their different climates and soils, not to mention microclimates and blends and vintages.
So when my friend Nina invites me to dinner with her wine-buff psychiatrist father, who agrees to play my game, I am thrilled. After a week poring over wine books and accosting strangers in shops to ask their opinion, I am ready. I know that, as a psychiatrist, he will probably expect me to have brought all sorts of weird things so, just to fox him, I have selected one surprise and - this will really get him, I am sure - a straight-down-the-line classic.
We begin by drinking a wine of his choosing - a Mersault 1992 from one of the best burgundy vineyards. It's rather fantastic. I produce a glass of my cunning classic, a Chablis Premier Cru, 1997, bought in Tesco this afternoon.
The psychiatrist swills the Chablis in the glass. I take a spoonful of the delicious green soup we are eating for dinner, thinking how very glad I am not to have to guess what its ingredients are because, though obviously the colour narrows things down a bit, I really have no idea. The psychiatrist turns his gaze to me. "Can you tell what's in the soup?" he asks mildly. I get it wrong. It's pea and tarragon. He continues to swill his wine. "The first thing is the colour," he muses. "Paler than the Mersault so either we have a different grape or a much younger wine."
"Wrinkles!" interjects Nina's grandmother.
The psychiatrist will not be swayed. "It's quite young," he says. Right so far. "It's a very pleasant wine, I would think it's probably a chardonnay." Right again. How does he do it? "The question is," he continues, "where does it come from? The acidity is nicely balanced, there's no trace of oak, and a hint of butteryness on the finish."
"Then why do I like it?" challenges Nina. "I hate butter."
The psychiatrist stays cool. "I would say it's European rather than New World." Right again. "It could be French or Italian or even East European. I'll go for French, and say it's a 1997."
Truly this is all so amazing that I am relieved when finally the magician stumbles by plumping for a Vin de Pays d'Oc.
Even so, I am somewhat piqued and produce an Italian red (Sul Bric 1996, made by Franco Martinetti) that three separate people have assured me tastes Australian. I can't wait for him to identify it as such. Again, he starts on the right track, quickly isolating its youth ("It's not quite violet but there's a reddish hue on the rim"), right down to the vintage. "I like this wine," he says, meaning it.
I resist the temptation to say that he damn well should, since I have spent £25.99 in Oddbins in the interests of catching him out. Nina concurs. "It tastes like something you would usually drink," she says to her father.
Meanwhile the psychiatrist is wondering if it might not be a blend. (It is: barbera and cabernet sauvignon, to be precise.) And speculating that it is probably European.
Then something terrible happens. The psychiatrist decides that it could well be from the Iberian peninsula. I have tricked him but I don't enjoy it. I feel like I did when my parents blundered into the trap I set for Santa Claus and, at the same time, I realised that magicians don't really saw beautiful ladies in half. I wonder what the psychiatrist would make of that?
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