"I don't care what I eat," said the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein tetchily, responding to a kindly meant inquiry from his host, "so long as it is always the same." It is hard to understand the remark, except as a rude way of saying "I'm above all that". Even the most ascetic monk needs a change of flavour from time to time, if only to be reminded of the variety and abundance of God's gifts.
In the matter of drink, however, we are far more inclined to uniformity. Having discovered the brewer, grower or distiller of our choice, we place the same bottle on the table, day after day. This may be the only constancy in the lives of modern city-dwellers, and therefore a compensation for their daily grind. The moral serenity of marriage is recuperated in liquid form, and the true Penelope of the wandering wino is the house wine that awaits him on the table.
This constancy is in one sense the opposite of the kind proclaimed by Wittgenstein. It is not that we don't care what we drink, but, on the contrary, that we do care, very much. The search for a house wine is like the search for a spouse: the prelude to commitment. Of course, it is difficult for a wine writer to commit himself; I am required to be a philanderer, and to betray my trusted bottles with the week's supply of tarts.
Still, whenever I can, I return to my little rack of "house wines", and sit before them at the table, enjoying their smiles. First there is the Montagny Premier Cru, Domaine des Moirots, from Chateaux Wines in Bristol - a crisp, grassy white Burgundy that serves as an aperitif and as an accompaniment to fish or salad. I have drunk this for many years and it never stales. It is both refined and unaffected, and can be enjoyed in quantities without the slightest ill-effect.
Then there is Château Potensac, a Cru Bourgeois from the Médoc, which produces a lovely dark claret, full of fruit, from a blend in which Cabernet Sauvignon predominates. Berry Bros & Rudd has a constant supply of this wine, which matures over ten years and which, because the plain Médoc appellation is without snob appeal, is usually reasonably priced. For balance of fruit and tannin, and loveliness of scent, you cannot beat it below twice its price (£17.50 a bottle from Berry's). And its beautiful name, which demands a scholarly decipherment, adds to the pleasure of drinking it.
Finally, there is Château Briatte, from Sauternes, a fine wine made to the highest standards by Michel Roudès, and the equal of the classed-growth Château Suduiraut next door, while selling for less than half the price. I have been buying this, too, from Chateaux Wines for many years, and have never had a disappointing bottle. Golden, honeyed, and with a serene flavour of dried fruit, it sings a fitting requiem to every dinner.
