On Monday we opened three bottles of Corton-Charlemagne for a lunch that, in the end, were not needed. A producer turned up and changed the dynamics of everything and so in the end the producers drank Alsatian. And we mere mortals on the ground floor got to drink Corton-Charlie. 2002 to boot.
The first bottle, on what was meant to be a non-drinking night, was highly impressive. Almost impenetrable; real marble door stuff - tight fittting, impossible to make out the cracks so that you might peer in - but it sang on the palate, a high-toned pleasure dome of stoney clad porticos and crystaline honey. The second bottle was poor the next day, contrary to what we expected. But the third, tonight, opened again two days after the cork was pulled was pure plastic-man reason. The nose was composed and savoury in that way that Corton-Charlemagne only is, replete with polymer flavours, cold frozen nuts and pure ethereal essence of cold soaked citric fruit.
The palate dripped. Dripped and coated. Honey drops, cold lemon pureee and that marbling of tannin that I simply love. Extract, essence, call it what you will. It drags your palate along with the force of a plastic tongue-palette, smooth yet adhesive, without friction yet with immense texture. I love good C-C. It makes me feel like I'm sucking a sculptured spoon of some impossibly sexy material.
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