The taste of his last mouthful lies like rust on his tongue. Harsh, and yet his tongue craves more. At rest in the glass, the wine is rusted purple. So there exists an affinity, a strong mutual pull between wine and tongue. They are complementary. They are in love. The silent tongue calls out, and the wine, though inanimate, will heed the call. Well, it's a theory. Lent support when the glass rises and, this time, not stopping short, delivers one lover to the other. They kiss. There's a little death, an insufficient bliss, but repeatable later.
It all begins with the soil, the vine, the grape. The smell of the vineyard. Like inhaling birth. It awakens some... ancestral... some... primordial... anyway, some deeply imprinted... and probably subconscious place in my soul.
— Can you describe it, the taste?
— It's a nice red wine.
— I think you can do better.
— A bold wine with a hint of sophistication and lacking in pretensión. Actually, I was just talking about myself. I don't know.
— No, you are not wrong. Wine is like people. The vine takes all the influences in life all around it.
— One can't just decide to be a vintner, and then conveniently become one. There are dynasties at play.
— That isn't true in California.
— I rest my case.
— You're a snob.
— Am I?
— It limits you.
— I was surprised by the quality of California wines. And their originality. In the Napa Valley, there is interest in experimental methods. To avant-garde methods.
— What's he saying?
— Where I come from, they call it a left-handed compliment. But I don't think they have a name for it in England. It's too embedded in their culture.
Les raisins ne gèleront pas si vous pouvez voir la mer du haut du vignoble.
J'ai rêvé les amours divins,
L'ivresse des bras et des vins,
L'or, l'argent, les royaumes vains,
Moi, dix-huit ans, Elle, seize ans.
Parmi les sentiers amusants
Nous irions sur nos alezans.
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