By Alexander Foot
One of the more unusual but thrilling questions ever posed to me by a wine merchant was: “Are you, by chance, a Musarian?”
At the time I was browsing through a wine shop in southern British Columbia. My basket’s contents included a Cote Rotie from the Rhone, a Merlot from Chile and a Cru Bourgeois from Pauillac. The merchant, a woman of imposing height and breadth, pointed to my basket. “You have all the ingredients of a Chateau Musar from one of the better vintages. Are you intending to mix these in a feeble attempt to recreate some lost evening?”
Remembering that it is rude to stand in front of a stranger with one’s mouth open, I clamped my jaws shut and tried to gather my thoughts. How could she possibly have known? That is exactly what I had intended. You see, one of my disagreeable habits is playing God. Not as a grandiosely as a novelist or a politician, but as a wine blender. I have always admired the ability of the great winemakers of Bordeaux who can sniff the pressing from this acre of Merlot, compare it to that five acres of Cabernet Sauvignon, and then realize the missing link sits in last year’s sample of Cabernet Franc. Blend together and, voila, a wine for the ages.
Chateau Musar is also a blended wine. But, because of the vagaries of wine importation in this country, I had not been able to enjoy the genius of Musar for many years. Hidden away in the Bekka Valley of Lebanon, the Hochar family who runs Musar has for decades grown grapes in a mine-strewn, mortar-cavitied strip of land fought over by Christian Phalangists, Israeli Jews, Hezbollah and the PLO. Some years are better than others, as they say. But in Lebanon, geopolitics are more important than weather. During a bad year, a vineyard filled with, say, Cinsault, does not succumb to frost, but to an attack by F-18 Hornets. What is a wine blender to do? Well, in the case of the Hochars, shift down the valley to safely-ripened Cabernet Sauvignon.
The result is some of the most sublime French-influenced wine in the world. In a great vintage like the 1970 or 1977, Chateau Musar is as good as any first growth from Bordeaux. It will dazzle the nose and tongue, last as long as plutonium and, finally, amaze your friends and your accountant when you reveal the price.
So, as I stared into the formidable eyes of the wine merchant, like a Mason of old, I boldly admitted to her: “Yes, I am a Musarian.”
She nodded in a self-satisfied way, pulled my selections out of the basket and returned them to their shelves. In a low voice, she said: “Follow me.”
I had assumed the shop was typical of today’s wine purveyors: lots of cheap New World fruit-forwards for the punters, with a shelf or two of expensive Burgundy or California for realtors celebrating a big sale. But the wine merchant continued walking, past the confused Germans, past the corked Italians, past the East-block blockheads, right up to the cash register. Confident that I was following her, she opened a discreet door behind the till and descended the stairs to the basement.
Now some may have been made nervous by this turn of events, but wine lovers know that a trip to the cellar is usually a good thing. So with very little apprehension, I followed her to a glassed-in, temperature-controlled room at the far end of the basement. She punched in some numbers to the lockpad and swept me inside. Boxes and boxes of old Bordeaux, Burgundy and Rhones lined the walls. Floor to ceiling wine racks held individual bottles of varying countries and vintages. The merchant ran a finger along one shelf, mumbling to herself. Then she stopped with a grunt. She pulled out a bottle and carefully placed it on a long wooden table in the centre of the room.
“You have tasted Musar from a good year?” she asked.
I shrugged modestly. “1966, 1970 and 1977.”
The merchant inclined her head slightly. “But nothing of a more recent vintage?”
“Well, that is why I had contemplated my own blend…”
She waved her hand as if I had suggested some sexual deviancy. “This bottle contains the 1994. I am told it stands up to the best wines of the past. Will you join me?”
It was a pleasure watching a professional remove the foil, carefully pull the cork and then gently decant the wine. She took two crystal glasses from a sideboard. With a practised hand, she poured both glasses half full and passed one to me.
I had not tasted a Musar since the disappointing 1985. With some excitement, I held the glass to the light, swirled the liquid and noted the thick glycerine legs forming, defying gravity, then slowly sliding down the glass. I stuck my nose in the bowl and sniffed deeply. What an explosion of aromas! Eastern spice, luscious fruit, leathery tannin. Finally, I allowed myself a small sip. Chewing discreetly, I swallowed and took a second, bigger sip. Ah, Musar.
The merchant had her eyes closed, also swallowing deeply. No spit pails for us! After a moment, she put her glass down. She raised her eyebrows in unspoken question.
“For me,” I ventured, “This is more Rhone than Bordeaux. I think Monsieur Hochar depended on the Syrah, with a supporting cast I couldn’t begin to decipher. In the end, it is what it is – a Musar.”
She nodded. “And do you want your mixing bottles back?”
I grinned sheepishly. “No, I shall take a case of the ’94. I am, after all, a Musarian.”
Mooning Over Musar
Columns
By Alexander Foot
One of the more unusual but thrilling questions ever posed to me by a wine merchant was: “Are you, by chance, a Musarian?”
At the time I was browsing through a wine shop in southern British Columbia. My basket’s contents included a Cote Rotie from the Rhone, a Merlot from Chile and a Cru Bourgeois from Pauillac. The merchant, a woman of imposing height and breadth, pointed to my basket. “You have all the ingredients of a Chateau Musar from one of the better vintages. Are you intending to mix these in a feeble attempt to recreate some lost evening?”
Remembering that it is rude to stand in front of a stranger with one’s mouth open, I clamped my jaws shut and tried to gather my thoughts. How could she possibly have known? That is exactly what I had intended. You see, one of my disagreeable habits is playing God. Not as a grandiosely as a novelist or a politician, but as a wine blender. I have always admired the ability of the great winemakers of Bordeaux who can sniff the pressing from this acre of Merlot, compare it to that five acres of Cabernet Sauvignon, and then realize the missing link sits in last year’s sample of Cabernet Franc. Blend together and, voila, a wine for the ages.
Chateau Musar is also a blended wine. But, because of the vagaries of wine importation in this country, I had not been able to enjoy the genius of Musar for many years. Hidden away in the Bekka Valley of Lebanon, the Hochar family who runs Musar has for decades grown grapes in a mine-strewn, mortar-cavitied strip of land fought over by Christian Phalangists, Israeli Jews, Hezbollah and the PLO. Some years are better than others, as they say. But in Lebanon, geopolitics are more important than weather. During a bad year, a vineyard filled with, say, Cinsault, does not succumb to frost, but to an attack by F-18 Hornets. What is a wine blender to do? Well, in the case of the Hochars, shift down the valley to safely-ripened Cabernet Sauvignon.
The result is some of the most sublime French-influenced wine in the world. In a great vintage like the 1970 or 1977, Chateau Musar is as good as any first growth from Bordeaux. It will dazzle the nose and tongue, last as long as plutonium and, finally, amaze your friends and your accountant when you reveal the price.
So, as I stared into the formidable eyes of the wine merchant, like a Mason of old, I boldly admitted to her: “Yes, I am a Musarian.”
She nodded in a self-satisfied way, pulled my selections out of the basket and returned them to their shelves. In a low voice, she said: “Follow me.”
I had assumed the shop was typical of today’s wine purveyors: lots of cheap New World fruit-forwards for the punters, with a shelf or two of expensive Burgundy or California for realtors celebrating a big sale. But the wine merchant continued walking, past the confused Germans, past the corked Italians, past the East-block blockheads, right up to the cash register. Confident that I was following her, she opened a discreet door behind the till and descended the stairs to the basement.
Now some may have been made nervous by this turn of events, but wine lovers know that a trip to the cellar is usually a good thing. So with very little apprehension, I followed her to a glassed-in, temperature-controlled room at the far end of the basement. She punched in some numbers to the lockpad and swept me inside. Boxes and boxes of old Bordeaux, Burgundy and Rhones lined the walls. Floor to ceiling wine racks held individual bottles of varying countries and vintages. The merchant ran a finger along one shelf, mumbling to herself. Then she stopped with a grunt. She pulled out a bottle and carefully placed it on a long wooden table in the centre of the room.
“You have tasted Musar from a good year?” she asked.
I shrugged modestly. “1966, 1970 and 1977.”
The merchant inclined her head slightly. “But nothing of a more recent vintage?”
“Well, that is why I had contemplated my own blend…”
She waved her hand as if I had suggested some sexual deviancy. “This bottle contains the 1994. I am told it stands up to the best wines of the past. Will you join me?”
It was a pleasure watching a professional remove the foil, carefully pull the cork and then gently decant the wine. She took two crystal glasses from a sideboard. With a practised hand, she poured both glasses half full and passed one to me.
I had not tasted a Musar since the disappointing 1985. With some excitement, I held the glass to the light, swirled the liquid and noted the thick glycerine legs forming, defying gravity, then slowly sliding down the glass. I stuck my nose in the bowl and sniffed deeply. What an explosion of aromas! Eastern spice, luscious fruit, leathery tannin. Finally, I allowed myself a small sip. Chewing discreetly, I swallowed and took a second, bigger sip. Ah, Musar.
The merchant had her eyes closed, also swallowing deeply. No spit pails for us! After a moment, she put her glass down. She raised her eyebrows in unspoken question.
“For me,” I ventured, “This is more Rhone than Bordeaux. I think Monsieur Hochar depended on the Syrah, with a supporting cast I couldn’t begin to decipher. In the end, it is what it is – a Musar.”
She nodded. “And do you want your mixing bottles back?”
I grinned sheepishly. “No, I shall take a case of the ’94. I am, after all, a Musarian.”