You revisit the beloved and find more there then you expected or even hoped. It is a subtle experience that happens over time. It is not at all like being “hit over the head,” except maybe retrospectively, when you suspect that you have been changed in some felicitous way.
Generally speaking, I observe, across my most satisfying weekend evenings with a bottle of wine, that they were European wines. Of course there are many exceptions. Names provided upon request. But I stand by my statement. Tonight Steph and I opened a bottle that at first seemed very pretty and fresh and summery, but not remarkable. It would never have made it past the first round in a rash tasting. The more time we spent with it the more clear it became that there was something special happening. It never stopped being pretty and fresh, but the variations and the length and the depth just kept increasing. Initially there was a clean, light, “laundry on the line” quality to the wine, with some minerality and crispness but no austerity. As it opened up, the intensity of its stony finish built. In the nose there was honeysuckle and new hay and lemon zest and fennel. This was a joy, but as with all seriously good wines it was the balance that made it all work: Tart, but not sour; ripe, but not sugary; edgy, but not cutting. Still more qualities and more depth emerged – a thickness of texture, a succulence and a near-oriental strangeness that surprised. Cardamom and lovage and a cascade of wet stone smells, like clean littlenecks pouring out of the wire bushel basket into which they were harvested just an hour ago.
A great wine always under-plays its hand. Then, briefly, it doesn’t. The veil drops away and there is neither discretion nor subtlety. Next the veil is back, mystery enhanced rather than diminished by a momentary thrilling disclosure.
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