Wine

here’s a rule of thumb that wines, being “alive,” enjoy the same longevity as human beings.

But fortified wines—Madeiras, ports, sherries, etc.—throw this paradigm awry.

There is a long twilight zone in middle age, alas, where one seesaws between attractiveness and decrepitude, with odd days when the two things are in steadfast, nightmarish balance.

The wine itself was intact, but rather like the sturdy, nondescript moneymen who had owned it for the wrong reasons.

In barrel, 3 percent of a port evaporates every year and over decades it will take the equivalent of four bottles of juice to produce one bottle of 40-year-old

Instead, it’s Portuguese nouveau cuisine and serious attention to the contents of the glass.

But fortified wines—Madeiras, ports, sherries, etc.—throw this paradigm awry.

It has been anecdotally reported that honey found in ancient Egyptian tombs was still edible.

Those who drink too much and too well sometimes find their thoughts turning to the outer extremes of aging, much as the jaded voluptuary might start wondering about lovers over 75: do they offer something different, more rarified, more horrifyingly beautiful?

But the port finale was what we were there for.

Renamed and rebranded as Scion, a limited edition sold in crystal flagons and 19th-century-style boxes for a cool $3,500, it has become one of those wines that compels you to search it out before a mere 2,000 bottles disappear down the gullets of the rich.

Twenty years makes them supple and sexually appealing; 40 brings them to the edge of autumnal ripeness.

Most wines drunk today are about four years old, making them—according to this rule—the equivalent of snotty toddlers.

The 1929 Bordeaux is famous, but we are surely reaching the point when those wines’ pedigreed molecules are beginning to break down, the fine lines of their once-magnificent muscles beginning to slacken and sag.

I was apprehensive.

The 1929 Bordeaux is famous, but we are surely reaching the point when those wines’ pedigreed molecules are beginning to break down, the fine lines of their once-magnificent muscles beginning to slacken and sag.

There is a long twilight zone in middle age, alas, where one seesaws between attractiveness and decrepitude, with odd days when the two things are in steadfast, nightmarish balance.

In barrel, 3 percent of a port evaporates every year and over decades it will take the equivalent of four bottles of juice to produce one bottle of 40-year-old

Up to a point, a wine—like a human—can balance the ripening of the heart and mind against the decay of the body.

The oldest red wine I have drunk was a series of early 1950s Penfold’s Grange sipped during a ghastly re-corking clinic in New York.

So we come to a winter night in New York when the ancient Porto firm of Taylor Fladgate offered to a long table of collectors and wine ignoramuses like myself a chance to drink the oldest port they had ever put on the market: an 1855 vintage derived from two barrels that had been forgotten for a century and a half in the private cellar of a local family in Porto.

Wall Street investors had brought in their bottles of 1950 and had them tested and topped up to make sure the wine they misspent thousands of dollars on had not turned to acetic acid.

Up to a point, a wine—like a human—can balance the ripening of the heart and mind against the decay of the body.

It was like drinking liquid LSD. All I remember of that evening, which was supposed to be so civilized and so finely conscious of the past, was dancing on the table to Jimi Hendrix with my pants down and swinging a flagon in one hand.

So we come to a winter night in New York when the ancient Porto firm of Taylor Fladgate offered to a long table of collectors and wine ignoramuses like myself a chance to drink the oldest port they had ever put on the market: an 1855 vintage derived from two barrels that had been forgotten for a century and a half in the private cellar of a local family in Porto.

The 1929 Bordeaux is famous, but we are surely reaching the point when those wines’ pedigreed molecules are beginning to break down, the fine lines of their once-magnificent muscles beginning to slacken and sag.

It has been anecdotally reported that honey found in ancient Egyptian tombs was still edible.

In barrel, 3 percent of a port evaporates every year and over decades it will take the equivalent of four bottles of juice to produce one bottle of 40-year-old

Renamed and rebranded as Scion, a limited edition sold in crystal flagons and 19th-century-style boxes for a cool $3,500, it has become one of those wines that compels you to search it out before a mere 2,000 bottles disappear down the gullets of the rich.

So we come to a winter night in New York when the ancient Porto firm of Taylor Fladgate offered to a long table of collectors and wine ignoramuses like myself a chance to drink the oldest port they had ever put on the market: an 1855 vintage derived from two barrels that had been forgotten for a century and a half in the private cellar of a local family in Porto.

Most wines drunk today are about four years old, making them—according to this rule—the equivalent of snotty toddlers.

The collectors brought some enviable bottles for dinner, including a magnificent Imperiale 1964, a Rioja to drink on your death bed.

Renamed and rebranded as Scion, a limited edition sold in crystal flagons and 19th-century-style boxes for a cool $3,500, it has become one of those wines that compels you to search it out before a mere 2,000 bottles disappear down the gullets of the rich.

In a society that hates and disrespects the old, it is curious that we fetishize certain old things, and one might wonder why port is one of those things.

Twenty years makes them supple and sexually appealing; 40 brings them to the edge of autumnal ripeness.

The oldest red wine I have drunk was a series of early 1950s Penfold’s Grange sipped during a ghastly re-corking clinic in New York.

Twenty years makes them supple and sexually appealing; 40 brings them to the edge of autumnal ripeness.

So we come to a winter night in New York when the ancient Porto firm of Taylor Fladgate offered to a long table of collectors and wine ignoramuses like myself a chance to drink the oldest port they had ever put on the market: an 1855 vintage derived from two barrels that had been forgotten for a century and a half in the private cellar of a local family in Porto.

Renamed and rebranded as Scion, a limited edition sold in crystal flagons and 19th-century-style boxes for a cool $3,500, it has become one of those wines that compels you to search it out before a mere 2,000 bottles disappear down the gullets of the rich.

Renamed and rebranded as Scion, a limited edition sold in crystal flagons and 19th-century-style boxes for a cool $3,500, it has become one of those wines that compels you to search it out before a mere 2,000 bottles disappear down the gullets of the rich.

Renamed and rebranded as Scion, a limited edition sold in crystal flagons and 19th-century-style boxes for a cool $3,500, it has become one of those wines that compels you to search it out before a mere 2,000 bottles disappear down the gullets of the rich.

Renamed and rebranded as Scion, a limited edition sold in crystal flagons and 19th-century-style boxes for a cool $3,500, it has become one of those wines that compels you to search it out before a mere 2,000 bottles disappear down the gullets of the rich.

Instead, it’s Portuguese nouveau cuisine and serious attention to the contents of the glass.

Years ago I attended an “1847” dinner, in honor of a bottle of Madeira from that year.

Instead, it’s Portuguese nouveau cuisine and serious attention to the contents of the glass.

In this respect they are like honey, whose longevity is mysterious.

Each guest had to bring an 1847 object with him, as well as wearing some idiotic piece of 1847 clothing.