1986 Gruaud Larose

A friend of mine bought a new house. I heard all about it from him over the course of months, the negotiations, closing, about the house and finally moving in, some work that was done and more. It wasn’t just any house, though. It had been owned by a very famous American, and handed down to his son who in turn had had a prominent political career. I expected it to be quite impressive but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see.

I knew it was big, and on a lot of land. But I didn’t know that it had been designed and constructed by one of the most famous East Coast architectural firms of the 20th century. Of course, everyone loves old houses, historic houses, even more. This one had been built in the 1930s. I love the 1930s. Think: Empire State Building, Dinner At Eight, William Faulkner’s “Sanctuary.” Well, maybe not that – think the opposite of that.

But you’re thinking, what about the wine? Is this just another article like all those that plague the NY Times nowadays, where the subtext of every story is real estate? No, I’m getting to that. You see – there was a wine cellar. I asked my friend, who prefers Italian wine to French, what kind of wine I should bring with me. He said, let’s do Italian. He also said, I’ve got a few reds on hand. I didn’t know about the wine cellar yet. Restraint and discipline are the cardinal rules of effective surprise. Surprise and delight, I might add… My friend had that part down.

I didn’t see the wine cellar until well into my visit. I was so excited by the house itself and finally visiting my friend there that I didn’t rush into the basement looking for the cellar like the mad wine freak that I am. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The house was so big, I probably wouldn’t have been able to find it, anyway.

So the house, the house. Let’s revisit that for a moment before we check in on our wines. We spent some time in the solarium, no really we just looked at it through some glass in the ballroom. I visited the boys, and the girls’ rooms, delightful little powder rooms located on the first floor and painted in appropriate colors – blue and pink. Perfect for freshening up after a long ride in from Rhode Island. Or a late night rendezvous during a Gatsbyesque revel.

Ok, so we’re thirsty by now. Just the mention of Gatsby makes me think of mint juleps, of 1928 Lafite and ’22 Musigny – in a former life I must have been a landowner in Burgundy – make that a nobleman. Or maybe just a peasant who killed his own game and repaired to perfect local bottle of carignan? No matter – the grape is in my blood and being in such opulent settings sets my mind to the thought of liquid recreation amongst other things. It certainly was the stuff of fantasies. Did twelve rooms ever look so grand? That wouldn’t include the servants’ wing, of course – big enough to house my entire apartment in Manhattan about three times over.

But I’m boring you. You want to know what wine I brought. Not really? You want to hear about the wine cellar, and whether – the important question – the contents of the wine cellar had been sold along with the house? You’re very clever! Yes it’s true – the contents of the cellar might not have made it into my friend’s possession when he took possession of the glorious container of the cellar, also known as the house. In fact yes – several verticals of Petrus had already been sold off to an auction house before the day of my arrival, pity…

Not knowing what to expect, I had brought a good solid red but nothing extravagant, a Roagna ’95 Barolo Rocca la Pira Reserva. It made for an interesting comparison and held its own, admirably. OK, so we cut to the chase. The cellar was limping a bit. The furnace of the house must have been hijacked from the Chrysler Building, it was so big, and generated a huge amount of heat, which was enough to put the refrigeration system in the cellar in need of a tune-up.

There was a small display of 1st growths albeit from the 19th century, hanging on by a thread. A bunch of red and white burgundy from… the ‘70s looked enticing but probably in need of a salad. However there were a few intesting bottles around, besides the ones that my friend had added recently. The racks that had held the verticals of Petrus, et al, gaped from their glassed-in temperature controlled tanks, reminding me of what could have been.

After sniffing around for a bit, my friend proffered a bottle of 1986 Gruaud Larose and said, “what about this one?” I pounced! Yes! That looks great to me. It was hard to tear myself away but we returned to the professional chef sized kitchen and grilled some chicken on the indoor barbeque. True to its pedigree, the ’86 Larose was beautiful. A big wine, still young, but perhaps showing a little more evolution than an example I had tasted a year or so previously. Lots of tobacco and a beautiful red/mahogany color were followed by rich currants and a silky texture. As it opened up further, more complexity and depth revealed itself.

The Roagna made an excellent showing, acquitting itself admirably. It was more evolved in color, but had similar full body, good fruit and a long finish. The biggest difference was the acidity, which was much more prominent. And of course, the quality, subtlety and complexity of the Gruaud was much in evidence. Even my friend, the Italian wine lover, was bowled over by it.

I haven’t returned to the house since then. The renovations, painting and repairs have dragged on now for a half a year, although many would say that’s nothing. They have made my friend a virtual prisoner on his estate, not to mention a slave to his job. Hopefully there will be a chance for a summer party. The time is right.