The holidays are approaching, are here in fact, and yet Aldo and I have chosen to spend the night indoors as if there were a howling blizzard outside, and seasonal carolers could only make themselves heard to the rescue dogs by singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” from deep inside the drifts in which they are buried. Aldo is already in his robe and reading the letters of Noel Coward, which he finds absorbing, except that he gets tired of them from time to time and will watch a cartoon on YouTube. I take this opportunity to record for the sake of my eager public a few notes on a wine we had recently, Michel Tete’s Domaine du Clos du Fief:
Medium intense ruby core fading to a pink watery rim, which makes me think of a flamingo melting. Medium aromas of cinnamon, tart cherries, musk and soil. I suppose one might ask soil from where? Julienas, France, presumably. On the palate: Dry. High acidity. Medium bodied, which Aldo used to be when he was more religious about aerobic exercise. Medium also as to the alcohol and the tannins. Flavors of cherries, both tart and dried, nutmeg, peat and leather. I remember in particular that Aldo insisted he tasted peat and leather – peat on leather. “There is a difference,” he said. “Some princesses are more discerning about peas than others.” At the finish there comes a little light berry twist.
The wine is balanced. Lean without much concentration or intensity, which I suppose is how I would describe Aldo back in the days when he did exercise religiously. It might be summed up as a slightly more refined and serious beaujolais.
I have a small note here saying that Aldo also described it as “faintly grim,” and I should have asked him in greater detail just what he meant by that. Who drinks a faintly grim wine other than a Puritan or Oliver Cromwell on a feast day? But he’s watching a cartoon at the moment, and I don’t want to distract him until he goes back to his reading.
