St Émilion and I

  I close for

  October and.

I don't like the sound of

accolades; they commit the

wrong frequencies and amp-

litudes for me and what I

like. I have always absent-

ed myself from stadia when

they're occupied, although

I love an honest contest.

The best things, of course,

are no contest.

Some time ago, when a war

I didn't like was announced

as coming to an end, I was

driving back to Palo Alto

from a trek to a couple of

favourite used-book stores

in Berkeley, and I detoured

off the Bay Bridge to take

a table at Ernie's, of which

you've heard, in Vertigo. I

knew they'd lend me a tie.

The foyer was awash in roses,

as it always was, and incom-

parably comfortable and in-

timate in welcome: a warmth

with no unnecessary word.

I had no doubt of what I'd

eat or what I'd drink. I may

return to the rest someday,

but what mattered was a wine

that had long, long come off

the vines at Château Ausone.

The cellar did not fail, and

that was Ernie's rôle in life,

now defunct of course. I may

revisit that institution here,

as this page may go on.

I am not going to spill ac-

colades on that rapport, and

I'm not going to solicit ex-

citement with vain remarks on

the imperishable. I hold to

too much respect for the au-

tonomy of the palate, and in-

deed of the admirable works

of nature, to treat my reader

to a harangue on discernment.

I believe the ultimate resort

of taste is peace. I know, it

can be crafted, because it is

natural. Such peace is not the

privilege of going unwarred

upon, nor does it roil the air

with triumphs, as much as it

responds to thirst. It can be

tasted, and the taste for it

is not rare. 

i, ii  James Gatenby

iii   St Émilion