Barry Golson September 18, 2006

 

My best vacation ever

There followed seven days of extraordinary dinners, with even more extraordinary wines. They were orchestrated by the baron, who clearly loved theatrical flourishes (his daughter Philippine was a well-known stage actress in Paris). Each evening there appeared an increasingly elaborate presentation of food, and each course was accompanied by an increasingly older vintage of wine. During the dinners, the baron spoke of his family, the fabled Rothschilds, whose dynastic founder sent his five sons to live in five European capitals late in the 18th century; all five sons went on to dominate their nations' banking establishments. (My favorite story: At the Battle of Waterloo, the Rothschilds had carrier pigeons at the ready; when it became clear that Napoleon had lost to Wellington, messages winged their way to the five brothers, who made financial killings in the currency markets before the news reached the public.) Baron Philippe talked of himself as the "creative" member of his family, single-handedly bringing his wine up to coveted "first growth" status. He began commissioning artists in 1945 to design the labels of Mouton wine bottles in exchange for several cases of that year's vintage (Picasso's was the first).

The first night, with the three-course dinner served in the library, after a Chateau Margaux and a Chateau Latour, roughly 30 years old, the house wine was poured: a 1929 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild. It was considered one of the wines of the century. A couple of nights later, with the roast duck, we had a Cheval Blanc '59, and Lafite '44 and, improbably enough, a Mouton-Rothschild '11. The guests also seemed to progress in gravitas-from local dignitaries on the first night, to the Baron's promised denouement on our last night: Ingrid Bergman and de Gaulle's former prime minister, Jacques Chaban-Delmas.

See our slideshow of The Grapes of Rothschild

As it turned out, Ingrid Bergman was ill, but I was seated next to Chaban-Delmas on our final gala evening. He entertained us with his war stories, including his meeting with President Kennedy on the eve of JFK's visit to Paris and de Gaulle. "Kennedy asked me how he should greet the old general," Chaban-Delmas said. "'He's kind of a monument,' said Kennedy. 'Well, Mr. President,' I said. 'Greet him exactly as you would a monument: with the utmost respect and a minimum of familiarity.'"

The talk was so engrossing I hadn't glanced at the engraved menu. When the third course arrived, the sommelier poured the wine from its crystal decanter. The third and final wine of the evening was a Mouton-Rothschild 1878, one of only several left anywhere. Even Chaban-Delmas was impressed. My palate by then was pretty fair. Though I can't say I was able to separate the romance of the moment from the taste of the wine, I know it was the most delectable liquid I had ever tasted. Ever.

Baron Philippe, who was to die nine years later in 1988, always understated the case for any wine I saw him drink. That night, he took his own glass of the impossibly rare wine in his hand, smiled slightly, and said, "I apologize that it is not quite 100 years old." He sipped it and murmured, "Une bonne annee. C'est un bon vin." A good year indeed.

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