Six days and more than 100 bottles into
Portugal, Tim and I are once again taking a break from tasting wines
— by tasting wines. We had worked up a good thirst earlier in the
evening, jockeying left and right out of the saddle along the seaside
bluffs of Arrábida Natural Park, and then stopped at Quinta de
Catralvos, a sparsely decorated modern restaurant in a winery near
the edge of Alentejo, to savor a last long meal by acclaimed chef
Luís Baena. By the second of our 15 courses we're back at it.
Me: "Great wine — just add great
wine!"
Tim: "New, from Robitussin!"
The wine keeps flowing and the plates
keep coming. As we take the first spoonfuls of the sixth course, a
sea-urchin soup with a richness approaching that of a truffle, I
realize that in the last few days I've cultivated a new appreciation
for wine. And while on paper I understand Tim's quest to find the
next great bottle, I'm not sure I share his narrow definition of what
that means.
Sure, Miguel the Mad Dentist produces a
wine of quirky brilliance and uncompromising sophisti cation, and
Henrique the Grape knows how to let the land speak for itself. But
isn't a great wine something much simpler? I ask myself, while Tim
pokes with comical timidity at a lightly breaded monkfish ball
drizzled with lobster sauce.
I think it is.
Great wine is any good bottle you share
in good company. In a charmingly bucolic country. While tearing
around empty country roads on powerful enduro-touring bikes. Between
meals with more courses than you normally eat in a week.