I don't go in for the what I drank last night kind of blogging but every once in a while I have to give in to the temptation. And mostly because I've been complaining about the lack of excitement in my glass. The last time I was in this situation--craving old wine--sweet and tart, Gerald Weisl of Weimax in Burlingame came to my rescue, in one of the more endearing moves of the year for me, he made a dinner party (Never did this ever happen in my life, and I've been around the block a couple of few decades). and told me the trip to Burlingame Was it ever. 1954 Tondonia? 1971 Giacomo Conterno? Gerald! And overdue but sincere and public thank you for a great evening. Then just this week, the effects wore off and I just couldn't sustain myself on memory alone. Nothing othing but older burgundy (or barolo or Cornas) would do to haul me out of the hole. As I assume we are currently experiencing not just the end of the year but the end of the world, I expected to have to make do with the few 2002 on my shelves and close my eyes and pretend. Then, it happened. A gentleman who delivered the salve to my vinous doldrums had read my book, and because in my book I talked about how blind tasting is the only way to really 'get' the wine, he decided to call my bluff. I warned him I would fail. I kept my promise. I was a disaster. The first wine, a white, remarkably fresh but older. So fresh I had to guess around 15-20 years old. I was wrong. Second guess 1983. That was right. First guess was Montrachet something or other but he certainly wouldn't have sprung Le Montrachet on me. But I found myself thinking of the 1987 I had from DRC. I couldn't possibly that lucky. But that was the only other white Burgundy that came close to this experience. So in one of those guessing the generosity of a stranger and how far they would go I decided that due to the wines masculinity it had to be Corton. Damn, wrong. It was indeed the 1983 Ramonet Montrachet. I was that lucky. Was it any good? Hah. Does a pig love a truffle? There was that unmistakeable depth of limestone, as if the limestone was swimable and I did full body pigeage in it and all of my skin's surface had the ability to taste. The freshness was a bit like salt air on the beach. Yes it had the nuts, and lemon and ginger and a touch of caramel--the only hint of its age. It was served at room temperature. And, one of my next stories is California Chardonnay? Three reds. He gave me a hint: they were from the same vintages I was stunned because #1 was young and so 'pretty' and rosy I thought, Chambolle? My reaction was we need to come back in ten years. #2 was a low sulfur wine and had 100% stems and was musky and heady and intense and a strong rider, loved it and that seemed to be at least 20 years old and Vosne-like. #3 was so aged and so much like clay slip, I suspected a cork issue but was assured the wine was what it was. It wouldn'd have surprised me if it came from the late 50's. So much for my ability to deduce. These couldn't possibly come from the same year, could they? I could get that it wasn't a ripe year. But #3 was super aged. Then the hint: Parker hated the vintage. That meant 1993. All were from the same place in Vosne-Romanee, Les Brulées. #1: Engel! ( I forgot how I used to love this producer) #2: Leroy! (transformational) #3: Meo! (huh?) I failed miserably. But the other night, failed or not, I was a viniprincess and I still can remember the taste out of the glass slipper. The moral of the story is that every wine writer needs a patron and this one is up for grabs.