A Wine’s Song
The habit of regarding “art” as a thing apart from life is fatal to the development of taste.—edith wharton
That’s a big one,” I whispered to my young friend Pascaline. She was shoulder to shoulder with me down in Nicolas Joly’s cramped vat room. We had just descended the steep stairs beneath the kitchen of La Coulée de Serrant in the Cotswold- esque Loire village of Savennieres. We were stunned to see, among the darkened barrels holding the year’s vintage of Chenin Blanc, a tuning fork big enough to musically align a rhinoceros.