Oswaldo Costa
Oswaldo Costa
2004 Jean-Paul Thvenet Morgon Vieilles Vignes 13.0%
Morgon years can translate to human years with a similar calculus that we use for cats and dogs. Judging from recent tasting notes, Morgons have been going to the scaffold in their teens. At an alarming rate, like the young of the nation decimated on the battlefield. Explicable because they are so succulent young, but what about the slow accretion of wisdom? There is something to be said. For it. My favorite Morgon so far has been this one, twice early last year, perhaps because it's been there, done that, seen the world, been around the block. So I inconvenienced friends and went through three states, thanks to the residues of Prohibition, before I could get my hands on nine more bottles to add to the single I had left. It was worth it. Though not as aromatically exotic as the first two, that reeked of Byzantine churches and Crusades and the fall of Constantinople, this one had lovely strawberry with a deft touch of funk. Coming through with great acidity and the saline halo acquired during its seafaring days, it delivered the delicious brightness that is the family crest of La Gangue des Quatre. But there was a dark tone to the fruit, a seriousness that suggested stems, whole clusters, making themselves heard. Seasoned. Wizened. Vaulting it into more than the sum of its parts. And, like a fortune cookie message in a bottle, came enlightenment: fun + backbone = pleasure.
Morgon years can translate to human years with a similar calculus that we use for cats and dogs. Judging from recent tasting notes, Morgons have been going to the scaffold in their teens. At an alarming rate, like the young of the nation decimated on the battlefield. Explicable because they are so succulent young, but what about the slow accretion of wisdom? There is something to be said. For it. My favorite Morgon so far has been this one, twice early last year, perhaps because it's been there, done that, seen the world, been around the block. So I inconvenienced friends and went through three states, thanks to the residues of Prohibition, before I could get my hands on nine more bottles to add to the single I had left. It was worth it. Though not as aromatically exotic as the first two, that reeked of Byzantine churches and Crusades and the fall of Constantinople, this one had lovely strawberry with a deft touch of funk. Coming through with great acidity and the saline halo acquired during its seafaring days, it delivered the delicious brightness that is the family crest of La Gangue des Quatre. But there was a dark tone to the fruit, a seriousness that suggested stems, whole clusters, making themselves heard. Seasoned. Wizened. Vaulting it into more than the sum of its parts. And, like a fortune cookie message in a bottle, came enlightenment: fun + backbone = pleasure.
