Oswaldo Costa
Oswaldo Costa
Last November, Thierry Puzelat told a little birdie that he thought Poulsard could outlast Pinot Noir, and offered as proof that he had recently gone to a vertical in honor of Pierre Overnoy’s 80th birthday in which they tasted 13 vintages from the last 50 years, all of which were in fine fettle. When I noticed that our copain Matteo Mollo had some fairly priced 93s at Wine Bottega, I sounded him out, got encouraging reports, and dipped. Light tawny, the color of pale tea. After the initial bottleneck mustiness dissipates, the aromas are faint, an indeterminate mix of red berries, muskiness, and that pungent scent found in hairdressing salons, ugliness required to generate beauty (hydrogen peroxide?). The mouth feel, on the other organ, is quite lovely, with fresh acidity and lively fruit, a happy couple living in harmony after working out their kinks, not their kinkiness. To the end, this showed the charming and graceful dignity of an avian ossature softly burdened, like an ageing Fred Astaire. I don’t know about longevity, but who knows how this was stored before it got to Matteo, whereas Puzelat tasted bottles that had never seen the world.
