A gentleman of Bordeaux

There was a moment during the war when De Gaulle was being more than usually impossible. Roosevelt, furious, asked Churchill to convey his feelings. The PM summoned the Frenchman, who arrived, took off his kepi and sat down. Churchill launched into him. Unfortunately, the tirade was not recorded. By all accounts, few prosecution cases have been expounded more forcefully. It was a masterpiece of eloquence which lasted for 45 minutes.

Throughout, de Gaulle was impassive: not a flicker of facial muscle, let alone emotion. Churchill came to a final flourish, then stopped and glared. In response, de Gaulle rose to his feet, put on his kepi, saluted, turned and left. Churchill’s comment: ‘Magnificent.’ Despite frequent and mutual exasperation, those two understood each other better than either understood the feline Roosevelt: discuss.

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Alexander Larman

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We discussed our sweet enemy France at a recent meeting of the Odd Bottles, the most irregular but not least convivial drinking assembly in London. Apropos magnificence, we were talking about Anthony Barton, of Léoville-Barton, who has been praised on these pages, but neither often enough nor eloquently enough. That would require Churchill. Had Anthony been older, he could have helped to mediate between the English and the Free French. He is, after all, a blend of English, French and Hibernian. Wine-makers strive to create a harmony of fruit and tannins, not automatically compatible. In Anthony’s case, it has been a harmony of three great races. Perhaps the piquant complexity of his origins helped him to become such a superb vigneron.

From time to time, this column has been critical of the Bordelais. They often behave like an especially mean-spirited Balzacian patriarch. Always looking to exploit new markets, they are rarely loyal to established customers. But Léoville-Barton has been a shining exception.