My palate and the plague

Later this week, on Spectator.co.uk, I will resolve a mystery that has featured in a lot of Zoom traffic around St James’s — plus a lesser–known puzzle. The first: why has Anderson been absent from The Spectator? The second: why has he been more or less off the grog for a month? The two are related. I have had the plague, and though I am recovering, my superb doctor thinks I should stay dry for a little longer.

I have no wish to become a virus bore. Those who would like more information can read Coffee House; those who are already yawning with tedium will know what to avoid. But just before my little life may have been almost rounded by a sleep, there was an outstanding tasting: suitable for a condemned man’s last drop. It was organised by my friend Jim Guiang: oil-man, huntsman, more than useful with a musket, oenophile and all-round bon œuf. He wanted to appraise some champagne and some claret from his cellar.

We started with a Veuve Pelletier, non-vintage, but with a fair amount of bottle-age. De gustibus: Jim thought it was mature, rounded and altogether delicious. For me, it was past its best and was becoming slightly blowsy. We moved on to an ’06 Dom Perignon, and changed sides. To Jim it was thinnish and insufficiently assertive. I thought it delightful: youthful, fresh, a splendid stimulant and an ideal aperitif champagne. There was no dispute about the claret, beyond a rush for the superlatives. It was an ’02 Gruaud-Larose. It had structure, fruit, length: and a wonderful provider of mellow satisfaction. Ready now, but with no shadow of age, it was everything a wine of such provenance ought to be.

Still unbeknown to me, shadows were gathering and moving rapidly in my direction. Nearly four weeks later, the shadows dissipated, I was back for a short session in the office I can use as a key worker.