Ok, here it is. I waxed poetic about Coulee de Serrant, and how self-asurred I was that I had enjoyed a fabulous wine at the right moment, regardless that it was hardly-decanted. Take notes people, because as an extremely proud human being and wine drinker, I am about to swallow said pride, and admit a faux-pas that prevented me from tasting a '99 Gigondas at its peak, but for one sip.

I have often expounded endlessly about the merits of decanting. In most cases, with a quality bottle, it is the right thing to do. A young, new-world wine should be beaten-up. That is, it should be thrown recklessly into a decanter, ass-over-tea-kettle, to allow as much oxygen as possible, thereby liberating the fruit from its just-bottled coma to communicate its ripeness to the fullest. An old bottle, on the other hand, should be handled like you would your just-passed grandmother. That is, it should be gently maneuvered into its final resting place, carefully leaving any evidence of impurities behind while preserving the purity of its youth and the complexity of the wisdom it has attained over the years.

There are only two wines that represent the exeption to this rule. The first is the most common: the simple, fruit-driven wine that expresses itself the greatest upon opening. This wine is most remarkable for its easy-drinkability. I speak of the Cotes-du-something: the Cotes-du-Rhones from a dependable producer that screams either bright red Grenache or dark berry Sarah in its youngest, simplest form, or the Cotes-du-Provence that reeks of dirty soil and mushroom-funk just after popping the cork-- the heady aroma that makes all Provencal wine lovers swoon. These easy, drink-now wines have been for me, one of the most enjoyable features of living in France-- they are readily accessible, and provide simple hedonistic enjoyment moments after opening.

The other exception to the rule is the ever-evasive wine at its peak. It does not have to be an iconic wine, but must be of high enough quality to have thrived after a significant time in bottle. A.k.a, for buying purposes, it will probably be from an established producer, or at least from a favorite region, in a dependable year, and after an acceptable aging period. If you happen to stumble upon such a bottle in a wine shop, (specifically in a time of recession), and feel instinctively that it is the right time to drink that particular wine at a great value, you might inadvertantly make the same mistake that I did two nights ago.

Let me set the scene. I am at my favorite local wine shop, and I am celebrating. Ok, I'm not engaged, so I'm not looking at '98 Salon, but I have full-license to spend up to $50 per bottle, for up to 4 bottles. So, by any standard, it was a good night. Having been trapped at a lower price-point since my return to the United States, I was shocked at the value on the shelf.

People... If you can afford to spend $45 per bottle- START STOCKING YOUR CELLAR NOW!

Just to relate to my former blog about an 2004 Coulee de Serrant for $40: I found a 1997 on the shelf for $72. Note to 1997 Coulee de Serrant,
“Prepare your last will and testament. I am coming for you, and soon.”

Ok, ok, how easily distracted I am. Let me get to the point. I eventually stumbled across a 1999 Gigondas, (one of my favorite regions in the southern Rhone), called 'Les Hauts de Montmirail, by Domaine Brusset. Granted, 1998 and 2000 were much better over-all vintages, but while in the Rhone Valley last year I tasted so many stunning 1999 that I will forever rate it as one of the eponymous under-dogs. (And I love a good under-dog, since the value is typically phenomenal.)

Long story, short: I took it home and added it to a celebration line-up that included Jean-Laurent blancs de blancs Champagne and a forgettable Pouilly-Fuisse. Without a second thought, I sliced the foil, plunged the cork-screw, and drew up the cork. An intensely truffled, earthy and bright fruity bouquet jumped out of the bottle and immediately confirmed to me that I had purchased a stunner. I poured a taste: bright, concentrated red-fruit pleasantly assaulted the front of my tongue, still-vibrant acidity awakened my mid-palette while earth and stone co-mingled on the back of my tongue. White pepper lingered forever. That's it. The cardinal sin follows. I then gently decanted the southern Rhone gem and left it to linger while I uncorked my blancs de blancs. I then left it to further linger while I drank a mediocre Pouilly-Fuisse. And finally, by the time I re-visited my haut-cuvee, prepared to be stunned by its evolution, it had been about 2 and ½ hours.

Now, imagine my ecstatic face falling, as my Grenache fell flat. The fruit had all but disappeared, and I was left with nothing more than traces of healthy acidity and a touch of brett.

My sweet, sweet, Gigondas baby, was dead. For all of you who think, like I did, that you know better, please stop, and listen. When a wine is expressing purity, vibrance, complexity and concentration straight out of the bottle, stop thinking and start drinking. Imagine your lover at his or her prime, splayed out before you, offering everything at once: vulnerability, youth, experience, spice, vibrance and endurance. Would you turn your head and walk away, letting him or her linger until lids become heavy, and eyes close? Or would Carpe Diem be your war-cry?

Lesson learned, pride swallowed, and on to the next bottle.