A Virtuoso Performance
If it were a car, it’d be a Rolls Royce. No, make that a Bentley. Every bit the luxury ticket, but a bit more eclectic still. Just off the sleepy two lane highway that winds through vines and farmland at siesta in the baking heat, a simple, but all-business gate is the looking glass to one of the wine world’s wonderlands.
Vega Sicilia. Big ticket stuff. One of Spain’s most prestigious, expensive and generally unavailable wines. As Hugh Johnson once noted, if Marques de Riscal and Marques de Murietta are the Lafite and Mouton of Spain, then Vega Sicilia is the Latour, albeit from a “vintage that has rasined the grapes and fried the picking crew.” A beverage for those don’t have to ask the (considerable) price.
Heady stuff. They’re mighty proud of it, too -- as well they oughtta be. Behind the unassuming gate is a campus devoted to the study and creation of luxury. Manicured lawns, gardens, gleaming state-of-the-state-of-the-art crush facilities, fermenters and cellars that are part shrine, part museum.
The wine is everything it’s touted to be. Lavish, focused, precise, polished. You can damned near taste all that attention to detail and every ducat of the expense that wasn’t spared. It’s wine that studiously extracts any hint of the ordinary. Imperfection? Not a word that’s uttered in those hallowed halls.
Which is perhaps why this wine just ain’t got no soul. It’s like seeing a virtuoso singer, violinist, or pianist perform—countless yours of practice make for flawless technique, with years of study providing a researched interpretation of the work. But often the pursuit of technique and perfection elide passion right along with technical shortcomings.
I guess I just don't get it. Maybe I’m a hayseed, or a tariff well beyond my everyday means gives me a case of sour grapes (pun intended), but I’ll take passion over perfection, any day. While I can't deny that this is mighty impressive hooch, it nonetheless fails to make my heart sing. Give me soul, give me warmth, give me imperfection. Give me a bottle of wine made with humility, with a story to tell – and with a price tag that’ll let a mere proletarian drink daily.
Alright then. It’s Ontañon Crianza. Sould, pleasure and damned good wine, to boot. Plenty good for me.