Hugh Johnson: ‘We’re getting bolder with bubbles from Italy, Spain, Australia, NZ, the Cape…’

In a village where we used to stay in the centre of France, the New Year was greeted with a day of crashing glass; the bottles of the réveillon festivities and days before, all hitting the wall behind the Hotel de Ville. Families came to fling their empties at the wall, adding to the heap the council eventually carted away, I hope to a glass factory – though recycled glass is a disappointing percentage of new wine bottles. [subscriber-content]The bouquet of the gleaming heap soon went off, though it never approached the pong from the BYO (bottle, not bring, your own) outside the local growers’ cooperative. There were usually a couple of grubby little Renaults here, where citizens collected their gros rouge for the week or weekend. Their consumption was not in the same league, though, as that of one Parisian in court (admittedly this was almost 50 years ago) for drinking too much. He was a builder. He told the court he drank 10 litres (of red) a day. The beak then called for evidence as to whether this was excessive. An average among his peers, they found, was seven. ‘Try to cut it down,’ said the law. Which brings me to the recent Festive Season. Not so much how much as what. In this family we’re drinking less Champagne, as I’ve hinted before, in favour of what I call ‘home-brew’ – bubbly from this sceptred isle. We’ve coined the codeword ‘Trouble’ for our current favourite, Dermot Sugrue ’s The Trouble with Dreams, from Sussex and parts adjacent [ Hugh Johnson is a shareholder in Sugrue South Downs ]. His Zodo (Zero Dosage) is a step up; maybe England’s Krug. (A munificent host was asked why he poured Krug indiscriminately for all guests. His answer: ‘Maybe they can’t taste the difference, but they can all read.’) Here we’re getting bolder, though, with bubbles from Italy, Spain, Australia, New Zealand, the Cape… California’s Schramsberg has had a special place in my affection ever since I took refuge up their driveway in the 1960s from a bunch of Hell’s Angels who seemed to fancy my borrowed MG. Molly Chappellet from higher up the Napa Valley (no bubbly, alas, but stellar Cabs) gave me an unforgettable 60th birthday party in the Schramsberg caves. No hostess has more style than Molly. Deep in the hand-carved caves, she had hidden not only my desk, current papers included, but... peekaboo... members of my family, from 6,000 miles away. In the end, it’s not just the wine. It’s the people. [/subscriber-content] Related articles Hugh Johnson: ‘I feel solidarity with the courageous growers who stake so much on challenging the English weather’ Hugh Johnson: ‘Among wine lovers the goal should be simply appreciation’ Hugh Johnson: ‘Labels, of course, play the key role’

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Hugh Johnson: ‘We’re getting bolder with bubbles from Italy, Spain, Australia, NZ, the Cape…’

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