The Vinferno - Bonny Doon Vineyard

“Lalou is your angel from the celestial milieu.
She spins the stars so you might come to no harm,
A tall order to perform for a thick-headed crétin like you.
“She charged me to insure that you not (as it were) ‘buy the farm,’
That you succumb not to overpowering fright
When I lead you to harrowing vinsights apt to cause great alarm.”
Fearful I was but did not wish to appear impolite,
As Noblet grabbed my arm and bade me to follow.
This was not le moment juste to light out in flight.
While his cockamamie tale was difficult to swallow,
I knew I’d never again have this remarkable chance.
My half-hearted protests remained essentially hollow.
“Cher maître, I ask you to please not look askance,
But I must learn your cellar secrets, oh tell me please,
What secret barrel additions an aroma to enhance? 2
“Perhaps a discreet tisane of framboise or a soupçon of crème de cassis?”
“Imbécile, you have learned nothing, évidemment.”
“Macération à froid? Anything? I’m doon on my knees.”
“To teach you more maquillage 3 was not why I was sent,
Tricks you know all too well but fathom not their consequence.
You’ll soon behold a vision of winemaking hell and tearfully repent.”
I found it hard to divine his sense.
Was it not the role of a winemaker, or to be fancy, vigneron,
To please his consumer for all purposes and intents?
“You shall hear the anguished cries and moans
From those who sought to make wines très flatteurs,
Producers of all ilk: burgs and clarets, Rhônes….
“For them the highest point score was all that mattered.
What availeth a score of ninety-five
When one loseth one’s soil 4 and a sense of place is shattered?”
I had been on the leeside 5 of 90 for some time, although connived
To wear my bottom o’ the barrel status as a small badge of pride.
(Though I secretly craved approbation if only just to stay alive.)
But Noblet had seen right through me; there was no place to hide.
He had judged well and found me wanting.
All I might do now was to follow on by his side.
Deep in my bones was a feeling that was haunting.
“Where then are you taking me, cher maître?”
“You wish to master pinot, to ascend the steepest mountain?
2 At the beginning of the narrative, our narrator had appeared to have sickened (almost unto death) of his own facile, wine
making tricks employed to produce “flatteur,” fruit-forward wines, but at this juncture he seems to have atavistically regressed
to his earlier predisposition of wanting to please his customers at whatever cost to his immortal wine soul.
3 Literally, “make-up,” the cosmetic tricks, viz. the utilization of new oak, that a winemaker might employ to make his wine
present better upon release, but often with the consequence of the obscuration of terroir.
4 It is ambiguous as to whether the great caviste is here referring to a literal loss of top-soil, owing to poor viticultural practice or to
inexpressiveness of terroir, due to excessive monkeying around with the wine.
5 The poet is truly a master punster, if not unregenerate show-off. In most cases, lees may well be more.