Surely there can be no greater feat of uber-Epicureanism quite like the thrill of consuming something that is older than oneself. I refer, of course, not to the stomach-churning stunt of devouring dry and brittle figs recently excavated from an Egyptian tomb, but to the fine art of imbibing vintage booze. For my purse, this means Madeira. I am fortunate, then, that there exists a bar nearby that pours forty-two and sixty-four-year-old Madeira by the glass. The latter has graced the Earth longer than my mother has.
Sure, the undecanted cloudy chestnut-colored liquid may not be entirely sedimentless, and yes, after drinking more than one my evening's dreams might contain Exquisite Corpse's most protean creations hopping through a landscape designed by Salvador Dali in an especially weird mood, but I think these qualities add to the frisson of the moment.
Port, that other sublime product of the Portuguese harvest, also possesses a fine flavor to savor, and in the photograph below we witness lucky Tatyana savoring several different varieties while vacationing "in situ."
Most experts consider port and madeira to be "dessert wines", but I simply like to drink them for the sake of drinking them. Lots of them. You know you're having a highly satisfying time when you're quaffing port. I've never see miserable people twirling a tiny glass of Cockburn's Tawney or Ruby elixir between their lacklustre fingers. It's so much interesting than those boring regular bottles of red and white plonk that were featured in that ludicrously over-praised 'Sideways' movie.
