Last night my wife and I consumed and very much enjoyed our last bottle of 1999 Chateau Duhart-Milon. I think we drank it at its peak of balance, where some of its fresh fruit has been replaced by the last but generous song of graceful aging, before any hint of oxidized maturity. It was so graceful and wonderful. And the label from a short distance reminded me of its great, big sister, Lafite Rothschild, so that I could imagine sanguinity in my glass.
The top 1% has gotten so ferociously large in this new world that it drinks up all the good stuff. All one needs are $9 million to scratch the underbelly of the behemoth; but alas, I am not tall enough. I am among the bourgeoisie and my love of Bordeaux forces me to admit it, and start looking among the crus bourgeois for my cellar replacements. Duhart-Milon now costs over $100. I think my 1999 cost maybe $38 when it was released, maybe less. The only time I feel justified in spending more than $100 for a bottle of wine is for a special occasion. For me, the Second Growths have replaced the Firsts for that purpose. For daily drinking, I have been demoted and shut out of the classed oeuvre. Barnyard must yield to its less delicate sister. What an unpleasant way to enter my so-called golden years. There’s always the lottery, I guess.

