We can all taste wine. But actually writing something meaningful and entertaining about it is another matter entirely. That is precisely why the Gert Crum Wine Writing Prize was established: to encourage writing about wine in Dutch.
Text: Fela de Wit | Image: Gert Crum Wine Writing Prize
The prize is named after Gert Crum, one of the Netherlands’ best-known wine writers and a long-standing lecturer on the Vinologists’ Course at the Wine Academy. It is therefore a fitting name for a prize that centres on the art of telling stories about wine.
No fewer than 46 entries were received for the first edition. From these, a panel of experts selected five stories. One of these will ultimately be announced as the winner. But before the winner is revealed, let’s first meet the five nominees. The second is Peter Klosse. You can read his entry below.
Peter Klosse
Échézeaux 2015
The evening sky above Wageningen was clear. Elise parked her bike under the canopy. Warm light shone through the windows of the back door; Chopin could be heard playing inside. She smiled. Maarten.
The door clicked shut behind her. The house smelled of butter and mushrooms, a warm promise that makes you feel hungry. She put her bag down in the hall and heard the sharp rhythm of the knife.
He had his back to her: a linen apron, a bunch of flat-leaf parsley on the chopping board. On the worktop lay chestnut mushrooms, with a half-empty jar of porcini mushrooms beside them. In the pan, finely chopped shallots and garlic were sizzling in the butter.
Maarten turned round and kissed her.
Elise brushed a sprig of parsley off his cheek. “Did you finish early?”
“Three meetings, one session and a couple of phone calls. Fourteen billable hours. What about you?” “Frustrating. Our marketing manager brought in a selection of Pinot Noirs from New Zealand. He thought they’d be interesting additions to our range.”
“And you didn’t think so?”
“Not really. Ripe fruit, concentrated, high in alcohol. Well-made, but not refined.” Maarten shrugged. “That sounds like it’ll be a short conversation.”
Elise sighed. “You don’t know him. He sees wines as nothing more than a row in an Excel spreadsheet. Talks about Gen Z. Margins. Quarterly turnover. Wineries that pay for campaigns.”
Maarten had to laugh. “They’ve never heard of that in Burgundy.”
“That’s what I tried to explain to him. And then I opened a few to convince him.”
“Let me guess: he thought they were a bit sour.” “Exactly. Much less so than his own.” “Unbelievable. Did you sort it out?”
“We’ve chosen two. ”Let the market decide,’ he said.”
She could smell the sizzling butter. “But you know, ever since this afternoon I’ve been longing for something lovely.” Maarten put the mushrooms into the pan; the liquid sizzled. “What are you thinking about?”
“Something special from the Côte de Nuits that goes well with truffles, from your favourite corner.” “Go on then. You’re a brave one, aren’t you? Come on.”
A chill, stone-like silence hung in the cellar. The lamp was a dull orb; words written in chalk stood out on the slats. Elise ran her hand along the neck of a bottle; she placed her hand on a shelf.
Maarten shone his mobile phone along the rows.
“We’re here in Vosne country. The standard 2018 village wines… lovely, but too light. Les Brûlées 2014… robust, too harsh for the ravioli. Les Suchots 2012… enticing, but the truffle overpowers it.”
His gaze lingered for a moment on a label that commanded respect even in the half-light. “Richebourg,” he muttered. “Plenty of everything. Forest strawberries, body, everything a ten out of ten.” Elise felt her own anticipation rising. “So?”
Maarten moved the light a little further along. “Échézeaux.” Elise came to stand beside him. “Are you torn between those two?”
“The vineyards lie side by side, yet speak a different language. Richebourg is pure
”Tempting. And Échézeaux… just a bit bolder, with more earthiness. That goes well with what I’ve got cooking.“ Elise admired the bottle. ”2015 – isn’t that a bit too young?"
“Just right. Young enough to keep things exciting and mature enough to handle the complexity.”
They reverently brought the bottle upstairs. The long, barely discoloured cork popped out of the bottle with a sigh, as if the wine were accepting that it was about to reveal itself. Elise poured herself a sip.
She looked at the rim: a delicate brick-red edge, with a bright garnet colour within. The nose was
At first cool and reserved, it then opened up: wild strawberry, cherry stone, dried rose, earth after rain, black tea. And underlying it all: a hint of truffle.
“This is that exquisite perfume that only Burgundy dares to have,” she whispered. “Shall we pour some?” asked Maarten.
“Certainly. A bit of fresh air will do her good.”
She watched as the wine flowed down like a veil, full of promise.
The dough came out of the fridge; the pasta machine beeped softly. Elise added: mushrooms, Parmesan, a pinch of nutmeg and a pinch of lemon zest, for that freshness you don’t recognise, but do miss when it’s not there.
Maarten kept the sauce simple: mushrooms, butter, salt and pepper; above all, no cream – no greasy film that would make the wine seem more acidic. He cooked the ravioli in gently simmering water, transferred them to the pan and tossed them with the nonchalant gesture of someone who knew what he was doing.
He looked solemn as he opened the jar of salsa tartufata. “And now, the coup de grâce.” A spoonful of black truffle sauce glided over the dish. The aroma was intoxicating.
On the table, two filled Zalto glasses sparkled in the candlelight. The initial taste tingled, then the Échézeaux filled the mouth and caressed the cheeks. The acidity cut through cleanly; the tannins felt like fine sandpaper on the centre of the tongue. This was no velvet cloth, but a woven fabric of linen and silk.
“You have to taste right through the strength,” said Elise.
The second sip already had more body; the third left a hint of spices and humus, in exactly the same spot where the truffle would soon land.
“Any rough edges?” asked Maarten. It was their code word for imperfection.
“Fortunately, it does.” Elise swirled the glass. “A rough edge on the finish, that hint of bitterness. Just enough imbalance. Great wines resist being too smooth.”
Then they took their first bite. The pasta gave way, thin yet firm; the filling was a warm medley; the truffle settled over the pasta like a warm blanket. The earthy notes came to the fore, the fruit became deeper, the bitter edge more rounded. For a moment, the wine no longer seemed to be in the glass, but in between: between the mouth and the dish, between breath and memory.
Elise gazed dreamily into the distance and took another sip. “This is why Burgundy never fits into a spreadsheet,” she said softly. “It exists somewhere between order and chaos.”
“That sounds like real life,” said Maarten.
“Exactly. You can analyse her down to three decimal places, but it’s only here, at the table, that she decides whether to let you in.”
Chopin had begun his famous waltz. The candle was burning low. A final glass still waited in the carafe, as if the wine still had a secret to reveal.
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