The Gert Crum Wine Writing Prize was established for anyone who believes that wine is not only a pleasure to drink, but also a delight to write about. The aim is to give writing about wine in Dutch a real boost. And that, of course, makes us very happy.
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. For many years, he also taught on the Wine Academy’s Vinologist course and inspired countless wine lovers to look, smell and taste just that little bit deeper.
No fewer than 46 entries were received for the very first edition. The expert jury selected five nominees from these. Ultimately, of course, only one can take the prize.
Here is the third nominee: Bas Korpel.
Orange wine
Although Bernhard gave it serious thought, walking to Vosne from the Hospice de Beaune was not an option. The walk to Corton-Charlemagne alone had taken him more than an hour and a half yesterday. He found it a day’s work. With every step, his shoes wore down further and he felt the pebbles pricking the soles of his feet. His favourite dark blue suit was also beginning to show signs of wear. But the journey proved more than worth it when he poured his beloved Louis Latour Corton-Charlemagne from the kaleidoscopic year of 1921 into his glass. He had known it for a long time. After tasting that very same white wine at his gruff godfather Leopold’s house, he was determined to see that mythical vineyard for himself.
Charlemagne saw for himself on which part of the hill the snow melted first. ‘This is where you shall plant my vines,’ he exclaimed. Initially, Pinot Noir was planted there, yielding a regal red. His wife, Luitgarde, turned out to be a proper German lady. Red wine stains in her husband’s white beard were reason enough for her to insist that part of the hillside be planted with white grapes. And from that day onwards, the Grand Cru vineyard – and the appellation of the same name – Corton-Charlemagne was ‘white in a sea of red’.
Bernhard can’t bear the thought of having a beard. His clean-shaven cheeks help him to win women over, such as the red-haired waitress in the bar of his hotel in Beaune yesterday. It was in the very same place that he met two travel-loving Brits, who are now driving up, honking their horn, in an eleven-year-old De Dion-Bouton from 1923.
The driver is a tall, lanky Welshman of Norwegian descent. Roald is barely eighteen years old, but he drives the right-hand-drive car with such ease as if he’d been doing it for years. What’s more, he travelled extensively through Burgundy with his father five years ago. At twenty-six, the other man is the elder statesman of the group. Ian is from London, but also speaks a fair bit of foreign languages, having previously lived in Kitzbühel, Munich and Geneva.
On the way, Bernhard reads the enchanting names of wines on the place-name signs – wines he has seen in his uncle Leopold’s cellar: Aloxe-Corton, Nuits-St-Georges and Vosne-Romanée. Leopold has instructed him to learn to drink red wine. ‘Those homemade cocktails aren’t befitting a man of your standing.’ Bernhard could drink Leopold’s blood and feels that his uncle has absolutely no understanding of the current generation: ‘You view the world through a straw,’ Bernhard reproached him.
The sun is now high in the sky as the three young men drive into Vosne-Romanée. They are welcomed with open arms by Edmond Gaudin de Villaine, manager of the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. In the walled La Romanée-Conti vineyard, the rows of Pinot Noir are lined up with military precision. Edmond says proudly: ‘If you look south over the wall, you’ll see our most recent acquisition. Since this summer, La Tâche has been the newest Monopole of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti’. ‘Just like in Norway,’ remarks Roald, ‘where my uncle Oswald has been buying his wines from Vinmonopolet for over ten years.’ Bernhard and Ian burst out laughing.
Once they reach the cellar, the men taste 1933 La Romanée-Conti, La Tâche and Richebourg straight from the cask. Eagerly, they hurry over to the tasting table where, as a very special exception, Roald and Ian are allowed to taste La Romanée-Conti from the minuscule 1923 vintage. Bernhard insists on tasting the 1931 vintage – the year he graduated from university in Berlin.
The two Brits can’t find enough superlatives to shower the wine with compliments. Just as well for Bernhard, as this diverts attention somewhat from the grimace on his face. Wry, sour and bitter – that’s all he can taste. He feels as though he’s drinking the pews of St Joseph’s Church in Reckenwalde. He barely manages to utter ‘délicieux’. By now, he is convinced. Red wine is a punishment. Undrinkable.
‘That evening, once back in Beaune, the three men head back to the bar where they met the day before. When Bernhard frantically feels in his pocket to see how few francs he has left, he realises that a new bottle of Corton-Charlemagne is out of the question tonight. What’s more, Ian and Roald would rather order a Romanée-Conti. That’s a bridge too far for Bernhard. ‘I’d rather die than drink another glass of red wine in my life.’.
Whilst the others are drinking red wine thirstily, Bernhard uses his last bit of money to order his favourite cocktail. ‘Monsieur,’ he calls out. ‘Could I have a mix of three parts Gordon’s, one part vodka and half a part Lillet Dry in a deep champagne glass? It would be great if you could shake it until it’s ice-cold. And serve it with a thin slice of lemon zest.’ Ian takes another sip of his Romanée-Conti and looks at Bernhard as if he were watching water catch fire. ‘A mysterious potion…’ stammers Roald. ‘This is my own invention,’ says Bernhard, twirling the fresh white carnation in his lapel. ‘I think I’ll apply for a patent on it.’
Whilst sipping his homemade cocktail, Bernhard daydreams of a life of luxury, in which he can swap his meagre existence for palaces, pleasure yachts and a cellar full of Corton-Charlemagne.
Ian gives him a golden tip: ‘You only live once. If you want to bathe in luxury, don’t go for that fresh-faced, young waitress, but choose a princess. One whose bloom of youth is already beginning to fade. Choose a desperate princess who will save you. She’ll make you rich enough to live recklessly for the rest of your life and drink Corton-Charlemagne.’
‘Are you sure?’ jokes Roald. ‘I’d rather say:’ You only live twice. Just like some wines, which are given a new lease of life. Just think of Charlemagne and his Corton-Charlemagne.’ Bernard’s mouth waters when Ian suddenly decides to order a bottle of Corton-Charlemagne after all. ‘Put it on room 007,’ Roald blurts out. ‘In the name of Dahl and Fleming.’
Did you know that WINLIFE 102 is now available? Shop it here.
Don't want to miss a single edition? Subscribe then subscribe to WINELIFE Magazine now!
Want to stay up to date with the best articles? Follow WINELIFE magazine on Instagram, Facebook and sign up for our fortnightly newsletter.
English (UK) 
Nederlands 
Deutsch