Marguerite Cuvée on the Baroque Hourglass

Right then. A Baroque Hourglass. Such a peculiar vintage. One must approach with respect, naturally. I’ve decanted it, swirling gently within its… well, its hourglass-ness. A slow, deliberate pour, allowing the sediment to settle.

The colour is astonishing. A shifting gradient, initially a deep, bruised plum, darkening as it descends to a shimmering, almost iridescent copper at the bottom. It evokes a forgotten library, illuminated only by gaslight. The nose is immediately complex. First, a rush of wet cathedral – damp stone and flickering candlelight, quite unexpected. Then, the faintest whisper of a Tuesday – that specific, unremarkable scent of routine and expectation. There's a surprising layer of dried figs, layered with something metallic, like aged silverware. Beneath that, a peculiar note of burnt almonds, a touch of rosewater, and an unsettling, almost palpable sense of an old argument, long since resolved but still echoing in the air. Finally, a surprising undercurrent of ozone, like a storm brewing far off.

On the palate, it’s remarkably dense. The initial impact is a bracing dryness, akin to the first sip of a very old, very dry Madeira. This is followed by a wave of bittersweet chocolate, underpinned by a granular texture, almost like powdered slate. There’s a fleeting sensation of crushed velvet, quickly overshadowed by a bitter apricot and a persistent, lingering taste of polished brass. A flash of lavender, swiftly replaced by the memory of a forgotten lullaby.

The finish is… protracted. That old argument lingers, coating the tongue with a faint bitterness. The wet cathedral scent returns, amplified. The ozone remains, a ghostly reminder of impending change. It leaves one feeling slightly unsettled, yet strangely invigorated.

I would suggest pairing this with a 1937 Château des Ombres, a vintage displaying similar brooding elegance. Or perhaps a plate of salted duck breast with fig jam, to echo those initial notes.

Rating: 4.5 glasses.

Cellar it. Decades, at least. Let the sediment fully integrate, the echoes of that old argument fade into a harmonious murmur. This is not a fleeting pleasure, but a slow, contemplative journey.