25% genuine Bordeaux.
30% good Midi wine.
20% ordinary Algerian wine.
25% neutral wine.
It is perhaps hardly necessary to add that these formulas are only
approximate, and that the actual ingredients of each Monopole vary in
nature and ratio with the firm of wine-cooks concerned. Indeed, there
are some Côte d’Or houses which claim that their Monopoles are blended
exclusively from pure, territorially genuine, Burgundies: a claim which,
whether justifiable or not in fact, is best rejected on principle,
because there is seldom any inducement to blend a wine good enough to be
sold unblended.
A widely organised conspiracy now exists to foist these vinous
compounds, which may conceivably be wine and even French wine, but
are certainly neither Bordeaux nor Burgundy according to any legal or
loyal interpretation of those terms, on purchasers of single bottles
and diners at restaurants because they yield much bigger profits than
ordinary wines. Thanks to our national ignorance of wines, Monopole
brands of White Graves (one boasts that it is supplied to the House
of Lords), and other so-called “Oyster-Wines,” have already gained a
certain footing on the English market because they are supposed to offer
“more regular and uniform quality” than wines bearing straightforward
territorial designations, together with a sustained standard of flavour,
independent of vintage vagaries: a thing which it is simplicity itself
to produce once “_coupage_,” or scientific blending, is resorted to. In
the Côte d’Or, where the demand for authentic Côte de Nuits and Côte
de Beaune Burgundies is anything up to five times as much as can be
genuinely produced, while bad vintages are much more frequent than good,
the evil of the “_Marques Personnelles_” has made such rapid progress
that already more Monopole wines than territorial growths are sold and
the integrity of the sacred name of Burgundy is definitely compromised.
Many of these mixtures are quite agreeable to drink, provided always that
they are taken for what they really are and not for what they pretend
to be, but to offer them to one’s friends is an unpardonable insult,
however merited the insult may sometimes be. The proper sphere for these
beverages—if, indeed, they can be said to have any proper sphere other
than the hoodwinking of the credulous and ignorant for whom they are
lavishly and alluringly labelled in regulation Burgundy and Bordeaux
bottles—is for splashing down a hustled and jolted meal in a dining-car.
A Monopole may be defined as the _Train Bleu_ wine par excellence, since
it can always be relied upon to be none the worse for the most violent
shaking before taking.
A word of caution is, however, necessary because in French commercial
usage this dangerous word “_monopole_” can have two very different
interpretations. The first, which is infinitely the more common, as we
have just seen, applies to blended wines sold as proprietary brands under
the euphemism which the law requires to be printed in the wine-merchant’s
price-list but not on the label of the bottle: “_exclusif de toute
considération d’origine et de cépage_” (_cépage_ means in this context
the types of vine traditionally associated with particular growths of
wine). The second, and entirely respectable sense, which the same term
may have, is in the case where a certain firm may own or lease the
whole of a particular vineyard and can thus claim that it possesses
a “monopoly” of its wine. An outstanding instance is provided by
Romanée-Conti of Vosne, perhaps the most famous vineyard in the whole
world, which is “_Monopole de la Maison De Villaine et Cambon_” for the
very good and sufficient reason that this old and honourable firm owns
the freehold of the hallowed hectare and a half and bottles every drop of
its priceless wine in its own cellars.
Strictly speaking, Champagne (where the term originated and where it is
still extensively used), practically all other sparkling wines and most
Ports, Sherries, Madeiras and Marsalas are likewise Monopoles, because
they are sold under the names of different makers—each separate shipper
representing one or more proprietary brands—instead of under the names of
particular vineyards or communes. In each of these cases, however, the
blending formula, which has made the reputation and constitutes the most
jealously guarded secret of each firm, relies wholly on wines enjoying
co-equal local appellations. Every drop of Première Zone Champagne is
territorially genuine “Champagne,” although as many as six separate
communes, each with its own appellation of origin, may have contributed
to its composition. The only way to avoid pitfalls is to know your Côte
d’Or communes and “_climats_” and your Bordeaux districts, with their
constituent communes and satellite _Crus_, _Clos_ and _Châteaux_ (the
latter is almost the work of a lifetime), more or less by heart, and
to apply the cold test of geography to every bottle you are invited
to buy. Even then you have no real guarantee in England, for English
wine-merchants seem to be able to label wines, or other vinous mixtures,
with more or less any names that suit their fancies, and yet enjoy
virtual immunity from prosecution, so long as they do not describe as
“Port” or “Madeira” wines that were not originally shipped from Oporto
and Funchal with the appropriate Portuguese Certificate of Origin.