A straight line connects Bordeaux to Languedoc: Follow the Pyrenees Mountains from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. It is the narrowest point in France, a mere four-hour drive between two points, ocean to sea.
That may be why Bordeaux winemakers on holiday tend to stay. After all, it is not a world away, so they stay for a harvest or two. A few years out of cold, damp cellars of the Medoc, a few years of sunshine and olives. What could be the harm?
In my soul, that is what I hope happens when a gentleman like Olivier Groux –cellar master of Bordeaux’s beloved Château Lascombes– uproots himself for the Coteaux du Languedoc.
This is Syrah like a Doberman it a dog. Muscular and lean, and agile. The wine is varietally correct, perfect in most ways—Cassis and smoked game on the nose, with a whiff of creosote and bone marrow. Voluptuous dark fruit overlays a core of minerality and a bottom note of something delightfully vulgar.
When researching this wine, I came across a French review. Here is the Google Translate version, which is closer to a Walking Dead review than a wine note:
The fleshy wine is exposed as a human bomb chest. Corpulence is present, the tannins in mouth roll on a smooth and velvety palette, felted between wood , fruits and spices .
Corpulence is present, really?