As I sit down to this humble task of reviewing a bottle of wine, one might wonder why a man of my usual proclivities, more accustomed to the critique of culture, art, and the human condition, would stoop to the level of beverage commentary. Wine-tasting you see, considered as a public performance, is the most successful confidence trick since the Emperor’s new clothes. The participants gather in solemn conclave, armed with glasses no larger than a thimble yet priced like Fabergé eggs, and proceed to treat a simple agricultural product as though it were a cryptic message from the gods.
First comes the tilt and swirl, a manoeuvre executed with the gravity of a brain surgeon positioning a scalpel. The purpose, we are told, is to “release the aromas.” In practice it releases mainly the taster’s conviction that he is doing something profoundly sophisticated. The liquid climbs the sides of the glass like a mountaineer who has taken a wrong turn, and everyone nods approvingly, as if centrifugal force were a mark of civilisation. Next, the nose is inserted—often to a depth that suggests the taster is trying to inhale the entire vineyard. Eyes half-close in rapture. A pause. Then the pronouncement: “Graphite… undergrowth after rain… a hint of liquorice and old saddle.” One listens in vain for the honest admission: “Fruit, mostly.” But honesty is not the point. The point is to produce a verbal bouquet more extravagant than the liquid itself, a bouquet composed of nouns no two people can ever agree on.
And yet, here we are, with a bottle of M&S's Chenin Blanc in hand, a testament to both the democratization of wine and perhaps, the democratization of taste. The label promises "citrus and tropical fruits", a description so vague it could apply to a fruit salad at a mid-tier hotel breakfast buffet. But, with scepticism as my companion, I pour the golden liquid into a glass, and I am immediately struck by its hue, a reminder of autumn sunsets rather than the harshness of the British winter outside. The first sip is a revelation, not because it's ground-breaking, but because it's so unpretentiously enjoyable. Here's a wine that doesn't demand you to have a PhD in Oenology to appreciate it. There are notes of lemon, yes, but also a whisper of something akin to mango, if mango had gone on holiday and come back slightly disappointed. It's crisp, clean, and utterly devoid of the bombast one might associate with more self-important vintages.
It is the kind of wine one would take to a dinner party hosted by friends who appreciate good company over good wine - a rare breed, these days. It's not the wine you'd discuss at length to impress a sommelier; it's the wine you enjoy while discussing life's more pressing matters, like why British summers seem to have abdicated their traditional duties. At £7.99, it's a steal, not because it's cheap, but because it offers more than its price tag suggests. It's the kind of wine that makes one ponder the irony of wine snobbery when, at the end of the day, what we all seek is pleasure in a glass, not a lecture on vintages and terroir.
In this age where every glass of wine seems to come with an essay on its heritage and lineage, M&S's Chenin Blanc stands as a beacon of simplicity. It's not about the wine; it's about the moment. The vocabulary of wine-tasting is a triumph of pseudo-precision. Terms drift about like expensive fog: structure, minerality, length, grip, tension. Each is vague enough to mean anything and authoritative enough to silence dissent. To question them is to reveal oneself as a philistine, which in this context means someone who thinks wine is for drinking.
And in that moment, this wine does what all good wines should do - it fades into the background, allowing the laughter, the conversation, the joy of good company to take centre stage. So, here's to you, Marks & Spencer, for producing a wine that reminds us why we drink in the first place. Not for the accolades or the pompous tasting notes, but for the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of a well-spent evening.