The Merry Drinker

One thing the French excel at, apart from food and wine, is giving other nations inferiority complexes. Somehow they have persuaded most of the world’s educated classes that France represents the summit of human sophistication, and that by comparison the rest of us are clodhopping peasants. This delusion is particularly deep-rooted in France’s former colonies.  These countries’ middle classes are convinced that the French version is always best and their own inferior.

A friend of mine once visited the Lebanon. Before leaving, he asked me what wines to look out for. At the time the only wine worth talking about was Château Musar. But it was definitely worth talking about: a swarthy, idiosyncratic masterpiece from the Beka’a Valley, one of the great wines of the world. So, once in Beirut, my friend asked where he might buy a bottle. His hosts gazed at him in bafflement. Château Musar? Why on earth did he want that Lebanese rubbish? Surely he would prefer a good Bordeaux? A nice Rhône wine? My friend insisted. Finally he was directed to a tatty little supermarket. The Château Musar lay tucked away among the other groceries, costing next to nothing. That night he shared the bottle with his hosts. He was astounded by how good the wine was. They could not be persuaded that it was anything but swill. It had to be. It wasn’t French.

Thankfully, very many people outside Lebanon appreciate Château Musar’s virtues. This has not only ensured the survival of Musar but also a small renaissance in Lebanese winemaking.

Château Ksara is actually much older than Château Musar: the house has been making wines for 150 years. But it was more seriously affected by the 1975-90 civil war. Its fortunes did not revive until the late 1990s, following new investment and a new management. Now it produces two million bottles per year, divided among six red wines, four whites and two rosés.

The best-selling wine is the Reserve du Couvent. Unlike Musar, this is made in the modern style. It is balanced and smooth, with aromas of spice and smoke. Its flavour is entirely distinctive: pungent and earthy and faintly reminiscent of venison. It has no great length.

The 2005 retails for about £7 in the UK, $12 in the US. Last week a grocer in Washington DC charged me $11 dollars for it. The following day I noticed it on the wine list of a restaurant in the same city. There it cost $45. You might think that US citizens, normally the most price-conscious consumers on the planet, would be scandalised by such greed. Far from it. Mysteriously, Americans will put up with almost any crime their restaurants inflict upon them. It is one reason (though only one) why eating out in the US is, by and large, such a thoroughly depressing pastime.