I love champagne. Yes, in the “give me more,” drink it like water way. Of all things evocative of high society, it’s something I can easily understand the appeal of. If wine is the demure coquette sitting quietly at the bar, champagne is the likeable city girl incapable of sitting still-who dances for hours and hours at the rooftop lounge, alluring but never vulgar, all aglow in the shifting lights.
When I was younger, I used to imagine what champagne would taste like. To my naive mind, I suspected it would taste like ginger ale, since that’s what it looked like. To me, it was a drink for soirees and dinner parties, for men in close-fitting suits and women in silk and chiffon dresses. It was a drink for adults, not because it was alcoholic, but because only adults drank it, thereby instilling it with a kind of secrecy. I was intrigued.
I carry an aged variation of this interest with me, now more tangible than fantasy. I admire a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rose as though it were an objet de art (on a related note, I asked Colin Cowie through twitter if he’d recommend it, and he enthusiastically wrote that he would; one can’t argue with that sort of recommendation). But what is it that attracts me as I’ve gotten older? Well, it’s champagne’s liveliness. It’s active, organic, vibrant, nuanced, like life itself. It conjures thoughts of pleasure and loved ones. For a friend’s graduation party, we opened a bottle of Sofia Blanc de Blancs, bought especially for the occasion. We gasped funnily at the removed cork as it hit the ceiling of the porch strung with colored lights. I drank, less than I would’ve liked, but with satisfaction. It was a good night.