How is it possible that this 1981 Château Latour was better than the last bottle of 1982 I had?  For anyone who knows me, the answer is predictably simple: provenance.  Without even jumping into the sticky dilemma that is counterfeit wine (the slippery slope that quickly leads to the vast over-simplification of a much larger problem), after nearly three decades in a bottle, simple storage and exposure to the elements is more than enough.  Entrust a stranger in a van with a pristine bottle that has been stored under ideal circumstances for thirty years and see what happens.  What mine eyes have seen, behind-the-scenes over decades past, is ample fodder for a Cellar Confidential book franchise.

The ’81 vintage, while elegant and sophisticated today, was entirely overshadowed by her little sister—and Parker’s first darling ‘vintage of the century’—’82, and then once again by her even younger slightly more sinister sister, ’83, the naughtiest of the three.  As Matthew Wilson suggested, ’81 is more about Latour; ’82 is about the vintage.  And, yes—in the interest of full disclosure—I have had better ‘82s and ‘83s than I have ‘81s.  But it so happens that the last bottle of ’82 Latour I had—which was purchased from a venerated auction house, in ‘original wooden case’—was cooked.  The proud new owner didn’t know the difference, and I was decidedly conflicted about telling him, but it was my duty.  Fear overtook his eyes as they instantly darted back toward his cellar, the door obstructed by overflowing boxes from his latest purchases.  Conversely, this recent bottle of ’81 had been stored under ideal cellaring circumstances since its release.  Hence, my mantra: provenance.

Parker, along with a willing and conscious consortium of retailers and producers used this very ’82 vintage to simplify wine purchasing decisions and shift the consumers’ attention to individual wine scores and vintage charts—both of which lived conveniently under his dominion.  Oh yes, and he sold a bunch of magazines, building one of the most formidable, lasting brands in the history of the wine industry.  Well, countless ‘vintages of the century’ later and after innumerable revisions to the ubiquitous vintage chart, the American consumers’ co-dependency is finally dwindling.  But, it’s always astounding to me that, even today, intelligent humans who spend millions of dollars on wine are reliant upon one man’s anointment.  Grown men—many of them captains of industry, who are fiercely opinionated and confident in most matters—are reluctant to buy certain vintages because Parker said not to.

When one concentrates on consistent producers and wines that have been stored flawlessly with an unbroken chain of custody, vintage becomes a lot less relevant.  Of course, certain years are abysmal—many of which should be avoided—but one shouldn’t damn a vintage because he’s trying to sell the next.  As an example, I have had the great fortune of tasting consistently from the Mähler-Besse cellar—the most important collection of Bordeaux in the world, which dates back to 1892.  I can assure you that you won’t find a better expression of any given vintage on earth; and their ‘off-vintages’ taste better than most ‘blockbusters,’ so you can image what an ‘82 might taste like from their cellar.  But the trick, of course, is what happens to the bottle after it leaves the safety of a cellar like this.  Three decades in a bottle, under pristine storage conditions, can be ruined in twenty minutes in the trunk of someone’s car.

I had the pleasure of opening this bottle of ’81 Latour with a friend whose collection is vast and very intelligently built—he knows what he likes and buys a lot of it.  But, given the vintage, he was convinced that this bottle, from one of the most hallowed houses in all of France, was going to be ‘less than stellar’ in his words.  I had the advantage of having tasted another bottle from the very same original wooden case (a sibling, if you will), and I already assumed it to be great.  Bottle variation does occur, but I was very confident.  Upon opening the bottle, I knew that we were safe and as I poured his glass, releasing the bouquet, his eyes lit-up.

The Château Latour 1981 posed elegant aromas of mature black fruit, wet leaves, dank earth, tobacco and distinct mint, with an underbelly of intense ripe fruit; in time, more herbaceous notes and spiced nuances developed.  The palate, while advanced, delivered layers of smoky earth, elegant black fruit, ripe figs, dried figs and a distinct nuttiness.  The finish could have been longer and fuller, but this was truly a lovely wine.  Not to be paired with big flavored foods and meant to be drunk sooner than later; moreover, had this particular bottle sat on a liquor store shelf, for the last decade or two, it would have been an entirely different experience.  Yet another reminder that a great wine is only as good as its history.

An amazing evening of Del Maguey Single Village Mezcal at Pancha’s in Yountville, CA.

I had the great pleasure of sitting down with LA’s own Ted Haigh–one of the world’s leading cocktail historians.  Our topic for the day: the Margarita–one of the most popular cocktails on earth.

Q&A with Ted Haigh
Origins: the Margarita

WP: as we know—the Margarita has more colorful purported originators than perhaps any other cocktail in history?  What’s your favorite story as to the true origins of the Margarita?

TH: my favorite story and the one I believe to be true are two entirely different things.  My favorite version is probably that of Santos Cruz, the head bartender at the historic Balinese Room in Galveston, Texas—who created the drink for Peggy (Margaret) Lee in 1948.  But that’s only because I actually met him—in his nineties at the time—he was very soft-spoken and a perfect gentlemen.  I know that a lot of people met Margarita Sames, as well.

WP: Margaret (Margarita) Sames, being the woman who supposedly created the drink at her home in Acapulco, Mexico, 1948.

TH: yes—during a Christmas party for guests, Nick Hilton (founder of the Hilton Hotel chain), Joseph Drown (owner of the Hotel Bel-Air), Shelton McHenry (owner of the Tail O’The Cock, in LA).  And, friends who included Lana Turner and John Wayne who, of course went on to help evangelize the drink.

WP: how did the recipes of Cruz and Sames compare?

TH: Cruz called for equal portions tequila blanco, Cointreau and lime juice (modeled after the Sidecar).   Sames was one part Cointreau, two parts tequila, one part lime (with a salt rim).

WP: so what do you believe to be true?

TH: that the original drink which would become the Margarita—the Picador—was invented in England around 1936, more than a decade earlier.  The book which featured it—WJ Tarling’s the Café Royal Cocktail Book—was actually published in 1937. The Picador calls for ¼ fresh lime (or lemon) juice, ¼ Cointreau, ½ tequila—shaken.   This is the basic Margarita recipe.

WP: in other words, the most famous agave-based cocktail in history was actually created in the UK—how were they even getting tequila?

TH: tequila seemed to get a bigger foothold in the UK than it did in the US—faster and earlier, that is.  You began seeing tequila cocktails there long before they took hold in America.  Hell, there were more than a dozen in Tarling’s 1937 book, alone.

WP: is it any surprise then that the serious bartenders in England, Scotland and Ireland are all going mad over mezcal—and have been for many years?

TH: No—they’re smart.  Just as they were in the 1930s.

WP: I’ve heard conflicting stories—does cocktail historian David Wondrich have a different opinion about this?

TD: He wants to trace it back through its whole family line—and I do too.  I’m just saying that the Picador is the first appearance of this Mexican drink; and that it’s really the first Margarita.  Now, we can mention the Sidecar as being the daddy of the Margarita and, as Wondrich would say, the Brandy Daisy as its granddad, or (as I say) the Brandy Crusta as its granddad.  We might actually even be able to come together on the matter if we presume that the Brandy Daisy came out before the Brandy Crusta—then maybe the Brandy Crusta was a variation of the Brandy Daisy. To me, the lineage to the Daisy is a little bit more tenuous; but to the Crusta it’s easy—I mean, you can draw a graph.

WP: is it possible that there was a Margarita zeitgeist?  I mean, it’s hard to imagine that people weren’t mixing tequila, lime and Curaçao before and certainly during Prohibition in Tijuana, for example.

TH: ah, here we are in Caesar salad territory.  That’s my point exactly—Tarling is among the people who could have afforded to actually fly on airplanes, as were the jet-setters of the day who bounced from LA to TJ to the UK.  For all we know, it was an American bartender (living in England) who created the drink.  What I find suspect is the people who claim to have invented it; but that might not be accurate either because things tend to happen when they’re ready to happen—technologically, sociologically.

WP: but given tequila (the national spirit of Mexico), lime (their traditional fruit) and the addition of a simple sweetening agent, can’t we assume that said recipe was concocted in or near Mexico?

TH: it’s at the sweetening agent where your argument starts to fall apart.  Take, for example, the Daiquiri—every single ingredient was intrinsically Cuban.  In the case of the Margarita, rationalizing begins at the Cointreau—sure, there were stars and jet-setters that could’ve brought it, but there is an absence of hard logic.

WP: So, all doubt begins with Cointreau?

TH: well, some used triple sec.  It should be noted that Cointreau originally was a triple sec and that all subsequent triple secs were imitations of Cointreau.  That is certain.  Mexico then created a product called Controy—which tastes less like Cointreau and more like a good orange Curaçao, ironically.  But either way, this concoction was sort of a celebration of an American’s nicely filtered version of that culture.  Thereafter, the Margarita was a very Anglo drink—hardly indigenous—whether English or southern Californian.

WP: so, who really invented the Margarita?

TH: nobody will ever know.

WP: how do you like yours?

TH: think Santos Cruz: equal parts blanco tequila, Cointreau and fresh lime juice.

*For a similar piece, as featured in an online exclusive for Los Angeles  Times Magazine, click here.