Martin De Still: The Worst Wine Writer in the World

An evening that suggested something...

“There are wine writers who build their reputations on access. Others on knowledge. A few, more recently, on personality.

Martin De Still has, over time, developed none of these in any particularly identifiable way.

He has attended tastings. He has visited vineyards. He has, by most accounts, spent a considerable portion of his adult life in the presence of wine.

Those who have met him tend to agree on certain details, though rarely the same ones. He is described as thoughtful, or quiet, or occasionally present. There is a general sense that he has seen a great deal, though it is not always clear what he has retained.

His work has appeared in various places, sometimes in full, sometimes not. Readers who return to it often do so with the impression that something was about to be said.

It rarely is.

We were first made aware of Mr. De Still through a short submission, which arrived without introduction and, notably, without invoice. There seemed no particular reason not to publish it.

What follows is his first contribution to Indelible Wine Stain.”

yours indelibly,
Gregory S. Prindle

An Evening That Suggested Something

I was invited recently to the home of a very famous boutique winemaker, though I won’t say who. It is not necessary. The house was set back slightly from the road outside, in a way that made arrival feel deliberate, like an intentional event, though I am not certain it was.

There were already people there when I arrived. Enough to suggest importance, but not so many as to require explanation. Glasses had been poured. That is to say, wine was poured into the glass and not that glass was poured into glass. It was not poured for me, initially, though I found one in my hand soon after.

Someone mentioned, in passing, that one of the bottles open that evening came from one of the greatest vintages of the last century. I suspect that opinion depends on when the phrase was first said. If it was said in the 19th century, it would refer to the 18th. If in the 20th, the 19th. It was said in a way that didn’t require confirmation though. The bottle itself was placed slightly apart from the others, though not in a way that insisted upon it.

We began elsewhere.

The earlier wines were discussed more easily. There were references to acidity, to structure, to things that seemed to settle the conversation rather than move it forward. At one point, someone said something about the wine that felt considered.

I replied with something that, at the time, seemed equally so. There was a pause, and then a general agreement that suggested I had said something of substance. I thought that I had, as my friend Dean had told me to say it.

Someone else followed, building on what I had said in a way that made it seem more complex than I remember intending. There was a moment, shared between us, where we all acknowledged it without quite saying anything further.

It was, I think, a good exchange.

At some stage, the bottle was opened, or perhaps it had been open all along. A glass appeared again. I do not recall being poured, though I must have been.

There was a pause after the first taste. Not a long one, but long enough that it might have been noticed had anyone chosen to remark on it.

Dinner followed, or it may have already begun. A dish was placed in front of me that may have been the best pairing I’ve had in my life, though I remember thinking at the time that I should be more certain.

I considered asking about it.

I did not, as a very interesting question was raised.

At some point, I excused myself from the table to use the lavatory.

The house, I noticed then, was larger than I had first understood. There were corridors that seemed to lead somewhere, though not always back.

Although I suppose if one walked back, then it would be back.

I remember passing a room I did not recognize. Then another.

The lavatory, when I found it, was unexpectedly considered. On the wall hung a large map of Burgundy, detailed enough to suggest a degree of seriousness. I may have been there once, at the Hospices de Beaune, though I could not be sure.

I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.

It occurred to me that I should return.

I did not immediately do so.

Martin De Still has been present at a number of important wine events.

He continues to attend them.