Yet one more example of those countless, irreconcilable differences separating English and
French is provided by their diametrically-opposed attitudes to port. For the
French le porto is usually consumed as just one more apéritif. It
tends to be drunk chilled in its lighter, white variations and,
along with other fortified wines, is more a preference of the female sex. The
English, on the other hand, prefer their port velvet red, served at room
temperature, and in full-bodied, vintage form - while drinking it is
traditionally an almost exclusively male, after-dinner practice.
Historically, port-drinking in
England goes back to the beginning of the eighteenth century when conflict with
the hereditary enemy obliged the English to turn to their Portuguese allies to
provision them in wine. The long sea journey to England proving detrimental to
quality, the wine began to be ‘fortified’ - stabilized by the addition of
distilled grape alcohol which stopped the fermentation process, thereby
retaining a high sugar content while increasing alcoholic strength.
Port is generally regarded by
the English as providing the ideal complement, both in texture and flavour, not
only to indigenous cheeses such as Stilton, Cheddar or Gloucester, but also as
a dessert wine to accompany, in particular, full-flavoured, fruit–based sweets
as well as nuts. It must be savoured in slow, contemplative sips, and is
reputed both for the warm, calming effects it has on imbibers, and the
philosophical orientations it is apt to impart. Perhaps it was this latter
propensity which, in higher social circles, went towards creating that
after-dinner custom which required ladies to retire to the drawing room for tea
and gossip, leaving the men to discuss politics and life’s vicissitudes over a
cigar, and a glass or two of mellow vintage port.
And what is more natural with
these lovers of ritualized tradition that port-drinking should have generated a
number of odd ceremonial procedures? For serving and passing the port are
subject to rules of etiquette as minutely detailed as those set out in the Royal
and Ancient Golf Club of Saint Andrews’ Book of Regulations. At formal
dinners, a custom, apparently originating in the British Navy, requires the
wine to be passed from port to port (the port side of a ship is the left-hand
side): the host first serves the person seated on his right before passing the
bottle clockwise to his neighbour on the left; the latter then proceeds to
serve the passer on his right, and then hands it on to the next person on his
left who does the same. In this way the bottle is sent round the table until it
comes full circle back to the host. If a person should, for some reason, fail
to pass the bottle on (another rule states that it must never be allowed to
touch the table on the way round), it is considered discourteous to bring this
to his attention directly (we are, of course, among gentlemen). The only
acceptable procedure consists in asking him the question: ‘Don’t you know the
Bishop of Norwich?’ This is intended more as a reminder than a reproach. If,
however, the miscreant is unacquainted enough with port etiquette to answer in
the negative, the correct response is: ‘He’s an awfully nice fellow … but he
never remembers to pass the port!’ *
What else can you expect
from a nation of incorrigible boozers that another long-established tradition
requires that a bottle in the process of being drunk should never be re-corked?
The injunction ‘No heel-taps!’ requires that the last drops of the bottle be
drunk off so that another may be swiftly opened. At formal military dinners,
moreover, no other wine but port is considered noble enough to be raised in
toast to the King or Queen.
*Legend has it that the ecclesiastic in question was the long-lived Henry
Bathurst (1744-1837), Bishop of Norwich from 1805 to 1837, who in his later
years was in the understandable habit of nodding off over his port, thus
failing to pass it on. So seriously was the problem taken that elaborate
lengths were gone to in order to find a remedy. A solution was finally provided
by the Hoggett Decanter, the rounded base of which made it impossible to stand,
thereby making sure it inscribed a full aerial circle before landing back on a
special stand (itself called the Hoggett) positioned in front of the host.
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