Riedel's Big Splash
It was a postcard-perfect winter evening. Huge, heavy flakes of snow were falling as though being directed by an artist. I was being driven up the side of an Austrian mountain by the handsome Georg Riedel, head of the Riedel crystal company.
“I thought we’d start with champagne at my place,” he said in his charming “Sound of Music” accent. “My wife’s not at home.” (My shortness of breath had nothing to do with the altitude.)
I had been sent by The Wine Spectator to the Tyrolean town of Kufstein to do a story on the scientifically-designed glasses Riedel was producing to maximize the wine-drinking experience. Each glass was made in a manner meant to put the wine into the mouth and onto the right taste buds in a way that brought out the unique qualities of different grape varieties or wine styles. Although there had been some talk in the wine press about what Riedel was up to – some writers were skeptical, others were simply confused – there had not been a major story about it.
As a result, both Georg and I were nervous. He, because he wanted to make a splash by having his glasses be shown in the best way possible to the massive American market ... me, because this was the first “cover story” I had been asked to do and because I knew so little about wine. I was one of those annoying amateurs who “know what I like,” but not much else.
The Riedel residence was lovely with the living room nearly dark. The only light was directed at a beautiful sculpture of pâte de verre — Daum, I think.
But Georg led me on through to the kitchen. There a table was covered with a forest of crystal glasses sparkling in the dim light. There was every shape imaginable from the festive, decadent coupe to the tallest, slimmest, most elegant flute.
“Now I want you to drink champagne from each of these glasses and tell me what you think,” Georg said. “Does it taste different from one or another?” Drink from each? I counted the glasses and wondered how I’d be able to stand afterwards, let alone write an article.
Georg walked to a large wine refrigerator that was packed with bottles of champagne, a bottle of nearly every marque you can think of. “Which champagne would you like to use to taste?” he asked.
Wow! When you have a choice among Cristal, Krug, Bollinger, Cuvée Winston Churchill, Dom Pérignon and more, what do you do? I decided I’d better pick something I knew so I could concentrate on tasting rather than do any aspirational drinking. During the preceding months, I’d been fortunate enough to drink Taittinger – the basic, garden variety – a few times, so I asked for it.
Georg was surprised, and a little disappointed. “Not one of the famous, expensive ones?” He began hunting through the bottles of luxury cuvées and finally spotted a Taittinger somewhere in the middle of the refrigerator. He pulled it out . . .
. . . and unleashed a torrent of champagne.
Bottles came tumbling out, crashing to the kitchen’s stone floor and shattering. Shards of glass and champagne flew everywhere, one bottle after another, leaving the champagne-drenched Georg standing in a puddle of bubbles and a mountain of foam.
He had a look of shock on his face, his grand moment to make a big splash with his wine glasses was going down the drain. Literally.
To his credit, however, Georg's demeanor never wavered. “Will you excuse me for a moment while I freshen up?” he said politely. I rushed around the table and began collecting pieces of glass. “No, no,” Georg said. “Please don’t do anything. Just leave it.”
And then, horrified as he was, he knew what had to be done. “I’ll have my children take care of it.”
With that, Georg vanished and a girl and boy, around 10 or 12, appeared. They looked at each other doubtfully, then began pushing the mess away with a broom. When Georg returned, he had changed his mind. “That's okay, just leave it,” he told the children. He was freshly scrubbed and again elegantly dressed. Then, turning to me, he asked, “Shall we try out the glasses?” Coolly and effortlessly, he began opening the Taittinger. Still stunned, I could only nod. I sat down and began to drink.
So, was there a difference? Which glass was best? you ask. Well, that’s another story . . . coming up next.
