TheChampagenSommelier reflects on A Desert Island Champagne [read the full champagne story]
Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
The question, I must admit, is an intellectual dead-end. A parlour game for the unimaginative, usually posed by someone who believes “bubbly” is a monolithic category and whose finest gastronomic memory involves an all-inclusive buffet in the Canary Islands. “If you could only take one champagne to a desert island, which would it be?”
Let us, for a moment, dissect the absurdity. A desert island.
Am I to assume there is a perfectly temperate cellar carved into the rock by some earlier, more prescient castaway? Am I equipped with a sabre for sabrage, or must I rely on a sharp-edged seashell? And the most agonizing question of all: is there no one with whom to share it? To drink exceptional champagne alone, after all, is like hearing a perfect joke with no one around to understand the punchline. It is technically enjoyable, but the very essence of the triumph is lost.
But for the sake of argument, for the intellectual exercise… no, simply to demonstrate my point, let us entertain the notion. We shall ignore the coconuts, the oppressive heat, and the inevitable descent into madness. We have an infinite supply of one single champagne. Which is it to be?
The answer from the uninitiated is as predictble as rain on a British bank holiday
“Moët!” someone will cry, immediately revealing that their knowledge of luxury is sourced from Formula 1 podiums and music videos. Certainly, Moët & Chandon is the Toyota Camry of Champagne—reliable, ubiquitous, and utterly devoid of soul. It gets the job done, but no one writes poetry about it.
Another, with an air of feigned sophistication, might suggest “the widow.” Veuve Clicquot. A robust, bready, and frankly rather blunt instrument. It’s the champagne one drinks at a corporate party to celebrate a marginally successful quarterly report. To drink it for eternity would be akin to listening to a single, slightly-too-loud pop song on an infinite loop. Torture in yellow and orange.
Let us dismiss the trend-followers immediately. Rosé? A wonderful flirtation, a summer romance, but hardly the material for a lifelong marriage. It lacks the spine and depth required to hold one’s interest. Zero Dosage, the choice of the puritanical ascetic? No, thank you. On my desert island, I do not want a reminder of absence and austerity. I want accomplishment, not a compromise disguised as a principle.
No. The choice must be one that offers complexity
A drink that is not merely a drink, but a conversation. Something that evolves, that has layers to be discovered, that can be both a comforting friend in the sunset and an intellectual sparring partner in the lonely dawn.
The answer, then, can only be one. It is not even a vintage. To choose a single vintage, however magnificent, would be to lock oneself into a single moment, a single story. Eternity demands an entire encyclopedia.
The answer is Krug ‘Grande Cuvée’
I can almost hear the objections from those who believe Dom Pérignon is the obvious choice. How quaint. Dom Pérignon is an exquisite monologue, a perfectly executed aria. But Krug Grande Cuvée is not a monologue; it is an entire orchestra. It is a symphony of over 120 wines from more than ten different vintages, a breathtaking feat of assemblage that results in a whole so much greater than the sum of its parts.
Each bottle is an Edition, subtly different from the last. It would offer the gift of constant curiosity. It has the rich, nutty complexity to stand up to imaginary grilled fish, but also the razor-sharp acidity to cut through the monotony of solitude. It whispers of opulence and brioche one moment, and of citrus, ginger, and minerals the next. It is never, ever boring.
To choose Krug Grande Cuvée is not just a choice of taste; it is a choice of philosophy. It is a stand against the ephemeral. It is an acknowledgement that true greatness lies not in a singular, perfect moment, but in painstakingly constructed, consistent, and inexhaustible excellence.
So there you have it. My choice. Not because I believe in your banal little desert-island fantasy, but because even in a hypothetical situation, there is a correct answer and a myriad of wrong ones.
And as I would sit there, feet in the sand with a perfectly chilled glass of Krug in hand, my only sorrow would be that you weren’t there. Not for the company, heaven forbid. But so that you would never know just how right I was. Perhaps the true desert island is not a place, but a state of being: surrounded by people who believe Prosecco is an adequate substitute. That, my friends, is a true abomination.
