Twenty-five years on tasting.
Impervious ruby. What an loping, imperial beast this is. More liqueur than wine, thick with a tilt toward agave. Masses of matter, an opacity of cassis and chocolate extraction. More ’89 than Montrose, all bluster and rumble. But it lacks grip, beneficence and its sense of place. It conjures up images of Shelley’s Ozymandias, fated to a noisy, lumpy, ego-driven ride as it fades inevitably into oblivion. Drink up.