Uncorking

 

The periderm of a Mediterranean oak, cork is resistant to air and water. Quercus suber developed its protective and insulating qualities to resist extremes, particularly fire. Cork is also uncooperative in decomposing back into earth, making it a more likely candidate than mud, Napoleon’s water-earth sign, for title of fifth element. Ponder how this has been the one best substance known for keeping alive the drink of gods and we mere mortals, the sacramental drink. The company name is burnt or printed into its cylindrical sides. Its speckled or compacted appearance is common as rainwater or autumn leaves. Light, clean, dry, the cork is slid securely into the neck of the bottle, where it expands to contain the work and time allotted. The work is not arduous and the cork is ideally suited; the time could be months, years, decades, so it as well the cork does all its work lying on the horizontal. (Champagne corks come attached with little thinking caps, result of bulging heads.) Years proceed, or more realistically, vintages reach the optimum. Eventually the destined hour approaches. Allowing for breathing space, first the seal is shucked off. Then a metal serpent is brought from its drawer where it resides uncomfortably with the rest of the metal zoo. It was called a steel-worm and bottle-screw in the seventeenth century. The French say tire-bouchon, the Spanish sacacorchos, Italians cavatappi. Pop! notes. The point of it all is set where serpent may spiral itself effectively through the very midst of the fifth element. Should it go off course, its coil is seen through the glass. Once its pointed tongue pokes out the base the handle is gripped and the cork eased whole from the bottle, making a vinos hole. The bottle may be gripped between the feet, or under one arm. The hugging tendency of the cork gives way, slides to make one of the most sacred sounds of the kitchen, a glorious psalm between unknown creator and joyful imbiber, a little thunder of ovation, communion and presentiment. From the bottle emerges bouquet. And more. Oenologists expend hours discovering new word analogies for the multiplicity of colours, scents and tastes cork protected and helped evolve. Gruffly then the cork is wrenched from prong, twisted till it crumbles or drops, unceremoniously made redundant. Most go in bin or compost, but some cherish these honourable objects, store them in fountainous vases or rattling cupboards. To think there is a world shortage of quercus suber sounds like just one more daily fact, or redundancy (again), to undermine our courage. Some wine shops collect them for recycling. And so we raise a toast to this security device, as we brood on the takeover of the screw-top. The French say couvercle sur le visse, the Spanish tapa rosca, Italians tappo a vite. Pop! Not.