This wine critic gig began as a form of moonlighting. On my passport it says I’m a novelist., and my previous books haa all been works of fiction. I’ve had daydreams about accepting the Pulitzer Prize for fiction since I was seventeen; until recently I never really imagined myself standing in a cellar of Chateau Lafite at ten in the morning tasting the new vintage out of barrel, let alone publishing a book about wine.
It all started about twenty years ago with a phone call from Dominique Browning, an old friend who’d recently been given the mandate of resurecting House and Garden, the venerable Conde Nast shelter journal. In her wisdom, which runs pretty deep, Dominique decided that in the new post-tuna casserole America, she wanted to cover wine as well as food, couches and nasturtiums. And apparently she decided that it would be fun to hire an enthusiast who was not necessarily a specialist. Those assembled at one of the early staff meetings liked the idea. However, when the concept was fleshed out with my name, I’m told that eyebrows were raised, while jaws and even pins were dropped. The feeling seems to have been that I had made my name, such as it was, by writing about people who abused controlled substances and ravaged their nasal passages. (See Bright Lights, Big City, Vintage, 1984) What the hell did I know about wine?