Dear Chimay Grand Reserve,
We have a long checkered history as of now you and I. Time has passed, thoughts mellowed, pallets changed, hearts broken, affairs had.
You were my first, and as they say in the classics, you never forget your first.
Your elegant gothic looks, and feel, you powerful brace. Your grip around my tongue.
I was but 18 years old.
That evening. That crisp June evening. You took my hand and thrust me forth into the unknown. We had Roast Lamb together. You loved it.
Your unbridled carbonation lapped up all the lamb fat roasted onions, potatoes, carrots and parsnips.
Your juicy velvet centre and underlining hint of the fortified’s of yesteryear took it’s vows with the red wine sauce.
You had me at (the sound of the cork) “pop”.
You completed me. This was more than a fling. This was love. We were meant to be together you and me. It was eternal.
I grew tired, I wanted more out of life (beer). Your advances were less suitable for my needs now. My needs were changing. We were stuck in a rut.
“Honestly” I said, “it’s me. Its not you. I promise”.
We broke up, I resented you.
I resented your appeal to others. Others who dare not understand you as much as me. You made me resent your style (Quad).
You became a cheap alternative for other people’s love affairs of poor taste.
Who was I to butt in?
“Oohh I Love the Chimay Blue” people would say.
All I could be was jealous. One, because they had clearly fallen for you. And two, because they misunderstood my love.
I began a journey. Never looking back. I left you behind in that small town, promising never to return.
However, fate is a funny thing you know. God does work in mysterious ways.
Fast forward seven long hard years of travelling. Things were going well.
A few romances, a few one-night stands. And two serious relationships.
I take you home one more time, seven years down the track. We have both learned things. About each other and ourselves. With grit and dirt, now seeing the (beer) world with naked eyes, yet our feelings had remained the same through good and bad.
Your were 5 years past your vintage (the year was 2012 and you were from 2008 vint.), I thought I was doing you a favour. Our eyes met halfway across the store.
You had mold, mildew spots and blemishes of all over you, you had been neglected. You looked tired.
All those young buxom IPA’s around.
It was a cool September evening, we had lasagna (which included chopped up hard boiled egg between layers of the pasta along with the meat and sauce – specialty of where we are from Italy). Your “pop” had dulled, as with your colour.
But to my surprise and jubilation, you smelt fantastic. Your perfume was insatiable.
You tasted even better.
“Where had you been” I said to myself, time apart had made us a stronger couple. Your had lost none of your sultry power but lost all of your young heat. It was slower, tapered, relaxed, and easing in kind of love. New love, but old at the same time.
Time had been your friend, you still had all your best attributes but with a great deal more refinement, your cinnamon and nutmeg kick had interwoven with your slick crème caramel base. Your fortified silhouette had become even more integrated with notes of plum, anise, raisin, dried apple and the touch of treacle that still provided that lovely yeasty “vegemite” bite.
Was this new, did this make me a spinster? Did this make you a cougar?
Did we care?
You never forget your first.
You know they say this. But, the thing is, they never tell you about frequency or heart raising ability of the hot steamy makeup…
Kisses and Hugs