There’s really no way of knowing what the following day is going to bring, in this life. We all have routines that we follow to a certain extent, plans we make and try our best to keep, and usually most of this is done with the best of intentions; staying in shape, saving money, cleaning the house and so on. Yet so many of our emotional extremes, the thrills and the pain, come outside of these scripted norms and they’re all the more notable for it. Whilst there’s a lot of consistently bad advice floating around, usually attached to motivational posters reading something along the lines of ‘Live everyday like it was your last’ (Don’t, for hopefully obvious reasons), these moments punctuate life, for better or worse. They just wouldn’t make sense without the context of day-to-day living. They also tend to arrive in no particular order and often all together, making for a jumbled, emotional roller coaster before several months of complete normality.

It was in this way that I managed to drink the greatest bottle of wine I’ve ever tasted, two days before one of the very few heroes in my life committed suicide.

I’ve tried quite a bit of older wine in the last year that’s been very, very good indeed. Some were even ‘great’. I’ve questioned the wisdom of people who keep wine far past when I would open it, and indeed even for Hermitage, I would consider 27 years to be right on the border (which just goes to show how little I know about these things). This wine was just starting to get into its stride. I owe thanks to Lionel who noted it on a restaurant list in Monvinic in Barcelona, and I’ve always wanted to splurge a little and give it a shot, but I never had an excuse. Two friends visiting from Madrid and my mother-in-law babysitting provided just that.

It was still a beautiful ruby colour when poured into the glass and immediately unfurled itself, providing a dense canopy of dried plums, blackberry, smoked meat, wet earth, cracked black pepper and soft leather. Then over the course of 90 minutes it constantly changed and shifted revealing incense, crushed violets, musk, wet leaves and a touch of baking spices. The palate was much the same, yet even more full of life and force, with the silky tannins and subtle acid backbone providing lift exactly when it was needed. I’ve never tried such a complete wine. Brilliantly complex yet so simple in its appeal, mature and soft yet with the persistence and verve that 5 year old wines would envy. I can still taste it, 2 hours later.

There was no grand celebration. No reason to consider that this would be such a brilliant bottle other than producer, appellation and vintage – just a few friends getting together to try something we’ve always wanted to. A timely reminder that I’ve only just scratched the surface of wine and how much of a moving target it can be. Enjoyed in the best of company, on a school-night, in an almost empty restaurant. Regardless of where I end up in the wine industry, I hope to never get used to such experiences.

Then, two short days later, I read the news that a hero of mine had committed suicide. I am of course talking about Anthony Bourdain, the famous chef and TV personality. Like most people I first encountered Anthony through his book, Kitchen Confidential and found myself drawn to his writing style, his way of explaining the obvious in amusing ways and the constant search for human connection through food. I enjoyed his shows, but he never really appeared to be comfortable with a television camera; I always got the sensation that he was tolerating it as an ugly necessity, but that he’d actually rather that it buggered off somewhere so he could enjoy his food and conversation.

People talking about their ‘humility’ and how ‘humble’ they feel is a constant in the celebrity world, yet actions always speak louder than words. His love of exploration and discovery shone through above all else, his love for cooking and the stories interwoven within. He was a man who’d found what he loved to do in the world, and did it relentlessly, regardless of whether it was in the backstreets of Cambodia, a top restaurant in New York or in a rustic Spanish bodega. It was never about being someone important and famous, it was about living his life in the way he wanted to. I admire him hugely and I feel an incredible sadness at the timing and nature of his passing.

I would have liked to have met Anthony and shared a few bottles of wine with him, a possibility that has only become marginally less likely now that he’s no longer with us. Yet whenever I think back to this brilliant wine, this touching moment in my own experience in the wine world, I’ll think of Anthony and the legacy he leaves behind. I’d say ‘rest in peace’ to the great man, but that wasn’t how he lived his life so I suspect it isn’t what he’s doing in death. If there’s another world beyond this one, he’ll already be exploring it.