The best bottle of our whole trip to Paris was a 2005 Rouquetaillade La Grange — and I am ashamed to say that I didn’t order it. In fact, my poor traveling companions had got so disgusted with my selections that on day four my dear friend Mark (and thank goodness he is still my dear friend after all those liquid disappointments) spotted a bottle of red on a neighboring table, determined that the French people who were drinking it were enjoying it, and told the waiter we wanted one of those.
 
Mark was embarrassed, but I was wholly impressed. First, I was so relieved he had taken the slack reins from my hands and steered us in a new wine direction. Second, I was staring at the wine list of this great bistro we default to every time we’re in Paris, mostly because of its excellent calves liver, paralyzed. I’d been ordering wines all week based on familiarity and recognition — so, Bordeaux from wineries I know — and time after time we’d been disappointed. The wines tasted thin and young. I even ordered a Haut Marbuzet from a vintage I’d collected and sampled from my own cellar, but for some reason it tasted like a shadow of this wine I know and love. So clearly my strategy wasn’t working.
 
Out came the Rouquetaillade La Grange. The waiter opened and poured … and it was delicious. Balanced, with good fruit but also that dry, earthy taste that comes from cabernet blends made in Bordeaux’s cool, almost seaside locale. It seemed somehow more vivid and satisfying than all the lifeless reds that had preceeded it on our trip. It was also half the price.
 
Then, the next day (because all my traveling companions had to leave on early flights) I found myself having lunch alone at a wine bar in the Buci market. I tried a variation of Mark’s wine-selection strategy, which was to order a glass of something cheap and completely unfamiliar. It turned out to be a cru Beaujolais and went beautifully with my pate.
 
So here’s the theory I came away with.