The LaLa World of One-Percenter Wine

Through an indeterminate series of emails, which included the editor pointing out that nothing was guaranteed to come of it, I boarded a private jet at London's City Airport and got flown to Cahors.

This was more than 10 years ago now, and I wasn't alone on the flight. From memory, there were a few UK importers, a PR person and maybe someone else. The man flying us down was Alain-Dominique Perrin, who is best known in wine circles as the man who owns Château Lagrezette. At that time, while he had nominally stepped down from the board, he was also still lending his services to Richemont. Chances are you'll need to google Richemont; and when you've done so, you'll understand the private jet – and a fair bit of what's to come.

Most press trips involve commercial flights, hired minibuses, the same drawn faces from the drinks press, and a ready supply of painkillers. This one was different. Cahors and back in a day. How the other half (well, how the other One Percent) live. But more on that in a moment.

On the flight, one of the importers – through what train of conversation I remember not – let slip that he had never had the chance to taste the La Las. (We're drilling down from Richemont here, but I'll save some of you time and say that the La Las are the top three cuvées produced by Guigal in the Northern Rhone – La Mouline, La Landonne and La Turque). "Right," said our host."We'll see if we can't sort that out." Cue, of course, a series of unbelieveably contrite British noises from the other side of the aisle.

Anyway, an hour later we land on a lost airstrip in the southwest of France. There are a couple of planes, what seems like an abandoned control tower and a few hangars. One hangar, it turns out, houses Perrin's vintage car collection, all lined up perfectly, silhouetted under their tarpaulins. You didn't need to be an automobile fan to know this was a decent collection of classic cars, secreted away in the French countryside. Our transport to the château, however, was more utilitarian. We were eventually ushered into an MPV.

I don't know if Michel Rolland still consults but, again, through some turn in conversation, Perrin ends up phoning the world's most well-known (if not notorious) consultant – just to show he can. Rolland, of course, picks up. There ensues a somewhat vain (in both senses of the word) to and fro-ing about, I think, some aspect of the winemaking at Lagrezette. If you think this is starting to get a little strange, the interior dining table in the chateau was – and likely still is – a 14th-Century piece of Welsh lumber the length of a small runway and would make a Game of Thrones set look parochial. Modern art was everywhere but, other than a few painted cows, the table really stuck in my memory. To cap it all, I used a lavatory situated high up in one of the château's circular towers. Someone had had the idea to install thick glass over the murder hole so while I kept one eye on the task at hand, the other contemplated the virtiginous sight down the battlements by my very feet.

We tasted the wonderful wines with the wonderful winemaker (that's not meant to sound flippant – both were true); Perrin couldn't dig out a complete set of 1986 La Las, so the La Turque (if I remember correctly) was a 1990 effort and all was paired with a fantastic riz de veau in the garden, under the trees, like we were in a movie. Which is my cue for an aside about the One Percent: there are moments where you think you're living a cliche – where it feels like you're in a film. But it's not. Please rest assured; people are living the dream you are shown on cellulose. I think it's why I have a weakness for Robert Ludlum stories.

And so to home. I tried very hard not to be rude but I couldn't help falling asleep on the jet on the way back – I think everyone, even Perrin, did. An early start, some trans-European travel, a barrel tasting of young Malbec followed by some stellar Côte Rôtie and a hearty lunch would get the better of anyone.

© Small Luxury Hotels | Those perfect Instagram shots might look great, but are they really real?

And what came of it? A quarter-page piece about Perrin proclaiming the worth of Malbec (ever the professional, I had taken notes). The PR was not happy ("You took the piss", she told me, at the London Wine Trade Fair that year). But while of course we had pointed out that we couldn't guarantee coverage, what was the story? What, in the words of my boss, was the top line? Wealthy bloke makes very good wine? Rich man has solid line in vintage Rhônes? When Perrin calls, Rolland answers? How to turn medieval martial architecture into a 21st-Century restroom feature? There wasn't a story. I remember trying – I really tried – to run the angles past the editorial team but I knew it was hopeless.

So why am I recounting this now? I'm not doing it at the expense of Perrin who was perfectly affable and good company, if a little boorish – as the heads of enterprise can be on occasion. No, it's to wonder what the bar for a real story is nowadays. If I'm honest, if I'd taken that trip today, I'd have Instragrammed the shit out of it. Private jet at London City; a line of vintage cars under wraps at a secret location in France; barrel tasting in underground cellars; the view down the machicolation from the toilet; the vastness of the dining table; the lunchtime idyll of riz de veau under dappled sunlight and the array of stunning Rhônes ... I would have powered my feed for days. My stories would be going off.

But there wouldn't be a story, would there? There would be a feed but nothing nourishing. I would have been passing of my experience as a lived event but it wasn't my life – it was someone else's.

Wine, like many other industries and subjects, has always had these issues. Publications still grapple with how to keep church and state separate – how to keep advertising away from editorial. And the lines are even blurrier with PRs, cross-border friendships, paid-for travel, being invited to dinner by importers, invites to events, the free lunches and so on. Social media has muddied this even further. When was the last time you saw someone rip into something on social media that wasn't a totally uncontroversial position? When did you last witness a wine writer publicly burn a bridge on Instagram?

Is the rest of our time on social media going to be filled with anodyne summaries of classic French sub-regions written for neophytes and commented on by sycophants; unboxings and "reviews" of wines clearly compromised because they are freebies; and my pet peeve – the guess what this wine is/what I'm drinking/where I'm going/what I'm doing next? Does anyone comment positively on any of this without an ulterior motive?

I'm a jaded ex-hack, sure. I know the likes of Instagram operate on a slightly different level and I'm fully confident readers will just move on. But just imagine some of the influencers are actually communicating with you directly, face-to-face over a Negroni, or a Cinzano, or a Spirulina smoothie. How long after the pseudo-Wikipedia run-down of Nuits-Saint-Georges, or the gushing recap of last night's expensive wines, or after they've made you guess 21 times where they're going for a three-day vacation tomorrow, do you give it before you question your relationship?

How long before you wish someone would walk up to your table and say: "I met an expat winery owner last night who, over an al fresco dinner in Bordeaux, said he backed the Chinese government's actions in Tiananmen Square"?

How long before you actually want to hear a real story?