Of the many irritating things my parents used to say on repeat, the one that springs most to mind now is ‘youth is wasted on the young’. (A close second is ‘you’re not going out dressed like that, are you?’)

Because of course it’s true. Youth is supposed to be a time of flawless skin, of wearing short skirts and tiny tops and never putting on weight and staying out all night and being utterly carefree and giggling and full of fun. To believe that, of course, you have to forget the anxiety, the exams in subjects you hate, the put-downs, the break-ups, the general chaos of teenagerdom.

Which version of youth do we expect of wine? A carefree, fun-filled youth or a serious, focused, exam-filled one? The other week I tasted 10 young Napa Cabernets – all top wines, and all 2021s, so all young. But while they were young in the sense of not communicating all that well (they mostly gave the same feeling as being with someone who is always on their phone) they were certainly not youthful in the sense of being carefree and full of fun. They were earnest, they were focused, they were ambitious. They were going to get a place at an Ivy League college and then they would work on Wall Street. Their careers were intended to be grand and predictable, and in 40 years’ time they will be congratulated on their longevity.

(And here’s another conundrum: when a wine is young we talk of its youth as a stage to be got through; but when it is mature we praise it for still seeming young.)

Their opposites are young wines which spend their youth being frivolous and feckless, always up for a party, instantly drinkable and instantly forgettable. But those wines don’t have a future. If a bottle of such a wine is discovered in 40 years’ time it will be greeted with amusement; certainly nobody will suggest drinking it.

I am reminded of Gilbert and Sullivan’s supremely piss-taking operatta Patience, and since it’s conveniently out of copyright, I can quote two passages in full.

‘Gentle Jane was as good as gold,
She always did as she was told;
She never spoke when her mouth was full,
Or caught bluebottles their legs to pull,
Or spilt plum jam on her nice new frock,
Or put white mice in the eight-day clock,
Or vivisected her last new doll,
Or fostered a passion for alcohol.
And when she grew up she was given in marriage
To a first-class earl who keeps his carriage!’

And then:

‘Teasing Tom was a very bad boy,
A great big squirt was his favourite toy;
He put live shrimps in his father’s boots,
And sewed up the sleeves of his Sunday suits;
He punched his poor little sisters’ heads,
And cayenne-peppered their four-post beds;
He plastered their hair with cobbler’s wax,
And dropped hot halfpennies down their backs.
The consequence was he was lost totally,
And married a girl in the corps de bally!’

Were the other day’s Napa Cabs as priggish as young Jane? Can a wine be priggish? These Cabs had never put a foot wrong in life. They’d been impeccably brought up and had always listened to good advice. Only a faulty cork, now, could send them off the rails, and their corks had all been interviewed at least three times and had had to do a written examination before being accepted.

And this is perfection in young wines. I haven’t looked up what scores they’ve been given, but they included Screaming Eagle, Opus One, Continuum, Dominus and a new wine from the Cathiards of Château Smith Haut Lafitte, Cathiard Vineyard (for which the tasting was held, and which, when our placings were added and averaged, came a highly respectable third, after Continuum and Dominus) so they’re bound to have a few 100-point scores between them. That makes such wines perfect, does it not?

But is this perfection? This total focus and ambition in youth, with the idea that they loosen up a bit later? People, by contrast, are supposed to kick over the traces when they’re young and then settle down to hard work and a mortgage. And wine can do that too, to some extent. A wine that is all over the place in youth, a bit Teasing Tom, can settle down: elbows can be tucked in, angularity can be smoothed out, manners can be learnt. How much should we trust youth as an indicator of age?

That wine is both predictable and unpredictable is part of its fascination. The 1976 Champagnes, lush and cushiony after the longest, hottest summer in living memory (then), were supposed to be drunk quickly before they collapsed. But I have just tasted 1976 Cristal Rosé, which was vigorous, full of tobacco and undergrowth flavours, creamy and muscular, and certainly not about to collapse. And the 1982 clarets, which much of the British trade thought too soft, too young to be long-term prospects, instead fulfilled Robert Parker’s verdict of greatness. But then some years later I remember Jean-Michel Cazes saying of the somewhat chunky 2003s that the Bordelais didn’t think it a great year until the New York Times ran a piece saying that it was. ‘So then we knew.’ And he said it with a grin; he had no illusions about the 2003s.

In the past, wines for ageing were not supposed to be appealing in youth. So, inevitably, being tough and unapproachable in youth became a touchstone for quality. Now, with greater ripeness and better tannin management, wines are supposed to be both delicious in youth, because most of us don’t have cellars, and able to age for the few who do.

What we don’t know yet is if this particular circle of youthful charm and long ageability has indeed been squared. (Producers often say it has, but they would say that, wouldn’t they? Some say honestly that they don’t know.) Vertical tastings of  individual wines age tend to show cherry-picked vintages, and it’s very very hard to taste very old wines unless you have them yourself, or friends do. The 2004 Signature Cabernet Sauvignon/Shiraz from Yalumba Hill-Smith, tasted recently: lovely earth and lavender. Tick. Signature 2018: earth, flowers, structure, poise. You can see the DNA. Phelps Insignia 2008: layered, lovely texture, wild blackberry. Insignia 2021: fluidity and ease, tension and black fruit with a striking and fresh bitter edge. Again, same DNA. Chilean Altair from the early vintages, 2003–15: not nearly as good, to my palate, as more recent vintages. I would drink Altair 2021 now: it has catwalk grace and verve. The 2003 is honestly past it. But then everything about the wine has changed so much that you might as well compare apples and pears. As they say on investment sites, ‘past performance is not a guide to future performance’.

How often does one do a vertical tasting and love the old wines, but see that the new wines are better, and will be better when they’re older than the older ones are now? Focus too much on that and you would never be able to buy anything. I can imagine myself dithering – yes, the 2010 is ready to drink, but the 2021 is so much better! If I buy the mature wine, will I be constantly aware that it’s second-best?

(I interrupt this piece with a newsflash: I have just done a vertical of Mount Langi Ghiran Shiraz back to 1981, which is the oldest MJG has in the cellar. The 2021 could be drunk now, so untannic are the tannins, but there is a clear line to the glorious, vivid 1999 and even to the herbal, aromatic 1981. All are much more about dancing than about Wall Street. Circle squared – from a remarkable site.)

The Bordelais, and the British trade, used to get round the problem by regarding less good vintages as ‘luncheon claret’. (Perhaps they should just have drunk Mount Langi Ghiran.) But these days I suspect that a Wall Street career, if you, or those Cabs, wants one, has no room for either a wasted youth, or luncheon wine of any description.

Photo is by Kimson Dean on Unsplash.