The Champagne Con

Champagne is the great lie of the drinks world. It has somehow maintained an unearned reputation as the pinnacle of sophistication, wheeled out for every significant occasion as though it were a treat rather than a punishment. It is overpriced, overhyped and, in many cases, borderline undrinkable. Yet people pretend to enjoy it because admitting otherwise would be like confessing that caviar is just salty fish eggs or that truffles taste like a damp woodland floor.

The first sip always carries the promise of something exquisite. Then reality hits. The bubbles aggressively assault your mouth, the acidity scrapes down your throat and, before you know it, you’re suppressing a burp while trying to look refined. It doesn’t matter whether it’s vintage or supermarket own-brand, the effect is the same. A glass of carbonated disappointment, leaving you bloated, slightly nauseous and wondering why you didn’t just opt for a proper drink.

Of course, the wealthy have convinced themselves that the more expensive the bottle, the more divine the experience. Bollinger, Dom Pérignon, Krug – all names designed to extract obscene amounts of money from people too embarrassed to admit they’d rather have a pint. The mark-up is staggering. You could have a bottle of excellent wine for half the price, a good whisky for the same, or an entire crate of beer and still have enough left over for a kebab on the way home. But no. The script must be followed. New Year’s Eve? Champagne. A wedding? Champagne. Some corporate event where no one wants to be there? Champagne. It’s like some bizarre social contract where everyone pretends they’re having a wonderful time while internally battling indigestion.

And the nomenclature. Good grief. Brut, Extra Brut, Demi-Sec – words that sound like they belong to an industrial cleaning product range rather than a drink. Blanc de Blancs, Blanc de Noirs – what is this, a Renaissance painting or a bottle of booze? And don't get me started on 'Méthode Champenoise' – a needlessly pompous way of saying 'we let this stuff ferment twice and now it's really, really expensive.' Then there’s the absurdity of drinking it from flutes, as if the long, narrow shape somehow makes the experience more refined rather than just ensuring you spill half of it with the slightest wobble.

Let’s not forget the ridiculous rituals. Sabrage – the practice of hacking the top off a bottle with a sword – is surely the clearest sign that people know deep down that champagne isn’t worth drinking. It’s a desperate attempt to inject excitement into something that should have stayed on the shelf. Then there’s the champagne tower, that peak of wastefulness where people ooh and aah as liquid gold spills uselessly over stacked glasses, because nothing screams class like turning your overpriced booze into a waterfall of excess.

Let’s be honest. If champagne were actually enjoyable, people would drink it casually. You’d see blokes in the pub ordering a round of Veuve Clicquot. You’d spot a bottle on the table at Sunday lunch next to the gravy boat. But you don’t, because no one actually likes the stuff. It exists purely for show, a status symbol masquerading as a beverage. The real winners in this charade are the French vineyards raking in a fortune from this elaborate con.

If people really want a celebratory drink, they should at least choose something that doesn’t taste like fizzy regret. A crisp beer, a decent wine, a well-made cocktail – or a nice, still cider that punches you in the brain but doesn't bloat you. Anything but a flute of self-inflicted misery. But they won’t. Because champagne, like so many other so-called luxuries, is less about enjoyment and more about the performance. And so the cycle continues, year after year, as people take a sip, suppress a grimace and tell themselves they’re having a marvellous time.