Revolution, romance & civil war. Blight ruin and true love. An old swashbuckling Errol Flynn movie seen late one night? No. It's the larger-than-life true story of Madeira.

Madeira? All I wanted was an ice cold beer. But somehow, years ago, I was talked into a glass of Madeira, and it was love at first sniff. I can vividly recall that first Madeira I tasted, a Blandy's 15-year-old Malmsey: Layers and layers of seductive scents curled up from the glass, entangling me with teasing aromas of coffee, chocolate, caramel, spice, citrus and pineapple. But the first sip was a wake-up call.

No pushover, no easy pleasures here. Not with the flirtatious inter-play of luscious richness and hands-on-hips, stuborn acidity. This was a wine to be reckoned with and courted. It was unlike anything I had ever tasted before with its wild flavors of chocolate (bittersweet), coffee (that first morning cup), caramel (crème brûlèe) and citrus (lemon zest) that lingered and lingered like a first kiss.

That was back in my home town of Wethersfield, the oldest town in Connecticut, where every wall that didn't have an American Eagle attached to it framed the disapproving, witch-burning faces of the Chesters, Wells and Griswolds--those earlytown fathers who stared down at me and my idle hands were the devils workshop (which of course they were).

In their day, Wethersfield was no back-water. It was an important river port engaged in the exportation of onions, lumber (including oak staves for wine barrels) and other raw materials in exchange for manufactural goods from England and wine from Madeira. These guys must have drunk Madeira, They had to. It was the drink of the colonies--- chardonnay, Bud, Snapple, Coke and Starbucks all rolled up into one. Somehow Madeira and its charms must have softened these men, enabled them to smile and laugh and fall in love (or at lease have sex and I have proof of that since I grew up with their descendants). They couldn't have been that bad if they loved Madeira.