Waugh's London runs on bubbles and bad decisions, and Pol Roger's lifted, brisk fizz has exactly that polished frivolity. Its dry finish nods to the sobering comedown the novel can't escape.
Elegant, brioche-edged and effortlessly chic, it is the bottle a doomed socialite would order at midnight. Pour it fast; the party is ending.
A glittering, brittle satire of the Bright Young Things, all parties and telegrams and a hangover of dread beneath the laughter. It is giddy on the surface and quietly apocalyptic underneath.
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