Even if you're not into wine, this article in Slate describing the story and experience of drinking a '47 Cheval Blanc is a great read. Basically a fucked up wine from a freak year that should have been undrinkable, but instead it's faults came together to create the best cup of grape juice ever bottled. There's an interesting metaphor for other types of genius in this passage:
"The '47s signature flaws—the residual sugar and volatile acidity—were readily apparent, but it was just as Lurton had said: In this wine, the flaws inexplicably became virtues... I realized that it was silly even to try to place the '47 in the context of other wines; it defied comparison, a point underscored when I tasted another legend, the 1945 Château Latour, later that night (yeah, it was a nice evening). The Latour was stunning—probably the second-best wine I've ever had—but it at least fell within my frame of reference: It was a classically proportioned Bordeaux that just happened to be achingly good. The '47 Cheval, by contrast, was an otherworldly wine—a claret from another planet. And it was amazing."
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