Tucked away in a place so secret that only the French Foreign Legion knows of its existence, this place is more charming than Dartagnan and better for juicing up a hot date than a pair of George Clooney’s underpants.
You can expect French service, though, which is the exact opposite of New York service. That is to say, friendly but slow.
In what turned out to be the fortunate circumstance of a cancelled flight, I found myself in Bordeaux for an unexpected extra night. This gave me the opportunity to fulfil a bit of a dream.
Entering through the unassuming entrance of Max Wine Gallery you could be forgiven for thinking that you are entering a posh handbag or clothes boutique. But, inspect further and inside you will find not Chloe or Hermès, but brands a bit closer to my heart, and liver.
Bottles of various top growths from Médoc, St Emilion and Sauternes are imprisoned within glass cases but with tempting little spouts indicating a tad of promiscuity to willing punters. A wino heaven, although at a price.
Where better to try a Bordeaux Grand Cru than in its home town? Problem is pecuniary. Although restaurants around Bordeaux ask reasonable mark-ups, this still involves voluntary surgery. To keep my arms and legs intact, my cunning plan was to buy the wine from a local shop and take it to the restaurant which, for convenience, was Le Savoie, bang in the centre of Margaux.
A revisit to this wine that I last enjoyed (immensely) a couple of years ago. I am almost sorry that I have just glugged my last bottle of Château Sociando-Mallet 2001. On this form I really ought to order some more, but it has gone up in price rather a lot since I purchased. Up to £40 per bottle right now. Ooof – one in the nuts for my wine budget. Actually, I was one of those footballing kids who used to duck when planted in the wall. I also made my own a useful, if cowardly, habit of turning around as the kick was taken, to protect my valuables at the expense of seeing the ball. Oh well, it’s only a goal isn’t it? On reflection, I am surprised I never made it into the England squad, when you look at the current crop.
So the World Cup is under way and the Spanish are hardly justifying their place at the top of the bookmakers’ lists, with the defence doing a passable impression of a kilo of Emmental. Probably not much of that being sold in Spain tonight.
Meanwhile, new world wine nation, Uruguay, macerated mid-world South Africa 3-0. And France will have to cheat considerably more than they have so far to win the special FIFA Bloody Sunday Award for fair play.
I guess it’s a good job they can still make great grape juice.
This is a rough country wine from Côtes de Blaye. Earthy, plummy, dark and fruity. Like Thierry Henry but more even handed.
Perfect with peasant food – my team of choice was a cheese (not Swiss) omelette and a handful of salad leaves.
I passed £7.50 to the Wine Society. A quick toe-poke at Google revealed that it is scarcer than a Dubliner in South Africa right now.
Sunday Roast. Mmmmmmm. A weekend in London and it’s been a while since the last legendary Wino Sunday lunch. Time to make repairs but in a relaxed Sunday style. A quick flight at my favourite London wine bar. The Jubilee Line to London Bridge. A soupçon of jazz.
It’s Christmas Eve and I am enjoying some rump. But that is enough about the wife.
I dug out a 2005 St. Emilion that looked like it might go with a bit of bully.
The prevailing wealth of rich winter spices is a constant reminder that we are less than a stock market “correction” away from Christmas. I love seasonal spicy tea blends but this year’s Fortnum & Mason was a bit of a dog compared to last year’s Harvey Nichols’ hot stock.
The wine equivalent may well be Château D’Aiguilhe 2005, Côtes de Castillon. This Merlot dominated Bordeaux blend is spicier than an investment banker’s underpants the morning after splashing the year end bonus on a (high class) Indian meal.
I am Legend. Well, not so much me as Will Smith. Yes, I’ve just watched the film about the British scientist who inadvertently cures cancer with a virus that mutates into a killer strand that genocidinates the humans of the world (and for the purposes of the film, the World is New York). One American male and a dog are the sole survivors charged with finding a cure. I thought I could guess the ending but actually it finished rather suddenly, which was a shame as the plot was hugely promising and I was just starting to crap myself.
The last time I was genuinely scared at a horror movie was a David Cronenberg double bill of Rabid and Shivers at the Manchester Odeon in 1979.
Surely it’s a W? Why do I seem to disagree with most leading economists, investors and politicians? In my wine tainted mind, a double dip recession is more certain than ever. In the UK, at least.
We have temporary low purchase tax, temporary hyper-low interest rates and temporary Bank intervention, pumping money into the economy on a scale not seen since RBS started furnishing Sir Fred Goodwin with his pension.
Stumble It!