Confessions of a Wino

Another weekend in London and another opportunity to knock off a “trophy” restaurant – this one from the effing Gordon Ramsay stable.  If you swear by food as much as I do, then you start to appreciate that London is really the place in the UK to do fine dining.  There simply isn’t the demand for it in Manchester, for example.  Not one Michelin star in the city!  Sure, there are plenty of good eateries, but the overall experience is just better in London, and surprisingly, not always that much more expensive.

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A trip to Bournemouth last year resulted in me bringing home the best red wine I ever drank, a 1982 Camensac.

Browsing through Majestic the other day, I spotted the 1996 vintage at £19.99.  Only one course of action was available to me, and for once, my bank manager obliged.

It felt right to open this on the anniversary of the barbecue that saw the 1982’s fifteen minutes of fame (and I was surprised that it lasted 15 minutes, so cherished was it by the St Helens massive).

This 1996 Haut-Médoc, at 12 years old, is surely drinking well by now?  I was surprised at the amount of tannins still attacking my upper gums, but, consumed contemporaneously with simply barbecued lamb chops, it was excellent.  Liquorice, blackcurrant, cedar and parsnip – yum.  15 minutes later, it was gone.  With only one bottle in my basket, we had to wave goodbye to the French nobility and make friends with an impudent teenager from the New World.

I am no expert in these matters but I sense that Château Camensac 1996 will keep a good while longer and I shall probably pop back to Majestic for another couple of bottles to squirrel away in my combine harvester.

I don’t get much time to read.  I catch up on enterprise software stuff when I can.  I read certain wine blogs and books – the usual factual ones that any wino has nosed in and out of.  I can’t remember the last time I read a novel.  So when Random House sent me an advance copy of Benjamin Wallace’s fact-based novel-style yarn, I didn’t feel obliged to read it.  Instead, I gave it to Fred (an avid reader) to see what she made of it – “lacking a firm conclusion” she erm concluded.

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“Armstrong and Miller in Gay Threesome Shocker” read the headline, admittedly only in my head, as the comedy pair walked past us with an unknown accomplice, perhaps a BBC commissioning editor?

“I didn’t know they were gay” Fred said.  “They aren’t” I replied, “so far as I know anyway”, although judging by their choice of fruity shirts one cannot be 100% certain.

We had a decent table near the magnificent bay window atop the ageing Whiteley’s Shopping Centre.  The stars were enveloped by the bay.  The atmosphere is light and airy and the service prompt, efficient, courteous and professional.  Our mop-topped waiter looked like an early 60’s Beatle, so I assumed he was French (as a nation they do like old music – I mean, walk around any public space in France and Phil Collins persists like a 1980’s itch that is weeping puss).  When he described the cheese I realised his French accent was completely fake “erm….. I is Polish” he admitted.  Nonetheless, serve he did, and he was knowledgeable about wine as well as food.

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I was delighted to receive the 2005 Château Guiraud I ordered en primeur what seems like ages ago.  The photo below shows it compared to the same wine from the 1990 vintage (on the left).  Wow!

As I speed towards old and wrinkly, it’s nice to see that some things can age with enormous grace.

Packaging says a lot about a product.  Marketing people really understand that differentiating (demanding a higher price for) a high quality product requires an associated buying and unwrapping experience.  Nowhere is this more true than the world of wine.  The ceremony afforded to opening a bottle of wine is a marketing man’s dream.  I feel short changed if a wine is not “wrapped” according to its value.

The foil on the cap of this wine was reassuringly thick, I’ve seen lead flashing with less substance.  This is a good quality wine already…

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When I say revisited, I am lying.  I never actually visited Ch. Batailley in the first place and nor did I this time.  I’ve drunk the wine a number of times though, and in my last tasting of 2004, I decided it was too early to drink.  Venerable US critic, Robert Parker, agrees labelling 2004 Pauillac as “still tannic”.  So why open another bottle now then?  Good question.  Erm, I panicked…

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When one reaches one’s forties, birthdays are quickly forgotten.  They are not anticipated with the same excitement of youth, rather the disdain and fear of middle age.  Nonetheless, they are still a cause for celebration and an opportunity to go and splash a few quid on some top nosh and wine.  This year we went to Linen in the lofty (metaphorically and physically) surroundings of Manchester 235 Casino.

My camera was not welcome for obvious reasons.  The discretion of the clients (and I will indiscreetly mention that most of the Man United team were in that evening) is clearly important.  I am also sick of getting papped by photographers from the Daily Mail who have clearly mistaken me for a footballer or some TV star (yeah right…).

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I’m having mood swings.  Pinot Noir vs Merlot.  I love Pinots from Chile, New Zealand and even Burgundy (when I can afford them).  I am equally starting to appreciate the right bank of la Gironde, the home of Merlot?  In any case, both grapes are a welcome change from Cabernet Sauvignon, Malbec and Sangiovese for example.

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Last night I went to see a bit of Oscar Wilde.  Born in Dublin, educated and excelled at Trinity College, and Magdelen Colledge Oxford, he then observed in close quarter London Society with his acerbic wit, before being buried in Paris at the tender age of 46.

I didn’t see him in the flesh, even the rotting, grave-sodden sort.  I merely remembered him through one of his plays “An Ideal Husband”.  Amongst the many lessons, most extraordinary above all, was my realisation that political scandals have been around since even before my forefather’s forefather (Great Grandfather, then?) was chased from the office of Mayor of Wimbledon in the 1930s.  This play was written in 1895 when Wilde was about my age, and concerns the dilemma presented when a senior politician is confronted by his secret and corrupt past, in a black-mail attempt.  Does the evil Mrs Cheveley succeed in extorting her demands?  You will have to read/watch the play yourself.  Whilst doing so, you will not be able to resist a snigger or two at how Wilde’s observations are all too relevant to today’s society.

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