Confessions of a Wino

In the world of dining out, if there is one place in Manchester where you could pretend you are in London, it is on the banks of the dirty Irwell.  I say dirty in the sense that if you jumped in a canal barge and headed south you would find yourself at Old Trafford, home to a certain team that plays in red.

This is exactly what the majority of residents of the hotel were doing on Sunday 8 May.   Not all by boat.  Some chauffeured by limousine, taxi, helicopter or rickshaw.  Chelsea and United fans altogether, all up for the day from London.

But it is more than the famous and rich patronage of the hotel that is capitalesque.   The restaurant ambience, service and food bring to mind upmarket places in Notting Hill and Knightsbridge, rather than Cheetham Hill and Chorlton-cum Hardy.

The River Restaurant is styled a bit like Boxwood Café (RIP) with the atmosphere of Scott’s of Mayfair, only with more daylight flooding in, and a larger ratio of famous faces to plebs.

My choice of aperitif exposed my desire to join the elite, an aspirational effervescent bubble short of London pricing, Billecart-Salmon at £10.50.

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At two separate Wine Society events recently, one wine has stood head and shoulders above the rest for me, and I have been looking for an opportunity to shout it out.

However, it raises a wider issue about wine branding.  When it comes to certain wines (mostly French if I am honest) I like to think that I should be able to choose the original wine over one badged by a retailer.  So am I being immodest to think that I can do better than an institution that has been around since 1874?  Am I <gasps> a “wine snob”?  And worse, an ill-informed one to boot?

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Under the High Line, one of the seven wonders of New York City, where peace and tranquility mix with rare greenery on a former raised platform railway converted to a unique public park, lies a restaurant of some repute.  A place that, although set amongst meatpacking factories, has thoughtfully empathised with, and even beaten a path for other trendy venues to raise the Standard of this eponymously named district of New York City.  And yet a “Grill” that has remarkably few items on the menu that might ever see a char broiler.   For example, I had oysters followed by shrimp fettuccini.  Although I use the word ‘followed’ in a loose literal sense, or perhaps as its own antonym since the main courses arrived before the starters. This was one of a number of service fiascos we experienced when lunching there on the last day of a New York trip.

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If you want to meet a modern, unstuffy, social media friendly wine maker with flair and charm you should search out Ryan O’Connell.

I met him at EWBC, Vienna in 2010 and, whilst it would be an overstatement to say that we fell in love, it is true to say that I looked out for his wines when I got back to the UK.

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I woke up with the sweetest hangover.  The type that brings hazy memories of the day before.  Not caused by alcohol.  Oh no, something far more important.  Football.

But, one has to eat, and drink, and get on with life so, in anticipation of victory, I had booked us into Barbecoa, Jamie Oliver’s new venture in Cheapside in the City.  And as a hangover cures go, you could do worse than select from the “Bites” menu.  The mountain of bread with home made butter was as filling as it was delicious.  A “portion” of pork crackling (£4) was large enough to serve 16 Northern beer drinkers based on the size of pub bags when I was a nipper.  And needless to say the flavour and crunch was in a new class, (but I am known as a bit of a porker).

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In a very twee part of London, where, in more controversial political times Tone used to live, lies a pub.  I wonder if this was a New Labour den at some point.

Keeping my lefty tendencies to one side, (I dress to the left), I booked through Opentable and consumed a pre-match meal.  The glorious Man City made their first Wembley visit since 1999. I made my first visit to Islington since Morgan M‘s in 2008.

The Drapers Arms has a decent array of beers, a pretty and well priced wine list, and a menu that people of my age can read without glasses, which is all too rare. A bottle of 2009 Brouilly was excellent value at £31, and once given 10 minutes in an ice bucket was very drinkable. After only 10 minutes it was turned from flabby Bazooka Joe bubblegum to tight candy foam teeth and who wouldn’t prefer the teeth?  But, why serve Beaujolais at 25 degrees in the first place?

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If you have just scaled England’s third highest mountain via Striding Edge, slipped and nearly died, wished that you owned a pair of crampons, nearly shat yourself, and in the process built up a hunger hole the size of one of Sherpa Tenzing’s footprints, you could do worse than get your scram at one of the poshest hotels in the lake district, the self proclaimed inventor of sticky toffee pudding.  Make sure you take your Amex Black Card, though.  And check you are still in possession of your arms and legs on the way out.

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I’ve been impressed by Café Anglais on a number of occasions but I thought it was famous for roast chicken, and not particularly great for solo diners.  So, ever since they emailed me to say an oyster bar had opened I’ve been itching to try it.

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I am in the envious position of having tickets to see Elbow in their home town on 25 March.  So tonight, Matthew, I’m doing a bit of cramming.

Have you heard the new Elbow album?  It was released today and I downloaded it from iTunes for the princely sum of £10.99.  Listening to it now, I am not yet totally enamoured.  But that almost certainly means that, with two or three more listens, I will love it.  Guy Garvey’s sharp “northern” lyrics combined with soulful melodies seem to appeal as much to men, as to women, despite the music being a bit soft for Northern blerks.  I’d like to see Guy proclaimed King of Manchester and maybe I’d share a curry with him at Akbars, the most royal of Manchester Ruby restos.

The self proclaimed King of Beaujolais, Georges Duboeuf, sent me some Brouilly, via the Wine Society who debited my account to the rather commonly sum of £8.75.  Château de Nervers, Brouilly, 2009, is from a legendary Bojo vintage.  Do you believe the hype?

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I’ve been a W man for so long that people are starting to call me George Bush.  So, when will you believe my double dip recession prediction?  You might have to admit defeat at the end of Q1 2011, if GDP growth is negative for the second quarter.  But I must admit that even I thought that interest rates would have to start rising before we took the second dive.  If all it took was a VAT increase, then we are potentially  heading for more of a “plummet”, than a “dip”.  All of which leads me to continue looking for best value wine.

And that sometimes means belief in your future health by investing in en primeur wines.

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