Confessions of a Wino

Boiled eggs.

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It is sometimes the simple, apparently yawningly boring, plain and ugly things in life that give the most pleasure.

I regularly eat boiled eggs at the flat because they are:
1. Cheap;
2. Easy to prepare;
3. Easy to consume; and
4. Tasty

Giving fair exception to the last horseman of my ovate apocalyptic quartet, many people allege that Chenin Blanc welcomes only the first three riders onto its lazy back.

Accused of blandness, and being a Jack of all trades but master of none, how does Chenin Blanc stand in the dock against horseman number 4’s indictment?  It is a grape I largely ignore, but I am not entirely sure why.

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I met Rob McIntosh in Manchester, the night before the UEFA Cup Final (Rangers lost 2-0).  Piccadilly Gardens was packed and all the pubs were overflowing with friendly but very pissed Glaswegians.  Fortunately, the Scots had not found the Northern Quarter, an eclectic mix of trendy, funky, bohemian bars, clubs, clothes shops and arty establishments.  Rob had spotted the old fish market earlier and a bar/resto on the other side of High Street confusingly named The Northern Quarter.

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Is there anything worse than spending 7 hours in the car in one day?  Well, how about 8 gruelling hours at, according to my trip computer, an average speed of 57mph, punctuated by two meetings in different towns with different companies, in which I play different roles, and have completely different thought patterns?  Then followed by numerous conference calls (for which I pulled off the motorway, obviously).

I set off at 5:45am this morning, and I have just got home at 9:0pm.  I resemble a panda that has been on a scientific sleep deprivation experiment.  Dark rims around my eyes like the stain left by a bottle of Pinot Noir on a ghost white tablecloth.  And you should see what my peepers look like from this side!

As a treat before I conk out in bed, I am sampling Trenel Morgon 2005 Côte de Py.

My first reaction is that it is much more serious than your average Beaujolais, but then again, Morgon is one of the crus that tends towards longevity, albeit lacking the joie de vivre of, say, Fleurie.

Cherry flavoured tannins combine with fresh tomatoes and a little meringue.  Superb with pink lamb steaks (must be chargrilled or barbecued).

It is available from The Wine Society for £7.95.  Good value I reckon.  zzzzzzz zzzzz zzzz zz z good night…..

Btw, can you name all the Beaujolais crus?  Here is your starter for ten – Côte-de-Brouilly, Chénas, Chiroubles, Fleurie, Juliénas, Morgon, Moulin-à-Vent, Saint Amour – can you spot the missing ones?  Big pat on the back if you can.  No prizes because I haven’t set up my premium rate telephone line yet.

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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Have you heard that large consumer services organisations (banks, telcos, utilities etc) classify and rank their customers into odd categories, like fruits, to determine their profitability?  A prime juicy customer might be an orange or an apple or a mango.  A customer clinging to the organisation like a piece of wet toilet tissue is invariably a lemon and is regularly encouraged to leave for a competitor, although a customer in this state is unlikely to be intelligent enough to take the hint.

I tried two wines from Virgin and I want to see how it works in the other direction.  The prime juicy apple in this case was the excellent Stone House Barossa Valley 2005 and the lemon, a Monastrell Albacea 2006.

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We Will Rock You was a decent show, albeit mostly performed by under-studies on the wet Saturday afternoon we were in the audience.  Fortunately it was dry inside the theatre and, whilst the programme (£4) did not reveal the storyline, the show turned out to be set in the long distant future and was a McLeanesque retrospective on the day the music died…or didn’t…yawn!

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I am sitting here idly watching a football match.  It is Euro 2008 and I am watching with aggressive disinterest because my team (England) did not qualify.  Players from the other teams I am, by ancestry or marriage, entitled to support - Scotland and Ireland, are also sat on a beach somewhere spending their “hard-earned” footballers’ wages on pina coladas.

Like Euro 2008, my world tour of Pinot Noirs has had plenty of representatives from across Europe but not one from the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.  So much for global warming.

This one came from the spiritual home of Pinot Noir, Burgundy.  Part of the ancient footballing nation of Gauls.  And in the religion that celebrates this fickle red grape, whether or not worshipping les bleus, the Cathédrale Notre Dame is the Cote D’Or.

Delivered via the Sunday Times Wine Club in a “Pure Pinot Noir” case for £69.99, this is a basic Bourgogne AOC from 2004, but still well priced at just over £7 (about a gallon of gasoline for US readers).

I found it tasted of gooseberry, redcurrant, blackberry and damp logs with a little earthiness thrown in as if to acknowledge the religious origins of my argument.  Slightly on the acidic side but very nice and I’d definitely drink it again.  I would recommend serving it fairly well chilled – give it at least an hour in a household fridge before opening.

In theory Dublin should be one of the best places in the world to eat shellfish, since Dublin Bay prawns and oysters are shipped far and wide.  Intrigued to see if the Irish kept any for themselves, I tracked down Ivan’s in Howth (pronounced as in “hoe” not “how”), an offshoot from legendary fish and chip emporium Beshoff’s that has been clogging Dubliners’ arteries since 1913.

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My wino mate, Robert, opened a debate about whether bringing a supermarket branded wine showed good judgement, or embarrassed your dinner party hosts.

Most winos concluded that it shows good form to see through the label and judge the wine.  In fact, spotting a bargain winissimo in sheep’s clothing is a big coup for a wine snob (assuming he can convince his friends that the wine is really worth much more than the actual price).  I have a personal view here.  I simply don’t care where the wine comes from, or the name on the label, or the price, but I am a sucker for packaging.  On that measure I am not sure why I picked up this ugly bottle at Sainsbury for £6.99.

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I stumbled across this branch of Nicolas in bustling Soho.  Wine shops are magnets to my liver and I felt the power dragging me across the street and in through the door like I was a hypnotised automaton.

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