Chapter 4
Monday 10th November
Today I have arranged a lunch with the man whose palate has been caressed with more fine wines than any other: Michael Broadbent. Recently I have experienced paranoid delusions of him absent-mindedly forgetting the meeting. He is a notoriously difficult person to contact, having eschewed most forms of mass communication post-Alexander Bell. A lunch has been planned at 1937 Browns Hotel in Mayfair as I think the doyen of fine wine would appreciate this bastion of traditional English cooking, where Agatha Christie's scent still lingers in the air, murders concocted over an eclair and a pot of Earl Grey. The interior adheres closely to the formula of wanescoating, plush Axminster carpets and oil-paintings rather than granite, chrome and some sub-Warhol lithography blighting the wall. I have a discrete word with the sommelier who can barely contain his excitement when I reveal that Mr. Broadbent, patron saint of sommeliers, will bestow his presence upon us. He scurries away to polish his Riedels.
We arrive early with my Japanese colleague and there are a few tense minutes spent loitering in the reception. What if he doesn't turn up, fallen off his bike or emigrated to Bordeaux or something? Perhaps feign illness and make my excuses? Phone up Hugh Johnson as a replacement or find a septuagenarian with some vague resemblance. There must be a herd of them in the Mayfair gentlemens' clubs.
There is a flash of bright blue out of the corner of my eye and it can mean only one thing...
Maggie Thatcher.
She regally steps out the chauffeur driven car, a vision that I grew up with on the daily news being lived out for real. Having been weaned on the Daily Mirror I grew up with socialist leanings and, like my communist Uncle Alf, despised the "Iron Lady". But she is an icon, a person who has made a mark on history for better or for worse and I cannot quite believe she is standing in front of me whilst Michael Broadbent is shaking my hand.
He always seems quite tall in the flesh, as vigorous as a bottle of La Tâche 61, indeed a man who seems to have matured at the same glacial pace as many of the wines he tastes; a quintessential Englishman carved from Churchill's Britain with a wicked smile and sense of humour that is lamentably absent from a field as joyous as wine. Since he has tasted practically everything under the sun, it is futile to impress him with anything grandiose and so I have procured a bottle of Grand Puy Ducasse 1986 from the shop and a fine, if slightly shallow classic Bordeaux it turns out to be. The lunch goes well and he then he disappears into the bustle of late-afternoon Mayfair to change his money into Euros for a trip to Burgundy. This is a man who never stops working.
Wednesday November 12th
Today we are visiting a supplier down in the depths of deepest Devon, an area abounding with sentimental memories since our family holidayed there in the quaint seaside town of Dawlish (pictured left) from the ages of 6 to 16. My parents never hankered after that skiing holiday in Saint Moritz or a weekend shopping in the Big Apple; they were perfectly content spending the day on the beach in Dawlish whilst I buried my brother in the sand and threw seaweed at him to make him cry. Most of these antics were captured on grainy 16mm cinefilm that is premiered every Boxing Day. Unfortunately the conversion to VHS means that everything runs at twice the speed and our family memories zip past like the Marx brothers on steroids.
Back to the present and London transport has broken down and is doing its best to screw-up the whole day. Firstly it is raining and the unnatural number of large raindrops has washed away every damn taxi down into the Thames Estuary. Secondly the London Underground is in default "shite" mode i.e. during rush-hour trains appear with the same regularity as Haley's Comet. With literally nanoseconds to spare we manage to catch the train that miraculously departs on time.
The grey washed out suburbs of London turn into the green washed out Home Counties. I love the country: the fields full of masticating cows, sheep counting humans to sleep and pigs discussing Orwellian prophecies. Upon disembarking it takes a few minutes to acclimatise to the fresh air and the slower pace of life but gradually my senses recover and we spend a fruitful day checking stock and drinking some extraordinary wines Chateau Latour 1937 and a mellifluous Chateau d'Yquem 1989.
This is my final day with the Japanese clients: I survived. Just.
Saturday 15th November
After watching SMTV Gold and lamenting the passing of Ant and Dec on Saturday morning, Tomoko and I pop down to the fishmongers to by some fresh scallops. Fishmongers are a dying breed in London, in danger of extinction. Fortunately the fishmonger in West Norwood in one of the best in South London and the bag full of pre-ordered scallops are taken home for dinner tomorrow.
The rest of the day is spent lounging about, watching Pop Idol and falling asleep in the middle of "Signs" starring Mel Gibson.
Sunday 16th November
It is my parents annual expedition into the urban jungle known as South London. I cook scallops flash fried in white wine and garlic, followed by monkfish wrapped in parma ham with a creamy leek sauce. It turns out to be the first time my mother has eaten monkfish. You sometimes forget that our parents were fed a steady diet of "meat 'n two veg" and in our household any dish without over-boiled potato was deemed a crime punishable by public flogging until 1987. My taste buds did not encounter foreign cuisine an ex-girlfriend convinced me that Indian spices would not cause irrepairable damage to my metabolism. This was when I was living in the curry Nirvana known as Coventry, where the ether ran thick with the heavenly scent of vindaloo and balti. My first chicken korma provoked the sensory and emotional equivalent of losing my virginity, although the curry lasted longer.
Tuesday 18th November
Yum, yum. Chateau Ducru Beaucaillou Vertical.
Thursday 20th November
Today the nation drops its tools and rushes euphorically into our cobbled street yelling: "It's Beaujolais Nouveau Day!" Actually Beaujolais Nouveau is still of major importance to the Japanese and I usually spend two or three joyous weeks booking 747's to transport tons of carbonic-fermented juice ready for the third Thursday of November. Tomoko and I celebrate at home by chucking half the bottle in a wok with some chorizo sausage.
Friday 21st November
The second tasting organized by CECWINES. It is less chaotic that the first one and decent measures are poured, although overlords Serena Sutcliffe and David Peppercorn are absent. This time Casper leads us through the wines and seems to have written three volumes of notes, although minutiae detailing the precise malolactic fermentation of each wine seems to fall on deaf ears.
We visit the "default" restaurant of London, i.e. where you end up if you cannot decide where to eat: Pizza Express. I have never had a bad pizza at P.E. although I did consider leaving the country when they reduced the radius of their pizza...such nefarious acts do not pass unnoticed. I am glad to see that my boycott coupled with nation's outrage has coerced them to revert to the regular size. Governments increase taxes and the British do not bat an eyelid. Reduce the amount of pizza on our plates and the proles are galvanized into action.
Saturday 22nd November
Pouring with rain. I watch the England Rugby team install some pride into the nation as they battle Australia (boo!) for the World Cup. I am so tense that I make a cup of tea during the second half of extra time; I can barely watch. Rugby was compulsory at my grammar school where football was viewed as a folly of hoi-palloi. My memories of the game revolve around sodden Wednesday mornings, the P.E. teacher barking like a military officer to a scrawny bunch of snotty nosed 14-year olds flailing in the quagmire/rugby pitch. There was always one fat kid who was so rotund that we would effectively bounce off his blubber. I was skinny but a fast sprinter so if the ball ended in my paws I would experience a momentary shock of horror before running in any direction so long as I was not tackled. I was not Johnny Wilkinson.
England beat Australia with Wilkinson's final punt between the posts and an unusual sense of pride wells up inside. Hoorah!
Tomoko and I venture north to the Landmark Hotel for the Decanter Fine Wine Encounter. We have just booked places for the Vega Sicilia vertical tasting including several vintages back to 1942. Jasper Morris introduces the representatives from Vega: Rafael Alonso and wine-maker Xavier Ausas who seems an insouciant fellow imbued with youthful braggadocio and nonchalance. He must be a matador in his spare time. He tells us how he smoked cigarettes whilst waiting for the rains to clear during the harvest and makes himself sound like Clint Eastwood waiting for the baddies to turn up. If he was any more laid back he will fall off his chair.
The tasting is fascinating and will be featured in the following weeks, but needless to say,
the measures are more than sufficient for me to:
a) become moderately inebriated
b) collect left-over measures of various vintages after the tasting to blend my unique Reserva Especial and
c) stagger up to Senor Ausas to seek his opinion. He looks at me with upmost derision and
takes a reluctant slurp. " It needs more 1987," he replies in voice so deadpan that is kills off and ideas of becoming
a winemaker. He struts away to find someone
a) more intelligent
b) less drunk and
c) not taking the piss.
We get home in time for Pop Idol.
Monday 23rd November
Out with friends after work at "Quod" aka reasonably priced pizza-joint if Pizza Express is becoming monotonous. I meet my friends Kim and Cath for a bite ot eat and couple of bottles pretending to be wine. I have known both of them since university when they plagued me to spin the classic "Moonlight Shadow" by Mike Oldfield. I cannot recollect how I mixed this paean to John Lennon into some banging house, but I did, and the result was a vacated dancefloor save for Kim and Cath, who seemed to know every word.
Wednesday 25th November
Rain.
Thursday 27th November
See Wednesday 25th November.
Saturday 29th November
Today is my family's annual excursion to a musical that my mother books around mid- January. The tradition started in the mid-90's, the idea being that my offspring would enjoy classic musicals such as "Oliver Twist" and "My Fair Lady" with their grandmother. Alas eight years later and I have failed to procreate for I still do not feel responsible enough to bring a mini-me into this world. My parents wistfully look round the auditorium teaming full of kids, wondering "when?"
This year it is "Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang" that I chose because it starred Michael (lovely theatrical voice) Ball and Richard (Rocky Horror) O'Brien. Needless to say, ten months after we have booked the tickets the major stars have quit and we are left with Russ Abbott and Gary Wilmott. Still, the flying car is the main attraction and is quite spectacular. It is certainly better than "Abba - The Musical".
Sunday 30th November
Will Young is number one. His song is worryingly good and infinitely better then the drivel that is Westlife's "Mandy".
Monday 1st December
A rare day-off from work. We spend the day drifting aimlessly around the Whitgift shopping centre in rainy Croydon. I head for "Beanos" - a haven for any vinyl-junkie, a three-floor Utopia dedicated to 33 and 45rpm, where that lost psychedelic private-pressing made by a trio of plumbers from Deptford in 1970 can be bought for a months salary. I used to collect records myself and they remain in the spare room in alphabetical and chronological order according to their genre. Such meticulous filing system was astutely observed by Nick Hornby in his book "High Fidelity" and a girlfriend replacing a record in the wrong place formed the grounds for many a decree nisi.
But I was obsessed with collecting records. One of my most despicable acts was to dump my girlfriend of two years at 9am on a Saturday morning so that I could get to the Birmingham record fair in time for its opening. As I nonchalantly browsed through a cardboard box of New Wave 12-inches, she contemplated the ending her life in the Bullring shopping centre. If you ever read this, my dear first girlfriend, I apologize sincerely for my abominable behaviour.
Vinyl-junkies and wine-collectors are cut from the same cloth. One dreams about that withdrawn Beatles cover whilst the other hallucinates about lustrous bottles of Yquem. I probably do both which makes me a "double-anorak". I need to get out more.
Wednesday 3rd December
Bergerac tasting at a hotel near the British Museum. Unfortunately I get lost in the labrynth like basement searching for a rest room and none of the chambermaids seem to speak English. I eventually find my way to the room which is empty save for a few representatives from SOPEXA who have organised the event. The wines are good quality and the sweet Monbazallac's must represent some of the best value for money in France (report to follow soon(ish). I have to resist eating all the fois-gras canapés and so depart promptly by midday, collecting my free "Hachette Wine Guide 2004" on the way out - a most generous gesture at £25 a go. It is still raining.
Thursday 4th December
Lunch at La Trouvaille - one of London's best French restaurants, accompanied by a bottle of Chateau Angelus 1981. I am accompanied by a French colleague, which gives me plenty of opportunity to rub in England's victory in the semi-final of the Rugby World Cup.
Friday 5th December
Lunch with Vicky in the mock-American Burgerking restaurant to discuss forthcoming Xmas celebrations in Leigh-on-Sea. Drinking copious amounts of alcohol needs a lot of preparation.
Saturday 6th December
Friends round for dinner. Tomoko has cooked some Japanese cuisine which includes some seaweedy stuff that smells disgusting but you know would be benefit your digestive system, especially after yesterday's pig-out in Burgerking. She is a very competent cook, one of those people that can conjure something delicious out of a few left-overs from the fridge, the person who just adds a little of "x" and your bland bolognaise suddenly develops a smorgasbord of flavours. When I don the apron, she hovers nearby and fidgets when I do something wrong, which happens to be most of the time. My approach to cooking is to chuck it in, see what happens, then revert to "Mary Berry's Cookbook" to see if I can recover the mess before anyone arrives.
The dinner is splendid although Tomoko and I consume far too much wine. She falls asleep at the table still dressed in her apron whilst I somehow manage to do most of the washing-up whilst inconveniently pissed. Tomorrow I will have a headache.
Sunday 7th December
I have a headache.
Monday 8th December
Hooray - Prêt-a-Manger have re-released their Christmas Sandwich for Xmas!
Boo - it contains lettuce.
Spend the evening listening to the brilliant Libertines album "Up the Bracket" so that I can learn the words for next week's gig.
Tuesday 9th December
Chateau Léoville Las-Cases vertical. The tasting is fascinating although I am harangued by a egotistical tosser who cannot accept anyone having a different opinion to his own. His wrath explodes when I dare to suggest that I do not particularly like the 1982 (of course I like it, I was just pointing out its faults.) He accuses me of not liking any of the wines, which seems mirculous considering he is not privy to my notes. Temperatures are raised further when I opine that the acidity is more noticable than I expected. By now I am bored of arguing so I sever the quarrel with a swish of the hand and a dismissive "whatever". Rule of wine-tasting: respect other persons opinion and do not start your sentence in a condescending tone with the phrase: " I can't believe you thought..." because others will simply think: "wanker".
Saturday 13th December
Today is "Leigh Jingle Bells" i.e. all my old friends get together and drink lots of alcohol. It
is usually a test of stamina, commencing in the afternoon and ending in tears/unconsciousness/
exhaustion in the early hours of the morning. Lots of my old friends are in attendance, most of
whom are:-
1) earning twice as much as me
2) single, unable to find Mr Right and are considering speed dating
3) quitting smoking
4) devotees of Pop Idol
5) the same or lower degree of maturity than when we were 16.
It is fun, but there are casualties. The evening ends in Carolyn's front room, dancing to
Xmas songs with cushions on our heads: one of the situations that could damage my
credability as a professional wine-critic should photos ever surface.
Sunday 14th December
Watch Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines on DVD and to my surprise quite enjoy it. Usually sequels are beginning to scrape the barrel by the time they reach their third venture: Jaws 3 (filmed in 3-D which is three dimensions too many), Godfather Part III (ruined by Sophia Coppolla who redeemed herself by directing "The Virgin Suicides"), Aliens 3 (too dark and depressing), Superman 3 (an exception thanks to the brilliant Richard Pryor), Police Academy/Gremlins/Nightmare on Elm Street/Scream/Omen/Halloween - all pale imitations), Return of the Jedi (ruined by Ewoks), Indiana Jones Part III (another exception, one of my favourite films ever), Mad Max 3 (good if you like Tina Turner), Home Alone 3 (straight to video).
NEWS: Saddam Hussein found in a hole impersonating Father Christmas. His Republican Guard of elves failed to protect him.