Posted: 1st February 2019
Gérard Basset died from throat cancer this month. It is sad news, not least because he was younger than me and had everything to live for. I had known him from the late eighties, since the first time I stayed at Chewton Glen in the New Forest. He was the sommelier and the hotel was managed by his young friend Robin Hutson. Their partnership survived until Gérard’s death, linked by any number of hotels that had been spawned by the successful Hôtel du vin chain that they launched together. I think it was also at Chewton Glen that Gérard met his wife Nina, the mother of his child. I have a memory of a sunny day, a good lunch and a tour of the cellar. The owner, Martin Skan, was in close attendance, as he always was.
As for Gérard he was shy, attentive and genuinely humble. He struck me as quite different from most other French sommeliers, the ones I had to stomach at so many tastings in France and who worked in restaurants with Michelin rosettes; the more stars the restaurant possessed, the more arrogant they became. They didn’t taste like us, they had a system: first ‘bouche’, second ‘bouche’, and then an interminable list of fruits and flowers that would have flummoxed a nation of gardeners. They looked down on us as amateurs, which I suppose we were.
There was one in particular, whom we knew as ‘Cricket Bat’ who was quite insufferably full of himself and we got our own back by teasing him relentlessly. In contrast Gérard was modest, maybe because he had fallen into the world of wine by chance, having started out as a kitchen skivvy here and had been put through his paces in England rather than France. He had been born near St Etienne in the Rhone Valley but he gradually became an Anglo-French wine man, with a foot on either side of the Channel. That being said, he was very much at home in Britain.
The Rhone Valley is my next recollection of Gérard. We were visiting vineyards, several of us crammed into an Espace. When I became conscious of Gérard he was sitting nonchalantly by the opposite window with his head plunged into my book on Syrah. I remembered a story about Hilaire Belloc entering a railway carriage to find a man reading one of his books. He strode over to the window and opened it wide, grabbed the book and hurled it out of the moving train. I was half inclined to do the same, but it would have involved leaning over two people and wrestling with the window handle. By that time even the placid Gérard would have become suspicious. He carried on reading my book and didn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed. I thought it was even possible he was not aware of the fact I had written it.
That book caused a storm later. There was a front-page story in the New York Times about ‘young’, iconoclastic wine-writers upsetting the older generation. As a measure of how wrong the piece was, I was compared to the Guru of Maryland, Robert Parker. They quoted a tasting note from Syrah about a Northern Rhone wine smelling like a hamster’s cage. This had set off a cacophony among the stuffed shirts of wine at the time but Gérard was clearly impressed. Several years later when he published his first book on wine, Wine Experience, he made reference to that tasting note. With pride he showed me a page illustrated with a photograph of a very clean, empty hamster’s cage.
Another time I saw Gérard in his native France was at the Crillon-le-Brave hotel in the Ventoux in about 1998. I was with my small family, and we had been staying nearby at the Domaine des Anges. Gérard was giving talks on wine to the guests and I had been invited to write them up. Gérard was reverential as always and deferred to me on a number of points, but he was soaring ahead in his quest to win all the world's wine competitions and accumulate all the honours that could be bestowed in the vinous world. He was Britain’s best sommelier and eventually the best sommelier in the world, he was a Master Sommelier, a Master of Wine, managed to acquire an MSc and - I think - an OBE; and yet, he was still the same old Gérard. Nothing really went to his head.
The last time I remember seeing him was at the World Wine Awards three years ago. At first he had served on one of the juries in his usual modest way but, with his talents, he was quickly appointed a sort of ‘cardinal’ serving directly under our Pope Steven (Spurrier). I was a mere bishop, in charge of my clergy of chiefly MWs from Austria and Germany. Teutonic wines were not, think necessarily Gérard’s strongest suit - not so hedonistic and possibly a shade too cerebral. He was nonetheless called in to resolve questions of orthodoxy when I could not convince the people myself. It was always the same, humble, smiling Gérard, full of charm and bonhomie. We shall all miss him.
I have had my head in Anthony Rose’s new book on Sake since Christmas. It reminded me that I had written an article on sake many years before and quite fallen in love with the poetic side of traditional Japanese life. I longed to go, to explore the towns and cities that had been spared the relentless destruction of the Second World War and watch people singing to cherry trees. This never happened. The nearest I ever got to the country was a Japanese restaurant and the occasional glass of sake.
The book starts well, with an epigraph by Alex Kerr, one of the most stylish men in my college, who later emigrated to Japan to serve a living god and was last reported living in Thailand. One story I loved was about ‘virgin sake’ where the rice that made the wine was chewed by the purest maidens and spat into a vat before it fermented. The tasting of sake, in little cups decorated with bulls eyes I also found charming. Emphasis was placed on the ‘tail’ of the sake: what wine tasters would call the finish, the length. I resolved that were I ever to get the chance to go to Japan, Anthony’s book would be my vade mecum, but it was undiscovered territory and would probably remain terra incognita. As I put the book down I remembered - there was a small bottle of sake at the bottom of the fridge that had been there for at least fifteen years if not twenty. I fetched it up to my study: ‘Izumi Jungmai Ginjo made by Suwa in the Prefecture of Tottori’. I looked it up but found no reference. I suppose it might be no good. I shall put it back in the fridge. Who knows when I shall finally drink it?
Before Christmas I had some excellent beer from the Edinburgh Beer Factory. All the beers are named after paintings by Eduardo Paolozzi, the Leith-born Italian-Scottish painter and sculptor whose family was decimated by the sinking of the Arandora Star by a German U-Boot in the Second World War. We had a hoppy, chocolaty Futurismo; a smoky wheat beer called Moonstrips which seemed to lean more towards an IPA; an excellent unfiltered Helles lager; a lemony Z.E.E.P (with a touch of rosemary); and Soho Jazz Cherry Saison, which had the faintest hint of cherry; and a citrus-fruity ‘Untitled’. All really nice brews and you don’t even have to go to Edinburgh to drink them.
Finally an item of local news: Fortess Road in Kentish Town has become more and more French over the past decade, I presume because of the French college in nearby Holmes Road. The presence of a discerning public has improved shopping no end: first a good, if expensive Turkish-run greengrocer opened, then a classy butcher in ‘Meat NW5’, then a charmless but stylish fishmonger opposite. The Authentique Epicerie & Bar has declared its red-white-and-blue colours since then, with French wines, cheeses and sausages, while at the bottom of the road is the Patron restaurant (which I have yet to try) and the Tabac Bar which used to be a ‘cave-à-manger’ offshoot of the Patron but has now been rebranded to make a small-but-cosy Paris-style ‘zinc’, serving rather better wines than you’d expect from a bar tabac with sausage, pâté and cheeses. I dropped in before Christmas and had a rather lovely Meursault, but if you don’t want to splash out they serve honest, cheap wine in ‘ballons’ filled to the brim. On Saturday they put the papers out and you can have a long and leisurely breakfast. A warning though: despite the name, and the pictures on the site, cigarettes are not on the cards.
The Spirit of Christmas Present
Posted: 2nd January 2019
Christmas is certainly not what it was. Even in my callow twenties I recall one year in Paris when we drank 1966 Château Margaux (currently £500 a bottle) out of whisky tumblers, and another when I was all alone with a friend and I bought a bottle of 1971 La Tâche (400 francs or forty quid then, now a modest £4,418 a bottle). Life was pretty good! When I look back on it, on the second occasion I was in seventh heaven because the girl got drunk on the champagne before dinner and I had most of the bottle of burgundy and a haunch of wild boar to myself.
If I still had a repository of these things now I dare say someone would tell me to sell them and in mitigation it is true that Christmas has a lot more meaning when you have children and you are not just indulging yourself; you happily accept that their happiness is what it’s about even if the wine and food is perhaps not all it was. The worst of all worlds is when you aren’t happy, and the children aren’t either.
I am glad to say that I don’t think we quite reached that level this year, although we have been close in the past. This Christmas was more sociable than many previous occasions and only Christmas Day was completely free of guests or trips to see friends. So it kicked off with a blazing fire and the decoration of the tree on Christmas Eve while we waited for the arrival of a couple of guests for dinner. I decanted a bottle of 1985 Warre’s port I had been given as a present and put some slightly underperforming white burgundy in the fridge. We had a predictable but otherwise undistinguished bottle of Perrier Jouët before we sat down the terrine of foie gras I’d made over the weekend. The burgundy was intended for the baked sea bass and beurre blanc, then a friend’s Saint Emilion, 2007 Château Petit Faurie de Soutard went with the cheeses, including a sensational vacherin mont d’or. It was a really lovely wine, quite creamy and modern in style, but without that clunking sweetness of so many Saint Emilions today. Then there were meringues and mince pies with brandy butter and what proved to be a truly lovely, classic port.
Suitably fortified with went to Midnight Mass. As we ambled back after 1.30 on Christmas morning we surprised a fox tucking into his Christmas dinner: a takeaway jettisoned in the street. He wasn’t drinking wine.
Later that day we had a bottle of Mumm around the tree and slices of a Venezuelan pan de jamon I had made on impulse because it looked nice in the picture. The bread dough is enriched with eggs and butter and rolled up with ham, bacon and olives. I was supposed to add raisins too but one child won’t eat them and I wasn’t certain they added that much. It proved remarkably popular, and I may have to make it again. We were just three drinkers at dinner, which was a wonderful heifer forerib (we had baptised it ‘Simon’). I had decanted the oldest Bordeaux I had left: a 1988 Château Lynch Moussas for which I had no great expectations. As it was it turned out, it proved to be a model pre-Parker claret with just 12.5 by volume, a lovely balance together with an enchanting redolence of cedar and cassis. There was no sign of decay. Then there was cheese and treacle pudding. After that we took the port upstairs to watch Scrooge.
My brother-in-law had brought up a couple of cooked lobsters from Devon on Christmas Eve, and these formed the centre point of the meal on Boxing Day when a couple of friends came to dinner. They brought an orange Khikvi wine with them from the Vazisubani Estate in Georgia. That afternoon my daughter and I had done sterling work with a hammer and skewers and I had turned the lobsters into a salad by whipping up some mayonnaise. The brown meat was incorporated into the leftover beurre blanc and served with toast. The wine for this was a 2013 Meursault Clos du Cromin from Patrick Javillier which was as magical as the other white burgundy had been flat. There was some roast pork and cabbage afterwards for which the intended partner was the 2000 Domaine du Grand Tinel Châteauneuf-du-Pape. This was a disappointment: it was distinctly on the wane. I had had the 2001 earlier in the year and it was a great deal more robust. I had always suspected the millennial wines had been over-hyped. More cheeses came out later, including an interesting camembert that had been enhanced with ceps.
For the next few days we managed the leftovers and on New Year’s Eve we had our Italian feast of stuffed pig’s trotter or zampone with lentils and potato purée. There was even a bit of foie gras left too which we ate with a 1997 Weißburgunder Auslese from my friend Johann Münzenrieder in Apetlon. Once again the star was a 1997 Prunotto Barolo, a wine that kept throwing out new faces, sparkling like the fireworks that even then were starting to illuminate London’s Southbank.
We had no champagne on New Year’s Eve this year. We’ll have champagne again when there is something to celebrate.
Austerity and Prosecco
Posted: 3rd December 2018
November was grim month. Sometime in the twilight days of October I realised I could no longer fit into my clothes. I had a clear choice: new clothes or lose weight. As I could not afford the former, it had to be the latter; so I gave up lunch.
Lunch was only ever what the others had failed to finish, but there was quite a lot of that and then there were cakes and biscuits and all sorts of things that lay about the house. Anyway, I reduced my daily diet to two slices of my own (substantial) bread with my coffee and then perhaps a couple of tangerines during the day. Dinner accompanied by wine was at eight as usual. One or two things broke up the day and stopped me going mad: a cup of tea at four and a couple of pints of water at half past six.
After just over a month I feel quite well adapted. Members of my family offer me biscuits, even lunch sometimes, but I do not waver. From time to time I feel like St. Anthony in the desert, but I am even more adamantine in my commitment than he was. I knew that as Christmas approached there would be a few evening parties and even the occasional lunch, and that I would have to make an exception here or there, but I aim to persist, at least until the end of Advent.
So far I have had two lapses. On one occasion friends invited me to Bedford for an Anglo-German birthday party and we ate, almost without a break, all day; and the other was on the last day of the month when I attended a tasting at the Osteria in the Barbican, followed by lunch! The tasting was of Bottega prosecco. Now, I am not a huge prosecco drinker but I have noticed how popular it has become in Britain. I had first witnessed the prosecco craze in Munich and elsewhere in Germany where affluent young ‘Schickimickis’ sat around in cafés drinking it in preference to still wine or beer. Germans drink lots of Sekt or sparkling wine, so this wasn’t particularly revolutionary. In Britain, on the other hand, sparkling wine was restricted to high days and holy days: weddings and birthdays, and if you couldn’t run to champagne for the occasion you tended to drink Catalan cava instead.
That, it seems, has changed; and people are now prepared to drink a glass of sparkling wine where, in the past, it was always still. It is also true that champagne has priced itself out of many people’s budgets: with the found flailing, the price of champagne has increased by 12% meaning that the average cost of a bottle is over £20 for the first time. Sales have decreased by 20% since 2016. Sandro Bottega demonstrated that proper prosecco, made from Glera grapes grown on the steep slopes of the Dolomites, is not any cheaper to produce than champagne, despite the fact that the second fermentation is in tank, rather than bottle. The ‘Charmat’ tanks cost a lot of money. What makes champagne more expensive is the fact the champagne producers have to pay more than five times as much for their grapes. On the other hand, not all prosecco is as well made as his and at around £20 his top prosecco - Gold - is more expensive than many champagnes. Rough and ready prosecco may be had for as little as £5.25 a bottle.
Britain is now the top destination for prosecco wines and to my shame I don’t think I was aware of ever having tasted it analytically before last Friday. I was pleasantly surprised. Sandro Bottega wanted to show us that the wine had the potential to age. We tasted six vintages of his Vino dei Poeti Valdobbiadene Superiore and it was quite clear there were considerable variations between vintages. The one I liked best was the powerful 2016, the 2013, however, I thought was already oxidised. This short-ish life does contrast quite sharply with champagne; champagne ages better than many still wines. I have the odd 1990, and it is very good.
The tasting went on, and we tried the new ‘Ancestrale’: a prosecco filled with its yeast to create a second fermentation in the bottle, but, unlike champagne, the Ancestrale is not disgorged, so the yeast remains at the bottom, like a German wheat beer. I thought this rather wonderful stuff. It had that green apple character which is a sine qua non, but was slightly cidery.
We finished the tasting with the Bottega Gold, the Prosecco Rosé and the Bottega Rosé Gold. Unlike ordinary proseccos, Gold has a dosage of 11 - 12 grams of sugar to make it richer and it has a pleasant length too. The Gold rosé has a bit of added Pinot Noir from Oltreppo Pavese and has an attractive saltiness.
Then we went into lunch, and an excellent lunch at that. An aperitif of prosecco with Bottega vermouth was served with lots of lovely things including a very gooey triple cream goats’ cheese from Piemonte and three different sorts of bruschetta. Then we sat down to grilled vegetables and dried meats and cheeses, excellent Bottega six-year old balsamico and olive oil and then a delicious spaghetti cacio e pepe and fruit salad served with (Bottega) soave, Valpolicella ripasso and sparkling moscato. Bottega is a very big company indeed and has its fingers in a great many vinous pies. There was even a cask-aged grappa to go with my coffee. All my vows lay in tatters and my pious intentions were utterly crushed.
I made for the tube at Moorgate. I remembered we needed food for the evening and stopped to buy lamb and morcilla negra sausages from Miguel the Spanish butcher in Camden Town but before dinner there was a book launch in Westminster for the new edition of the late Jocasta Innes’s excellent Country Kitchen first published in 1979. It proved a delightful evening in an old house within spitting distance of Jacob Rees Mogg’s London residence and sure as eggs his name was pronounced again and again. I was far from hungry, but somebody pressed a plate of kedgeree into my hand, made, of course, according to Jocasta Innes’s recipe. I write these words on the first Sunday in Advent. I am not at my best. I have promised I shall be made of sterner stuff between now and Christmas.
On Culinary Fashion: a Tale of Two St John’s: St John’s in Clerkenwell and the Oslo Court in St John’s Wood
Posted: 5th November 2018
I don’t eat out much anymore; frankly, I can’t afford to. To some extent I have lost the thrill I used to feel about picking up a menu and deciding what I’d like to eat. Other considerations tend to weigh in: such as the fact that I am invariably someone else’s guest, and if I am actually paying I need to be aware of just how much we can afford to spend. We eat pretty well at home and on the rare occasions we go out many things have changed, not least in the sparse presentation of food, the peculiar syntax of the menu, the nature and degree of seasoning and the surroundings: luxury is out, restaurants are often just bare boards and blank walls. There is a hell of a lot less ‘comfort’ than there was back in the old days.
I remember visiting Paul Bocuse in Lyon a few years back, probably around the time of the millennium. His restaurant was ‘plush’ to the degree of vulgarity. To get three stars then you needed pictures on the walls, carpets, good silver and tableware. Marco Pierre White was a case in point. When he was looking for his third Michelin Star he used to show me all the paintings he’d acquired that week: ‘Nicholas, show Giles my paintings!’ They were frightful things, but he thought they’d help.
To be honest, I wasn’t very concerned about Marco’s pictures or Bocuse’s ringard interiors, I had come to eat. Bocuse’s waiters laid out various things that had justifiably brought him fame since the sixties and I ate, with gusto. I had truffle soup and sea bass with potato scales, and lots, lots more, and my host sat before me with his arms folded across his chest and his big chef’s hat on the top of his head. When he took it off, he was about a foot shorter. It was one of the most delicious meals I’d ever had. And yet, in culinary terms it was all well out of fashion, even then.
I remembered Bocuse, as I always do, when I had lunch last month in Fergus Henderson’s London restaurant St. John’s. Not because either decoration or food reminded me of Bocuse, rather it was because both were really the complete antithesis of Bocuse: the stark white walls, the uncomfortable chairs and the food that simply juxtaposes bold, but unusual ingredients without uniting them under a sauce. I had a good meal: smoked eel with a little mound of wonderfully piquant creamed horseradish (the star of the show) and a pickled prune, a fat cake of pigs’ blood topped with a couple of fried eggs, and finished off with an Eccles cake with Lancashire cheese. What could go wrong there, I asked? And nothing did.
Only a week or two before I had been to another restaurant for lunch that was distinctly UN-fashionable: the Oslo Court in St John’s Wood. In fact it might just win the prize for being the most unfashionable restaurant in London. I had come across it by chance when a wine merchant asked if I might consent to pick up some samples from there as he was not prepared to come all the way to me in Kentish Town. I arrived before the lunchtime service. A waiter or possibly the maître d’hôtel brought me a coffee while I waited for my bottles and soaked up the vision in pink. The dining room seemed to have been inspired by the late Barbara Cartland. The waiter took a telephone call, looking at me and talking in a tone worthy of the great Frankie Howerd: ‘He has such a nice face. I do hope he comes here again!’ I took a peek at the menu. It was then I realised that I had somehow contrived to travel there by Tardis: steak diane! Steak au poivre? Sole meunière? Duck in Cherry Sauce? - dishes as out of date now as top hats at funerals.
I did intend to come again, but the years rolled by. I learned the Oslo Court was popular with people who watch the cricket at Lords. I heard that David Cameron had been seen there, which put me off. This summer I told some kind American friends who spend their summers in St John’s Wood about it and they invited me to go along with them; then I forgot all about the booking and to my horror received an e.mail from them at about two, asking where I was? When they asked me a second time I made sure I put the date firmly in my diary.
This time I arrived on the bus. The place was heaving. I am not young, but I was certainly one of the youngest there. With its soft carpets and genteel atmosphere and art deco allure it might have been an up-market old people’s home on the South Coast. The ladies wore pearls and the men were in suits and ties. I felt hugely underdressed. There was a big bowl of crudités on the table and a great profusion of waiters in dinner jackets bringing hot rolls and Melba toast, each one clearly famed for his comic routine. I great list of specials was recited as a prologue to each course, but I wanted to stick to a menu marinated in nostalgia and opted for a scallops in a shell, fillets of sole with a lobster sauce and sherry trifle.
It was not Bocuse, to be sure, but it was purest Escoffier. The scallops were just the ticket: there seemed to be several in there with prawns in a creamy sauce hemmed in by mashed potato piping. The last time I had eaten one of these was when I dined with a schoolmaster at Eton who had called me in to give a talk to the boys. Then there was the sole. It came on a massive plate with lots of cream. The lobster sauce could have been a bit more concentrated, and there might have been a bit more cognac in it, but these are quibbles. There were more vegetables than anyone could cope with and pommes dauphinoises popped down in some distant part of the plate. Then the trifle (I scarcely had room for the trifle), but it was a serious blast from the past. It took me back to the George at Dorchester, and the Bear at Woodstock, and all the gorgeous trifles I had eaten, and not eaten in the past forty years. It was a massive comfort to know such things were still being made.
The Palate Revives
Posted: 3rd October 2018
After the dog days of this summer working life has gradually returned. I’ve actually been pleasantly busy, though not so much on the food and drink front. For many weeks it seemed to me that I had done nothing more than add the odd dab of paint to a canvas. I began to understand how unjust it was to accuse those who live in torrid latitudes of laziness. For much of July and August here in London it was too hot to work.
As I don’t get to go to Wiesbaden now to taste the dry Grosses Gewächs (GGs) anymore, Justerini & Brooks’ German wine tasting at the beginning of September is a useful way of seeing where we are, and one which has the further advantage of letting me sample the full range and not just the dry wines. J & B has been just about the top importer of German wines for some time, and they are still adding wonderful new growers to their portfolio. Germans themselves rarely drink semi-sweet wines, but the great estates still make them, I suspect for an ageing category of connoisseurs who know how glorious they can be. That means proper Kabinetts, Spätlesen, Auslesen, and the higher band of Auslese: numbered casks (Fuder), gold caps and long gold caps, before you reach the super sweet levels of Beerenauslesen and Trockenbeerenauslesen.
Unless otherwise mentioned, all the wines in my round up of the very best from J & B are Rieslings from the 2017 vintage.
- Fritz Haag (Mosel): Brauneberger Juffer Sonnenuhr Grosses Gewächs (£25.60), Brauneberger Kabinett (£14.10), Brauneberger Juffer Spätlese (£16.60), Juffer Sonnenuhr Auslese Fuder 10 (£27.60), Juffer Sonnenuhr Auslese Gold Cap (£50.60), for the Beerenauslese from the same site the prices are on application! Otherwise the sums demanded are notably modest for wines of this quality with almost unlimited ageing potential.
- Schloss Lieser (Mosel): the wines to look out for from the Haag cousins are the Rieslings from the Brauneberger Juffer Sonnenberg Spätlese (£19.60), the Piesporter Goldtröpfchen Spätlese (£19.60) and the fabulous gold cap from the Niederberger Helden (£39.60). Again there is no greed in evidence here.
- Willi Schaefer (Mosel): Wehlener Sonnenuhr Spätlese (£28.60), Graacher Domprobst Spätlese Fuder 5 (£32.60).
- JJ Prüm (Mosel): Wehlener Sonnenuhr Spätlese (£28.60), Auslese from the same site (£33.60), Graacher Himmelreich Auslese Gold Cap (£63.60), Wehlener Himmelreich Auslese Gold Cap 2003 (£81.60).
- Maximin Grünhaus (Ruwer): the Abtsberg Spätlese (£22.60) and the Abtsberg Auslese (£41.60).
- Zilliken (Saar): Saarburger Rausch Spätlese (£28.60), Auslese (£45.60) and Gold Cap (£97.60).
- Emrich-Schönleber (Nahe): Monzinger Frühlingsplätzchen Spätlese (£25.60) and the Monzinger Halenberg Auslese (£46.60).
- Dönnhof (Nahe): Oberhäuser Leistenberg Kabinett (£17.60), Oberhäuser Brücke Spätlese (£33.60), Niederhäuser Hermannshöhle Spätlese (£40.60), Hermannshöhle Auslese Gold Cap (£63.60).
- Wilhelm Weil (Rheingau): Kiedricher Gräfenberg Grosses Gewächs (£41.60) and the Spätlese from the same site (£41.60).
- Josef Spreitzer (Rheingau): Hattenheimer Wisselbrunnen Grosses Gewächs (two earlier vintages of this wonderful wine were served at the launch of my book On Germany in July) (£28.60), Oestricher Lenchen Spätlese (£25.60).
- August Kesseler (Rheingau): Rüdesheimer Trocken (£18.60), Rüdesheimer Berg Schlossberg Grosses Gewächs (£41.60), Berg Roseneck Grosses Gewächs (£41.60).
- Benedikt Baltes (the new red wine sensation from Franken): Buntsandstein Pinot Noir 2015 (a bargain at £16.60), Bürgstädter Berg Pinot Noir 2016 (£38.60). Schlossberg, Klingenberg Grosses Gewächs Pinot Noir 2016 (£66.60).
- Fürst (Franken): Klingenberger Pinot Noir 2016 (£35.60), Centgrafenberg Pinot Noir 2016 (£75.60), Hunsrück Pinot Noir 2016 (£149.60).
- Bernhard Huber (Baden): Bienenberg Grosses Gewächs Pinot Noir 2016 (price to be announced). Schlossberg Grosses Gewächs Pinot Noir 2016 (price to be announced), Wildenstein Grosses Gewächs Pinot Noir 2016 (price to be announced).
- Kühling Gillot and Battenfeld Spanier (Rheinhessen - the owners are a married couple, each with an estate of their own): KG Pettenthal Grosses Gewächs (£43.60), BS Frauenberg Grosses Gewächs (£43.60).
- Rebholz (Pfalz): Riesling vom Rotliegenden (£21.60), Ganz Horn Grosses Gewächs (£43.60), Kastanienbusch Grosses Gewächs (£48.60).
Prices are necessarily high for these hand-made wines, but it should be borne in mind that these are some of the greatest wines made anywhere in the world. There is a compensation in the fact there is often an estate Riesling which is good value for money. Schloss Lieser, for example, has one at £9.30 inc. VAT, Kesseler’s (Daily August) is at £11.60.
Of the two German supermarkets trading in the UK, I am familiar only with Lidl. Aldi has been absent from this part of central north London until now, although I am told they are about to take over the old Waitrose site in Camden High Street. This year I therefore made an effort to go to the Aldi tasting to see what their wines were like. Our domestic budgets are small and we have been devotees of Lidl for some time, chiefly because they produce real quality at low prices.
I was particularly interested in anything that in our inflated times could come in under the £7 mark (what would have been £5 in those halcyon days that ended two years ago). The following more or less fitted the bill: Gavi di Gavi (£6.99), Limestone German Riesling (£6.49), Monte Cão Alentejo (£5.99), Venturer Costières de Nîmes (£5.99), Californian Lodi Zinfandel (£6.29), and ‘This... Loves’ Sangiovese from Sicily (which was the best buy of all at £4.99).
Aldi’s chief strength is in its range of spirits. Nothing in the world would induce me to swallow a gin called ‘Cromwell’ (and it is pink!), but Harrison’s (rose water £15.99), Gingerbread Gin Liqueur (good on a cake £9.99), Mason’s (or freemasons’? £24.99 - classic), Eden Mill (spice £19.99 for 50 cls), Boyle’s (sounds a bit chemical like the law - names are not their strongpoint - £19.99 and more fruit based) are all recommended. From 14 November there is also a 2004 cognac at £39.99 and a 32-year old ‘brandy’ at £29.99. Neither is to be sniffed at, if you get my drift.
One of the reasons why Waitrose abandoned their site in the Camden High Street must have been their decision to open a flagship supermarket with a cookery school on the canal behind King’s Cross Station. This year I went along to a product launch to see what they were up to. The thrust was towards vegetarians and vegans; although there was a bit of meat about in the new range of prepared dishes from our old friend Bloomers. A vegetable diet should not be a punishment and I kept an open mind as I examined and sampled beetroot burgers, jackfruit parcels, beetroot risottos, spinach and cheese parcels (boreks)... Bechamels had been replaced by cauliflower creamed with soya; bread was made with rice flour. It all looked good and pandered to an affluent and above all sensitive North London public. I asked about gluten allergies. It appears that sufferers feel bloated by wheaten bread. I may be rare but my metabolism is affected by a great many chiefly root vegetables and pulses that I avoid if I possibly can. The only thing that causes me no problems is meat!
I passed over to the chocolates. Here the concern was about nuts, but they were otherwise normal. I enjoyed a passion fruit bellini and tasted an IPA flavoured with passion fruit. I was not so keen, as I want a beer that has a character of its own and not one derived from alien elements (bring on the Reinheitsgebot) I turned and went to see what Bloomers had been up to. Dried ceps featured in a piece of skirt rubbed with coffee (quite chewy this), better was the pork cooked with black pudding and calvados. The lucky Waitrose buyers had been packed off to find new spices and returned with an array of exotic flavours from India and Asia. Turmeric figured large but did little for me. There was an interesting black garlic too, but the condiment I liked most was ‘zhoug’ which was a bit like the parsley sauce you get with a bollito misto in northern Italy, but with an added dash of chilli.
In September we enjoy an Indian meal at the Domaine des Anges in the Vaucluse, where for the last twenty-three or so years I have been going at around the time of the autumnal equinox. It is always delicious and we all tuck in with great gusto even if its oriental character is in marked contrast to the Mediterranean world around us with its olives and olive oils, its fresh fruit and vegetables, lamb and pork all enhanced with fresh herbs and garlic. It strikes me sometimes that our growing desire to eat only heavily-spiced food is beginning to rob us of our ability to appreciate the subtlety of many formerly highly-prized European gastronomic styles, where the best seasoning was the subtlest. I am guilty too, as I apply spices to reinvigorate the more banal foods we eat at home. After such strong flavours it is hard to readjust our palates. Personally I still enjoy the flavour of the local produce (although Provencal beef can be tough) not least because it best sets off the excellent wines made on the hillsides around us.
This year the trip to the Domaine was slightly later and I returned to England on the very last day of the month. I have to say the weather was perfection: up to 30 C during the day but nights that were so cool that there were no problems sleeping. Incidentally, this was the ideal weather for the as yet unfinished harvest: cool nights bring subtle flavours and aromas. One night a three-quarter moon hung low in the sky above Mont Ventoux and all the stars shone like a picture from an astronomer’s text book. I have never known the place look quite so beautiful.
Posted: 3rd September 2018
Last month I spent ten days in British Columbia. It was not only my first ever visit to Canada, it was the first time I’d set foot in North America for nearly sixteen years. It was also my first sally beyond the European mainland since 2005, when I last went to Australia.
I went with my son to visit an old friend who taught me as a boy. We had a lovely time. We burned the midnight oil and put the world to rights, listened to country music (his favourite) and met his friends and former students. We explored Vancouver and the country beyond and we ventured up to the Okanagan Valley where British Columbia’s best wine is made.
It was not billed as a voyage of culinary discovery, but certain things did stand out for all that. Vancouver is a multi-ethnic city, apparently dominated by first generation Canadians: Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Indians and above all Sikhs are much in evidence. The Chinese people now are not necessarily the same as those who virtually created the place in the mid-nineteenth century when, as in other West Coast North American cities, coolie labour was brought in for the gold rush. Later they built the railways that spanned the great arc across the US border from Ottawa to Vancouver. For all that Chinatown seems a quite modest part of the inner city which otherwise shows the same jumble of ethnicities you might see here in London, although my friend assures me the food is subtly different: not so much ‘Brindian’ and Anglo-Chinese but ‘Canindian’ and Canado-Chinese. While we were there we ate both Indian and Chinese, the former in a local restaurant, the latter in the form of a take-away complete with sweet and sour chicken balls. It seemed pretty old-fashioned to me, but I think there were lots of places downtown where Chinese cooking had adopted a more modern approach and there was a lot of dim sum on offer.
Of white Canadian cooking I knew but little before I went. There are still quite a lot of people in Canada (and not just old people) who were born in these islands. I met a young, formerly English woman in Kelowna who regretted the fact she had lost her accent. I asked her where she was born. She said Birmingham. I reassured her that was one accent she could afford to lose. Culinary traditions, however, have not all been abandoned. I have had lovely cheddar from Ontario: mature and crumbly, often sealed in thick wax. I had some in Vancouver and tried to procure a truckle or a wedge on the way back, but it was not for sale in the airport. There is Pacific salmon of course, and I presume all sorts of game to shoot up in the mountains. There is of course maple syrup, which is everywhere, and good too. The airport was full of smoked salmon and every possible permutation of maple syrup but besides that, zilch. The other faintly British thing is ‘muffins’ which look like cupcakes and come with every conceivable sort of filling. Apart from that there is little more to say about muffins.
On our second night we dined downtown at the Tap and Barrel in Vancouver where there was a chance to taste the much vaunted ‘poutine’. I have to say that by its description (curds and gravy smothering a plate of chips) it seemed frankly untempting. I might have given it a go but the rest of the table advised against, and so I have yet to have that ‘poutine’ moment. Perhaps it is more popular out east?
Probably the most Ur-Canadian experience I had was when we were holed up for a few hours in Merritt or our way to Kelowna in the Okanagan Valley. Our host’s car broke down on Loon Lake (shades of A Place in the Sun) and we were obliged to spend some time in the Grand - Merritt’s best bar. There was poutine on the menu and much more besides, but we were happy to drink Belgian Moon wheat beer with great slabs of orange floating on the top, as we knew that an excellent dinner was waiting for us in Kelowna.
I suspect that non-ethnic food is pretty similar on either side of the border. In Kelowna’s Harvest golf club I ate my first hamburger since I visited Washington, and that must have been a quarter of a century ago. It was just what it said on the packet. The problem posed by the menu was avoiding a sweet element, something like onion chutney, which all the other choices seemed to include. Golf clubs loom large for al fresco eating. Back where we were staying in Coquitlam, restaurants were chiefly housed in the purlieus of shopping malls, which meant they could not easily cash in on the good weather that comes with a Vancouver summer. When we had lunch with my hosts’ friends in Furry Creek on Howe Sound it was a delight to the eyes as well as the palate: we had our aperitifs looking out over the water and our main meal looking back at the mountains. The views were sensational.
Before I left for Canada my butcher showed me some Canadian entrecote which he said was out of this world. When I asked in Vancouver they told me it very likely came from Alberta, and that was where the best beef herds were. In the summer (and it was very hot) this meat and other good things like local corn cobs go onto the barbecue. Barbecued meat needs a nice marinade otherwise even the best can taste dry and unseasoned. In North America you get round this by having recourse to bottled sauces, but they are just too sweet for me. One night we celebrated a neighbour’s birthday and there were delicious little chicken kebabs done on the barbie, with a hottish satay sauce. That was delicious.
It was my first opportunity to try wines from British Columbia, in particular those from the very hot Okanagan Valley. I took the plunge with the Rieslings. Uninspired by Maria’s Block Riesling from Kitsch, I tried the flowery Gehringer and the slightly less overblown Wild Goose before I settled on Quail’s Gate as a sappy, modern, German-style dry Riesling. Road 13 Vineyards, Merlot, Syrah and Viogner I liked, however, as I did most things I tried from Mission Springs, their Pinot Noir in particular. Up in Kelowna we were staying next to Summerhill where the wines are made by Eric von Schwerin-Krosigk. There are lots of Germans in the Okanagan Valley but I assume Eric to be a near relative of Count Lutz, a Rhodes Scholar whose name has a certain sonority in recent German history. He would also be a nephew of Beatrix von Storch of the AfD, but then there is no reason why he should carry the can for either. The wines are severely biodynamic, and the owner has interesting theories about the beneficial effects of ageing under pyramids.
Looking back on it I should have gone to the pyramid while I was there to see if it made me age more gracefully. I did find the time to visit Quail’s Gate, the winery that impressed me the most. Not only was the straight Riesling top notch, but I was struck by the cheapest of the Pinot Noirs (there were three) and a wonderful - if pricy - Syrah. And now I am back at home, watching the old car spin out of control and wondering if, after it has struck the wall we will manage to continue living according to our European mores, or whether, once we have climbed out of the wreck, we will have opted for the North American model.
Pimm’s Number 6 Cup
Posted: 1st August 2018
In the earlier part of this summer at least, I spent a lot of time thinking about Pimm’s. There was a rumour that the Number 6, Vodka Cup had been revived and that there would be a series of launch events involving the great and good. Being neither great nor good, these passed me by, but I saw pictures of the usual slebs slurping away at Pimm’s cocktails. Then a bottle was promised and I planted some borage specially. The sample failed to materialise and the borage was attacked by a malevolent fly that turned it black and lank before it wilted and died. That made no odds as I still hadn’t had the Pimm’s. Then one evening we were sitting down to dinner drinking red wine from a bottle in an ice-bucket when there was a knock at the door. It was some never-previously-seen neighbours from three houses to the north. They had had ‘this bag’ for some time. I had a quick look: there was the Pimm’s Number 6 and a few mixers too: it had finally made it.
Two boiling days later I made up a couple of drinks for my daughter and myself. I found cucumber and strawberries and in the absence of borage, I picked some fresh mint from my herb-garden. Some people used to throw in apples and slices of orange in the past. I remembered that too much greenery became tiresome by the second round, so I went easy. Also party-givers tended to make it up in a punchbowl, so that the brewage quickly began to look jaded and was diluted by too much ice added in an attempt to revive it.
When I finally made up my Pimm’s the other day, it proved a moment to savour; a properly Proustian evocation as a profusion of Pimm’s memories came flooding back. Pimm’s was a drink enjoyed above all in May and June, and therefore a marketing-man’s (or woman’s) nightmare. Even more of a bind was the fact it required a lot of kit (where the hell did you obtain borage if you didn’t have any in the garden?). Drinks marketeers want things that will sell all the year round and can be adapted to a hundred different uses. As an undergraduate I associated Pimm’s above all with Eights’ Week, when the colleges raced their boats on the river and it was served up in the ornamental boat houses at the bottom of Christ Church Meadow. In my memories of Pimm’s the sun is naturally always shining.
There was very little interest in the oarsmen, who came racing past us at regular intervals, but there was a lot of interest in Pimm’s. One year a man in a straw hat and a stripy blazer fed me eight whole pints of it. He later read for the church and became a college chaplain but then some unexplained faux-pas blighted his career, much as that fly destroyed my borage. I suspect his designs were less than honourable, but the Pimm’s failed to have the desired effect and after a series of adventures with a girl who might have been conjured out of a painting by Titian I ended up falling down the stairs at the Union Society with an Asian lady in my arms. The lady is now sadly dead, but on that occasion she recovered of her fall and went on to make quite a name for herself in politics.
Of course we were aware of the reason why the would-be chaplain was unlikely to succeed: a glass of Pimm’s just isn’t that strong once you have drowned it in lemonade. Some people hoped to counteract this by adding more gin (this was the gin-based Number 1 Cup) or topping it up with cider. There were even those who put in champagne, but I think that would have been a waste. The college barmen used a double measure from an optic, which meant the usual half pint was unlikely to go to your head.
Pimm’s weakness is really its strength: you can serve it as a refreshing drink in the middle of the afternoon without too much ill-effect, and it seems to suit a certain sort of almost vanished Englishness: sleek lawns, men and women in spotless whites playing croquet or bowls or cricket, randy Anglican clergymen in straw hats and stripy blazers; in short the full Monty; an antediluvian vision of the past, often invoked in the pages of the Daily Mail, but in most respects gone forever. Perhaps for this reason, the few occasions when I have drunk Pimm’s in Vienna or Paris have never seemed quite right. It would be far better suited to India and other former colonies where cricket is played.
We can but try, however, to bring back the flavour of the lost world. To make a good glass of Pimm’s it is probably best to use a superior lemonade such as Fever Tree (mixers have actually improved) and it is worthwhile keeping everything (glasses included) in the fridge to make it properly cold: which will make the drink taste less sweet. Then you do need some of that greenery-yallery: mint (or borage - but not both), cucumbers and strawberries and perhaps apples. Slices of cucumber are I think a sine qua non: the cucumber was the active addition in my memory game the other day.
The revival of the Number 6 Cup has doubled the range of summer Pimm’s Cups. There is, apparently, still a Number 3, Brandy Cup, billed as a winter drink, but I find the idea of drinking Pimm’s in winter untempting. The other cups: whisky, bourbon and rum have been scrapped and not even I can remember them now from my all-too distant youth, but it is good that the Vodka Cup has returned to us, and I for one was grateful for my trip down memory lane.
Posted: 2nd July 2018
It has been a while since I have been in Vienna for the biennial Vievinum wine fair and a lot of things have changed in Austria. New appellations have emerged, but there is more and more spin-marketing and attempts to brand the unbrandable; also the approaches to certain grape varieties has altered, and not always for the best. Without a definite programme, I decided the most useful approach was to dip in among the very many growers I have known these past twenty-seven years, and see where they were now. In several cases the fresh, young grower of the early nineties has transmogrified into a stouter, greyer figure, cut more in the image of myself; in others the father has passed on the reins to a son or daughter and now confines himself to the day-to-day work in the vines, or has possibly taken a suitcase of cash and headed for the hills or the Riviera!
One estate where the son has been in charge for several years now, is Austria’s most famous: F X Pichler in Loiben in the Wachau. Now visitors to the fair must try to distract Lukas Pichler’s attention to taste the wines. They are famously hard to assess in their youth. None of the 2017 wines was ready. Some were brimming with CO2, the others largely inchoate. At the top end the Kellerberg Grüner Veltliner Smaragd was showing signs of life, and the Riesling Steinertal was an absolute delight. The Loibenberg was less easy to judge, but then came ‘Unendlich’ (Infinite) and the Riesling from the Kellerberg and finally Grüner Veltliner ‘M’ which was suitably massive. Time will tell, but if their track record is anything to go by, they will surely be magnificent.
The 2017s from the Wachau failed to impress me as much as they have in some years. The younger Emmerich Knoll’s wines (the new generation has also been in the hot seat for some years) seemed a little less sensational than they were but I loved the Riesling Smaragd from Ried Schütt. Franz Hirtzberger is a reference for Grüner Veltliner. The Axpoint Smaragd had varietal character at least but the benchmark Honivogl was slighter than I recalled. There was a gorgeous 2017 Riesling Smaragd from Ried Setzen, however. This new ephemerality seems to have affected Prager too, whose wines were formerly colossal and now seem but a shadow of their former selves. Is the model for these lighter wines Germany?
I went to see Rudi Pichler, whose wines I have always admired. They are wound up as tightly as clocks. There was a lovely Weissburgunder from Kollmütz, the grape that should have been number two in the Wachau, and a fine Grüner Veltliner from the same. The best of the Grüner Veltliner Smaragds was from Achleiten; the loveliest of the Rieslings from Kirchweg. Erich Krutzler of Pichler-Krutzler is F X Pichler’s son-in-law. The 2017 Rieslings were far better than the Veltliners although I liked the Klostersatz. Look out for the Kellerberg, Loibnerberg and In der Wand - a ‘cru’ marketed by Erich alone.
Leaving the Wachau I feel a particular affection for the Weingut Thierry-Weber from the time when my children were still small. They rescued us from forlornly wandering down a country lane looking for a dinner and delivered us to a well-provisioned Weingasse containing a clutch of Heurige inns. Much more than that: they picked us up later and delivered us to the cage outside Krems where we had been lodged. I like the wines too, the simple, powerful Grüner Veltliners and Rieslings that grow on the sand and loess soils to the east of Krems, although I am sceptical of the need to flavour them with oak casks. The youngest vines appealed to me most: a Kremser Veltliner 2017 with proper varietal character and a Riesling from Ried Gebling from the same year that had a pretty peachiness.
My hard time with the formerly wonderful wines of Bründlmayer continues. This chiefly affects the Grüner Veltliners that have become evanescent - I can only assume - in an attempt to pursue lightness and elegance. I can’t help feeling that they have collared the wrong horse, and that Grüner Veltliner is neither of these things. I have loved Veltliner in my time, but she is a country wench, an ‘Amaryllis’ more at home in a rustic kitchen than an urban salon. These new-style Veltliners are dressing her up to play a role she cannot act. Once again I have to say they would have been better off with Weissburgunder.
Still there were good things: Bründlmayer was always the leading name for ‘Winzersekt’ or proper sparkling wine, and they have introduced a slightly austere rose to the range. The best remains the Brut. Above all the Rieslings continue to shine, such as the Alte Reben from the Terrassen and the Heiligenstein. The only Veltliner I liked was Spiegel, made by Willi’s son Vincent. I suppose we must accept that to be encouraging, and encourage Vincent at the same time.
Many of the Lower Austrian estates were showing a vertical of different vintages. At Schloss Gobelsburg they were serving their top Riesling from Heiligenstein. Once again the bigger wines were the older ones. The 2016 was notably light; the 2012 had more flesh; the 2010 has a honeyed opulence; the 2008 was all peaches and lemon zest while the 1998 was perhaps dipping a bit with its redolence of lychees. I went to Ilse Maier at the Geyerhof and consoled myself with Grüner Veltliners from Ried Steinleithn which retain something of their original power. I am not a great believer in old Veltliner, but the 2006 was lovely with its aroma of rosewater, and the 2002 even better. Sadly the 1988 was corked.
I rarely miss the opportunity to taste Ludwig Neumayer’s wines from the Traisental either. Ludwig’s wines have a beautiful purity of fruit, and a most glorious finish to them. He was showing the Riesling Ried Rothenbart. They were all good, but I think I liked the 2014 best. Rudi Rabl had a good 2016 from Ried Käferberg and a lovely DAC Riesling 2017. And so it went on round the room: a 2006 Grüner Veltliner from Ried Lindberg from Salomon Undhof, a 2004 Riesling from Ried Grillenparz from the Weingut Stadt Krems, these were all wines to treasure.
I went to Burgenland, or rather I walked upstairs. There I chanced upon my friend Erwin Tinhof closeted with the American writer David Schildknecht - always a good omen. A succession of lovely wines filled my glass, from a Klassic 2017 Neuburger to a lovely Leithaberg DAC Weissburgunder. The real treat was possibly the Blaufränkisch. Blaufränkisch from the Leithagebirge tends to be more supple and Burgundian than its cousin in the Mittelburgenland. The simplest 2015 had a redolence of tobacco, the Leithaberg DAC was naturally more complex; the most luscious was the Gloriette.
I was on my way to meet Louise Höpler, Christof Höpler’s charming English wife and taste their wines, which I had not done for several years - indeed not since Christof’s succession to the role of winemaker. The estate on the northern shores of the mighty Neusiedlersee has grown immensely and has plenty of wine to sell. I was chiefly impressed by the Weissburgunder/Pinot Blanc, and the Pinot Noir. Axel Stiegelmar, despite his apparent youth, took over Juris from his father Georg a generation ago. The estate in Gols has always been tip-top. I had some fresh whites, such as a delightful aperitif-style Muscat Ottonel, a catty Sauvignon Blanc and a lovely pink Pinot Gris (the skins have a pink hue). The reds are best here, from the Ungerberg Blaufränkisch to the St Laurent Reserve. My real favourites are the Pinot Noirs, and it was a Stiegelmar Pinot that I drank in 1988 or 1989 that first alerted me to the quality of new wave Austrian wine. The 2015 Hochreit and Haide are excellent - the latter a little earthy; the best is the plush, unctuous Reserve.
My destination was the stand representing with wines of Carinthia, which were new to me. I found a couple in Tracht doling out the produce of a handful of producers, of which the best was a 2017 Sauvignon Blanc from the Weingut Vgl. Ritter. In the Weinviertel I popped into see Josef Pleil whose wines had a certain typicity in the past. I was not disappointed by his 2017 Klassic Grüner Veltliner but he had belaboured his DAC wine with new oak which I thought a terrible mistake. I preferred the Gemischte Satz made from a promiscuous vineyard planted with several cultivars which was pleasantly peppery like an old-fashioned Grüner Veltliner.
From the hot, mostly red-wine region of Carnuntum, Robert Payr makes an excellent Welschriesling that I find far better than his Veltliner. ‘Grooner’ (rhymes with ‘crooner’) is now an item in the US and people grow it to please their exporters. His best wines are naturally red: Blaufränkisch from the Ried Spitzerberg, Zweigelt from Ried Steinäcker and his cuvee: P1. Gerhard Markowitsch has enjoyed star-status since the nineties. Last year I tasted a great many of his wines, but there were exceptions like his famous Pinot Noirs. The basic 2016 was very good, but the Scheibner of the same year was excellent; possibly his best wine, however, remains the Rubin Carnuntum Zweigelt: good, honest Austrian wine without the spin.
Posted: 4th June 2018
I had a remarkable meal in the middle of last month.
It happened in Brighton: a long way to go for dinner, you might say, but I had noted some time ago that I could get there relatively easily on Thameslink and that late at night trains actually ran directly between where I live and Britain’s answer to San Francisco; the journey taking just an hour and a half. Thameslink, however, was not what it was: I had failed to spot the fact the line is now called ‘Gove-Via Thameslink,’ but in all honesty, the trains were not affected that day, except (and this is a big ‘except’), there were not only the usual illiterate announcements repeated ad nauseum about ‘save it and sort it,’ there was an excruciating American telling me to beware of new timetables. Most people were plugged in to their own noises and couldn’t hear a word of this. Only the few of us who had opted to read were plunged into misery by this incessant prattle.
I arrived about twenty minutes early and walked towards Upper Gardiner Street by a circular route. I thought I spotted the pub from the Richard Attenborough film of Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock, but I decided in the end they had probably mocked it up in a studio, although a lot of the film was actually shot in Brighton. Like many Londoners I used to go to Brighton as a child and pobble across its uncomfortable pebble beach to paddle in the sea, or enjoy the pier or the funny little louche lanes and alleys close to the water. What I saw was shabby and run down; everything needed a lick of paint and dirty, concrete, brutalist buildings had been strewn about the place with no feeling for the more picturesque character of the old town. In North Street I saw one magnificent, neglected eighteenth century coaching inn. It looked derelict.
I had been invited to dinner at Silo, an adventurous new wave restaurant that has declared war on waste to the degree they have made plates and dishes out of all the plastic bags and wrappers they have received over the years. Virtually all that has been eliminated now, and deliveries are made in reusable or biodegradable containers. The food was down to the restaurant’s chef, Dougie McMaster. The wines were supplied by Charles Heidsieck, one of the best of the smaller champagne grandes marques.
Silo wasn’t exactly what you might associate with a restaurant hosting a top champagne house: rather than some sort of luxurious Michelin-starred establishment it is a multi-purpose space, part-bakery, part-brewery, part-café that draws some of its inspiration from Noma in Copenhagen. A glass of creamy Charles Heidsieck non-vintage was put in my hand, and my misgivings were soon dispelled. We were all taken in to watch Dougie making butter. He had a rather snazzy machine to do the churning, it has to be said, but all you seemed to need was a litre of cream. In this case, Dougie had a suitably pre-industrial cow working entirely for him. After that you had butter and buttermilk (which you drained off in a piece of muslin), or you could leave the two together and have ‘virgin butter’. Dougie also made a runny beurre blanc with some champagne and we had this on his really fabulous sourdough bread while we tasted through the range of Charles Heidsieck champagnes.
‘Charles’ as its Glasgow-born boss Stephen Leroux called it, has been a champagne to watch for a couple of decades now. It makes only a relatively small amount of champagne but it is all top quality, blended from 150 base wines and made up with forty percent reserve wines aged between fifteen and twenty years. At the top of the pyramid is the Blanc des Millenaires - one of Champagne’s greatest wines. There was no Blanc des Millenaires that night, but there was a wonderful new pure chardonnay blancs de blancs served with the virgin butter, while the 2006 vintage was sent in with the beurre blanc. The smoked butter with seaweed didn’t work so well with the 2005 rosé.
Then the fun started with the menu: brined tomatoes with pumpkin seeds and roses; slow-grown shiitake mushrooms with walnuts and garlic flowers; pollock with brown butter and vinaigrette; beetroot, prune, hispi cabbage terrine and fermented potato skin miso; local rhubarb with bullets of half frozen crème fraîche, honey and elderflowers; and pumpkin seed ice cream with douglas pine seeds, sesame and seaweed powder. Apart from two square inches of pollock, I had no flesh to eat all evening.
Dougie had done lots of foraging and the emerging sun had brought him things he could add to the menu such as the first roses and elderflowers. Having ceased to be a regular restaurant reviewer before the Noma age, all this sort of thing was new to me, as were many of the flavours. Some - like the tomatoes - were relatively bland, others like the rather complicated mille-feuilles of potato skins was adventurous and fascinating. The dish that pleased me most was the rhubarb desert, which was a winner.
The Charles Heidsieck champagnes tackled this novel menu extremely well, the 2006 vintage with the mushrooms and the lovely 2005 with the fish. The mille-feuilles was paired with the 2005 rosé while the rosé reserve was poured with the rhubarb. By then it was time to think about trains again and make a quick dash through the back streets to Brighton’s magnificent railway station.
I am glad I made my excursion to Brighton when I did. By the end of the month Gove-Via Thameslink had descended into a chaos that was nothing less than a full and fitting metaphor for the state of Britain today.
Turning from Whisky to Wine
Posted: 1st May 2018
Almost exactly a quarter of a century ago, on 4 May 1993, I was in Milan with Allan Shiach for the launch of the second tranche of the 1926 Macallan sixty-year old malt. Shiach was the major shareholder in the distillery then. As ‘Allan Scott’ he was a great name in the world of films too and he had a flamboyant style that not surprisingly outstripped most of the people in the whisky business. The first batch had been sold off in 1986 at £20,000 a bottle. I tasted the whisky, but I understandably I didn’t get a bottle, cheap as it was in those days! I was given a small lithograph by Valerio Adami of a bald woman instead. This was the prototype for the 1993 label. Allan said the woman in the picture looked like Mrs Thatcher.
We stayed at the Principe di Savoia and I had a jolly time wandering around the streets with the late Michael Jackson, while whisky-mad Italians genuflected at his approach. This, I hasten to add, was not the pop-singing mooncalf Jackson, but the beer and whisky hunter, a genial, paunchy, Jewish Yorkshireman who could not have been more different. I had time to interview Armando Giovinetti, the man who had made so many Italians fall in love with malt - and therefore Michael - and who sold his own hugely popular bottling of seven-year old Macallan on the Italian market. Armando didn’t speak much English, but we managed somehow in a combination of French and Italian (he was the owner of Janneau Armagnac) although he kept referring his favourite whiskies as being ‘morbido’, which I learned meant soft or tender, and not ‘morbid’ at all.
Last week two bottles of this sixty-year old whisky - one from each batch - sold for $600,000 a piece. A lot has happened in the whisky world since I hung up my hat.
There was a time when I was north of the border half a dozen times a year trailing from distillery to distillery from the Lowlands to the Highlands and the Islands. I would meet some strong silent type who managed the distillery, ask him a few questions, receive monosyllabic replies and then after a bacon bap and cup of tea, taste the distillery’s offering. That was two or possibly three bottles: a young age-statement, say eight or ten-year old, and an older one that was fifteen, twenty or twenty five. A bottle of the better whisky was generally slipped into my hand before I left. Sometimes we would wander around the warehouses and nose a few casks. Once or twice I was allowed to dabble my fingers in one. Every now and then there would be an independent bottler’s rendition to taste too. That was above all for the older age-statements which had long since fallen into the hands of Gordon & MacPhail in Elgin or one of the others who mopped up casks that had somehow come adrift from the blending process.
Whisky was in a bad way. There was a whole lake of it out there which they were desperate to foist on the Chinese, the Indians or the Vietnamese. Malt was a drop in the lake. No one took much notice of it. It was there to give its oomph to the proprietary blends of the various whisky companies. Then malt took off. Collectors (a lot of them Russian oligarchs) couldn’t get enough of it. They bought up all the old age-statements, and they bought any new whisky run off into cask as an investment. Very soon there was a dearth of malt, and really no really mature whisky unless you were prepared to pay the earth. Instead collectors had to make do with young malts dressed up with different sorts of ‘finishes’ (oak) to make them marketable. Sherry casks cost the earth now, but there are plenty of redundant wine barrels. The collection of malts that once lined my kitchen (and which I have now drunk), would have been worth thousands at today’s prices.
Even blends have changed. It used to be that you put a number of different malts of different ages totalling some forty percent into sixty percent anodyne grain whisky. They all had their styles: some were Islay-based, some Speyside, some less easy to pinpoint. Compass Box started playing around with blends and omitting the bland grain whisky to combine a few interesting malts. Doug McIvor, working for Berry Brothers & Rudd, the former proprietors of Cutty Sark, did the same to make Blue Hangar. I met Doug McIvor last month when he talked us through some of his blends at the Whisky Lounge, a heaven for whisky-lovers upstairs at the pretty Punchbowl Pub next to the Jesuits in Mayfair. A sweet, almondy Speyside relied heavily on Glen Rothes, which used to be a constituent part of Cutty Sark; a Sherry Cask whisky that was principally Glen Rothes matured in an oloroso cask and two more unnamed whiskies (it was predictably sweet and raisiny); a peppery peaty whisky blended from Glen Rothes, Ardmore and Glen Garioch; and a pale Islay blend that was both smoky and grassy. McIvor was pleasingly frank when it came to the quality of whisky in old casks. At times it’s good, and at others it’s a disaster. When he started at Berry Bros he tasted his way through their 400 casks. Only ninety were worth hanging on to. A delightful old whisky is a proper rarity - most of it needs to be lost in some blend.
Doug’s whisky and some fascinating Antipodean whiskies from Starwood in Melbourne are all available to for sampling at the London Whisky Weekend which runs from 11 to 13 May at the Oval.
Whisky was not all there was to offer in April. I was happy to attend the tasting organised for the Savage Selection at 67 Pall Mall. Mark Savage remains faithful to some of my favourite Austrian growers like Erwin Tinnhof, Ilse Maier, Ludwig Neumeyer, Heidi Schröck, Reinhold Krutzler and Bernhard Ott. He has lots of other things too, as I discovered on my short visit: Schoffit from Alsace or Zoltan Demeter’s Tokays or indeed Robert Gorjac’s Dveri Pax wines from Slovenia. There will be more to report on these when I return from Vienna in June.
Finally there is Provencal rosé which seems to cause a groan within these old walls, but not from me. Mirabeau en Provence reminded me of their elegant sparkling Folie, although I would say I preferred the more gutsy still 2017 with its hint of spice and striking purity of fruit. Sensational, however is the 2017 Etoile, with its wonderful structure and length. This is a proper wine, and not to be sneezed at, and it proved just the stuff for that little burst of sunshine in the middle of the month. At the time of writing, whisky would seem much more suitable.
Posted: 3rd April 2018
A few weeks ago I received an invitation out of the blue to a dinner at Bentley’s from the Spice Island resort and hotel in Grenada in the Windward Islands. After a brief moment of head-scratching it all came back to me, but I was naturally curious. So I told the PR agency I would be delighted to renew my acquaintance with the hotel, which I had seen for the first and last time in June or July 1997.
The dinner was held on the 20th of March. I was warmly received by our host, the proprietor of the hotel, Sir Royston Hopkin, and shook a few hands and kissed a few cheeks I had not seen these last few years. We watched a video and I saw that the hotel I stayed in on Grand Anse Beach had been torn down and put back up again at least twice. On one occasion Hurricane Ivan was to blame. Ivan destroyed virtually every solid structure on the island when it passed through in 2004. The Spice Island I had experienced bore little physical resemblance to the one that was there today. It was a very nice evening for all that and I went home filled with the warmth of good food and wine, enhanced with a flickering glow of reminiscence and nostalgia.
My one trip to Grenada was quite traumatic in its way. Things were changing rapidly in my life then and I was about to become a father for the first time. Perhaps for this reason I decided I would abstain from all those treats they used to offer you when you sat in the front seats on the long flight from London to Grenada and that I would pop a pill so that I might sleep out that great gap of time. I was true to my word: I ate and drank nothing - not even a glass of water.
When we arrived there was the usual West Indian welcome: steel drums and rum. I certainly had too much of the former and probably a bit too much of the latter. Anyhow, I had dinner, went to bed and woke up to a slightly wet morning a few hours later. The height of summer is not always the best time to visit the Caribbean.
The hotel was on the beach, but my room came with a small pool behind a high wall. I suppose that meant I didn’t need to wear my cosy there. I dipped in the pool then plunged around in the sea before going to a press conference with the Minister for Tourism. My hand had felt funny in the water but when I started taking some notes I saw to my horror that my handwriting was peculiar and that I was evidently no longer able to hold my pen properly. Apart from that I felt fine. I mentioned the upset to our Sherpa. She was very unsympathetic and pointed to the ramshackle local hospital with an unconcealed sadistic pleasure. I decided I would be better off seeing a doctor when I got home.
In those days Grenada was chiefly famous for the coup d’état of 1983. The island had been flirting with Stalinism since 1979. In 1983, the deputy Prime Minister, Bernard Coard had his superior, the Prime Minister, Maurice Bishop executed. The Americans were alarmed by reports the islanders were building a proper airport on the island and that a good many Cubans had been recruited as consultants. The American flap was compounded by the presence of an American medical school on Grenada and American students to protect.
The idea of a second Bay of Pigs in America’s back yard drove Ronald Reagan to a frenzy. He formed a coalition with various other Caribbean countries to add a smidgen of legitimacy and squared the operation with the British PM. Mrs Thatcher owed him a favour for the logistical help America had given Britain in the recent Falklands War, but there were long faces when it was discovered that neither Queen nor Commonwealth had been consulted and the Queen’s anointed Governor, Sir Paul Scoon, was roughly handled by the invading forces who, finding an ordinary islander at Government House, refused to believe he was the Governor-General. The invasion had all the elements of tragic-comedy you would expect and included the bombing of the lunatic asylum and the killing of a large number of its inmates but the Grenadine Stalinist experiment was brought to an abrupt end and Bernard Coard and his fellow ministers were sent down with draconian sentences. These were only finally commuted by the Privy Council a decade ago.
I explored the island from top to bottom as well as neighbouring Carriacou. I can’t remember now how many there were of us. There was a lady who was working on her tan, a spirited vegetarian hack from the Glasgow Herald (‘if it has eyes I won’t eat it’) and a man from the Press Association. I recall some sort of party in a village on the west side of the island with my new Glaswegian friend. That time we had taken a taxi but sometimes we had a driver, a young man who appeared to have sired most of the illegitimate children on Grenada and who had pithy comments to make on virtually all the females between the ages of fourteen and forty.
I was chiefly anxious to find authentic food and drink, rather than the bland offerings of the hotels. The island is famous for spices: nutmeg, mace, cinnamon and cloves and we were taken into the interior to see them harvested along with the excellent local cocoa. There was lambie or conch, landcrab, dolphin (mahi-mahi) and meat-filled rotis, the recipe for which had been brought to the island by Indian shopkeepers. Most of the places that cooked local food were closed in the evening, but at Morne Fendue we had callaloo soup and pepperpot: a pork, oxtail and cassareep stew that had been on the boil since 1984. The date was significant: the pot was temporarily switched off during the invasion. I never managed to procure a portion of ‘oil down:’ salt pork cooked in a reduction of coconut milk, breadfruit and callaloo, but I located a decent curry goat in the capital, St George’s.
There were two rum distilleries: Clarke’s Court, which was housed in the building reminiscent of Piranesi’s Carceri crossed with some of the wilder inventions of Heath Robinson, which made a ferocious white and a dark rum called G.R.O.G. (apparently standing for ‘Georgius Rex Old Grenada). The other, River Antoine was positively antediluvian by comparison. It made just one white rum that was marked ‘slightly overproof’ - it turned out to be 75% abv. At dinner in March this year, I brought up the subject of ‘Under the Counter’ which was a rare Grenadian speciality: an aphrodisiac made of rum (naturally), nutmeg, cinnamon, peanuts, cubes of raw beef and a venomous millipede or centipede. The active ingredient, however, is the bark of the ‘bois bandé’ tree - Grenada was previously French, and ‘bander’ is the French verb for to have an erection.
I tracked down a demijohn of it to a bar in St George’s, but it tasted so nasty that I had to wash my mouth out with a bottle of Carib, or better still, a Piton from nearby St Lucia. The woman promised me that I would not be able to lie on my stomach for a week. That was not the case but in her excitement she pulled another treat out from under the counter in the form of a deep-frozen ‘tatou’ or armadillo. This is the favourite ‘wild food’ of the island, along with mona monkeys. I had actually had the opportunity to try ‘tatou’ at Seabreeze, a ‘restaurant’ (more of a roofless hut) out in the wilds. At the London dinner, the Caribbean authority James Henderson assured me that Seabreeze had closed down some time back, after the death of the proprietor Rosanna Moore.
One night, fearing another festive plate of grilled fish I took a taxi to a remote spot. I had asked the driver to wait for me, as I was worried about getting home. Although he was parked at some distance from the place, he began to retch noisily at the mere thought of ‘wild food’, which was not exactly conducive to good appetite. Still, I put on a brave face and Rosanna brought me a bottle of Carib and a plate of salad: rice and pigeon peas, carrots, beets, callaloo greens and coleslaw; a piece of fish fried in flour with black pepper and cloves and a third dish which offered four or five pieces of meat with reptile skin and some others with a hard coating like overlapping leather soles. The one was iguana and other armadillo. The iguana was like an oilier version of chicken with fish vertebrae while armadillo was much gamier with a musky smell and a gelatinous texture. You had to scoop the flesh off the inside of the animal’s armour-plating to eat it. It was like dining on edible cricket balls.
When I got back to London I had to face the music. The future father was despatched to the Institute of Neurology in Queen Square for a brain scan and my heart was examined in the old Middlesex Hospital in Fitzrovia. They suspected a ‘TIA’ or transient ischemic attack: a sort of minor stroke. The doctors found nothing, but my GP reported the tests to the mortgage brokers and my monthly life-insurance premiums were doubled. Eventually they returned to normal because a TIA is generally perceived as a forerunner to a proper stroke, and so far (fingers crossed), no such thing has come to pass. A few years back a cardiologist friend revealed to me what he believed had happened on the flight to Grenada: I had suffered minor brain damage as a result of dehydration, but the damage had repaired itself within days. I don’t get the chance to travel long distances any more, but if I ever do so again, I shall make sure I drink, plenty.
In the South
Posted: 1st March 2018
When I make my Lenten excursion to Provence I am often greeted by the first mutterings of spring: a sun warm enough to allow you to eat outside at lunchtime generally appears in the last half of February along with almond blossom and the first crocuses. This time the weather in the Ventoux was more troubled. On the Friday we sat outside for coffee by the cathedral in Carpentras and later for a beer at Jerôme’s cafe in Mazan where we soaked up the sun until it began to spit with rain. Saturday was a write off and cold drizzle and half-term conspired to empty the market in Pernes. Most of my favourite producers were absent. Where the soap-seller is normally to be found was a van selling ‘la gastronomie polonaise’. By the time I left on the 18th, a Mistral had blown up and was chasing away the rain clouds but it was bitterly cold.
There were good things to eat and drink and an extra pair of hands in the kitchen. The hunters had been by and left a haunch of Boris in the fridge which was duly pickled in the Ventoux red from the Domaine des Anges and proved a fine dish with mashed potatoes and a simplified caponata the night before we left. We went out a couple of times. In the first instance we returned to Chez Léon in Bédouin for lunch. Chez Léon is a new-wave cave-à-manger serving small, tapa-like plates of food: iberico hams and sausages, local cheeses, black pudding, anchovies, hand of pork, cod balls... accompanied by a long list of local wines (including the Domaine des Anges). On our penultimate night we went to the local La Calade which has changed hands yet again. Everyone agreed that it had got better. The menu had been shortened with a choice of just three dishes for each course. I had some oeufs en cocotte with truffles, a slab of bull meat and huge plate of cheese.
I was back for two nights before a small family holiday to Rome. I can’t have been in the city for twenty years and feared the sort of depressed atmosphere I witness whenever I cross Paris, but Rome was more cheerful than that and although La Cronica di Roma was filled with stories of crimes committed by marauding migrants, I saw little that was unsettling on the streets. On the contrary, the groups of armed soldiers congregating around the tourist attractions were rather reassuring: at least you didn’t feel quite so much like game as you normally did, particularly if you went anywhere near Termini station.
I was also struck by how terribly helpful the Romans were when we failed to get the correct tram back to our digs in Trastevere or asked for information or directions. Often they went out of their way to put us on the right track. Huddling under an awning by the Colosseum to avoid the incessant rain I was drawn into a conversation by two old Romans who were complaining about the city administration, dismissing it as ‘schifo’ (disgusting). Did I think that it was the Colosseum or the Vatican that had brought all the tourists to the city? The former, I said: not everyone is Catholic. One of the old boys shepherded us onto the appropriate tram and showed us where to change. We never really got the hang of the number eight, which seemed reliable in one direction, and totally unreliable in the other.
Once upon a time I wrote an article for the FT about the proper Roman restaurants in the abattoir quarter of Testaccio just across the Tiber from us in Trastevere. The abattoir has closed since but there are still the places serving various organs: tripe, pajata (the tripe of a weaning calf or lamb still containing its mother’s milk which is generally served with rigatoni - tube mingling with inner tube), and of course coda alla vaccinara or braised oxtails. What is Rome without oxtails? The ‘vaccinaro’ was the abattoir man who took home the tail after the slaughter, cooked it slowly and served it up with a thick tomato sugo.
The best place to eat oxtails used to be the Thespian Sora Lella on the Isola Tiberina. The famous Lella died three years ago, and the restaurant was all shut up last month. We had no budget for that sort of establishment anyhow, but we did remarkably well considering. It is still possible to eat well for under €20 in Rome, and that includes wine.
In the morning I went out to fetch sticky buns and bombe (doughnuts) from a café in the via Benedetta. A scruffy little bar downstairs provided me with coffee. We didn’t eat much in the way of lunch - just a snack in a bar where it was possible to obtain that other Roman standby: fried food (fritti). Some people claim fish and chips came to London from Rome, and it is certainly possible to find delicious little bits of fried cod in batter in bars, as well as other things such as deep fried courgette flowers (fiore di zucche) or supli rice balls. It was coming up to the time of the deep-fried artichokes which are associated with the old Jewish quarter on the other side of the Isola Tiberina from Trastevere.
The following places were all a stone’s throw from our B&B in the via della Scala:
The Taverna della Scala was recommended by the owner of the B&B. The restaurant is on the pretty piazza with its church, but is very touristy. Two of us had a four-course menu at €15 - a modest antipasto of a crostino with tomatoes and basil, a primo - in my case penne all’ arrabiata - ‘the angry woman’ I associate with Rome - meatballs (polpette) with tomato sauce and some crème caramel. The wine list was extensive and expensive, but drinkable red house wine was only €12 a litre. Eating à la carte is much dearer with secondi averaging out at €15 and more.
The Ristorante Carlo Menta was a huge surprise. It is on the busy via della Lungaretta and with its menu at €13 and prices as low as €5 for a primo or secondo it looked suspiciously cheap; and yet it was full of Italians and had a real homely feel about it very largely generated by our waiter, an elderly fellow with a moustache, a firm control of everything that took place around him and considerable charm. I had the Roman speciality of spaghetti cacio e pepe which uses pecorino and lots of black pepper and then a rather rubbery scallopina alla valtellina. There was a passable Montepulciano d’Abruzzo for €10. The Roman red novello had come off the menu in December. No one seemed to have any Roman wines, not even frascati. The meal for three came to a very reasonable €47.50.
The Casetta di Trastevere in the piazza de’ Renzi was possible the most disappointing place we went to. It lacked the intimacy of the others and sported a silly Turner-Prize-like installation of a washing line with underwear hanging off it. We sat at a table with a couple from Manchester who were on honeymoon (not their first in either case) and the woman talked loudly about her daughter’s lavatorial habits. They spoke a fair bit about us too apparently. It appears we were the sort of people who drove a ‘four-four’. Once the ‘four-four’ was explained to me I was quite flattered. I have never learned to ride a bicycle, let alone drive a car. If I had one it would probably be a second-hand 2CV and not one of those expensive tanks Americans call ‘gas-guzzlers’. What it is to talk posh! Once in Prague an angry East German told me that I had to pay inflated prices for my drinks - ‘weil du stinkst Geld!’ Despite the cruel vicissitudes of my later life, apparently the stench of money has yet to wear off.
The food was not bad. I had some decent lasagna and a classic ‘saltimbocca all Romana’ (veal plated with ham and sage). Some fritti arrived at the table for the others, not only fiori di zucca but deep-fried mozzarella ‘in carrozza’. There was good-value Cannonau di Sardegna for €12.
We went to La Casetta because we couldn’t get into the Trattoria da Augusto across the street. This place has been written up so many times and in so many lands that there is a queue outside it half an hour before it opens for dinner at 8.00 pm. We had better luck the following evening, standing in a queue in the rain behind Italians, Danes and Germans. Later we were joined at our table by enthusiastic French people.
Despite fame and antiquity (1954), Da Augusto was the second cheapest (€52). I had some stracciatella soup with eggs and cheese and a marvelous little dish of rabbit alla cacciatore (just a hint of chili). There was very good boiled beef and an artichoke done to death so you could scoff the whole thing. My son wolfed down a pine nut tart so quickly I did not get the chance to taste it, but it looked very good. One French couple ate some substantial bean soup and tripe. Both looked extremely good and filling, but we missed a trick by not ordering pasta, which is clearly made fresh daily. There is a proper atmosphere to Da Augusto, unlike the Casetta across the road. The wine list amounts to all of four bottles. We had a litre of house red for €8.
Finally I must mention the Cantina dei Papi across the road from our bolthole, which drew us in for a snack because the hams and cheeses looked so good and the presentation was so stylish overall. They cut us some lovely Tuscan ham from the bone and we drank some half-way decent sangiovese too. I would certainly go back if fate takes me to Rome again. It proved a useful shelter from the rain as well, which was coming down in buckets by then and had been enhanced by an ice-cold tramontana wind. All promise of spring had disappeared. Thirty-six hours after we left, Rome was covered in a thick pall of snow.
The Philharmonic Ball
Posted: 5th February 2018
Only one thing stood out like a beacon this January and that was our very brief visit to Vienna for the Ball der wiener Philharmoniker at the Musikverein. We were the guests of the Michael and Eva Moosbrugger at Schloss Gobelsburg: an incredibly kind and thoughtful invitation and one which gave us tremendous pleasure.
Of course, making a two-day dash to Vienna is bound to be fraught. After domestic arrangements had been made for cats and sons (not necessarily in that order) then there was the business of getting there that did not involve sleeping on a bench at Stansted. The solution required changing in Cologne and reboarding the same aircraft by now filled with Catholic Rhinelanders exuding good cheer and excited about going to one or other of the carnival balls the following night. They all seemed to have been practicing their paces. Apart from our ball at the Musikverein, there was the more popular and populous Kaffeesieder Ball at the Hofburg: the old Royal Palace.
We had a bit of a rush to get to the Hotel Sacher and our lift to the Kamptal, but transport from the airport at Schwechat to the centre of Vienna has become even easier now that there are S-Bahn trains as well as the rather more expensive CAT. That meant we could actually enjoy a few minutes in our room before we set off for the evening and even enjoy the redolence of The Third Man that has survived at the desk and on the stairs.
Our destination was Schloss Gobelsburg itself, where Micky and Eva had prepared a tour of the Schloss together with dinner. The Schloss is a quadrangular eighteenth century building owned by the Cistercian Order with some 120 hectares of arable land, half of which are planted with vines. The Moosbrugger family owns the Gasthof Post in Lech, one of the world’s great skiing hotels. In the mid-nineties they took out a fifty-year lease on Schloss Gobelsburg after Micky learned the practical side of winemaking from the great Willi Bründlmayer in nearby Langenlois. It was naturally not my first visit and I knew the lovely painted saloons of old and the grand staircase and the baroque ceiling painted by the local worthy - the ‘Kremser Schmidt’. This time went down into the cellars so that we could hear about the wines. This was followed by a tasting in one of the small vaulted rooms on the ground floor.
We tried our first 2017 and then a series of 2016s, for me the best wine being the Riesling Heiligenstein. The top estates of the Danube Valley now largely limit themselves to Riesling and Grüner Veltliner, grape varieties that to some extent complement one another. Riesling likes dry soils and dry years while Veltliner likes moisture and can prosper in more humid vintages. A good Grüner Veltliner is a splendid wine that can be the perfect foil to the solid ‘Hausmannskost’ you eat in Austria. It is not really a ‘delicate’ grape variety, and I think expresses itself better at 14 degrees or so when it can produce aromas that are sometimes vegetal (lentils and bay) and sometimes fruity (ripe pineapples).
I have said it several times, and have no need to repeat myself here, that I am iffy about the way that many growers in Lower Austria want to vinify Grüner Veltliner now, and I often wonder if they might not have been better off using Pinot Blanc (Weisser Burgunder) as their second fiddle. Grüner Veltliner can be attractively coarse, a comely dairy maid and not the refined soul that is Riesling. A long time ago now, some British MWs tumbled for a trick and mistook some good Veltliners for top white Burgundies. I don’t suppose they imagined for a moment that their folly would have such a wide-reaching effect.
I liked the Gobelsburg Veltliners, which are now made in a refined style, but the big surprise was the reds. The Danube Valley is not well-known for red wines but Micky has isolated some pebbly areas closer to the river where there is suitable soil and more heat than you find higher up the slopes. He has planted these with Pinot Noir, St Laurent and Zweigelt and to really impressive effect.
We had a lovely, relaxed evening and an excellent meal of Tafelspitz (calling it ‘boiled beef’ doesn’t do it justice at all!) and ‘Mohr im Hemd:’ a steamed pudding with a chocolate sauce and cream. The name, it was pointed out, is controversial. It means a ‘moor’ in a (white) shirt. I pointed out that the French equivalent ‘La négresse en chemise’ is a rather more graphic. It used to be very much part of the standard repertoire but it is apparently found less and less on French menus these days.
The next morning we braved the cold and occasional rain and took the 71 tram out to the Central Cemetery in Simmering. I have done this before to visit relatives in the Jewish Section. We plodded over there and looked at the graves, some askew after wartime sacrilege and bombing and many frankly neglected; but then again, there aren’t very many Jews left to keep them up. Then something broke cover about ten metres away and I was amazed to see a brace of deer disappear towards a clump of dilapidated headstones. Something made me want to believe they represented the Hirsch family. Once we’d spotted the first pair, others emerged not far off scampering about the tombs. Later I heard that there were pheasant too, and people told me that there was at least one annual shoot arranged to keep their numbers down. I presume the gravediggers eat well that day.
We took a circumlocutious route back, passing my grandfather’s cousin Friedrich Adler and his father Victor. Friedrich managed to die as late as 1960, which was pretty good going for the man who assassinated the Austrian Prime Minister Graf Stürgkh in 1916. After Adler all sorts of grandees appeared from Adolf Loos and Salieri to Hans von Makart, Mozart and Beethoven. The nicest tomb in Composers’ Corner was undoubtedly Hugo Wolf’s.
We took the tram back into the centre and had a snack at the Würstelstand by the Albertina. They specialize in horse, so I had a Pferdeleberkäs’ which was both excellent value at €2.60 and filling. We were meeting a friend at the Café Sluka in the Kärntnerstrasse, which has slipped into the place of the old tea rooms that were part of the Modehaus Zweiback and from 1933 converted into the top restaurant Zu den drei Husaren, which is sadly now no more. The tea rooms were commissioned by my great-aunt Ella and designed by art nouveau architect Friedrich Ohmann in the early twenties. He is most famous for the monument for the Empress Elisabeth and the layout of the Stadtpark. The rooms have recently been magnificently restored, although it is a pity that the present proprietors have taken so much trouble to strike the ‘z’s (for Zwieback) off the column capitals. Dotted around the café are photographs of the original with jolly Viennese ladies and gentlemen sipping cocktails and in a room to the side is Rebecca, a sculpture that belonged to my family, and was only recently relocated in the Jewish old people’s home in the Seegasse. She is on loan from my cousin the actor August Zirner.
It was time to change. Apart from a very quick dancing lesson on the pavement opposite the Café Mozart (photographed by an untold multitude of Japanese tourists) we had done very little to prepare ourselves for the evening. Some of the party were being specially fitted into their evening attire, particularly a charming eighty-year old hotelier from Antibes who informed me that it was the first time in his life he had worn white tie and tails. It wasn’t the same for me, but it had been a long time, and although the kit was hanging in my cupboard, there wasn’t a hope in hell of my getting into it. I had had recourse to Lipman instead.
There was Gobelsburg’s sparkling wine in magnums in the Blue Bar and dinner in the Red before the ball: salmon trout, pumpkin soup, venison (we were assured it had not come from the Zentral Friedhof) and chestnut mousse together with the 2009 Riesling Heiligenstein, the 2013 Grüner Veltliner Tradition, the wonderful 2010 St Laurent Reserve and a 2015 Veltliner Trockenbeerenauslese with dessert. Then we set out for the ball. The Musikverein was so near it made no sense to try to take a taxi and we walked.
The ball was founded in 1924, after the extirpation of the Monarchy. These republican balls replaced the institutions that revolved around the court and were designed to show off the latest batch of debutantes to reach the marriage market. Something of that survives in the opening ceremony where - in this case Placido Domingo conducted the Vienna Philharmonic - young dancers performed the first waltzes of the evening under the sumptuous painted ceilings of the Musikverein. Providing you are of a suitable age and an excellent dancer, you can obtain free tickets to the balls. Later some of the male ‘Eintänzer’ were on hand to dance with women whose husbands were too tired or clumsy to join in, although I suspect they required a small consideration.
Not being much of a waltzer myself I spent a lot of time in the bowels of the building listening to some of the special performances that had been laid on by the orchestra. There were a huge number of these little gatherings taking place around the building, with music to suit all tastes. It was not my first Viennese carnival ball. I had been to the Concordia, or press club ball before, and even the Life Ball (both in the great neo-gothic Rathaus), but I could not recall the music at the former. At the Life Ball there were a lot of different pop groups. The music was decidedly better this time, and I almost surprised myself that I was still on my feet at three.
The next day started late, too late for breakfast. We went to the pleasingly shabby Tirolerhof round the corner and soon afterwards joined friends for lunch at the Zum Schwarzen Kameel. I had not been to the Kameel for a quarter of a century. It used to be run by a formidable lady called ‘Frau Walli’. With very little encouragement, she brought out Beethoven’s order for Gumpoldskirchen wine and sausages which is their prized possession. There is a photograph of it in my first Austrian wine book - currently selling for all of 1p! A lot of the business is in open sandwiches and well-chosen wines, but we had more substantial things and I ate an excellent goulash.
The rest of the time we whiled away chasing Dürer hares around the Albertina museum before we made our return dash for the airport, and home. We’d had a wonderful time. If only getting from Gatwick to London were as easy or as comfortable as taking the train from Schwechat to Vienna.
Posted: 2nd January 2018
It wasn’t easy laying in stocks of wine this Christmas. Prices for the sort of everyday western European wines I drink had gone up by about twenty-five percent and bargains there were none. I used to buy a couple of cases from Majestic but looking at the list I realised they had largely lost the plot. You plough through page after page wondering what happened to the old days when Dominique Vrigneau used to put on all those lovely Corbières and Minervois. I looked here and there to see if there was an attractive deal for champagne, but I ended up buying a few grande marques from Amazon of all places as no one else seemed to have such fair prices. One côte des blancs I bought for £20 a bottle from Oddbins last year was selling for £32 this year. Although after Christmas Oddbins slashed champagne prices by up to fifty percent and possibly other retailers have done the same.
To add to my woes my local Portuguese merchant Nunu has gone home in disgust at the political situation and apart from the range of chiefly southern Italians from Salvino in the Brecknock Road the wretched supermarkets have taken over the local market. One brave little Portuguese shop in Plender Street continues to sell a smallish selection of Portuguese wine at reasonable prices. Long may it prosper! I have to confess that I occasionally pop into Lidl round the corner now, to see what they have, and I have to say that their German buyers seem to do a bloody good job.
These are not really festive wines, of course, and Christmas wines have to be a bit special. In general I was disappointed by our selection this year. On Christmas Eve a friend came round and we started the foie gras I made with a bottle of Perrier Jouët that we must have had for three or four years. It is nothing special, but at least it was ripe. With the traditional Christmas Eve lobsters I found a bottle of Chablis Grand Cru 2006 Les Preuses from La Chablisienne. A bit of creaminess and vanilla works quite well with lobster but after eleven years this was still stiff with new oak and rather a proof that if you pile it on in this way the vinous element will not reassert itself over the flavouring, as growers are wont to try to convince you. Probably the best wine we had that night was the five puttonyos 2001Tokay from Disznoko we drank with the cheese and the bûches de Noël. The cheese was a triumph: there was a lovely stilton, a vacherin mont d’or and a queijo da serra. Then we had to hot foot it to Midnight Mass.
Christmas Day was also a mixed bag. While we unwrapped presents from under the tree, I opened a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck demi-sec. It was a bottle I’d had for a quarter of a century and a gorgeous golden colour. It wasn’t particularly sweet, just quite rich and rather lovely on its own. They are certainly not sweet enough for most puddings. I might have a couple more somewhere - I must dig them out. We had a guest to lunch and when he pitched up I opened some simple Coteaux de Layon 1976 from the local co-op so that he could have a bit of foie gras and then we drank the rest with some jamon iberico. It was showing its age with a slight bitterness in the finish. My butcher Paul had found us some wonderful beef loin he’d been dry ageing since August. I served it rare with some 1995 Domaine François Lamarche Vosne-Romanée 1er Cru Les Chaumes. I had put it into a jug but only as we sat down, but I came to the conclusion that it was past its best. The friend had brought a bottle of 2005 Château Cantemerle. I didn’t think that there was any chance of that having shuffled off its coil, but it was strangely flat so that I couldn’t derive much pleasure from it at all. We had the same cheeses as the night before. Most of us had had enough by then but I had a half bottle of 1991 Calem vintage port and drank that while we watched a Rita Hayworth film. It was also not that robust, even if it showed a bit more life than the others.
I was on my own for the New Year. I ploughed through eleven or twelve episodes of the old Brideshead adaptation (I was abroad when it was first shown) after I knocked off work each evening, but I thought I’d have a little treat on the night, something different to the diet of leftovers that had sustained me since my family went away. I made the Italian New Year’s Eve feast of a zampone - stuffed pig’s trotter with lentils, denoting the money I was going to make in the coming year (some hope!), a potato puree and a tomato passito. With that I opened a 1997 Prunotto Barolo.
This excited me, it had a beautiful colour and a lovely chocolate and cherry nose and a wonderful acidity that went backwards and forwards across my palate. After dinner I took the jug upstairs and finished it off as I finished off Brideshead. It was not long-lasting, however, and after it had been open for an hour or more it began to lose it grip. Still, it was the best red I had this Christmas by a long chalk.
Wine & Food Diary entries posted before 2018 can now be found in the Wine & Food Diary Archive.