“who loves not wine, women and song,
He is a fool his whole life long."
I can’t remember the first time I tasted wine. For my generation it was some exotic drink that the French and Italians drank or it was VP wine a fortified drink that was imported from South Africa and was sold in off-licenses to make working class alcoholics satisfyingly drunk for a small amount of money. I may have tasted it at weddings when everyone toasts the happy couple, although I believe it was very often Sherry when we all had to stand up and raise our glasses, on one occasion it was light ale for the men and Babycham for the ladies.
In the late fifties and early sixties wine started to get mentioned more often. I was an inveterate reader of the quality newspapers, mainly the Observer, and I loved reading the restaurant review. These were not yet common to all newspapers, even the venerable Fay Maschler was yet to write her famous column in the Evening Standard. As well as the food the reviewer would discuss and recommend or criticise the wine.
Raymond Postgate was then editor of the Good Food guide which I started to buy. He, despite his impeccable left wing credentials, was a connoisseur of wine as well as a noted gourmand and in my little £4.00 a week flat in Walthamstow while my wife cooked me economy meals of stuffed hearts one night, boiled bacon and pease pudding the next, I would read aloud to her the wonderful delicacies being served at Ecu du France in Jermyn Street, the Gay Hussar in Soho, the Savoy Grill , the superb fish at Sheekeys, the wonderful beef carved from the trolley at Simpsons, the Parisian fare at Madame Pruniers in St James, always accompanied by fine wines Chateau Latour, Mouton Rothschild, Chateau Petrus, Chablis, Pouilly Fuisse, Meursalt or Puligny Montrachet. We would then discuss what venue we would go to when, as we surely would, we had enough money.
The first time I did order wine it was in the sixties, our fortunes having improved somewhat I took my wife to a pub in the city, quite a posh place it was and we sat midst dark oak panelling and red upholstered chairs and we hurriedly ordered the only dishes we recognised, a prawn cocktail to start with and grilled plaice, new potatoes and petit poi's as a main course, being somewhat intimidated by the waiter a non-smiling beetle browed character with a strong french accent, who, though the place was only half full, seemed somewhat impatient, he also handed me a heavy leather bound book which was the wine list, I knew it was red wine with meat and white wine with fish so, after a cursory look at the list I could only spot one wine that looked vaguely familiar it was Sauterne, of which I ordered a bottle.
“Certainement M’sieur,” the waiter said one eyebrow slightly raised.
“Lovely wine” we said as we toasted each other, “bit sweet though” Shirley said. I agreed but never said anything, not realising till months’ later that it was a dessert wine.
As time went on and we went out more and more we, like everyone else we knew, would order a bottle Liebfraumilch called Blue Nun, making sure it was nice and cold. This was so easy, we ordered it with everything we ate, steak, fish whatever, Blue Nun was the choice of the common man.
Later when we became more discerning and started to talk to other wine enthusiasts, you were known as an enthusiast in those days, I started to realise the difference between Bordeaux and Burgundy; I used to state airily “you can’t beat a Bordeaux or Claret for red wine or Burgundy for a white” and I would name the valleys and the areas from where various growths came from, I would query a Chablis “is it Premier Cru” and if the waiter said no I would wave it away.
I thought I was an expert and as all of my friends knew less than me no one told me otherwise.
One year we went to Bulgaria for a holiday. It was a time when currency was restricted and we were only allowed to take so much money abroad. I become very friendly with a Scotsman called Geoffrey Hume, he was very proud that he shared the same surname as Sir Alec Douglas Hume who was the current prime minister, he was an amusing and very worldly man, he had a nice wife and five lovely children who kept our kids company throughout the holiday. We became very fond of them. Geoffrey suggested we go out one evening to a hotel that had a reputation for fine cuisine so, with another couple, six of us sat at a round table with spotless white linen, sparkling cutlery and wine glasses. Geoffrey suggested we try the Bulgarian wine, “I hear they’ produce some fine wine here” he said in his soft Scottish burr. “No, no Geoffrey,” I said, slightly patronising, “we’ll stick to the French wine, that is the best. You know Geoffrey” I went on, “I know a little about wine, it’s such a complex subject, do you know there’s only sixteen Masters of Wine in England?”
“Aye,” he answered, “as a matter of fact there’s only five of us in Scotland!”
Of course, rather deflated, I let Geoffrey order the wine and lovely it was too. It was the end of my days thinking I knew anything about wine.
The last couple of decades has seen wine consumption increase so enormously that there are very few families that don’t have a bottle or two with their meals on a regular basis. Pubs now sell it by the type, some of it quite good quality. From selling no wine, pubs made the leap about 20 years ago, selling red or white to encompass all taste buds, they were served in tiny glasses as if it was medicine and sometimes it tasted like it.
The growth of wine bars caused a big rethink for our beloved inns. Nowadays most places give a choice in a proper glass at the right temperature and we can all quite knowledgeably ask for a Chardonnay, a Merlot, a Pinot or Cabernet without causing consternation behind the bar; and thanks to Premier league football stars and their wives’ we all know the famous marcs of the champagne world, names like Krug, Dom Perignon, Laurent Perrier Rose, and Lous Roederer Crystal so beloved by Rappers, I doubt many of them can tell the difference between an ordinary champagne like Mumms or Moet or even a bottle of Lucozade but it’s their money, plus of course, we see it sprayed all over the place from the winners podiums when anybody wins a Grand Prix, and what a waste that is.
France was the acknowledged King of wine producers from champagne, to the finest white Burgundy and the unaffordable, sublime famous reds of Bordeaux. But modern growing technique, young marketeers, aggressive salesmanship and clever bottle design, has seen a growth, not only from the New World, Australia, Argentine, America, Chile and New Zealand but Spain and Portugal, Hungary and Bulgaria, nearly all countries with some warmth in the climate produce very drinkable stuff now. Even India is about to enter the fray.
But despite all the colourful language used to describe it, phrases such as ‘blackcurrent with a peachy undertone’ or a ‘tart and citronny, zest of lemon’ 'a hint of gooseberry and sour pears' Il have still not developed decent taste buds for wine. I still cannot tell the difference between a Beaujolais Nouveau and a Nuit St Georges, I have been to wine tastings galore, I know the correct face to pull, how to gurgle it round in the mouth before spitting it out and I still cannot tell the difference, but I pretend.
Now when I go to a reasonable restaurant I order a Dry white house, or a house red and, if the foods O.K I’m usually pretty satisfied. I wonder what my long gone old friend from Bulgaria days, Geoffrey Hume would say. Just an amused glint in his eye I would think. As for me much as I’m fond of it I try to remember my Shakespeare: “O God that men should put an enemy
in their mouths to steal away their brains!”
.
