Confessions of a Wino

Forgive the personal indulgence but this weblog is, in many ways, a record of my life, albeit told in the hazy after-mists of empty wine bottles.  For a small portion of it, as a toddler in the 1960’s, I lived in a Surrey pub run by my grand-parents, Marjorie and Douglas.  In those dim and distant days that I barely remember, it was called The Three Horseshoes – a fine pub name.

In more recent years it has passed through the hands of various do-wells including rock band managers and most latterly the self-proclaimed national alarm clock for the UK – fellow Mancunian* and Radio 2 DJ, Chris Evans.

Since my mum’s grave is just down the road in trendy (well in 1460 it was trendy) Lodsworth, where she is one of the most lively residents, I like to visit the Lickfold Inn occasionally, to keep an eye on the ghosts…and the food….and the wines….and the spirits.

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Blimey.  I travel all the way to London to meet up with a few EWBC fellows at Le Bouchon Breton for dinner and all I did was mention my controversial WART campaign…

Thanks to Daniel, the manager, for sharing a couple of super magnums of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with us.

The food at Le Bouchon was excellent and good value – much better than the “upmarket Café Rouge” it is accused of being, although the wine list seemed expensive (with due exception to the CdP!).

I realise I am risking treading on revered toes.  Almost every food blogger within Patriot Missile range of London thinks that Hawsksmoor is legend.  Esteemed mainstream critics from Jay Rayner to Giles Coren have extolled its fleshy virtues.  I was recommended, no, TOLD to go there by cheese lover, Ramsay denier and beefy beefcake Chris Pople.

In short I expected great things.  But whenever you set high expectations, it is inevitable that not everything lives up to the dream.  And a few things fell short for me.

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It was like stepping into a Victorian hunting odyssey.  I almost expected a golden maned Aslan to stalk majestically through the lobby.  Or the wardrobe door to open to reveal Mr Tumnus the fawn hanging butchered, ageing for 28 days, or whatever fawn meat hangs for.

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Sunday Roast.  Mmmmmmm.  A weekend in London and it’s been a while since the last legendary Wino Sunday lunch.  Time to make repairs but in a relaxed Sunday style.  A quick flight at my favourite London wine bar.  The Jubilee Line to London Bridge.  A soupçon of jazz.

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Anthony Flinn is a bit of a food legend in Leeds.  His impressive CV includes a two year stint under Ferran Adrià at the world’s “best” restaurant, El Bulli.  Flinn’s own flagship restaurant, Anthony’s, is perpetually tipped for a Michelin star.  His latest project, Piazza, opened in late 2008, is situated in one of the most impressive, historically beautiful buildings in the North of England – Leeds Corn Exchange.  Anthony’s footprint includes an impressive 125 seater brasserie, a patisserie, bakery, chocolatier and delicatessen.  Wine, however, is another science.

My opening exchange with the waitress:  Gevrey Chambertin Domaine Heresztyn 2005 please – what temperature would you serve that?  “About two above room”. Ouch, no WART awards here.  Please can I have an ice bucket?  “Yes sir, no problem.”  Things are starting to improve already.  After all, the wine list looks well thought out, and superbly priced, and the menu looks bistro chic.

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Day seven of my lamentable detox effort.  No alcohol has cursed my veins, but the no-caffeine promise has been all too frequently punctured by warm, friendly, lovable mugs of Earl Grey.

Having been snowed in most of the week, tonight I am waiting for the F Word final on Channel 4.  It’s a shame that Manchester’s Sweet Mandarin was eliminated in the semi.  Further shame that Evuna didn’t make it through the heats, if only for its super wine list.  Good luck to The Pheasant - looks favourite to win.

Appearing on the F Word, I hear, are fellow bloggers Oliver Thring and Helen Graves, and Douglas Blyde.  All good reads.  Will they be dancing a Gay Gordon?

An attempt to impress the mother in law almost ended in failure.  Having tried to book places under the direction of Marco Pierre White and Richard Corrigan (and others) only to be told there was no room at the inn, we were suspicious that the Westbury could easily accommodate us at 8pm on a Saturday evening.  We shouldn’t have worried.  Wilde has the atmosphere of a posh but modern grill with the service of a well dressed regiment of polite bombardiers from nations far and wide and including an occasional Irish accent.  The food is as good as I’ve eaten in Dublin and, yes, I have tried Eddie Rocket’s.

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With superstars like Robert de Niro sponsoring Tribeca as an upcoming area (and selflessly trousering a good portion of the profits of Tribeca Grill), despite the proliferation of convenient subway stops, there was only one way to arrive.  I asked our Taxi Driver why he was tanking down these Mean Streets like a Raging Bull.  He said that given the Heat, and whilst he was not the King of Comedy, he was a Goodfella and, put simply, The Mission was to Meet the Parents, and not least, The Godfather (Part II) before the Midnight Run.  Before I had time to Analyze This, it was Showtime – the waitresses were Flawless and it was time to Meet the Fockers.

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This is just the sort of place I imagined an upmarket New York restaurant would look like.  Solid, spacious, salubrious and snobby, and that is a compliment.  It is expensive in the evening but if, like me, you are on a budget, there are some great deals at lunchtime.  I visited in September 2009 and unlike former customer, Monica Lewinsky, I managed to keep my stains on the tablecloth.

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