Château Durfort-Vivens Margaux 2003, a deuxième cru from Lucien Lurton who also owns another 2nd growth Margaux property, Château Brane-Cantenac, 82.3784% Cabernet Sauvignon with 9.632% Cabernet Franc and the remainder Merlot. 20 months in oak.
If you want to read stuff like this go somewhere serious like www.decanter.com. If facts bore you and you prefer the experience of wine, then why not join me having fun as I learn.
In sleepy Grosvenor Square, just a Molotov cocktail throw from the American embassy, is yet another Gordon Ramsay place. It’s getting difficult to walk down a London street without seeing his name over some restaurant or other.
I was advised that Molotov was not on the aperitif list, but £12 for a tiny glass of Ayala champagne, even if poured at the table, set me off in an explosive mood. I think the sommelier noticed my look of disappointment, nay disdain, as he left me with barely enough liquid to create a damp patch if I spilled it on my trousers (I didn’t). I wanted to dislike this place – I don’t like being ripped off.
I have long been a fan of Susana Balbo’s Malbecs since I first discovered them on the rip-off wine list of the Gaucho Grill. So I was intrigued to see this blend, named Brioso, on the virtual shelves of the Wine Society. At £14.95 ($30) it is not cheap so it needs to be measured against serious competition.
As blends go, this one has a whopping 5 varietals contributing to the mix, but did this add as many facets to the flavour of the wine?
You may have noticed I was having problems with my ISP until recently. This was driving me to drink which is, fortuitously, a pastime in which I am experienced and capable.
Packaging says a lot about a product. Marketing people really understand that differentiating (demanding a higher price for) a high quality product requires an associated buying and unwrapping experience. Nowhere is this more true than the world of wine. The ceremony afforded to opening a bottle of wine is a marketing man’s dream. I feel short changed if a wine is not “wrapped” according to its value.
The foil on the cap of this wine was reassuringly thick, I’ve seen lead flashing with less substance. This is a good quality wine already…
As dark and dingy restaurants go, Simple is amongst the darkest, although to be fair not dingiest I have visited. I admit my eyesight is deteriorating with age, and I struggle to read small text at a distance closer than you would view a computer screen, but we were sat beneath the aircon unit, unlit, and whilst other tables had an odd spotlight to illuminate, even the red candle on our table couldn’t reveal to me any of the menu contents.
I’m having mood swings. Pinot Noir vs Merlot. I love Pinots from Chile, New Zealand and even Burgundy (when I can afford them). I am equally starting to appreciate the right bank of la Gironde, the home of Merlot? In any case, both grapes are a welcome change from Cabernet Sauvignon, Malbec and Sangiovese for example.
Of all the restaurants where I have sat beneath a canopy of Maple leaves, Le Perron in Geneva is undoubtedly the best, or come to think of it, actually the only one. Having said that, I suppose I should be grateful to be sitting outside at all in October in Europe.
A letter arrived. Not an email. Not a text message. Not even a telegram or a greeting card. A letter, hand written, addressed to me, and delivered to the office.
Of course, I remember the days before this eloquent and pulchritudinous form of communication was rudely re-branded snail mail. Nowadays, I have to admit that I cannot recollect the last time I received a hand written letter. This particular letter resulted in an uncommon sequence of events that lead me to Tingewick, a pretty country village in Buckinghamshire.
Tingewick, close to the intersection of the three counties of Bucks, Northants, and Oxon, is an architectural melting pot. 16th century thatched cottages huddle awkwardly next to 1940′s council houses like new kids meeting at school. Grand mansions look down on their tiny peers who appear to doff their tiled roofs in deference. Residents include a well known rock guitarist, a lottery winner, and my estranged Godmother.
The somewhat entertaining, but supercilious and frequently AWOL Sunday Times restaurant critic, AA Gill, rarely extends his gastronomic tentacles beyond central London. So I was surprised to see that he had, according to a poster at Piccadilly rail station, nominated San Carlo in MANCHESTER as the best Italian restaurant outside the capital. Surprised not only because he had ventured so far north as to get the apocryphal nosebleed, but also because San Carlo is far from the best resto of any type anywhere.
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