Confessions of a Wino

My take on Carménère, especially when made in Chile, where it is more commonly called Carmenère or even the totally vulgar Carmenere, is that it smells of real wood fires. The wonderful scent that welcomes you back to a Cotswolds village on a crisp winter evening after a long walk in the hills, when you are making your last, trudging and tired, but relentlessly determined steps towards a cosy, heart and toe warming pub.

This Chilean model, which lacks self-confidence to the extent that it opens its kimono on the front label to guide your taste buds towards an “exotic and spicy, full bodied style with damson and blackberry fruit”, has so much smoke it triggers a gag reflex. When first poured, a dip of the nose is like putting your head over the top of the Cotswold village smoking chimney. Face crumples. Nose drips. Eyes bleed.

Fortunately the wine does mellow a bit when tasted, but there remains a slightly astringent and  cacophonous afterburn. Not great for a wine being punted by Majestic for £7.99.

Drink it very cool or better still, opt for the vastly superior Casillero del Diablo Carmenère even more widely available and in the same price bracket.

This wine is a winter warmer. It’s rich, spicy and South American with an aftertaste like a Molotov cocktail. Why would you not slug it down merrily? Here’s why not.

I love Carmenère, especially that begat of Chile, where it seems to have adopted an ethereal status. Casillero del Diablo is one well priced example. This one (£6.49 from your local Co-op) has the usual richesse and deep interesting autumn fruits, but with a certain bitterness. It also smells dirty in a meaty fart sort of way. But this is not a Pinot Noir where subtle barnyard flavours are a bonus. Normally, Carmenères have the winter aroma of real wood fires and I miss that here.

I strongly recommend Carmenère, and I am certain that Co-op has many excellent wines in stock, probably including the Casillero. I’m afraid that 120® 2010 is not one of them.

Mooching through Sainsbury looking for the perfect wine to match my experimental dish of pork chop with thyme, garlic and mustard, depression was setting in. Supermarkets only seem to stock lowest common denominator wines these days.  No experimentation, no originality, no joy.

I plumped for this Central Otago Pinot Noir at £9.99. A price point which, in riot torn Salford, apparently requires a security tag. How many bottles of wine can you actually smuggle out in your underpants? And how many rioters would actually dare to choose a Kiwi Pinot?

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It’s hard not to feel charmed by Olena Zabornikova.   Walking into her restaurant is like visiting a lovable but slightly dotty aunt.   The entrance draws you in from a quirky and quiet part of university town, and once you work out how to avoid being snared by a Spar supermarket, it is like walking through a time portal.  To be blunt, the decor is old fashioned.   The tables laid in the style of a 1960’s Inter-City train, and the dishes in which the food is served give the impression of having been collected over many years from Portobello Market.   And just as you sit there admiring the old pictures and Russian relics, the volume of the Eastern Europop is racked up and mirror balls reflect the disco lights, discolouring your dining partner’s face and turning the room into a cross between Peristroika and Studio 54.   Apparently there is live music here at weekends, news of which has entered St. Petersburg high up on my list of weekend “must-dos in Manchester”.

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It is all too easy to be sniffy about the major wine brands when you’ve had your nose in the books of Parker and Robinson.  But have you tried anything from Chilean producer Concha y Toro lately?  Or the sub brands Cono Sur and Casillero del Diablo?  Interesting stuff and generally high quality, but in the UK, I remember the Australians as being first in the queue to bring wine to the proletariat via supermarket and pub alike.

Aside from the ubiquitous Jacob’s Creek, I recall Hardy’s as being a brand leader. So when my neighbour, Peter, brought a bottle of Varietal Range Chardonnay round to my barbie, I was first insulted, then dismissive and finally intrigued.  Obviously, in Peter’s presence I sniffed at it, parked it in the corner and turned to open a bottle of something exclusive and French (albeit cheap and ropey).

Curiosity got the better of me this evening and I opened the bottle.

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