Confessions of a Wino

I have an American colleague, of French origin, who given his own bodyweight in Sancerre would happily sit on his sunny balcony and drink it nonstop in a frenzied Loire-athon. He does admit that other wine regions in France exist but they are either over-priced or under-qualitied. There are no wines produced from outside “l’hexagon”.

I share an interest in French Sauvignon Blanc and the Loire is the pinnacle of how to convert the grape into astonishingly bright, juicy, sunny, flavours.

It seems ages since people seriously contemplated that new fangled New Zealand upstarts like Cloudy Bay might put the Loire Valley out of business. The subtleties of the wines of the French region are rarely found in Marlborough. I love many kiwi zingers, but grapefruity zinginess, if overdone, can test ones mouth ulcers to the limit . Built by Domaine Serge Laloue, Exhibition Sancerre is zingy in a gooseberry bush kind of  a way, but without the cat piss. Very refined and priced to go at £12.95.

Under the High Line, one of the seven wonders of New York City, where peace and tranquility mix with rare greenery on a former raised platform railway converted to a unique public park, lies a restaurant of some repute.  A place that, although set amongst meatpacking factories, has thoughtfully empathised with, and even beaten a path for other trendy venues to raise the Standard of this eponymously named district of New York City.  And yet a “Grill” that has remarkably few items on the menu that might ever see a char broiler.   For example, I had oysters followed by shrimp fettuccini.  Although I use the word ‘followed’ in a loose literal sense, or perhaps as its own antonym since the main courses arrived before the starters. This was one of a number of service fiascos we experienced when lunching there on the last day of a New York trip.

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If you have just scaled England’s third highest mountain via Striding Edge, slipped and nearly died, wished that you owned a pair of crampons, nearly shat yourself, and in the process built up a hunger hole the size of one of Sherpa Tenzing’s footprints, you could do worse than get your scram at one of the poshest hotels in the lake district, the self proclaimed inventor of sticky toffee pudding.  Make sure you take your Amex Black Card, though.  And check you are still in possession of your arms and legs on the way out.

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Shepherd’s Market in Mayfair is one of the most charming places in the capital.  It’s totally unique.

By contrast, Turkish resto Sofra, has a number of branches across London.  My myopic view of restaurant chains is that they totally lack flair and employ cooks rather than chefs to dish out someone else’s imagination…poorly.

So when invited to Sofra (Mayfair) I attended with some trepidation, that turned out to be totally unwarranted.

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Just popped out to the local…..sort of.

Monday night is not the best night out ever in Manchester.  Even Cloud 23 is half shut and cordoned off.  Worse still, the bit cordoned off is the bit where you can do a jig and a reel on a glass “porthole” looking straight down 23 floors to Deansgate…if you dare (and I did, but only after a cocktail).

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New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs have had a good time recently but I think the old world is fighting back with aplomb.

To support my case I am going to ask you when the last time you tried a Sancerre – any Sancerre.  Or a Pouilly Fumé?  Find the right one and you get sublime Sauvignon Blanc with more subtlety than the impudent new world youths.

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Oh dear, I am going to sound like AA Gill, (although nowhere near as pretentious obviously, or well educated for that matter).

If there is one thing that makes my blood boil in a restaurant it is when they try to get two tips out of me.  We’ve all seen the drill, you get a long bill with a very discreet line at the bottom adding 10% or 12.5% service.  Then you get presented with the Chip and PIN terminal where the waiter invites you to “add a service charge”.

This is what happened to me when I visited Livebait in Manchester.

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