Lots of half-written but not quite finished blog posts kicking around my drafts folder at the moment. This is (was) one of them.
I bought some wine this last week. I'm on a self-imposed wine buying hiatus at the moment, after an unfortunate episode involving a wine fair and my credit card and some very drunken maths, the details of which are too painful to recount. But after trying this particular wine last week a few weekends ago, I had to make an exception. It's lovely. All smoky and earthy and full of depth; the kind of wine which wraps itself around you like a warm cardigan and makes everything right with the world. I spent ages yesterday some indeterminate number of days after I bought the stuff (I'm really starting to wish I hadn't started this business with the temporal corrections now) trying to work out what it reminded me of, and then I realised.
It tastes like a Robert Frost poem.
I adore Robert Frost. One of the first of his poems I ever read was this:
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
It is still one of my favourites. There are others.
I'm not being very good at regular blogging this month. Or last month. Or the one before, or..... well, you get the point. June was quite good, though, wasn't it?
Today I have mainly been tasting wine. And then I bought some of the wine I tasted. When I say "some" , I mean "quite a lot". Then I lost my tasting notes, which means I have NO IDEA which wine I bought, or why I bought it.
I got a free bottle of prosecco for placing an order, and also a discount, which basically paid for my entry ticket to the tasting, but even taking that into consideration: I have had more successful days than this one. It was good fun, though.
Not really. But I did learn quite a lot about Italian wine on Monday night from a guy who looked a bit like Jay Kay. It was his hat, mainly.
I was at a wine-tasting at the Institute of Directors, and the wine we were drinking (sorry, tasting) came from Piedemont, a tiny region in north west Italy. As an aside,the IoD is an incredibly beautiful building, and is worth a visit if you ever have the opportunity. Also, as it happens, their duck-egg blue walls are the exact same shade of duck-egg blue as my new kitchen wall. If the room we were in had been about a thousand times smaller, with significantly fewer portraits and there had been a damp patch in one corner of the ceiling I would have been convinced I was in my own kitchen.
The evening worked in the same way most of these things do; there were lots of tables around the room, all manned by wine producers and agents happy to chat about the wines, and we all wandered about, catalogue in one hand, wine glass in the other, trying the ones we fancied. Or, in some cases, making a bee-line for the least crowded table and then pretending to listen intelligently while necking whatever booze they had out on offer.
I started the evening evening as I meant to go on; taking small sips from each glass, writing perfectly legible notes in my catalogue, and generally feeling quite civilised and classy. I never spit (my Mum always taught me it's rude) but a few times I did pour the rest of the wine away after I'd tried a mouthful, which took huge willpower - pouring away perfectly good wine does not come naturally to me. I even tried out my very rusty Italian on a few of the stall-holders, who looked at me with a mixture of pity and amusement and answered my clumsily constructed questions in perfect English.
As the night went on, sips became slurps, significantly less wine (read: "none") was poured away and my notes turned from neat, detailed descriptions into a blurry mass of exclamation marks, various numbers of ticks of assorted sizes, and other scrawls. These are all crucial elements of my masterful, self-designed, Wine Rating System.
The system, which has been finely honed over various wine shows and other events, is a little complicated, so let me break it down for you. First there are the ticks. When it comes to ticks, there is no upper limit on numbers, but size definitely matters; a wine I've given four little ticks to will be pretty good, but might be just as good as one with a great big tick next to it. Then again it might not. Sometimes the ticks are stars, which mean the same as ticks, except I use them more economically; mainly because they take longer to draw. Roughly, two middle-sized ticks mean the same thing as one star, I think, but it's not an exact science.
If a wine is really good I might circle it, or I might put more stars next to it, or maybe an arrow. Sometimes a smiley face, if I'm feeling artistic. Or I might forget to do any of those things.
Exclamation marks are generally good, although context needs to be taken into consideration, as I will illustrate shortly (such suspense!). Again, quantity is important; generally speaking, the more exclamation marks the better, but there's a catch; and the catch involves some slightly complicated maths. The impact of each extra exclamation marks becomes considerably less as the number of exclamation marks gets bigger. This is mainly because I have learnt, over time, the more exclamation marks I've used, the more likely they are to have been caused by my general level of excitement (read: "blood alcohol content") rather than the quality of the wine. There is probably a tipping point beyond which extra exclamation marks are actually the sign of the wine being worse not better, but I have never worked out what it is; my guess is around 4 to 5.
I'm not saying it's a foolproof system, and so this is where the little notes I write become handy; at the start of the evening they contain useful information like "toasty", "very chewy", "could be Chardonnay", or snippets of information passed on by the winemakers; "2007 good year for Barbera*"; "fruity because it's aimed at the American market" and so on. Later they get less specific but more decisive; I can always tell which stalls I went to last because my notes for those wines say things like "FAB!!!!" or "NOOOOO!!!!!" (That second example, by the way, is your classic case of exclamation marks being taken in context; here they mean I really, really, really never ought to drink this wine again.)
So what did I learn on Monday night, from the man who wasn't really from Jamiroquai? Well, after dissecting my notes, I realised the main thing I learnt about Italian wine is that I prefer Barbera to Borolo. I know this because I wrote that information down no less than four times, in various forms. My favourite version was this somewhat mathematical one:
" Borolo = tannins = not nice. Barbera = :-) "
(For non-wine-drinkers (if you are still here), tannins are things which make your mouth feel all disgusting and dry, which most wine snobs, and some people who are not wine snobs but just have really weird taste, think is a good thing.)
Also, I learnt some things about Italian grapes, some of which I hadn't heard of before. Namely:
1. Armeis, which is white wine, tastes a lot like Chardonnay.
2. Nascetta, also white wine, tastes a lot like Torrontes. (I only found out about Torrontes a couple of weeks ago but it is my new favourite Argentinian white wine. It tastes like flowers.)
3. Pelaverga Piccolo grapes are really rare; only 10 producers in the world grow them, apparently, which is completely inconvenient because the Pelaverga Piccolo wine I tried was magic in a glass. It's incredibly light, but still had a bit of substance to it, making it the solution to a problem I've been struggling with for years - finding the perfect red wine to drink during the summer which doesn't taste like fruity water. I know that in the grand scheme of things there are bigger problems in the world, but finally finding this wine and then discovering I will probably never be able to get hold of any because no-one grows the right grapes is annoying beyond belief.
4. Barolo wine is made from Nebbiolo grapes. It's the one you're meant to like the most from this region; I don't. I am such a wine rebel.
5. A surprising number of Moscats are a little bit fizzy. If you are having dinner in Piedemont and don't like bubbles in your dessert wine, go somewhere else for dessert.
6. There are two types of Dolcetto, Dolcetto d'Alba and Dolcetto di Dogliani, and these are completely different even though they are grown pretty close to each other. There's a friendly rivalry between the producers of each type; I am guessing it was no accident last night that they had been put on tables at very opposite ends of the room. Di dogliani is nicer than D'Alba, I think, but I didn't tell that to the man with the hat. He grew the wrong sort.
*Don't take my word on the Barbera; there is a very real chance I could have the year wrong. What I can say, with some certainty, is that there is a particular year which is particularly good for Barbera**, and it has something to do with the weather being really hot or really cold.
Sorry for my extended leave of absence. I have some great excuses if you want to hear them. No? Well, fair enough. Basically I've been pretty busy. Not to mention a bit distracted by all of the politics that, er, hasn't been going on. Anyway, I've just realised that last time I was round these parts it was Thursday, and now it's Tuesday. I've really got no idea how that happened. (I mean, it's not as if I was locked down at Westminster in high stakes negotations all weekend or anything). I will try to do better.
Brief highlights of the last few days:
1. I spent Friday afternoon at the BBC, taking part in a workshop to test out ideas for the new series of Dave Gorman's Genius. (As a slight aside, and by way of explanation of what's coming in the next paragraph, there are some people who get quite pernickety about words like 'genius' being used as adjectives. Properly, properly pernickety. They have facebook groups and everything. Personally I think they're idiots (language is constantly evolving, and that's what makes it fun, and who cares if you want to adjectivise the odd noun, or nounify the odd adjective? (I'm also quite a fan of verbifying, as you may have noticed.)) But I figure it's not going to cost me anything to keep the pernickets (who will no doubt be irritated by that name, too) happy. So I will try.)
Back to Genius [noun: proper]. If you don't know the show, which started on radio and then moved to telly last year, the basic concept is that members of the public pitch an idea which they think is genius [adj] to a guest judge, who is, in the eyes of the programme's producers at least, a genius [noun]. The judge-who-is-a-genius [noun] then gets to decide whether each idea is, in fact, genius [adj] or not. The guest judges I remember from the last series are Catherine Tate, Johnny Vegas and Germaine Greer, so the definition of genius [noun] which the producers are working from seems to be "someone who is funny. Or, is Germaine Greer."
They are tweaking the format for the next series and wanted to try some ideas out with a group of people, so I went along. It was a great afternoon. Dave Gorman was very funny, and he gave us all a copy of his book, which was an added bonus. (Haven't started reading it yet, but loved some of his other ones, so my hopes are high.) We were asked not to say too much about the possible changes, but what I can do is tell you some of the genius [adj] ideas some people brought to the table. There were some crackers:
A bird feeder which electrocutes seagulls. Only seagulls. Which raised the obvious
question: what exactly did the inventor have against seagulls? I suspect a traumatic
fish-and-chips-related incident during her childhood, but I'm no psychologist.
To solve gun crime, make it legal to own any gun, but only if it is pink (removes their
machismo image and makes them less desirable. Except, presumably to Paris
Hilton. And only, as Dave Gorman pointed out, to people who are unfamilar with the
concept of paint.)
Magnetic socks, which won't get seperated in the wash. This one went down quite
well until someone pointed out that washing machines are made out of, er, quite a lot
of metal. Which the socks will probably get stuck to, instead of to each other.
A few people brought along prototypes of their ideas: the girl who brought along a
dream recorder (strap it to your head, attach probes and play back your dreams the
following morning so you remember them) pointed out that it was just a
representation of what her invention might look like, not an actual working model.
I'm glad she warned us, if not a little disappointed. There was also a guy who used a
toilet roll holder to make a dispensing system for artificial cheese (as an alternative to
those individually wrapped cheese slices you can get) which he thought would a) help
the environment and b) reduce waste by letting you choose exactly how much cheese
you needed to fit your sandwich, or roll, or whatever. He gave us a demonstration
and this is a direct quote: "Yes, that is real cheese. I spent most of last night
sellotaping it together".
It should be a good series. This is the bit of the last series which everyone
remembers the most, but no one can remember whether the idea was genius[adj] or
not.
2. I saw Abandoman on Saturday night. What do you mean you've never heard of Abandoman? They're Ireland's seventh biggest hip hop act for goodness sake! Apparently Ireland only has nine hip hop acts, so not enough for a top 10, and of the two acts they beat to the coveted 7th spot, one was Jedward. But don't hold that against then. Also, I should probably say that this is all stuff which Rapping Rob, head Abando-man, told us on stage, so he could have been making it up. I say that not because I'm calling Rapping Rob a liar, but because Rapping Rob made up lots of great stuff on stage, including an impressive improvised musical about two of the audience members. It's not everyone who can spin a romantic tale in three acts about a turtle-loving environementalist and a carpenter who meet in McDonalds completely off the top of their head. Let alone make it rhyme. For that reason alone, if you ever have a chance to see Abandoman live (Edinburgh festival would be a good bet, I'm guessing, and they are definitely on the bill at Lattitude) I would grab it with both hands. Abandoman ROCK.
3. Watching the Sopranos - it took me a couple of episodes to get into, but I get what all the fuss was about now. I'm half way through the first series and the thought that there are so many more still to come fills me with great excitement. Tony Soprano's therapist is my new hero.
4. I'm STILL waiting for Jules Renard. You can follow labels for previous posts on this if you don't know who he is and if you want to know more. (This one not so much a higlight, more a moan. Why am I moaning to you , and not to Amazon, who were meant to bring me Jules over a week ago? No reason, except that I've already tried moaning to Amazon and they've told me to wait a few more days).
5. Working. Actual, being paid for it, having to turn up somewhere on time, working. I spent yesterday back in my old office, and am there again for a couple of days later this week. I expect the novelty will wear off eventually, but so far I'm loving it. Was great to be back, and to be doing something useful, and to see everyone again.
6. Sunday lunch. One of my favourite places in the world is Artisan and Vine wine bar in Clapham, which is nowhere near where I live, but which I will happily trek half way across London, even on a Sunday when the tubes are all up the creek, to get to. I got home from lunch at 9pm - it's that kind of place. They have some amazing wines; my current favourite is this Carmenere: one sip and in my head I'm curled up in a leather armchair in front of a roaring fire, with a blanket and a good book. It's magic stuff.
7. My creative writing class: it was poetry this week, and we ended up writing two poems during the lesson, which was quite hard but good fun. The first one had to be about an emotion; choices were depression, anger, frustration, resentment, grief or sadness so everyone was thoroughly down in the dumps by the time we'd all read them out. I toyed with posting mine here but it feels a bit naff, at this stage, to be posting 'a pome what I wrote' on my blog. Maybe one day.
Me(looking out of the window): Gosh, Lord's really is a lot smaller than I thought it would be. My friend Tim: Er, that's not the actual pitch. It's just where they practice. Me: Oh. (long pause) So, this wine is nice, isn't it?
which tells you all you need to know, I think, about my grasp of cricket.
If you know Lord's, incidentally, we were in the Nursery Pavillion, which overlooks the Nursery Ground. If you don't know Lord's, the Nursery Ground is where they do drills and things (what do you mean, that's not a proper cricketing term?) and some minor club teams play there sometimes. It looks like this:
This picture doesn't do anything to show how small it was, in fact it looks bigger here than it did in real life. Stupid picture. Or, more accurately, badly chosen picture which I don't have time to replace. You'll just have to believe me when I say: the Nursery Ground is pretty small. (Yes, yes, I know: the clue is in the name. I see that now. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.).
Anyway, back to the wine. It was all from Portugal, where they make nicer wine than you might think, but don't export a lot of it (nearly all of the producers I spoke to were still trying to find UK agents to sell on their behalf) which is a shame. Did you know, by the way, that Cliff Richard owns a vinyard in Portugal? Me neither. I do now, although I didn't get to try any of his wine. I am now fighting the urge to make a lame joke about mistletoe. I did try lots of other wine, and some particularly spectacular white port. (Still fighting the urge, with every fibre of my being, but it's a struggle. Be warned.)
So, I saw less interesting parts of Lord's than I thought I would last night, but 'less interesting' is a relative term and the wine was less 'less interesting', so I'm not too worried. Plus, the media centre, which looks a bit like a giant space-ship, is quite cool.
Here's a photo:
It's not the media centre at Lord's (you'll have to Google that) but it does also looks a bit like a spaceship, and it reminded me that I have a ton of 'here's a cool building / sign / whatever ' photos from New York I still haven't got around to posting yet.
