cluelessaboutwine - wine blog

The Wight Cliffs

2008-05-27T16:05:00.005+01:00

I spent last bank holiday weekend visiting friends on the Isle of Wight. TomTom guided me into a multitude of GPS generated traffic jams, everyone blindly following orders from disembodied voices interpreting commands decreed by Big Brother in the sky. I need to dig out my map again and explore my own route creativity.

The ferry was expensive, the same price as a flight to more sunnier climbs. While sloshing around on the Solent , the thin watery barrier to this small ceremonial county, I assessed the distance. I reckon a running jump off deck and the gap could have been cleared. It is renowned to be the one of the most expensive sea crossings in the world. The engines were barely on, I suppose it would be rather an eye opener if the 30 minute snail pace bob was turned into a 3 minute dash at those inflated prices.

In time with the Phoenix Mars Lander I was about to break new ground, except my journey considerably more expensive than NASA's rocket propelled robot, and we already know that there is life on the Isle of Wight...well certainly lots of red squirrels.

On closer inspection from my northern approach, the island looked like an apple crumble, thinly sliced layers of golden sandstone rock topped with loose stony soil. Parts of this magnificent pudding are slowly crumbling into the sea at a rate of 3 metres per annum. Thankfully not all of the island suffers from this problem, and we have a generous 147 square miles of Alan Titchmarch's back garden to explore as he is the current High Sheriff. Now the Chelsea flower show has finished I expect he will be back with Charlie Dimmock to tend the borders.

The island borders are bristling with fortifications due to its strategic placement. Any invaders would find it a perfect staging post for an assault on Britain. Concrete batteries stare out to sea in all directions, now fighting against the eroding coastline and salty winds. 'The Needles' add the signature to the Isle of Wight, three chalk outcrops marking the most westerly point. The name was derived from the now invisible fourth spur in the shape of a needle, battered down by the sea back in 1764. Round the corner to the south are huge chalk cliffs, a lost sailor could easily mistake these for the white cliffs of Dover. This obvious abundance of limestone and warm southerly climate provides good conditions for vineyards. Adgestone vineyard, first established by the Romans, is one of the oldest in Britain.

I stayed in a block of bungalow holiday chalets overlooking Hurst Castle which was clinging to the end of a sandy mainland snake to the North. I noticed the precarious nature of some of the chalets, metres away from life on a beach 100 ft below. There were plenty of large cracks in the ground searching for the next victim.

The island is charming, like a Victorian time capsule, preserved by the extortionate ferry prices, with only the odd souped up Ford Escort cutting through the illusion, treating the coastal road much like a bob sleigh run.

A Noble Hop

2008-05-07T13:36:00.006+01:00

I was at a conference last week in Regensburg, Bavaria. Time for wine to take a back seat and beer to stand up and be counted.

The easyjet plane smelt like a leaky Zippo lighter, which reminded me of recent news stories that claim cabin fumes may well be toxic. I was more worried about the germs emanating from the clearly ill, coughing person next to me. A cat with a fur ball. The cabin was like a combined doctor's waiting room and creche, very unrelaxing.

I know a little German, but he sadly did not travel with me, the luxury of English speakers not so prevalent in Southern Germany. After much flamboyant sign language I left Munich airport by bus and travelled on the autobahn, where it seems all sense of moderation is forgotten. The floor is the natural resting place for accelerators making it feel more like the Hockenheim circuit. Cars in the fast lane were almost travelling in their own dimension, producing a tunnel of air buffeting other lesser vehicles.
Whizzing by were endless fields divided up with matrices of tall posts, looking like a rather large pin cushion. I was puzzled as I had never seen this type of agricultural mechanics. It turn out that this is for hop growing. Bavaria is the biggest producer of hops globally, and we were passing Hallertau, a 'noble hop' region, which is a term with similar meaning to the French 'appellations' for wine, a designation for specific growing areas. The region affects the aroma, bitterness and quality of the hop, much like grapes. Hallertau Mittelfruh is said to be the original German lager hop.

Regensburg was stunning. The medieval town centre is full of large palaces set amoungst cobbled streets. The impressive stone bridge over the Danube was built by Roman workers fueled by Bavarian sausages, purchased 'it is said' from a 900 year old hut by the bridge still serving sausages today . I popped in to be confronted by a fierce looking lady next to a grill covered with countless chipolata type sausages. I was served two in a roll covered in fermented cabbage (sauerkraut) and locally produced Handlmaier's sweet mustard. They were delicious.

My evenings consisted of yet more sausages punctuated by biergartens, the 'Reinheitsgebot' (German beer purity laws) seemed to leave me without a hangover.

Blowin' in the Wind

2008-04-18T21:50:00.004+01:00

I opened my bread bin this morning to discover a mouldy interior. I half expected 'Fungus the Bogeyman' to crawl out. My neglected homemade loaf had attracted fungal friends, and was languishing in a newly acquired fur coat.

I walked the baby Husky to the bread board. In my poorly stocked house a decision had to be made whether to operate and remove the fur with my inadequate knife collection, or just starve. The latter prevailed.

Fungus in certain forms can be dangerous as demonstrated by Bob Dylan who famously caught histoplasmosis from fungal spores 'Blowin' in the Wind', derived from bat guano. Domestic outbreaks are generally non-toxic, and in fact there are old remedies in Serbia and Greece where mouldy bread was used to treat wounds thanks to the fungal production of penicillin. I can assure you that I was not about to rub that Husky into a recent paper cut.

Fungus loves damp dark places, a wine cellar being the perfect breeding ground. It does not require light and derives all it nutrients from the host, much like the bat whose bowel movements almost dispatched Dylan.

Fungus can be very damaging to wine when it infects a cork. Cork engineering is a challenge, if too moist it attracts mould growth which in turn can aid the production of a nasty chemical called TCA, tainting the wine if allowed to progress all the way through the cork.
I have come across many mouldy corks, but thankfully in most cases the rot had not prevailed, leaving the wine untouched. A TCA induced 'corked' wine can either be flat tasting if mildly effected, or can smell in worse cases like a wet Labrador (keeping to the dog theme).

Most of South East England is suffering from the 'Euro-Whiff' at the moment, a rotten smell arriving on unusual easterly winds from continental Europe. Agriculture in the form of flatulent cows is being blamed. I can see plenty of wine connoisseurs obliviously drinking corked wine, their senses already overloaded.

Olympic Mushrooms

2008-04-09T18:10:00.005+01:00

I like my puddings and made a dish recently after discovering some rhubarb at the local deli. Rhubarb and custard, a classic combination that has even evolved into cartoons and sweets, catapulting me back to my childhood.

I heated the rhubarb, added muscovado sugar, raisins and the embers of a forgotten sweet Austrian wine which I found at the back of the fridge. The wine was a sophisticated blend of Chardonnay and Welschriesling grapes.. and now rhubarb. It was thankfully still drinkable due to the prolonged shelf life of a sweet wine after opening.

While this was softening I separated three egg yokes and made a custard. What remained was a bowl of nervous egg whites, waiting to get more familiar with my sink.

Egg white has its uses as a fining agent in mainly red wine, removing solids and proteins, clearing out the chaff. On this occasion I turned the tables and messed with the egg white's own proteins, attempting meringues. I whipped them up, disrupting their delicate protein chains, changing the structure. This 'denaturation' causes air to be trapped resulting in a nice thick foam, into which I folded some sugar. Using Delia Smith as a guide (although her mystique and kudos has been slightly diminished in my eye after too much attention around her extra-culinary activities) I cooked them in a 'cooling' oven.

An hour or so later I removed the meringues. They were undercooked, more like a Tunnock's Tea Cake than the armadillo I desired. Impatient for the crunchy sugar rush I decided to turn them upside down under a low grill heat to finish them off quickly.
I was distracted for a few minutes and returned to the kitchen to find it full of smoke. My meringues resembled a collection of Olympic torches, burning vigorously soon to be extinguished. Rather embarrassed I crawled under the smoke to the garden where I threw the flaming husks for the creatures of the night to feast on. After sorting out the smoke alarm I went to bed.

The next morning was crisp and dewy. Walking across the lawn I saw my discarded meringues. Incredibly they looked exactly like a collection of Portabella mushrooms with their black burnt underside and off-white tops. They were untouched in the night, not even tempting for a passing 'Dong with a Luminous Nose'.

Asymmetric Abnormality of the Gait

2008-04-03T17:14:00.015+01:00

I developed a mild limp at the end of last week. My right foot is actively encouraging me not to walk, there are clearly some mysterious mechanical problems.

Limps do not go unnoticed by friends, and the word 'gout' is being wildly banded about with sympathetic smirks. In fact the general public are staring at me with suspicion as I hobble around the place. A limp is a very public disorder.

There is some confusion over the causes of gout. Red wine grape seeds contain procyanidins which help by reducing our uric acid levels, the cause of gout. On the other hand alcohol does not help. We are in fact very familiar with ridding our bodies of uric acid as we actively expel it into porcelain receptacles. A high purine diet (which the body converts to uric acid) is what to avoid if you are susceptible to gout. Sweet fizzy drinks are particularly bad.

Port used to contain litharge to sweeten it up, this caused lead poisoning, and the side effect of gout to irritate you even more in your madness. The only way to accidentally get lead into wine or port these days is to leave it too long in a lead crystal decanter. The lead will eventually start to seep into the liquid.

My symptoms according the the hallowed 'Dr Google' do not implicate gout, but I may well self-combust. There again that was more help than my doctor could offer, who told me to carry on as normal while popping a few pain killers. I must say I immediately felt much better after escaping from the waiting room full of the cast of 'Dawn of the Dead'. My foot seemed a small matter in the grand scheme of ailments.

I limped to a wedding in Brighton last weekend, and spent the night at a nearby Bed and Breakfast. The room was like an eighties time capsule, very chintzy, and as damp as the underside of Palace Pier. Everywhere you turned was a little typed message with peculiar etiquette or pointless warnings like 'please be aware that the towel rail is hot'. If it was actually hot then maybe some of the damp would have been dispelled.

Sort of refreshed, my musty clothes and I went to Littlehampton to meet friends for lunch the next day at a cool new place called the 'East Beach Cafe'. I parked the car and found myself wandering through a 'mature', large crazy golf course to find the cafe. There was what only could be described as a giant discarded half chewed toffee a little further on. The ultimate challenge for the crazy golf enthusiast, 'Happy Gilmour' springs to mind. On closer inspection the other side of the toffee was glass fronted, containing the cafe I sought. Very interesting design. Inside, I felt like the filling in a Baked Alaska, a white and cavernous arena set on the beach with fabulous sea views.

I chose Moules Mariniere, a very fine use of white wine and cream. More plentiful purines.

Spume Tea

2008-03-26T09:48:00.005Z

I spent the Easter break in Cornwall.

Flying seemed the obvious option what with high petrol prices or the inevitability of standing under someone's armpit in the train. Unfortunately Ryan Air managed to amplify a flight offered for a few pounds into a cacophony of seemingly farcical charges, making it a frustrating choice.

The 'bed and breakfast' was simply excellent. A large manor house near Padstow with a larger than life owner who proudly proffered his homemade marmalade and muffins. On arrival he pointed out the drinks cabinet. It was situated in the corner of an elegant sitting room and consisted of some very interesting wine. He proclaimed that due to his love for wine he chose to provide good bottles at a minimum mark up. Guests were welcome to have a glass or two and scribble in an honesty book. He would then quaff the remainder. How thoroughly civilised. He then wobbled off to cook some muffins while I got stuck into a very nice Pinot Noir.

Padstow is a pretty little fishing port, with some excellent restaurants. It is well know for Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant. However it would appear that the Rick Stein branding is a little out of control as he has a deli, bistro, cafe, shop, restaurant, cookery school and fish and chip shop. I would be surprised if the poor fish caught in 'Padstein' ever escape the Stein grip. I was intrigued to try the Rick Stein fish and chips. The chips and tartar source were superb, the fish a little disappointing.

Moving away from the Stein ego, I discovered an amazing restaurant called No.6 which was exquisite fine dining with a great tasting menu and optional wine matching. The wine list itself was not too big expensive and complex, which sat well as I don't like having to read War and Peace before eating.

The explosion of high profile 'eateries' in Cornwall has had some interesting effects. For example the arrival of Jamie Oliver's Fifteen at Watergate Bay has had a significant effect on the pull of visitors to the place. Swarms of tourists prompted the the owner of the local car park to charge all year round, not just in the summer. I heard that the locals were so outraged at the lack of free 'off peak' parking that they very theatrically blew up the charging meter. I think the message was received loud and clear as the meter has yet to be replaced.

Later in the week I ventured down to St Ives which was getting a battering from stormy weather. The sea had worked up such a foamy rage of spume it looked like thick whipped cream, ready to plop onto some nice warm scones. This prompted me to find shelter in a cafe, and I found cream tea solace in the cool contemporary Tate gallery.

Shmoozing

2008-03-11T09:16:00.005Z

I sometimes throw together lunch for myself at work, and therefore keep the odd bit of fruit and veg in my desk.

Recently that Albert Square market feel has not been so apparent due to time pressures. I have had to spend a fortune on processed bread coated in hydrogenated fat cocooned in cardboard, exposing its flimsy tasteless wares through a thin plastic window, mocking me as I vainly try to get inside.

I opened the desk drawer last week to find an explosion of tendrils from a lone potato, all forgotten, desperately wanting to reproduce for a bit of company. In such a clinical office environment this display of nature was somewhat alarming at first glance, 'The Little Office of Horrors'.

I dread to think of the advanced lifeforms developing in my keyboard. I suppose I only need to worry when it starts typing by itself.

The rapid expansion of the potato made me think of some yeast I spilt in the sink recently, while exploring a new bread maker. The yeast multiplied very quickly when it hit the wet surface, then died from lack of nutrients, leaving big brown blobs.

Yeast cells are much like human cells, except they are capable of suspended animation when dried. Add water and they magically come to life, just like me in the morning.

I inadvertently delved into the black art of rehydration when very young and naive. I kept pet newts, and one escaped into my bedroom, only to be discovered weeks later all dried up under my bed. After several tears and attempts dipping it into the pond I sadly discovered the limits of most creatures.

Keeping yeast alive is a little tricky, the perfect Tamagotchi. In fact part of the yeast reproductive process is named after the 'shmoo', from old comic strip by Al Capp called Li'l Abner. This involves sending out a shmoo towards another yeast cell, a sort of long protruding tentacle like a slugs eye. The two cells then fuse. They stay alive as long as there is enough sugar and the temperature is right.

The yeast converts sugar into ethanol (alcohol) and CO2. The CO2 makes the bubbles in bread, and we know only too well the applications in wine making. There is a small amount of untamed wild yeast in grapes, too unruly and sparse to produce predictable fermentation, hence the need to add scholarly yeast from good homes called Saccharomyces cerevisiae.

Three hours after I had plonked my raw ingredients into the bread maker I proudly delivered a beautiful brown loaf into the world for the first time. Sadly all the ethanol produced by the yeast evaporates during the baking.

Life would be interesting if you were stopped by the traffic police and asked how many slices you had consumed before driving.

Shaken and Stirred

2008-02-27T11:37:00.010Z

I woke at 1.00am to find my bed quivering and wardrobe rattling. While coming too a bit more, I realised I was not in the duty free section of a cross channel ferry, but something strange was afoot in sleepy Cambridgeshire.

My bedroom felt like a Jenga tower near the end game, being played next to a herd of stampeding buffalo.

Luckily my worries of a resident poltergeist were swept away when I listened to the news this morning. An earthquake with the epicentre in Lincolnshire at 5.3 magnitude, the largest in the UK since 1984.

After checking my house for cracks my mind turned to the remainder of a case of 2000 Pomerol stashed under the stairs (the only quality wine I currently have with lots of sediment). I have heard of 'bottle shock', and 'travel shock' but not 'ground shock'. Believe it or not there are products out there like specialist racks designed to cope with earth tremors.
As an earthquake of this magnitude is only likely to occur every 20 years I will pass on the damping gadgets, I doubt very much that the lions share of my bottles like 'Tesco Value Valpolicella' will survive 20 weeks let alone years.

Yesterday there were small warning signs. No fleeing sheep or deer, but I should have listened to the normally placid neighbour's barking dog, and left an unmixed vodka martini next to my bed last night. The ultimate cocktail, shaken by an earthquake, one you could never have made to order. Great to calm the nerves at 1.00am. James Bond would be jealous.

I was reading the Sunday papers and noted an innovative cocktail creator called Eben Freeman. He is a molecular mixologist, the Heston Blumenthal of drinks. He started off looking after wine cellars and has clearly moved to more potent pursuits.

His latest creation 'The Mojito of the Future' looks like a freeze frame of a cocktail due to the gelatinous consistency. Green balls of frozen mint puree are suspended in time. I reckon if I watered my Aloe vera plant with Bacardi and ate the leaves it would be similar. Think I will pass on his Mojito, but at least it would stay in the glass if the ground moved.

Astronomical Measures

2008-02-22T10:09:00.021Z

Maybe it's a sign of creeping years, but I bought a touring bike recently. I needed a commuting beast to withstand the rigours of the winter tracks and tarmac.

I wrote to the local farmer who graciously granted me the right to cycle off road across his land. The formal agreement I had to sign felt like something from the Middle Ages, I was a mere serf from the lower echelons appeasing the lord of the manor. It excluded the 'lord' liability from just about any misfortune that I might befall on his land.

I mounted my steed the other morning, and made my way up the farm track, casting that classic touring look, drop bars, panniers and sensible fluorescent strips. Touring bikes do have an image problem, but they are simply excellent (yes, I am also a Volvo driver).

The fog was lifting, and I was being careful not to fall off, as I would probably be scraped up by a tractor and fed to some hungry pigs. In the distance, out of the mist, the local radio telescopes started materialising. They looked like Regency goblets on a giant's dinner table, the angular geometric ironwork glinting like sharp cut crystal.

My mind wandered to a recent meal a local Italian restaurant. I had ordered a glass of red wine and this goldfish bowl appeared before me. A hideously large 250 ml of thick dark Montepulciano. You may as well have treated the stuff like beer and given me the bottle to swig. No respect. The huge glass could have doubled as a water tower for the local community.

The news in the UK is buzzing with talk of excessive wine measures, more worried about the alcohol consumption than the more salient point of killing the subtlety and enjoyment of wine. It is hard to find the friendly 125ml glass anywhere these days. I had a third of a bottle before me. The poor modest Montepulciano just wanted to be appreciated, not flagrantly splayed in such a bold, vulgar, profligate fashion.

Large glasses would not be so bad if the restaurants could measure lesser amounts into them, but wine should not me thrust from pillar to post, poured into some dirty measuring vessel prior to landing in a glass lagoon. You have to end up with a variety of those unpleasant plimsoll lines on the side of the glass, a bit like drinking a urine sample from a beaker.

The radio telescopes behind me I had safely negotiated the farm. My touring bike and I arrived at work looking like the homemade wonky windswept muffin (bloody fan assisted ovens), that I plucked out of my pannier to accompany my early morning cup of tea.

Dirty Dancing

2008-02-08T10:17:00.001Z

I want to talk about bubbles. Those impossibly perfect packets of joy that make Champagne so beautiful.

They have a violent history, as Champagne bottles did not used to be so strong. Forgetting to wear an iron mask for trips to a Champagne cellar could be likened to walking into an inner city after dark without a stab vest. Thankfully a Benedictine monk called Dom Perignon helped design better bottles, and invented the metal cage keeping the cork secure.

I don't know about you, but whenever I take the cage off the cork, my eyes start to water, like I just have pulled the pin from a hand grenade.

So how do you get the bubbles into quality Champagne?

You basically add some yeast and sugar to the bottle and put on a crown cap. This promotes secondary fermentation, and therefore carbon dioxide. You leave the bottle for at least 15 months which produces lots of detritus.

To remove the muck, the bottle is subjected to an eccentric process called riddling. It involves clever dance choreography slowly forcing the sediment to the neck of the bottle, where it is frozen and removed. Often a little sugar is added at this point, just before the cork is applied.

The carbon dioxide is mostly dissolved in the liquid due to the bottle pressure, producing some carbonic acid. It is rudely awakened once the bottle is opened as the pressure is released. It finds itself in a glass and has an overwhelming urge to get out of the liquid. It gathers in unruly crowds either where the glass surface is irregular, or on dust particles. Once enough molecules have assembled a bubble forms caused by nature's remarkable surface tension phenomenon. When large enough it rises to the surface, contributing to global warming in its own modest way.

The stinging sensation you get on your tongue is not due to the bubbles bursting. It is actually lots of miniscule burns caused by the carbonic acid. I think I will throw my Listerine away and gargle with vintage Champagne in future, it sounds much more fun.

Perfect Pitch

2008-01-16T07:43:00.001Z

I made the mistake over the festive period of buying the most beautiful Christmas tree I could find. I had shunned the fat ugly non shedding variety (probably achieved by being sent abroad to a sweatshop where all the needles are removed and stuck on again with super glue).

Proudly erecting this tree in the sitting room, I found that it was losing its delicate needles at an alarming rate. My carpet resembled the hide of an oversized hedgehog. Nevertheless I dressed my balding bark and awoke the seasons spirit in my humble home.

On the removal of the tree in early January I am left with 'embedded pine needle in carpet syndrome', where the only cure is to tap into the dexterity of any available obsessive stamp collectors with their magnifying glasses and tweezers. I will look one up in the Yellow Pages. My poor vacuum is not up to the job, having been already lacerated by a storm of 'surface pine needles'.

To add insult to injury my hands were left sticky with pine resin, for which the tree is forgiven as resin has an incredible amount of applications -

A notable use was for sealing ancient Greek amphorae, helping preserve wine on long sea voyages. This produced a taint in the wine and eventually led to the wine we know today as Retsina. The modern process just adds small amounts of Aleppo Pine resin during fermentation to achieve that 'pine fresh' taste.

Anything with pine whiffs I associate with household cleaning products (which use the resin for aroma). To the unanointed like myself, the idea of Retsina smacks of drinking neat bleach. Shades of that film 'Heathers'.

Pine resin is also responsible for pitch which was used to keep those Greek wooden sea vessels afloat. This is the origin of the word 'pitcher', derived from the long spouted pitch pourer. Not to be confused with baseball pitchers, who like a violinist use the gripping properties of rosin derived from turpentine for the perfect pitch.

A more practical application for my pine resin surplus would be to scrape it off my hands, hair and door knobs to distill it. Mix the resulting turpentine with a bit of left over turkey fat and rub it on my chest, not as a 'body rug' remover, but a vapour rub fending off seasonal colds. The only downside is that all wine would taste like Retsina.

A Bad Workman Blames His Gaggia

2007-12-14T11:29:00.001Z

A cup of coffee always seems the natural progression after a great meal with fine wine, while your taste buds are still singing.

Coffee and wine are similar in their complex challenge to the palate. For us consumers wine just needs to be 'stored and poured' whereas there is an art to a good coffee. Your journey has barely begun when you have selected your beans, you haven't even left 'the Shire'.

I am a single espresso man, I find the double espresso vulgar, and decaf sour and pointless. I occasionally venture into macchiato territory, enjoying the fluffy dab of milk, the icing on the cake. Sugar disguises a multitude of sins and should be avoided.

My main gripe it that restaurants charge a fortune for an espresso and then fall down on one basic issue - The espresso is only small, and therefore needs good insulation to keep it from being lukewarm when finally touching your lips. Countless times I am served with a cold cup and saucer. Its like being served a hot meal on a cold plate, unforgivable.

A friend recently gave me a Gaggia coffee machine, which I accepted with glee, hoping that this kind hand-me-down was only surplus to requirements and not simply rubbish.
I studied its inner workings, and after about eight attempts finally produced something that looked and tasted like a good espresso - Dark and inky with the characteristic rusty crema on top, hiding the contents like the opaque atmosphere of an undiscovered world.

Several days later, with unfounded confidence I offered some dinner party guests a coffee. Oh dear. You need the patience of a saint and the technical precision of a Swiss watch maker to create espressos to order. I ended up with coffee all over the floor and a room full of steam. It spurted out like I had just ruptured a carotid artery, I thought I had killed it. Drinking the watery stuff that I managed to save was like swimming in the Mediterranean. You suddenly hit a cold pocket and all bets are off.

Since then I have been to a couple of friend's houses where their swish coffee machines simply 'misbehaved'. I am starting to appreciate why I always have to queue up in Starbucks.

I am told that to make exquisite coffee you not only need to grind you own coffee beans, but you should also buy your beans 'green' and roast them to taste. Maybe I am best reverting back to instant to make up for my inadequacies as a coffee maker and queue up for the real stuff, but once bitten by 'proper' coffee, it's hard to see a way back.

Instant is so detached from real coffee, it's in a whole drink category of its own. It has an extremely stressful, and frankly unappealing journey to jar - Imagine waking up bleary eyed and making a really hot strong cafetiere. Just before you can get your caffeine hit, it is whisked off by NASA and blasted into space. The cold void freezes the coffee. Once frozen the cargo is broken up and approaches the sun. The combination of a vacuum and the right heat evaporates the frozen water crystals, leaving those irksome freeze dried granules we know so well.

So instant is just a dried cup of someone else's coffee. Yuck.

For decaf instant it is even worse. Problem beans are selected on their penchant for solvent abuse. This foul habit happens to banish the caffeine. The beans are then forced to go cold turkey and are steam stripped of their dubious past before being freeze dried.

I have decided that wine drinking and espresso making definitely do not mix. You need a very clear head to work the mysteries of a Gaggia.

Yam Yam

2007-11-26T15:24:00.000Z

It was a friends Thanksgiving dinner the other night. A very non-British pursuit, but high on novelty factor. Any excuse for a party and wacky food.

I decided to find an American wine to match the theme. After being disappointed by a particularly unhelpful off license that's horizons did not stretch beyond France, I found myself falling into a newsagent. There in front of me was the expected bunch of odd bottles, all at around £3 to £5. Suddenly, a shining beacon of kitschiness stood out, evoking fond memories of the 80's....

Paul Masson California Carafe. Perfect.

It was one of our first widely advertised American wine imports, cleverly packaged in a 'useful' carafe, subliminally compensating for the questionable contents.

The meal was a traditional Thanksgiving fare of turkey and homemade cranberry sauce, followed by a dish which had 'only in America' blazoned across it - 'candied yams'.
Yams have an identity crisis. They look exactly like sweet potato, but do not share the same Morning Glory plant family. These limp impersonators nevertheless tasted great roasted with marshmallows.

As the carafe was opened it occurred to me that it might well have been sitting on that dusty newsagent shelf since the 80's, shunned by discerning Blue Nun buyers until now. I sipped the Paul Masson Californian sunshine, washing down the yams, past episodes of Columbo and CHiPs reawakened. It was more like Alcohol-free mouthwash than wine. Still, the carafe would be useful for the bladder bursting gridlock when trying to get anywhere in this country, the results might just taste better.

A Wing

2007-11-15T11:51:00.000Z

I spent last weekend in prison, well the old Victorian prison in Oxford converted into a luxury hotel.
My room was in the A Wing, a lattice of iron multi-layered walkways passing low cell doors recessed into the featureless walls. The door to my cell was original, wooden fronted with a metal backing cell side, bearing marks of years of frustrated entombment. The room was actually three cells combined, all with curved brick ceilings. It was kind of eerie watching the beams of light cast a sombre glow from the high cell windows set in thick stone.

I slept well in my incarceration with the knowledge that I had my rock hammer and poster of Raquel Welch hidden about my bed.

A former inmate of Melbourne’s Pentridge prison has just bought back the cell where he spent 7 years for embezzlement and armed robbery. It is in the same part of the prison that is being converted into wine storage that will eventually hold $50 million worth of rare wine.
I looked at my complimentary bottle of wine knowing that despite its lack of calibre, it would be in pristine condition.

I woke up relieved to find that the guard had not bolted the door, and I strolled down to the basement for breakfast. The fellow inmates looked well-heeled, but very unfriendly.

Coming Out

2007-10-29T10:43:00.000Z

I was in Las Vegas soon after returning from Morocco, dropping in on the way to my cousins wedding in LA. I met up with friends who were staying at the Bellagio.
I had been once before and was amazed at how quickly Vegas evolves, new enormous hotels erupting out of the desert desperately trying to cling to a quirky theme to attract the tourists hemorrhaging dollars. Interestingly I could not find a hotel themed on London, which surely would be a winner.

Having been to Venice in January, I wanted to see The Venetian. There was something surreal about asking for directions to St Mark's Square in the middle of Nevada. Once you get there the vision of electric gondolas with seat belts floating on dyed blue water under a concrete sky makes you feel like the laws of art and culture have been violated, albeit in a spectacular way. How both Venice and The Venetian can exist in the same universe, and not extinguish each other in an exotic puff of matter and 'notmatter' is a mystery to me.

After my second very fine bourbon cocktail at a Bellagio bar my jet lag cynicism subsided and I started having fun. I went for a stroll around the casino, and was engulfed in a wall of strange tones produced by lots of old looking ladies working slot machines. Further on, the craps tables looked both scary and exciting, there was lots of whooping as someone was shooting the right numbers. I decided this was the way for me to lose my money.
I could not find Demi Moore, so all alone I sidled over to the tables and slotted myself into the busiest one with all the action. I placed 150 USD on the table, and was given a load of plastic in return. I then proceeded to play the way my uncle had once taught me, and put the theory into practice.
Eventually it was my turn to shoot. Your first throw is called your 'come out roll'. I was disappointed to observe that the dice rolls were fast and messy, often displacing chips. Not the elegant 'sloooow' motion rolls you see on the big screen. The buzz and the atmosphere were nevertheless incredible, and I was doing rather well. I made someone very happy at one point when I kept throwing the 'hard six' (two threes).

Leaving the craps table with more plastic and friends than I had started, I collected my winnings and went to a fish restaurant in the MGM complex. The wine list was so big, impressive and pricey that I had to call for the rather snooty Sommelier. I ended up with a pleasant but huge Californian Zinfandel. My meal reaffirmed my view to stick with American classic food in Vegas. Anything else seemed to be below par. This was not hard, as the waiters first recommendation in the 'fish' restaurant was the sirloin steak with chips.

my mule don't like people laughin'

2007-09-11T23:09:00.000+01:00

I have just returned from Morocco.
It is an extraordinary place, possibly some of the most charming people I have ever met.

Mules seem to be an integral part of everyday life there, and I became quite attached to mine while trekking through the Atlas mountains.
I am beginning to think that a mule would be very useful at home for my six mile cross country commute to work, but I am sure it would find the task of 'low plains drifter' in Cambridge rather dull and unchallenging. I also lack the Clint Eastwood swagger.

While balancing on my sure footed mule, scrambling up a mountain pass, I passed plenty of goats. These hardy creatures are more than just a walking tajine, they are also involved in the extraordinary process of Argan oil production, derived from the gnarled Argan tree which globally only resides in south-west Morocco.
The non-cooking grade variety of oil is a result of goats climbing the twisted trees and eating the Argan tree fruits as they love the pulp around the nuts (with this in mind I didn't feel too comfortable standing too close to Moroccan goats). Once passed through the digestive tract the remaining nut shell is softer and the seed has slight taint. Farmers then harvest these faeces covered nuts and produce the oil by roasting the seeds. It is said that unwary travellers are sold this not food grade oil, rather than the stuff untouched by the voracious goats. You also have to watch out for the dodgy dealers that sell cheaper Argan oil cut with vegetable oil.
Apparently Argan oil has enormous health benefits, and is delicious with bread.

A meal out in Morocco it full on. It's big, rich and bold. Tajines and couscous, all delicious of course, but you walk away like you have just swallowed an anvil. The local wine is ok, but one glass I tried brought tears to my eyes, it tasted like a home brew wine I once made from immature English grapes at home when I was a kid. It was French colonisation that sparked off the wine industry in Morocco, and there are now plenty of wine producing regions.

Of course it takes a while to adjust to the different bacteria in the food, so a slight stomach wobble is expected, especially coming from the over sterile, plastic packaged Britain. My wobble happened, you could argue, at the best possible time. I was having a Hamman, my skin had been removed and I had just been covered in a sort of mud coloured paste, while I was brought slowly to the boil. I suddenly lost control and lets just say the camouflage saved my embarrassment.
There is a solution for bad guts, it's carpet sellers. While you are listening to them weaving a yarn or two they provide the best soothing cup of mint tea, poured from a ridiculous height and slurped with great gusto.

'Croc'quet

2007-08-07T15:12:00.000+01:00

I finally caved in and bought a pair of Crocs. They are simply too comfortable to pass by, aside from the so called fashion statement.

I needed size eleven. It looks like I have a pair of giant turtles attached to my feet. Maybe I could walk on water? Who needs a pedalo when you have size eleven Crocs.

I previously wore Birkenstocks, which are also very comfortable. Both types mold to your feet, but difference is that Crocs have the 'Baywatch' bounce. Birki's have cork inners, derived from the same Portuguese tree bark that supply a much lesser part of the wine industry than a few years ago. I should think that it's a bum deal for the Birkenstock bark, a lifetime of someone's sweaty feet, as opposed to gently sipping a nice Bordeaux while protecting it from the elements.

My Birki's began to smell as the cork reticently absorbed my exertions. I did not want to buy another pair, and you cannot put them in the wash. A friend advised me to freeze them over night to kill the bacteria. Interesting.... so I tried it, as there was room between the frozen peas and chicken breasts. I took them out a day later and noted that the odour had diminished, but not enough. Plan B was to wet the soles in a little Bicarbonate of Soda solution for a hour, then refreeze. Much better, but still no cigar.

Crocs do not have this problem as you can simply wash them.

What about the issue of recycling Crocs? Well they stand more chance than normal shoes that are a melange of miscellaneous materials all glued together in a toxic dance.
At least Crocs are one material, and apparently you can send them back to the company for recycling.

It is now the croquet season and I have a rematch tomorrow with my brother, whose game is considerably more skilled than mine. I am sure my new footwear will put him off his stride and offer protection from his vicious roquets and indeed the sun, areas that my Birki's were lacking. I am unsure how the bounce in the sole will affect my stability of strike. I doubt I will care very much after a few cool glasses of rose.

Batten down the hatches

2007-07-23T17:14:00.000+01:00

Normally when you feel the need to break wind, your body's early warning system lets you know in many mysterious ways.

Subtle pressures build up, and normally coincide in the catastrophic event itself. Of course the precursors are there, like beans ('Blazing Saddles'), fruit or pop. It's a very effective way of clearing a room, or causing a domestic, so it pays to listen to your inner self once in a while.

When the world chooses to break wind in the form of angry weather there is a satellite dedicated to detecting the early signs. Unfortunately it appears that due to maintenance issues the ability to use 'QuikSCAT' to monitor wind will diminish, and there is no planned replacement. We can but hope for a flatulent free future world.

With the prospect of yet more relentless rain with little warning, sitting in my back garden and fashioning an Ark out of my neighbours fence seems like a good option right now.

I saw two guinea fowl earlier that would make perfect first passengers.

Back to odours, I find that pears really set me off, in fact so suddenly that a dedicated orbiting honeycomb of expertly configured wind sensing satellites could not detect the oncoming of a pear fart.

I have started getting my fruit and veg delivered from a local organic farm (whatever organic really means). What I like best about this is the lucky dip approach, the veg is covered in plenty of free mud, and there is no plastic packaging to contend with.
Pears are making lots of guest organic appearances, and I am bored of just munching them raw. I often have partial bottles of red wine knocking around just beyond their best, combine those with a few wise words from 'Delia Smith' and the magical world of poached pears is revealed. I must say they are delicious.

I am not an accomplished chef, so any dish I make has to be easy. This one is simple.

Peel two or three unripe pears. Warm half a pint or so of red wine with a couple of cloves in a saucepan. Add a few spoons of sugar, depending on the wine. When the sugar has dissolved put in your peeled pears, bulbous end down and simmer for 25 mins. Take out the lovely plump blushing fruit and reduce the red wine down to a thick sauce. Serve pears with the sauce and a lump of ice cream, or mascarpone. Spend quite some time alone...

It's just a flesh wound

2007-07-13T11:10:00.000+01:00

I spent lunchtime yesterday at a fine local Italian restaurant. Fried squid followed by pasta with meatballs all washed down with a little Montepulciano and the perfect espresso (which I chose not to spit out like the man in the film 'Mulholland Drive').

I sauntered home on my bike later that day only to be rudely flattened by a car crossing the cycle path from a hidden driveway.
Luckily I escaped with a few cuts and bruises, but my front wheel was buckled. As it happened the passenger in the car was an ex-bicycle repair man, and putting on his superhero cape he tried to straighten my wheel, to no avail. Dejected, I waited on a wall for a taxi to transport me and my broken steed home.

My beautiful lunch which had been so innocuously digesting was now disturbed, petrified in the pit of my stomach.

This was my second car collision in two weeks, and I am beginning to feel like Monty Python's 'Black Knight', "It's just a flesh wound!". Cycling in and around Cambridge is quite simply dangerous.

While contemplating my close shave, the taxi driver told me that he was run over once and was so incensed that he punched the perpetrator. This was far from comforting. He then went on to talk about his Thai Kickboxing skills. Mistakenly I mentioned that I was learning Kung Fu, at which point he stated that it would be rather fun if I tried 'to do a runner' as we could have an interesting fight to resolve matters.

On arrival home the cash flew out of my wallet and we parted company.

Wok Disposal

2007-06-26T12:43:00.000+01:00

I moved house last weekend. My modest rented accommodation seems to have generated enough useless stuff to whip car boot sellers into an excited frenzy.

The local Oxfam now looks spookily familiar, but there are only so many woks, fondue sets and Dan Brown books that even a charity shop can handle.

Ken Hom has a lot to answer for. Maybe there is a wok graveyard somewhere, in fact I am surprised there isn't a dedicated wok recycle bin outside every house. Perhaps UFOs are just woks flamboyantly discarded by frustrated owners, who's wok cupboards are bulging with unwanted duplication. They might come in useful with the flash floods this country seems to be experiencing at the moment. Attach one to each foot and run quickly across the water.
There should be a public wok register to stop unwanted presents for those that already posses one, which I bet you do. It would work a bit like TV licensing in this country, everyone is presumed to have a wok unless they give notification otherwise, and even then they are disbelieved.

Don't get me wrong I love wok cooking, I just don't need ten of them.

Why do we insist on having lots of stuff around us? Well I suppose stuff is a sort of memory map of your life, like an interactive diary. Its hard to get rid of memories, no matter how reassuring your Buzz Lightyear looks standing proud in your corner cupboard boldly surveying the premises.

After some digging around I eventually assembled my wine, a modest, eclectic bunch of bottles.

One bottle of Moet (calmly and patiently waiting for a celebration), one Vin Santo (never tastes quite the same in the wet UK), one quite extraordinary Italian wine, the bottle extravagantly heavy, label undecipherable, a cheap M&S chardonnay, an excellent Medoc Bordeaux, a bottle of Prosecco and a bottle of fino sherry.

Each bottle of my rather limp collection is still a wonderful memory map of the vintage, a time capsule subtly massaged by various chemicals over the years (months in the cheap chardonnay case), all designed to ease your mind from the trials and tribulations of wok disposal.

Most of the wine I drink is bought and drunk within a few days. I would like to join a wine club to boost my ailing collection. Any suggestions welcome.

Buzz and I, together with endless boxes, are now happily rehoused.

The Madness of Packaging

2007-06-21T13:52:00.000+01:00

I live in the university town of Cambridge where exams are drawing to a close. I went out to purchase a lunchtime sandwich, fully aware that the majority of the filling would end up residing in my capacious keyboard. I am convinced the more I feed it the smoother the typing, like a well oiled engine. I dare not turn it upside down.
I noticed a group of students with shopping trolleys, covertly herded out of the confines of a supermarket. The first chariot was crammed with plastic punnets of strawberries (about two per carton), the second with sugar, cream and Champagne. They were locked in a Ben-Hur type tussle. The sun was out, so punting on the river Cam was most probably their objective. Very civilised. I hoped that the beautiful river would not suffer the normal watery grave of shopping trolleys.
There is a lot in the media about over packaging, this being a prime example. There was enough plastic around those poor sweaty strawberries to create a G-Wiz electric car.

Bottle packaging is more interesting. If those students chose to recycle just two from their Moet nest, they would save enough energy to boil five cups of tea.

Apparently the foil around the top of a wine bottle used to be made out of lead (banned in 1993). This is why sommeliers wiped the top of a bottle before pouring to avoid poisoning.
A victim of wine drinking plumbism was Beethoven. Unfortunately for him bottles had lead foils, lead acetate was used to sweeten wine (some might say the cause of the decline of the Roman Empire) and he enjoyed drinking copious amounts from his favourite lead goblet. The genius had numerous 'heavy metal' related health complaints, including deafness and died early at 57 in 1827. I guess the odds were stacked against him.

A good tip for wine pouring is to cut the foil low so as to avoid giving the wine a metallic tang. Years ago, a foils purpose was to prevent weevils and rodents attacking the corks in damp dusky wine cellars. Now, like so much packaging, aesthetics are the name of the game.

The Great Escape

2007-06-14T10:43:00.000+01:00

It was early morning, the patio doors were wide open displaying a scene of sunny tranquility. I had my head in the Saturday papers, munching on some toast and sipping tea.

A loud noise broke the silence, the resulting tea slick progressively giving Tony Blair 5 o'clock shadow.

I looked up and was confronted by a flurry of feathers, which translated into a small bird attacking something. The bird spied me. I instinctively did not move a muscle and it too froze. I am not a 'bird fancier' so all I can say is that it was elegant and brown. It was proudly presiding over a small snail which was covered in a froth of bubbles, as though perfectly dressed for service by a Michelin star chef.
The once hectic scene was now intensely static, like a rubber band at breaking point. The birds beady eye drilled into mine asking lots of questions. These were all answered at once when I took a sip of my depleted tea reserve. The bird flew to the other side of the patio, escaping the perceived threat.

The peace once more established, I carried on reading my mulchy paper. Several minutes passed and I glanced up again. The snail had performed a Lazareth, and was casually sliding
away from the scene. A very slow but miraculous escape. The bird did not dare approach, the tea loving scarecrow obliviously taking care of that.

I was watching the 'Great British Menu' the other day and noted that someone had decided to cook 'wild' snails from his garden. The traditional French 'escargot' cooking method involves Court Bouillon which is typically a heady mixture of white wine, water, shallots and many herbs. Once cooked they are then served with a garlic/herb butter mix.
I am not sure whats worse, being boiled alive by a cursing chef or eaten alive by our feathered friends. I have never sampled snail, and certainly did not want to eat this creature after it had so bravely won its freedom. I was quite happy with Marmite on my toast.

Is There Life 'In' Mars?

2007-05-14T15:09:00.000+01:00

I was percolating through the quirky news stories of the day and noticed one to disappoint vegetarians.
Apparently the Mars Bar will now contain whey made with rennet, a chemical extracted from calves stomachs....ouch.

I have mentioned before that dispatching lots of cows will dramatically reduce methane emissions and therefore global warming, but I am sure a 'mars a day' will make you equally as flatulent.

Naturally this got me wondering about wine and animal products.

More bad news. Unless specifically branded 'vegetarian' most wine processing involves small amounts of melancholy meat, wrenched from happiness and dissolved into the wine simply to make it clearer (a process called fining). As the 'flesh' extracts protein, the wine clarifies. This all coagulates into a thoroughly unpleasant mess at the bottom of the barrels from where it is removed, hence the lack of reference to things like gelatin, egg white and even blood on a wine bottle.
The most obscure fining agent I have found is 'Isinglass'. This is mainly derived from the swimbladders of the beluga sturgeon fish, and is rarely used now. It must be tough losing that swimbladder, waking up on the dark murky bottom of the Caspian sea with a thick head and a scar on your side. The only route to the surface is in being caught (again), and yielding up your precious roe for black market Beluga Caviar.

On a brighter note, when a substance called 'bentonite' (silica clay) is not busy sealing up nuclear waste dumps or providing a detox diet for native South American tribes, it acts as a 'meat free' fining option, mainly for white wine.

How Do You Peel?

2007-04-30T09:43:00.000+01:00

While obliviously part satisfying our nanny state five a day fruit thing, a friend of mine alerted me to the fact that monkeys peel bananas rather differently to humans.

Our hairy cousins attack the stubby end of the banana and use the more obvious stalk as a handle. I took this on board and tried the method in the privacy of my own open plan office.
A light pinch and the skin fell away, seamlessly undressing the now self conscious fruit. It was like a brain shift moment. A mundane task that I have been performing all my life had been turned on its head, and replaced by a far superior method. Beating my chest with delight I headed to the bathroom to check that I hadn't spontaneously started growing large quantities of body hair.
For a monkey to mock my lifetime of considered peeling was difficult, but I am not too proud to take a lifestyle tip or two from our primate relatives.

Undressing a wine and releasing the genie out of the bottle is now turning into a bland, corkscrew-free screwing action more than a wholesome pull. It's like a one night stand, not a meaningful relationship.
You used to be able to get to know the contents while coercing the bloated bark with plenty of skill flurry and technique. No matter how cheap and nasty the wine you still want to be rewarded with a pop!
It has been scientifically proven that the packaging of products can physically effect the perception of taste. Not good news for screw tops.
Wine is intrinsically linked to its glass and cork home. It would be a great shame to see this gradually being replaced with the adolescent look of a cheap alcopop.

Pocket Sprung Naan

2007-04-20T15:14:00.000+01:00

Last night I dined at a newly opened local Indian restaurant. If I am to be entirely honest, for me, the single most enjoyable offering at a curry house is the Naan bread.

The Naan is something that you just cannot reproduce properly at home. You need generations of experience and a traditional tandoor oven to get it right, thus it is a source of the joy when eating out.
This particular flat bread offering was exemplary. I tore a generous chunk out of the Peshwari Naan and it floated up like a contented cumulus cloud. My mouth rested on a deliciously comforting individually pocket sprung mattress, dissolving into a subtle perfumed haze.

There are alot of upmarket Indian restaurants opening which poses a problem for the customer who would expect to accompany the pricey menu with wine, not lashings of lager.
The loud belligerent spices tend to work against the modest subtleties of wine. Add too much tannin and you get major palate peril.
Apparently bulldozing a Phaal with the full bodied reds like Chianti can work, as does Pinot Noir with milder offerings. Sauvignon Blanc is good with very light flavours. Fizzy wine would probably cause your stomach to feel like you had drunk a gallon of coke along with several sachets of 'Space Dust' (popping candy). CO2 has denied me the curry finishing line many a time, usually derived from lager.

I ended up with pleasantly flat tap water as I was driving.