We walk
down a gloomy staircase. It’s the middle of the afternoon and we’re alone, save
for a short and youthful man with a designer beard standing behind a huge glass
counter stuffed with cheese and charcuterie. I guess he’s French. The tables
are wooden and packed close together, like a Parisian bistro.
‘We’re just here for drinks. Is that
OK?’ I ask him.
‘Of course. Take a seat and I will be
with you shortly.’ He is French.
We’re here for wine tasting practice.
In hushed tones I explain this to our Gallic server and order an Austrian Gruner
Veltliner for my companion. He seems diverted by our little game.
He brings the glasses over. They have thick
rims and have clearly seen better days. My Italian friend shakes her head and
remarks that even at home she uses Riedel glasses. And this is the centre of
London!
We set to the tasting. My wine is
white and has a vague nose of apples and pears, with a bit of creaminess and
not much body. It’s not up to much and I haven’t a clue what it is. My friend
grimaces as she takes a sip of her Austrian white. She is likewise baffled.
I hazard a couple of wild guesses:
Chenin Blanc? Gavi? She again shakes her head, looking disappointed with me. Michael…
It turns out it was a Chardonnay from
the Maconnais. We agree it’s mediocre. I am not impressed with myself. I try
her wine, expecting the lovely white pepper character that is the tell-tale
sign of Gruner Veltliner. It’s not there.
We move on to reds. Another grimace
from my friend has the waiter sniffing the bottle to check it’s not spoiled. We
leave feeling chastened: how are we going to pass tomorrow’s tasting exam?
