Dinner at Cocoa's

Cocoa the cat's humans kindly made me a fucking brilliant dinner the other night, and, one of them being Mr Bond, there was some splendid wine to go with.

The menu:

Martinis, from the Gin Elephant:
French Kisses (Armagnac soaked prunes, stuffed with Foie Gras and wrapped in puff Pastry)
Veal Liver and Chanterelle Terrine (though I would've called it a Parfait)
Partridge with Bread Sauce and Beetroot Crisps
Apple Sorbet and Shortbread

The Wine:
Gonzalez Byass 'Apostoles' Palo Cortado Muy Viejo
Jean-Claude Bachelet 'Sous le Puits' Puligny Montrachet 2001
Paul Jaboulet Aine, Domaine Thalabert Crozes Hermitage 1983 (in decanter)
Klein Constantia Vin de Constance 2002

So, they pulled it off brilliantly. Mr Bond had actually made the puff pastry for the French Kisses, and they were all the better for it. A big whack of prune flavour that initially overwhelmed the foie-gras was followed by the untouchable sweet-savoury richness of the liver. The sherry, one of my very favourite wines, wasn't showing all its layers of flavour as elegantly as usual, but its powerful, almost buttery dried fruit character emphasised the richness of the kisses. Lovely, but I shoulda brought Champagne. I reckon the Charles Heidsieck Mise en Cave '01 would have done quite nicely.
The terrine (parfait) was perfect. Mrs Cocoa done good. Soft, moussey texture and a gently sweet gaminess that was bolstered by the sherry, and sliced into by the Puligny. This Bachelet is a great wine from an average vintage: atypical, purposefully oxidative, hazelnutty Puligny, with amazing weight and piercing pineappley fruit.
Onto the Partridge, and a barrage of fine wine to go with. By this point we were three glasses each - the sherry, the Burgundy, and the '83 Thalabert - and maybe one sheet each to the wind. Still sober enough for a good go at the Thalabert, which was pretty, with lovely dusty rose and violet top notes, but faded; much less assertive than the rest of the wines, and overwhelmed even by the partridge. Never mind, the partridge was splendid, and doubly so with the Burgundy, and the bread sauce got on pretty fine with the sherry.
My first taste of Vin de Constance, one of the most historic wines in the New World, was a bit of a revelation. I've never had a non-fortified muscat of this complexity or depth. Big, sweet, aromatic grape and marmalade fruit surrounded by notes of biscuit, spices (saffron!) and pitch perfect acidity. Amazing. Nice one to round off on, especially seeing as I got to finish Mr Bonds glass, as he'd begun to pass out.
Also, a curiosity:Bodegas Fernando Ramirez de Ganuza Rioja 2006
This was opened to add to the gravy for the Partridge, but also because Mr. Bond wanted to show it off. It's quite weird. 'Like Beaujolais Nouveau on acid' says Bond. Fernando Ramirez de Ganuza has the peculiar habit of cutting his bunches in two when picking, and fermenting the upper portions normally, and the lower portions with carbonic maceration, then blending the two together. It results in an unusual, piercing Rioja joven style, but with a touch sweeter strawberry fruit, coupled with the sensation of sticking your tongue on a 9 volt battery. Electric.

Zew Nealand

The New Zealand tasting, an annual extravaganza showcasing a good section of wines from the Land of the Long White Cloud, occupied Prestonfield House Hotel in Edinburgh this week. It's always a busy event, owing to the stupendous popularity of New Zealand wines in the UK.

New Zealand is an anomaly in terms of wine. It enjoys a strong market share in the UK, and an enviable average price of £6.47 a bottle, yet it produces fuck all wine. It's number 26 in terms of production, falling well below Georgia, Mexico, India and Russia, and it releases less than a sixtieth of France's output. Looking at these stats, it seems amazing that it even registers on the everyday wine drinkers radar, however, the Brits, and the yanks, love New Zealand wines. It's pretty obvious why: A combination of high latitudes and a high UV (thanks to the massive hole in the ozone layer) gives their wines cool-climate freshness with sun-basked ripeness. Thus the wines are clear-fruited, unsubtle numbers that show new-world juiciness with a bit of old world acidity. Some of them are fantastic, and very few are very bad, but they worry me as a nation that could easily rest on its laurels. Marlborough Sauvignon blanc, the only New Zealand wine properly in the public eye, is nigh past its sell-by, with examples that are so overtly pungent as to be undrinkable. Sweaty jockstraps, cat piss and mouth-puckeringly green fruit tend to be emphasised to the extreme in Marlborough, and I predict that the market will sooner or later become sick of it, much the same way they did with California Chardonnay.

Anyway, on the day there were few things that really impressed, but these are those that did:

Felton Road, Central Otago.
One of the legends of the Central Otago region, this was the first time I got to taste a range of Felton Roads, and, despite the apparently problematic vintage in the region, I was well impressed. They are really into their Burgundian texture and balance, so all their wines have incredible mouthfeel.

Felton Road Calvert Road Pinot Noir, Central Otago, 2007, £28
Light cherry red, bright, perfumed nose with amazing top notes. Hint of earthy dried herbiness, lifted cherry redcurranty fruit, almost cardomomy spice. Fantastic length and weight, and beautiful silky tannin texture.

Felton Road Chardonnay, Central Otago, 2007, £19
Big fruit on the nose. You can almost smell the weight of this wine. Obviously well selected oak, and nicely integrated. Creamy, soft palate, amazing weight, but not showing that much complexity yet.

Domain Road, Central Otago.
I met the owner Graeme Crosbie last year at a Central Otago tasting. Lovely bloke. He and his wife make a mixed bag of Otago classics (Pinot, Riesling, Sauvignon, Pinot Rose). Most were a bit crap, but the Pinot represented good value for money.

Domain Road Pinor Noir, Central Otago, 2006, £17.
Nicely herby nose of cherry and blueberry, bit of tarry complexity. Piercing fruit on the palate, decent weight and texture. Very of its place.

Te Mata, Hawkes Bay.
The oldest estate in NZ. I'd heard good things, but only tried the Gamay, which I'm not too much of a fan of.

Te Mata Estate Woodthorpe Vineyard Shiraz/Viognier, Hawkes Bay, 2005, £12.75
Amazing Hawkes bay Syrah nose. White and black pepper so intense you almost want to sneeze. Soft palate with brambles, raspberries and more pepper. Perfumed and lovely.

Te Mata Bullnose Syrah, Hawkes Bay, 2006, £19.29
Massive nose. More meaty and serious than the Woodthorpe. Almost cariacatured. I like, but not sure if I could drink.

Staete Landt, Marlborough.
From Rapaura in Marlborough, with an eye for terroir, these had one of the two Sauvignon Blancs that I thought was interesting (the other being the new Ata Rangi Sauvignon).

Staete Landt Sauvignon Blanc, Marlborough, 2007, £10.45
Relatively restrained nose. Honeyish, toasty notes alongside ripe tropical fruit. Oak-influenced weight and texture, and more buttery toast on the palate. Clearly Bordeaux influenced. Great.

Malaise 1

Back in the day, TV chefs did the uncomplicated job of encouraging and/or irritating people into cooking. There was little machismo or ego involved. Delia, for all her faults, was calm, good at her job, and didn't want to cause controversy. Now she's binned the past ten years of progress in the British diet by announcing that we should actually all be spending as little time as possible cooking and eating pre-prepared frozen foods. Why? It seems that somewhere in the past few years, aided and abbeted by such titanic egos as Ramsay and Bourdain, TV executives decided that food programming needed a longer cock.

Take the new masterchef: Gregg Wallace, a man who can only shout, spends his time impolitely slating food he a) couldn't touch himself, and b) doesn't seem to understand, while Michel Roux Jr, a man of immense taste and talent, intimidates the contestants by looking like he's about to knife them. Lovely old Lloyd Grossman (who now apparently has had a robot made in his likeness, which soullessly appears in 'Step up to the Plate' on the bbc) hosted the program calmly and intelligently in its original format, and gave a great commentary on the dishes made. Guest chefs and critics were more constructive than damning, and the competitive nature of the program took a back seat. It was a vastly more heartening and inspiring program to watch, and it didn't make you wince.

Car crash TV has now fully taken cookery programming under its scaly wing, and the list of luminaries who I will never have the same respect for is getting longer and longer by the day. Raymond Blanc is trying to be Alan Sugar! Why?

The worst thing is that all of the new breed TV programs are so compulsive to watch. Kind of like porn, only you end up feeling less sullied with porn. Example: I got immersed in this years Great British Menu, and enjoyed every episode, but ended up thinking it was deeply embarrassing for British fine dining, and for our food culture in general. The show asked some of our most talented chefs to come up with dishes that big-up modern British cooking, to be served at a celebratory, celebrity riddled, dinner at the culmination of the series. The format was all about the competition, and was full of depressing in-it-to-win-it interviews with the chefs. Some of the dishes were amazing, and some of the chefs, remarkably, came across as real people. Unfortunately, many of their dishes were faulty, and were torn apart publicly by the judges (especially by that Oliver 'I just don't like fish and meat together' Peyton). This can't have been good for their self esteem, nor for the self esteem of British cuisine. In fact, GBM begged the question: Is there any other country in the world that lacks as much confidence in its food culture as ours? The best British restaurants are already world famous, and have been for years. What do we need to prove? British food is good, and our restaurants are great. Le Gavroche, The Three Chimneys, The Merchant House (RIP), l'Enclume, The Fat Duck. End of argument. But no, we needed to show off our abilities in the name of TV, so we demonstrate that we can be modern and clever in the kitchen by showing flaws in loads of our most professional chefs dishes, and then forcing Pierre Gagnaire and Thomas Keller to rub shoulders with Ronnie Corbett and a bunch of Footballers wives at the 'illustrious' final dinner. Great!

Call me soft, but I'd like food television to return to bumbling old drunk fools and snobbish fat women showing you how to use your kitchen properly. I'd find it less embarrassing to watch a naked episode of the two fat ladies than watch any more esteemed chefs go up the cack pipe of TV.

Thankfully, Clarry and Jenny always did their program clothed.

Last weekend: hot sausage and silver linings.

A mighty welcome visit to my partner, The Beard, in London began with the first of two hellishly protracted journeys. One of those sardine-can tube rides where lines keep going down, peoples armpits keep sweating, and out and out pandemonium feels a little close for comfort. It took us an hour and a half to go a simple eight stops on the northern line, and we had to change trains twice. No matter though, as back home The Beard had got us some oysters, which we shucked and ate with sizzling hot spicy sausage from the awesome Ginger Pig in Borough Market. Hot sausage and oysters... Sounds like a euphemism for something unculinary... Tastes bloody good though! The sweet saltiness of both ingredients counterpoint and compliment each other amazingly, and the hot/cold contrast emphasises their succulent, slippery textures. Amazing, and particularly so with Champagne (the NV Deutz - 'tastes like appletize', says The Beard).

The next day we experienced the second hellishly protracted journey. We hired a car to get to a friends wedding in the Cotswolds, which we'd been looking forward to for ages. By some extraordinary stroke of luck, we managed to get out of London on the right road without a map, and with only twenty minutes lost to being lost somewhere near Willesden. Unfortunately, fifteen miles from our destination, some wee shit rear-ended our car, leaving us stranded, in suits, on the verge of the A40, for four hours. We missed the wedding entirely, and were totally gutted. Spirits were kept afloat, but pork pies from the tesco over the road didn't much console the fact that we were absent from the event of a friends lifetime, so we decided to weave a silver lining, and book a table somewhere nice back in London. Fortunately, Moro would have us.

Sam and Sam Clark of Moro have published three cookbooks, the first two of which have been well worn in my kitchen for years now. Their Spanish/Moorish cuisine combines earthy, usually humble, central ingredients with exotic highlights, such as saffron and cardamom, to great effect. They do tapas expertly, and have a healthy knowledge of the wonders of sherry. Furthermore, they have such a respectful approach to the cuisine of their choice that the idea of cultural appropriation never enters your head. The books are great, so I had high expectations when we arrived. Thankfully, these were more than met.

We started off with Sherries at the long stainless steel bar. Taking in our surroundings in the warm lighting, we were handed chunks of fruity sourdough with oil, salt and pepper to enjoy with our aperitifs (mine, Hidalgo's lightly almondy Manzanilla Pasada, Pastrana, and his, the deliciously iodiney Manzanilla, La Guita). Aesthetically, Moro has got the art of the strong understatement down to a t. Two-tone walls of rich green and soft yellow surround a bustling floor, where people of all ages and classes chowed down happily on, well, that night it seemed to be mostly partridge (and what partridge). It's confident, professional and attractive, but without a hint of fine-dining ceremony and stuffiness. A good approach. Service was spot on for the surroundings: friendly and personalised, with a suggestion of a no-shit-taken policy, and a knowledge of the food and wines that could only have been born of direct enjoyment. Mind you, the food was just so bloody enjoyable, you would probably have to be dead or something not to like it. The Beard and I shared starters, and one, the quail baked in flatbread with pistachio sauce, was classic Moro: earthy and honest and simple, yet totally beautiful and beguiling and perfumed. The flatbread left little reassuring streaks of charcoal on the plate (it clearly came from a proper oven then), and hints of cardamom and caraway from the sauce popped onto the palate long after you'd chewed the juicy meat of the bird. Fantastic. Especially with the dried fruit and walnut flavours of the Don Jose Oloroso from Sanchez Romate. The other starter was good, but just not so good as the quail; scallops with green tomatoes and crispy garlic had a beautiful contrast of textures and well judged sweet spices, but lacked a bit of zip. Still, another glass of Manzanilla (the La Goya this time) contributed that nicely.

Mains we did not share, save for me eating his pork fat (which tasted like acorns, as all pork fat should. God it was good). My partridge with lentils, morcilla and apple was a bit of a dream come true in a 'how many of my favourite things on a plate?' sense. The bird, served whole from their Proper Oven, was ideal: soft, au point, salty and beautifully gamey, and, with the light, vinegar-dressed lentils and the luxurious combo of soft, spicy black pudding, and almost jellyish apple, it worked as a rustic yet balanced dish, made for satisfaction. The Beard went comfort foodwards and ordered the roast pork with mash and mushrooms. The quality of the fat spoke for the dish. He proclaimed it 'heavenly'. High praise. High praise indeed.

That was the restaurant budget blown for the month, so, much to my chagrin, we skipped dessert and went straight to the bill. Bollocks. Still, four courses and six sherries comprised an enjoyment that was well worth the £80 total, and we left deciding that next time, we'll have more, and maybe do tapas too.

Hi!

Hello, I am Will, Will the Wine. I'm an enthusiast, a glutton, a decent cook, and a heavy drinker.

I am now going to attempt a blog to record for posterity the things that I like to eat and drink, and the lessons I have learnt about food and wine. Simple food porn, with a particular emphasis on luxury when times are hard (drinking Grand Marque Champagne can be a moving experience, but never more so than when you have less than a tenner for the next 2 weeks).

My ethos is this: Cooking zeros my stress gauge, so I do it often. Eating well makes me warm and happy inside, so I do it often. Drinking well augments what I taste, so I do it often. I don't earn enough to do any of this, but somehow I muddle along, so I shall continue to do it often.

My ethics are thus: Quality is priority, but in practice that's generally allied to something sensible anyway. For instance, ingredients that haven't come from several thousand miles away, or that haven't been produced under principles derived from mind-numbing cruelty and greed, tend to be better quality than the ones that have. Quel surprise!