Friday 30 November 2007

Ritz-Carlton

Wine Goose didn't pay much attention to all the media hype surrounding the opening of Ireland's latest 'uber hotel' as she did not for one moment think she would be gracing the establishment with her presence in this decade or the next. So imagine her surprise and delight when Mr Q arrived home from work one evening and presented her with a couple of invitations to a posh Black Tie Ball taking place in The Ritz-Carlton Powerscourt Hotel.

A lady's normal reaction when presented with this sort of invitation is not an enthusiastic "you're wonderful darling, I'm looking forward to the evening already" or even a lukewarm "that's great but I'm not sure if the babysitter is free." It is of course "what am I going to wear?" And what am I going to wear? A quick call to the Personal Shopper outlining my requirements (elegant, stunning, slimming, different) ensues, and an appointment is made. But there will be more to this evening than just a nice dress - legs must be smooth, skin must be golden, face must be glowing and dewy, nails must be professionally polished, hair must shine. That's another five appointments and all must be fitted in around the children's hectic timetable.

The last time Wine Goose attended a black tie event having golden skin required 10 sessions on a sunbed. Nowadays the same look can be achieved in less than 30 minutes with spray tan. The victim simply strips down to a pair of disposable knickers (pushing memories of childbirth firmly aside), stands in a booth, and allows a 'bronzing professional' to air-brush her with a potion that seemingly eliminates the need for a fortnights holiday each year. Some drawbacks of course, which my professional points out as she instructs me to rotate my body, lift my arms/legs, or puff out my cheeks. No bath for the children tonight - any splashes on my arms will result in giveaway white circles; the potion smells horrible and can't be washed off for 8 hours or the exercise will have been futile; most importantly the potions adheres to clothes, sheets and just about everything you come in contact with before you're allowed to wash it off, tanning them also. A manicure on the same day is also out - the clash of potions results in some unimaginable hand discolouration.

It's been worth all the effort I decide as I tape myself into my dress that evening. Underwear has changed a lot too, no more miles of straps circling the body in order of avoid one crossing the back. Mr Q and I whizz down the N11 in the comfort of a chauffeur driven car and shortly arrive at the hotel. It's dark so the Palladian inspired architectural features are lost on us. There are excessive numbers of staff waiting to greet us and revolve us into the lobby, which is massive and therefore impressive, all dark wood and chandeliers. The sweeping staircase leads us down to a bar set up outside the Ballroom. I like my Function Rooms to be on the ground floor so am a little uneasy. Once underground the low ceilings add further to this feeling. I join in the chat, all of which centres on the hotel itself. The name Gordon Ramsay pops up frequently, in typical Irish style his restaurant has been booked up on weekends for a year in advance. During a lull in conversation I professionally swirl the white wine in my glass before tasting. It is a perfectly acceptable Sauvignon Blanc, probably Chilean I decide.

Black dresses abound, as do rugby types, all slapping each other on the back and addressing each other by embarrassing schoolboy nicknames, like Slasher, or Micko, or Bazzer. But the atmosphere is good as we are ushered into the Ballroom. Lots of oohs and aahs from the ladies and feigned appreciative concurring from their men. First impressions are that there is a lot of glass hanging from the ceiling, and that the ceiling is indeed very low. There don't appear to be any windows, but as it is night-time I can't be sure. During the earlier chat I learned that the hotel lobby is actually on the fourth floor, as the hotel has seven stories on one side and four on the other. Confused? So am I. The tables are as immaculately dressed as the ladies, the service is second to none, the food and wine are acceptable. The red is heralded as 'Mademoiselle L 2004' but no further information is given. Later research reveals it to be a Bordeaux (Haut Medoc AOC). I got the country right but would not have thought it was a Claret. I was however right about the white - CasaBlanca from Chile.

The conversation flows and there is lots of witty banter, but it is difficult to compete with the flashiness of our surroundings. So I start to wonder if venues nowadays have developed to the point that the occupants are almost superfluous, and are in most cases overwhelmed by the decor, to the extent that they can't compete, but almost take a back seat in the proceedings. Then all that anyone can remember the next day is the 'Magnificent Ballroom'. A sorry state of affairs in Ireland, where conversation was so long king. Mr Q and I take our leave just as things are hotting up, the fate of most parents of young children. On our way out a member of staff offers to show us the Gordon Ramsay Restaurant. It's another very impressive room, although much more restrained. Weather permitting, a meal on the balcony would surely be memorable. Failing that, there are a handful of tables situated by the window which would be acceptable, but it would be a terrible pity to plan a special night out find yourself in no mans land in the middle of the floor.

Comfort food was required the following day, so Wine Goose served Tagliatelle Carbonara, complemented by a bottle of Bertani Valpolicella Valpaltena Secco. This is a wonderfully complex and concentrated ripasso bursting with spice and walnut aromas and flavours. €14.99

Friday 16 November 2007

Back to Work - Part 1

Tommy Tiernan, or perhaps it was Ed Byrne once said that "a career is what a car does when it's going off the road". As someone who has had a chequered career to say the least, Wine Goose thinks this is a masterful observation. Mr Q, on the other hand, has steadily climbed the career ladder since his first day in junior infants, and would dismiss this statement as trite. Since the arrival of the children, if questioned on the subject, I generally tell people that I have put my career 'on hold'. As if I could walk back into my old job after however many years, find everything suspended in time, and take up where I left off. Time waits for no woman. When faced with the reality of sleepless nights, endless feeding and nappy changes, I quickly realised that the act of combining all that with rushing out to work was best left to others. Mr Q snored through most of this period, sometimes enquiring how my night had been, but showing no signs of listening to the response. Each morning he donned a tailored suit with perfectly pressed shirt and tie, and swanned out the door to his important job.

And so, decision made, I stayed at home and concentrated on my role as a mother. Of course, there were times when I envied Mr Q as he walked out the door to escape the bedlam and wondered if I'd made the right decision. But we all muddled along and I was there for the important moments that 'working moms' miss out on, like the first smile and the first step. As someone once said to me during that period 'some of the days can seem very long but the years go by very quickly'.

Then all of a sudden five years have gone by and the kids are slightly less dependent on me, and Mr Q can now scramble eggs, so I can get out of the house for a few hours without having to write out pages of instructions, and I start wondering if I'll ever go back to work again. And if I do take that massive leap, what on earth am I going to do? Clearly, returning to my old job is out of the question. Not that much will have changed, but I have, and the time demands it placed on me are no longer an option.

Faced with a blank canvas, it's almost like being back in 5th form, when the Careers Master asked us to write out three choices in order of preference. Except that this time I won't be listing interpreter, translator or actor. Instead I'm more thinking Charity Queen. Although perhaps Ireland has enough of them, and the demands of being constantly photographed in a different dress with different make-up at a different Ball don't really seem all that charitable. Maybe politics then. So I consider joining the Green Party. I compost, I recycle, I abhor gas guzzlers. But do I really want to go out late at night knocking at doors, then down the road see my life being scrutinised by the media and have to dodge awkward questions about whether or not I inhaled. No I don't. Slightly disillusioned, and seeing my choice quickly narrowing down, so that the only real option is to become the middle-aged lady in accounts, I notice a small ad in the window of my local wine shop. 'Part time staff required - apply within.' Bravely I march in and spend some time browsing the shelves, for once focused more on the customer service than the job in hand - that of finding a passable bottle. Because wine critics always seem to consider Riesling a cut above the rest I pick up a bottle of Whitehaven Riesling 2005 and march up to the counter, where I mention to the Manager that I've noticed the ad. He's pleased, firstly congratulating me on my excellent taste in wine, then telling me that all he's looking for is somebody to help out on Saturday afternoons. When can I start? Next week.....

Incidentally I found the floral-petrol combination of the Whitehaven a little too exotic, but perhaps in time I will eschew all other grapes in favour of Riesling.

Wednesday 7 November 2007

BodyPump

BodyPump is an off putting name for a fitness class. Surely BodySuck would have more appeal to Wine Goose and her ilk. This body does indeed look like a pump has been inserted and sufficient air pumped in via the navel to add a wheel to the midriff. Is the class intended to accentuate this look? Surely not. Research reveals that "the workout challenges all your major muscle groups by using the best weight-room exercises like squats, presses, lifts and curls. Great music, awesome instructors and your choice of weight inspire you to get the results you came for – and fast!" Sounds like just my kind of thing.

During my years in the wilderness, by which I mean the years during which I never did anything without a child or two in tow, I regularly fantasised about going to a fitness class. Now that I have a few free mornings each week I do my best to avoid going to a fitness class. Today I have run out of excuses, so there is no alternative but to resurrect my aerobics gear and pump my body. Forcing a bit of enthusiasm, I jump in the car and immediately get stuck in traffic. The temptation to turn back is almost unbearable but I carry on, then circle the car park in the vain hope of not finding a space. All this procrastination means that I arrive late and have to rush into the class. Showing up red-faced, puffing and panting before I've even challenged one muscle group is not the ideal start. The 'studio' in which the class is to take place is full to capacity with toned bodies in designer workout gear. That is no surprise, but what on earth are they doing? Zigzagging from corner to corner they each gather a strange array of poles, weights, clips, steps, risers and mats, which they then assemble into those barbells that you see weightlifters at the Olympics struggle to raise above their thighs, grunting and groaning in the process. I gamely join in the frenzy, but despite my recent years doing jigsaw puzzles the task is too much and I have to ask the awesome instructor's help.

The instructor is a man, so there's a lot more prancing and giggling than would be considered correct from this group of ladies. His name is vaguely foreign sounding, something like Antonio or Marco. His accent is not country specific, but rather an artificial antipodean mid-Atlantic cross. His body has been pumped in all the right places - small pockets of air inserted into biceps, triceps and quads to give a beefy, sculpted finish. Add 2 pints of beer and I'll bet he transforms into Anto or Mark from de nort side.

"This your first class?" he asks, just loud enough for everyone to hear. I turn redder and stammer a reply. Because I have arrived late all the prime places at the back of the room have been taken but I refuse point blank to stand at the front of this crowd, so instead shoehorn myself into a gap right at the entrance to the store-room. While my equipment is being assembled by instructoro I use the opportunity to take a better look around the room. Horror or horrors, I spot the glamorous blonde mother of four from across the road. "Hi there" she waves, before returning to checking her make-up in the mirror. Swivelling my head ever so slightly I encounter another familiar face, and another, and another. Something about their body language tells me this is not their first time. That's fine. We all have to start somewhere and I've moved on from the stage in my life where losing 2 lbs is going to make all the difference.

On to the warm up and it goes like this: "First we adopt the set position of standing upright with great posture, heels under hips with the toes turned out slightly. The tummy is held in tight, the chest is proud with the shoulders down and back and knees are soft… Then we do shortened versions of each of the main exercises to follow, warming up all the major muscle groups and preparing the body for the workout ahead." So far so good. Instructoro then suggests doubling our weights for targeting the next muscle group. I do, and almost collapse 'whilst adopting the start position.' After about fifteen minutes it becomes less of a workout and more of a clock watching exercise. One excruciating hour later we are released. I all but fall out of the room, carefully avoid the chatter in the changing room, as speech is temporarily beyond me, shower and head for the restaurant, where I fully intend to reward myself with coffee and cake. There is a staircase to be negotiated and as soon as I lift my right foot I just know the class has had the desired effect. I alternatively drift and float until I arrive at the bottom, mercifully still in the upright position. Then, tummy tight and chest proud I deny myself that cake, march past the latte sipping ladies, and collapse into my car.

Tonight I will get my reward. The best wine match for chocolate? Port of course, or impress with the lesser known Banyuls, a red wine made of Grenache in the Languedoc Roussillon region of Southwest France.