It is impossible to stay in any hotel in Ireland nowadays without feeling compelled to escape the stresses of modern life by spending a couple of hours revitalising and rejuvenating in the luxury Spa. "Your health and wellbeing journey awaits you.... From the moment you walk through the doors your journey to tranquility and relaxing begins, feel the stress of life leaving your body, as you slowly inhale the delicate scent of natural oils... Embark on a delicious journey of self-discovery..." How can Wine Goose possibly resist all that the promotional literature offers?
Recent experience has suggested that these are all very similar havens - dark caves with lots of scented candles, twinkling lights in the ceiling, the sound of dolphins groaning or the dreaded pan-pipes playing in the background and smiling therapists all contrive to soothe us into a feeling of relaxation and well-being. An hour or two in this atmosphere and Wine Goose should positively float back up to the bedroom.
The occasion is a long overdue night away with the 'girls' (an awful Americanism that permits us to think that we are much younger than we actually are). We arrive at the hotel on the Saturday afternoon, and as soon as our blood pressure has returned to normal after discovering that our reservations have been mixed up, we make our way to the Spa in robes and slippers, with hair scraped back and faces cleansed of make-up. It is of course inevitable that, looking like this, one of us bumps into an old flame in full conference attire - suit, tie and over-sized name badge legible from 50 paces. The embarrassment is acute; we all blush and behave like 16 year olds, before vowing to make it a ladies only venue the next time. At the current rate that's another 10 years away and all the old flames will probably have retired by then so our fears are surely groundless.
Wine Goose has booked a deluxe facial and eye lift lasting 90 minutes. This facial treatment "concentrates on reviving the skins natural moisture and pays particular attention to the delicate eye area, helping to minimise the appearance of fine lines." The therapist will be spending more time on my skincare in one afternoon than I've spend in the last 5 years, so I'm expecting to emerge transformed. Her name is unpronounceable, she is young and unlined, and she talks me soothingly through each stage of the process. I am then guided to the Relaxation Room - more twinkling lights and scented candles - where I am instructed to drink lots of water. I fill a plastic glass from the water cooler, settle myself on a recliner, and promptly fall into a deep sleep. I wake up and have no idea where I am so I stumble out of the room, before trying to feel my way back down a dark corridor to the exit. Eventually I make it back to the bedroom where I find my friends in a similar state of greasy facedness.
The high point of the stay is the dinner, more importantly the conversation, gossip and red wine that we enjoy over dinner. Having chosen lamb as our main course, we allow the sommelier to suggest an Argentian Malbec to accompany it. It's a very good recommendation and matches the lamb perfectly, but when it comes to ordering a second bottle we opt for a Spanish Rioja, something we all enjoy, and on this particular night, to excess.
The next morning we are all slightly delicate. Add the dehydrating effects of too much overpriced and mediocre red wine to hotelface and Wine Goose appears to have actually accelerated the ageing process. Not only that but she has parted with her hard-earned cash for the privilege. Next time, she vows, it will be a straightforward manicure, followed by a full 60 minutes passed out in the Relaxation Room. From this she will emerge refreshed, and more importantly with something to show for her time. The polish will have dried to such an extent that no chips will appear, and should therefore be able to withstand even the most demanding glass lifting it is forced to undergo.
Paying a hotel bill is never a pleasant experience, especially when the extras make the room rate appear reasonable. Not only will I spend more wisely when it comes to treatments, I decide, I will also invest in a padiwrap, a neat little 2 bottle carrier which fits snugly into most suitcases. This will have added bonus of removing Wine Goose and her gaggle from the restaurant at a crucial point, no doubt depriving fellow diners of our lively and entertaining conversation, as we continue to enjoy a few glasses of wine in the comfort and privacy of our bedroom.
What to put in the padiwrap? The experts have yet to suggest a wine that is suitable for consumption in vast quantities long after the food has gone, and Wine Goose is not going to be the first. Choose something you know and like, and make sure that the alcohol content doesn't exceed 12.5%. You'll thank me the next morning.
Friday, 28 March 2008
Thursday, 20 March 2008
Hotelface
No relation to pramface, defined as a girl who wouldn't look at all out of place at 14 years of age pushing a newborn through a council estate; hotelface is the face that Wine Goose wakes up with after spending a night in one of Ireland's newly refurbished and soul-less hotels. A glance in the mirror reveals a layer of rhinoceros hide, most likely caused by leftover builders dust settling on the skin and mixing, cement-style, with the perspiration caused by a combination of the hermetically sealed double-glazed windows and the non-functioning but very noisy air-conditioning unit.Several applications of over-priced moisturiser do little to improve the situation. Moved to consider that perhaps the grandiosely named 'snipe' of bulk-produced Australian chardonnay (the only wine accompaniment on offer to last night's chicken stir-fry) may have been a factor, Wine Goose risks appraising her fellow diners at the breakfast buffet. All are victims of hotelface; even the men have a glassy-eyed look, as if they'd forgotten to remove their mascara before retiring for the night. And several women have compounded the problem by adding make-up, the resulting look bringing Frankenstein's monster to mind.
This being the west of Ireland the commonsense solution is a brisk walk in the lashing rain and howling wind, more effective and a lot cheaper than microdermabrasion, before undergoing the process again the next night.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
SUV or not SUV
The 'if only everything in life was as reliable' car has developed a wheeze. It sounds a bit like the exhaust is falling off, except that exhausts don't fall off cars nowadays, especially cars that spend their lives gliding around the flat-surfaced familiarity of the suburbs between schools, playdates and tennis lessons. This happens soon after a two-day stay in the garage for the car equivalent of a hip replacement. Lots of new spark plugs can't prevent the inevitable so Wine Goose is faced with the prospect of trading her in for a younger model.
Wine Goose is a woman, and so she takes a practical approach to choosing a replacement vehicle. What she needs is something that holds three passengers most of the time, but sometimes has to carry five, four of whom require booster seats. This because our socialite daughter likes to bring her friends home in pairs, and younger brother cannot just yet be left in charge of the house while I get the girls home. Anyone who has transported children in recent years will know that is not physically possible to fit three booster seats across the back seat of a normal saloon car. Environmentalists and right-on types can moan all they like about the prevalence of off-road vehicles on the streets of the suburbs, but it seems that as soon as the third child arrives the saloon must go, to be replaced by a 7 seater.
Wine Goose will not consider a people carrier. These vehicles are designed for mothers of large families (nowadays defined as 3 or more children) who devote their entire lives to ferrying children. This is definitely not the message about herself that Wine Goose wants to send out to fellow road users. Mr R gently tries to steer her towards a Sports Utility Vehicle (SUV). Good idea, I respond. 'How about a Jeep Grand Cherokee?' He is momentarily stunned. He expected a vehement no. 'I was thinking more along the lines of a Volvo XC90 or BMW X5' is the response. Aha, all his research has been conducted in the car park of the self-described 'exclusive leisure club' that relieves us of a sizable portion of our disposable income each month. Strange, I always think, that exclusive should not include enough car parking spaces for members, but the upside is that Mr R has had plenty of time to check out the merchandise while circling in search of a space. 'A Jeep Grand Cherokee' he repeats slowly, indicating to Wine Goose that he has never seen or heard of such a thing. He consults his well-thumbed SIMI (Society of the Irish Motor Industry) handbook, which gives the prices for all new cars, and nods sagely. It is clearly a ridiculous proposition, not least because it is all of 3 feet longer than our front driveway and would permanently obstruct the footpath. I remind Mr R that when first we met I was driving a Citroen 2CV, and probably still would be, if it were an option. My current car, while certainly not iconic, does contribute in a small way to the sense of individuality I like to think I have retained despite conforming in so many ways (3 bed semi-d, 2.2 children, husband a member of the professional classes - need I go on).
We take a break from our discussion and Wine Goose serves an open roast chicken and salad sandwich, accompanied by a glass of Rizzardi Pinot Grigio 2006 (€9.99). Pinot Grigio, with it's light, lemony characteristics is typically discounted as only suitable for summer drinking, however this single vineyard wine displays a lovely creamy nuttiness, and is full of delicious flavours of peaches and pears. A little glass of joy.
Replete, Wine Goose is inspired to question Mr R further about his choices. By now we are both fully aware of the carbon footprint (bad) and safety (also bad) issues associated with driving such monsters, so instead I focus purely on aesthetics. For example, does the purchase price include sufficient beauty salon, hairstylist, chi-chi boutique and liposuction vouchers to ensure that the driver of such a vehicle never leaves the house looking less than fantastic? Or does the car dealer politely but firmly turn away all potential drivers who don't meet the grooming and deportment criteria imposed by the manufacturer?
We are not getting very far. Belatedly I decide to find out about the regulations governing child safety in cars. Google directs me to the Road Safety Authority (RSA) website, which (in common with most 'official' websites) has lots of useful information for those who speak gobbledygook. A little more searching and the equivalent UK (also subject to EU laws) road safety website proves much more informative and user-friendly. From their FAQs I am amazed to learn the following: 'In many cars, there is not room for three child seats across the rear seat. If two occupied child seats or boosters prevent the fitting of a third, and the front seat is not available, a third child aged 3 years and over may then use just an adult belt in the rear. This may be a lap belt. It would be safer for the third child to travel in the front seat and use the correct child seat or booster but see below about air-bags. In all my school-gate conversations on the subject nobody has been able to supply any such rational or clear information. Spread the word.
I order the child car safety booklet from the RSA but it never arrives. I then book my car an appointment with the mechanic and mentally prepare myself for the humiliation every woman has to face as he explains that the problem was really very easily fixed, and then overcharges me for the privilege of fixing it. I cut the arms off a polystyrene booster cushion and fit it snugly in the middle of the back seat. I invest €12.99 in a booster cushion for the front seat. The front passenger airbag was already disconnected when I bought the car so I now find myself in the enviable position of having one of the smallest cars capable of safely transporting four children in all of suburbia. I decide against asking Mr R to gift me the car purchase price that my research has saved.
Wine Goose is a woman, and so she takes a practical approach to choosing a replacement vehicle. What she needs is something that holds three passengers most of the time, but sometimes has to carry five, four of whom require booster seats. This because our socialite daughter likes to bring her friends home in pairs, and younger brother cannot just yet be left in charge of the house while I get the girls home. Anyone who has transported children in recent years will know that is not physically possible to fit three booster seats across the back seat of a normal saloon car. Environmentalists and right-on types can moan all they like about the prevalence of off-road vehicles on the streets of the suburbs, but it seems that as soon as the third child arrives the saloon must go, to be replaced by a 7 seater.
Wine Goose will not consider a people carrier. These vehicles are designed for mothers of large families (nowadays defined as 3 or more children) who devote their entire lives to ferrying children. This is definitely not the message about herself that Wine Goose wants to send out to fellow road users. Mr R gently tries to steer her towards a Sports Utility Vehicle (SUV). Good idea, I respond. 'How about a Jeep Grand Cherokee?' He is momentarily stunned. He expected a vehement no. 'I was thinking more along the lines of a Volvo XC90 or BMW X5' is the response. Aha, all his research has been conducted in the car park of the self-described 'exclusive leisure club' that relieves us of a sizable portion of our disposable income each month. Strange, I always think, that exclusive should not include enough car parking spaces for members, but the upside is that Mr R has had plenty of time to check out the merchandise while circling in search of a space. 'A Jeep Grand Cherokee' he repeats slowly, indicating to Wine Goose that he has never seen or heard of such a thing. He consults his well-thumbed SIMI (Society of the Irish Motor Industry) handbook, which gives the prices for all new cars, and nods sagely. It is clearly a ridiculous proposition, not least because it is all of 3 feet longer than our front driveway and would permanently obstruct the footpath. I remind Mr R that when first we met I was driving a Citroen 2CV, and probably still would be, if it were an option. My current car, while certainly not iconic, does contribute in a small way to the sense of individuality I like to think I have retained despite conforming in so many ways (3 bed semi-d, 2.2 children, husband a member of the professional classes - need I go on).
We take a break from our discussion and Wine Goose serves an open roast chicken and salad sandwich, accompanied by a glass of Rizzardi Pinot Grigio 2006 (€9.99). Pinot Grigio, with it's light, lemony characteristics is typically discounted as only suitable for summer drinking, however this single vineyard wine displays a lovely creamy nuttiness, and is full of delicious flavours of peaches and pears. A little glass of joy.
Replete, Wine Goose is inspired to question Mr R further about his choices. By now we are both fully aware of the carbon footprint (bad) and safety (also bad) issues associated with driving such monsters, so instead I focus purely on aesthetics. For example, does the purchase price include sufficient beauty salon, hairstylist, chi-chi boutique and liposuction vouchers to ensure that the driver of such a vehicle never leaves the house looking less than fantastic? Or does the car dealer politely but firmly turn away all potential drivers who don't meet the grooming and deportment criteria imposed by the manufacturer?
We are not getting very far. Belatedly I decide to find out about the regulations governing child safety in cars. Google directs me to the Road Safety Authority (RSA) website, which (in common with most 'official' websites) has lots of useful information for those who speak gobbledygook. A little more searching and the equivalent UK (also subject to EU laws) road safety website proves much more informative and user-friendly. From their FAQs I am amazed to learn the following: 'In many cars, there is not room for three child seats across the rear seat. If two occupied child seats or boosters prevent the fitting of a third, and the front seat is not available, a third child aged 3 years and over may then use just an adult belt in the rear. This may be a lap belt. It would be safer for the third child to travel in the front seat and use the correct child seat or booster but see below about air-bags. In all my school-gate conversations on the subject nobody has been able to supply any such rational or clear information. Spread the word.
I order the child car safety booklet from the RSA but it never arrives. I then book my car an appointment with the mechanic and mentally prepare myself for the humiliation every woman has to face as he explains that the problem was really very easily fixed, and then overcharges me for the privilege of fixing it. I cut the arms off a polystyrene booster cushion and fit it snugly in the middle of the back seat. I invest €12.99 in a booster cushion for the front seat. The front passenger airbag was already disconnected when I bought the car so I now find myself in the enviable position of having one of the smallest cars capable of safely transporting four children in all of suburbia. I decide against asking Mr R to gift me the car purchase price that my research has saved.
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Midweek Supper
Mr R has had another of his hare-brained ideas. This time we are to host an informal midweek supper for some of his closest friends. He requests that I mark the date in my diary (Wednesday night at 8.00 pm) and proposes a simple repast of lamb casserole and a dessert of my choosing. Not that he will be involved in any aspect of the preparation or cooking of the meal of course. Time has taught Wine Goose that it is necessary to give in to some of his ridiculous schemes in order to have the power of veto over the bulk of them, therefore I don't bother to point out that most weekday evenings at 8.00 pm he is to be found either working in his office or drinking pints in a Dublin pub.
Timing is everything, and in order for the food to be at its freshest and tastiest, Wine Goose must not only forgo her weekly Bodypump class, but also do all the food shopping accompanied by our son. This results in an unfit wife filling a supermarket trolley with lots of non-nutritious but cleverly-marketed food items in order to avoid potential tantrums in front of all the other perfectly behaved suburban children and their perfectly groomed mothers. These extra items also mean that the household budget is blown and wine will have to be very carefully chosen, or substituted with cartons of sticky juice, of which we by now have plenty. Feeling more than a little resentful as she pulls out of the supermarket car park, Wine Goose makes an unscheduled stop at a local deli and splurges on a 'homemade' raspberry panna cotta, beautifully presented in a pottery dish. 'How clever of you, Wine Goose' whispers a little voice in my head, 'and while you're at it why not nip into to the wine shop next door?' And so I risk destroying the place by letting our by now sugared-up and hyperactive son loose while I peruse the merchandise. I pick out enough wine to serve at least twice as many people as we are expecting, expertly key in my credit card pin number while looking in the opposite direction, and scrunch up the receipt.
The afternoon is taken up by chopping and peeling. The children help by setting the table. Table mats are piled high with a jumble of plates, napkins and cutlery; condiments are arranged symmetrically along the length of the table; a bottle of mineral water is placed at each end. Our daughter writes out names and decides on the seating plan. She includes the herself and her brother in the party. We are segregated, with the girls sitting at one end of the table and the boys at the other. Long may that last.
We pop the casserole into the oven and head upstairs to get ready. The children are cajoled into pyjamas and dressing gowns and Wine Goose settles on last season's mummy uniform of a wrap dress and boots. Make-up is quickly applied and we head back downstairs to ready the house for the arrival of the guests. Wine Goose pours herself a glass of Louis Latour Chablis 2006 (€20.00), "the ultimate expression of what the noble Chardonnay grape is capable of on the region’s famous kimmeridgian limestone slopes. The wine is perfumed, lively, clean and steely-tasting with a crisp finish." So goes the website description, and I couldn't have put it better.
The guests arrive and accept our offer of a glass of white wine to whet their appetites. The children pass around the nibbles, with plates held at dangerous angles so that most of the contents end up on the floor. Quite endearing we all agree. We chat amicably and soon it is time to pass to the table. I manage to dish out the meal and we are seated. The children dominate the conversation and I ignore the few curious glances that pass my way - yes I am aware that it's late for them to be up but I'll put them to bed when they're tired out and more likely to fall asleep. With the lamb casserole I have chosen a Poggio Teo Chianti Classico 2003 from the Valiano Estate in Tuscany (€15.99). A beautifully structured wine I point out, full-bodied, with a pretty core of ripe fruit, fine tannins and a creamy, fruity finish. It will also match nicely with the cheeseboard, reducing Wine Goose's workload. Compliments abound, then there is the sound of a key turning in the front door. I shrug apologetically. 'Unavoidably detained in the office' explains Mr R as he takes his place at the head of the table.
Timing is everything, and in order for the food to be at its freshest and tastiest, Wine Goose must not only forgo her weekly Bodypump class, but also do all the food shopping accompanied by our son. This results in an unfit wife filling a supermarket trolley with lots of non-nutritious but cleverly-marketed food items in order to avoid potential tantrums in front of all the other perfectly behaved suburban children and their perfectly groomed mothers. These extra items also mean that the household budget is blown and wine will have to be very carefully chosen, or substituted with cartons of sticky juice, of which we by now have plenty. Feeling more than a little resentful as she pulls out of the supermarket car park, Wine Goose makes an unscheduled stop at a local deli and splurges on a 'homemade' raspberry panna cotta, beautifully presented in a pottery dish. 'How clever of you, Wine Goose' whispers a little voice in my head, 'and while you're at it why not nip into to the wine shop next door?' And so I risk destroying the place by letting our by now sugared-up and hyperactive son loose while I peruse the merchandise. I pick out enough wine to serve at least twice as many people as we are expecting, expertly key in my credit card pin number while looking in the opposite direction, and scrunch up the receipt.
The afternoon is taken up by chopping and peeling. The children help by setting the table. Table mats are piled high with a jumble of plates, napkins and cutlery; condiments are arranged symmetrically along the length of the table; a bottle of mineral water is placed at each end. Our daughter writes out names and decides on the seating plan. She includes the herself and her brother in the party. We are segregated, with the girls sitting at one end of the table and the boys at the other. Long may that last.
We pop the casserole into the oven and head upstairs to get ready. The children are cajoled into pyjamas and dressing gowns and Wine Goose settles on last season's mummy uniform of a wrap dress and boots. Make-up is quickly applied and we head back downstairs to ready the house for the arrival of the guests. Wine Goose pours herself a glass of Louis Latour Chablis 2006 (€20.00), "the ultimate expression of what the noble Chardonnay grape is capable of on the region’s famous kimmeridgian limestone slopes. The wine is perfumed, lively, clean and steely-tasting with a crisp finish." So goes the website description, and I couldn't have put it better.
The guests arrive and accept our offer of a glass of white wine to whet their appetites. The children pass around the nibbles, with plates held at dangerous angles so that most of the contents end up on the floor. Quite endearing we all agree. We chat amicably and soon it is time to pass to the table. I manage to dish out the meal and we are seated. The children dominate the conversation and I ignore the few curious glances that pass my way - yes I am aware that it's late for them to be up but I'll put them to bed when they're tired out and more likely to fall asleep. With the lamb casserole I have chosen a Poggio Teo Chianti Classico 2003 from the Valiano Estate in Tuscany (€15.99). A beautifully structured wine I point out, full-bodied, with a pretty core of ripe fruit, fine tannins and a creamy, fruity finish. It will also match nicely with the cheeseboard, reducing Wine Goose's workload. Compliments abound, then there is the sound of a key turning in the front door. I shrug apologetically. 'Unavoidably detained in the office' explains Mr R as he takes his place at the head of the table.
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
Terroirisme
Mr R has taken off on one of his business trips, and in the flurry of activity prior to his departure he managed to recycle the entire mountain of newspapers that has been piling up around us for several months now. Included in this mountain was Wine Goose's stock of celebrity magazines, so that when I eventually get the children off to sleep and sit down for half an hour of 'me time', instead of looking at few glossy photos (I'm always far too tired to ever bother with reading the accompanying text, and as everybody knows it's utter rubbish) before passing out in bed, I discover that the only magazine in the house, apart from some back issues of Barbie and Bob the Builder, is a sober looking periodical entitled The Economist. It may well have been a deliberate move on his part to improve my dinner party conversation, but if he thinks I'm going to spend the few minutes that I have to myself reading about banks and oil and that sort of thing he is off his rocker. I almost decide to give myself a home pedicure, as advocated by another of my favourites, Good Housekeeping, but it's all too much effort and so I start flicking through The Economist, in the hope of coming across an actor's obituary or something similar that I can actually absorb. Then I spot an article entitled 'Unleash the war on terroir' and I am delighted to find myself on familiar territory.
Essentially the article starts by pointing out that few things annoy French winemakers more than other winemakers' irreverance towards the terroir. It then goes on to examine the topic of transgenic wine, something that sounds really scary, so those of you who want to learn more about that can click on the link above and read the entire article. Right now Wine Goose is going to focus on unravelling the mystery that is terroir. Contrary to what the article states, the expression is not restricted to the winemakers; it is a word that is freely used throughout the wine trade, from Wine Goose when selling a fine bottle of Bordeaux, to restaurant sommeliers persuading diners to opt for a decent bottle of Pouilly Fumé.
Originally a French term used not only in wine, but also in tea and coffee, terroir denoted the special characteristics that geography bestowed upon these products of the soil. Nowadays there are many definitions of terroir but by far easiest to make sense of is 'the combination of soil, climate and terrain that shapes the character of the vines that grow there'. So far so good - this goes some way to explaining why France's Sancerre and New Zealand's Cloudy Bay taste so different, although both are produced from the Sauvignon Blanc grape. So the expression terroir can therefore apply to wines produced outside France, or can it? My answer to that is yes (watch out for the forthcoming assault on Wine Goose by the French wine trade) - but not to all of them because the importance of these influences depends on the culture of a particular wine making region. This is key, and generally a terroir-driven wine will be labelled accordingly - with the region, vineyard and quality certification more dominant on the label than the grape variety or the producer.
Lots of other factors that can enhance or interfere with the terroir characteristics come into play during the winemaking process - use of yeast, use of oak, decisions about pruning, irrigation and when to harvest. For example the use of oak is a controversial element since some will advocate that its use is beneficial while others will argue it can mask the influences of the terroir. Then the question arises as to whether in this modern era of the flying winemaker and enormous investment in hitherto far outposts of the wine world, can the terroir be lost in the expensive technique?
Open a bottle of the Argentinian Norton Sauvignon Blanc. Swirl it, sniff it, taste it and you will be rewarded with a lovely crisp textbook white wine. No more, no less. Great value at €8.99. Now pour yourself a glass of Domaine Magellan Grenache-Carignan 2004. Go through the same process and the aromas from this bright, lively red will transport you to the Languedoc. As soon as you taste it's soft plummy flavours you are watching the sun set over the vineyard as you knowledgably discuss last years harvest with the wine-maker, in this case Bruno Lafon, whose family in Burgundy produces tiny quantities of four-figure Montrachet at Domaine Comtes Lafon. All that for just €13.95. This, to Wine Goose, is the essence of terroir - a wine that tastes like it came from somewhere, rather than just a marketing concept.
Essentially the article starts by pointing out that few things annoy French winemakers more than other winemakers' irreverance towards the terroir. It then goes on to examine the topic of transgenic wine, something that sounds really scary, so those of you who want to learn more about that can click on the link above and read the entire article. Right now Wine Goose is going to focus on unravelling the mystery that is terroir. Contrary to what the article states, the expression is not restricted to the winemakers; it is a word that is freely used throughout the wine trade, from Wine Goose when selling a fine bottle of Bordeaux, to restaurant sommeliers persuading diners to opt for a decent bottle of Pouilly Fumé.
Originally a French term used not only in wine, but also in tea and coffee, terroir denoted the special characteristics that geography bestowed upon these products of the soil. Nowadays there are many definitions of terroir but by far easiest to make sense of is 'the combination of soil, climate and terrain that shapes the character of the vines that grow there'. So far so good - this goes some way to explaining why France's Sancerre and New Zealand's Cloudy Bay taste so different, although both are produced from the Sauvignon Blanc grape. So the expression terroir can therefore apply to wines produced outside France, or can it? My answer to that is yes (watch out for the forthcoming assault on Wine Goose by the French wine trade) - but not to all of them because the importance of these influences depends on the culture of a particular wine making region. This is key, and generally a terroir-driven wine will be labelled accordingly - with the region, vineyard and quality certification more dominant on the label than the grape variety or the producer.
Lots of other factors that can enhance or interfere with the terroir characteristics come into play during the winemaking process - use of yeast, use of oak, decisions about pruning, irrigation and when to harvest. For example the use of oak is a controversial element since some will advocate that its use is beneficial while others will argue it can mask the influences of the terroir. Then the question arises as to whether in this modern era of the flying winemaker and enormous investment in hitherto far outposts of the wine world, can the terroir be lost in the expensive technique?
Open a bottle of the Argentinian Norton Sauvignon Blanc. Swirl it, sniff it, taste it and you will be rewarded with a lovely crisp textbook white wine. No more, no less. Great value at €8.99. Now pour yourself a glass of Domaine Magellan Grenache-Carignan 2004. Go through the same process and the aromas from this bright, lively red will transport you to the Languedoc. As soon as you taste it's soft plummy flavours you are watching the sun set over the vineyard as you knowledgably discuss last years harvest with the wine-maker, in this case Bruno Lafon, whose family in Burgundy produces tiny quantities of four-figure Montrachet at Domaine Comtes Lafon. All that for just €13.95. This, to Wine Goose, is the essence of terroir - a wine that tastes like it came from somewhere, rather than just a marketing concept.
Friday, 1 February 2008
Ten Thousand Calories
Hot on the heels of Christmas it is Mr R's birthday. Not a significant birthday, but a reason to celebrate all the same. As we have just about reached the stage where the children no longer treat restaurants as indoor playgrounds, and will actually sit still for periods of up to 10 minutes at a time, we decide to expand their horizons beyond the Happy Meal, and so we decide to treat ourselves to Sunday lunch to a 'fancy restaurant' in a top Dublin hotel.
Contrary to what we might have expected, children are welcome in this luxurious dining room - paper and crayons are provided, there is an interesting and varied childrens menu, and the staff treat the little ones with the respect they deserve. The adults fare just as well. The surroundings are comfortable and soothing, the tables are large with lots of space between them, and the menu is certainly extensive to the waistline. Wine Goose has spend most of her adult life counting calories and each time she dines out she is struck by how blatantly these places flout the guidelines constantly being drilled into us by health experts.
Mr R orders himself a vodka and tonic, which leaves Wine Goose in no doubt that she is designated driver for the return journey. The wine list here regularly features in 'best restaurant wine list' top 10s, and with her recently learnt knowledge Wine Goose recognises that it is indeed well chosen, with a wide-ranging selection of fine wines to suit most fat wallets. Our Bank Manager would thank us for travelling by car. We settle on a half bottle of Chateau de Pez 2000, a relative bargain at €48.00. My reasoning here is that 2000 was a very good year for Bordeaux wines, and Saint-Estephe is considered a good match for the rack of lamb I have already mentally chosen as my main course.
Contrary to what we might have expected, children are welcome in this luxurious dining room - paper and crayons are provided, there is an interesting and varied childrens menu, and the staff treat the little ones with the respect they deserve. The adults fare just as well. The surroundings are comfortable and soothing, the tables are large with lots of space between them, and the menu is certainly extensive to the waistline. Wine Goose has spend most of her adult life counting calories and each time she dines out she is struck by how blatantly these places flout the guidelines constantly being drilled into us by health experts.
Mr R orders himself a vodka and tonic, which leaves Wine Goose in no doubt that she is designated driver for the return journey. The wine list here regularly features in 'best restaurant wine list' top 10s, and with her recently learnt knowledge Wine Goose recognises that it is indeed well chosen, with a wide-ranging selection of fine wines to suit most fat wallets. Our Bank Manager would thank us for travelling by car. We settle on a half bottle of Chateau de Pez 2000, a relative bargain at €48.00. My reasoning here is that 2000 was a very good year for Bordeaux wines, and Saint-Estephe is considered a good match for the rack of lamb I have already mentally chosen as my main course.
We are to select our starters from the 'tasting station'. I have already consulted the list of what's on offer and decided on a few carefully chosen morsels, but as I undertake the journey from our table, a journey of no more than twenty seconds, the numskulls get out their little hammers and start tapping away at the food control section of my brain. These are the creatures I manage to keep under control about 90% of the time. In return they occasionally force me to eat a loaf of fresh bread or the entire contents of the treat box in a single sitting. Subliminal whispers along the lines of 'it makes no difference if you eat a lot of a little, you still can't shift the weight; surely it's okay to break out from time to time, and it would be a pity not to enjoy such lovely food', mean that I make the return journey with a plate piled high with one of everything from the large selection on offer.
Mr R's sirloin of beef, cooked rare on his instruction, looks like something you would throw to a lion to buy yourself some time, if you were to ever find yourself in such a threatening situation. I decline his offer of a taste but do try the mash, which has dominant flavours of butter and cream, with just the smallest hint of potato. My own rack of lamb, cooked medium, is delicious. The children make short work of the chicken fingers with fries - nuggets and chips by any other name.
The dessert tasting plate, which the waiter descibes as a selection of five small desserts is in fact made up of five full-sized full-fat chocolate offerings of differing shapes. Wine Goose once heard that is a sign of good manners not to polish off the entire contents of your meal, but to leave a small amount on the side of your plate. This apparently indicates that you have thoroughly enjoyed your food, and have been served an adequate sufficiency. This is exactly what I do. A piece of dark chocolate, no bigger than a grain of rice is cleared by the ever efficient wait staff.
By my calculations ten thousand calories would not be an exaggeration. To burn this off I have a number of options. I can walk briskly for 40 hours, take a 30 hour spinning class or play a singles tennis match for 20 hours. The bill arrives and provides the solution - we can't afford to eat for a week.
Friday, 25 January 2008
Back to Work - Part II
Day One. I am making the too-short journey from my home to the wine shop. Despite all attempts to keep my head clear and focus on the day ahead, my mind keeps drifting to that wonderfully quirky movie Sideways.
I am appropriately dressed and made-up. Because it would interfere with the delicate aromas wafting from the wine bottles open on the tasting counter I have reluctantly not worn any perfume and kept lipstick to a neutrally-coloured minimum. I have assuaged my 'bad mother' guilt by spending a quality morning with my somewhat bewildered children and the possibly even more bewildered Mr R.
The scene that is playing itself out in my head takes place at the first wine tasting stop of the film, the Sanford Winery. Miles is giving Jack an introductory lesson in wine tasting. At the end of the process he delivers his expert opinion of the wine (citrus, strawberry, passion fruit, asparagus and nutty edam cheese - what can it possibly be?) Clearly impressed by his friends knowledge and enthusiasm Jack declares 'you could work in a wine store'. Miles, who has a lot more on his plate than Wine Goose responds with a whispered 'yeah, that'd be a good move'. I break out in a cold sweat. Before I know it I have parked the car and doused myself in Eau Dynamisante. I take 10 deep breaths, plant my sunglasses on my head, and I march in.
The manager greets me less deferentially than in the past. As the shop has been busy earlier in the day he asks me to tidy up the shelves. I wander off and do a few laps of the floor. Then I settle down to the task of rearranging bottles and use the opportunity to familiarise myself with the wines I don't know. There are lots of them, to my personal relief and professional horror. I keep my head down and ears pricked. The average customer is a lot more knowledgeable than I had anticipated, and has a lot more buying power. I am flabbergasted by the quantities being purchased. Then it gets busy and I am assigned to the till. The last time I stood this side of the counter was as a student working a summer job in a London pub. Back then I added up the round of drinks in my head, keyed in the total, and then returned the change - also calculated in my head. All so much quicker than scanning barcodes and knowing which combination of buttons to press to allow credit card payments. Thanks to recent experiences with supermarket self-service checkouts I am not wholly disgraced - only one customer asks if this is my first day.
There is an afternoon lull and the manager suggests it would be a good time for me to take my break. Break? Yes that's correct - I have half an hour to myself. Off I go to the local coffee shop and sit down in a comfy chair. I finish a large coffee before it hits freezing point, and read the newspaper from cover to cover; two things I last achieved over five years ago. Bursting with caffeine and enthusiasm I return for the second half.
While I am clearing glasses from the tasting counter a lady approaches and asks to try the Sancerre. I look around frantically but discover that yes, she is speaking to me. Before today I had imagined that I would spend most of my time at this very counter, discussing the characteristics and qualities of each wine on offer, with customers listening respectfully before offering their own thoughts. The reality so far has been that as soon as anyone looks vaguely interested in pouring themselves a glass I scuttle off to straighten up the New World section. But right now I have no option but to smile my 'what good taste you have' smile and pour a small amount into her glass. She takes her time to check the colour, swirl the liquid, sniff it,and eventually taste it.
'What do you think?' I ask brightly. I then go on to espouse its superb qualities - 'this Sancerre offers intense green fruit flavours with predominant notes of gooseberry. On the palate it has exceptional flavour intensity... '
'It's not bad, but not as good as...' she mentions a rivals offering. 'They have a really good Sancerre'.
I mumble my protestations - surely at this price you cannot find a better balanced example from the heart of the Loire Valley - but she is not for turning. In an attempt to salvage the situation I suggest she try the exceptional Rioja we also have open, but the lady is not a red wine drinker. She leaves empty-handed. Disappointed, I return the bottle to the counter and am taken aback when I see another open bottle of Sancerre. I remove the cooler wrap from the white we were discussing and am horrified to discover that she was not in fact tasting Sancerre, but the altogether steelier Italian Gavi. As we've already learnt from Miles, wine tasting is not an exact science. And as the sceptics say, a glimpse of the label is worth fifty years experience.
The day ends and the manager sends me off with a bottle to try at home. As I'm not really sure what I'm in the mood for, he inevitably suggests a bottle of Riesling. This time it's German. Loosen Doctor L Riesling 2006. Wine experts, affectionados, call them what you will, all rave about Riesling. I'm not there yet. Yes, I enjoyed it. What I liked was the slight sweetness (I think the technical term is 'off-dry') combined with a lovely, crisp acidity. I also liked that it is low in alcohol, at just 8.5%. 'Very drinkable, and very enjoyable at the end of a hard day's work' was the verdict of the exhausted Mr R. Widely available, €11.49
I am appropriately dressed and made-up. Because it would interfere with the delicate aromas wafting from the wine bottles open on the tasting counter I have reluctantly not worn any perfume and kept lipstick to a neutrally-coloured minimum. I have assuaged my 'bad mother' guilt by spending a quality morning with my somewhat bewildered children and the possibly even more bewildered Mr R.
The scene that is playing itself out in my head takes place at the first wine tasting stop of the film, the Sanford Winery. Miles is giving Jack an introductory lesson in wine tasting. At the end of the process he delivers his expert opinion of the wine (citrus, strawberry, passion fruit, asparagus and nutty edam cheese - what can it possibly be?) Clearly impressed by his friends knowledge and enthusiasm Jack declares 'you could work in a wine store'. Miles, who has a lot more on his plate than Wine Goose responds with a whispered 'yeah, that'd be a good move'. I break out in a cold sweat. Before I know it I have parked the car and doused myself in Eau Dynamisante. I take 10 deep breaths, plant my sunglasses on my head, and I march in.
The manager greets me less deferentially than in the past. As the shop has been busy earlier in the day he asks me to tidy up the shelves. I wander off and do a few laps of the floor. Then I settle down to the task of rearranging bottles and use the opportunity to familiarise myself with the wines I don't know. There are lots of them, to my personal relief and professional horror. I keep my head down and ears pricked. The average customer is a lot more knowledgeable than I had anticipated, and has a lot more buying power. I am flabbergasted by the quantities being purchased. Then it gets busy and I am assigned to the till. The last time I stood this side of the counter was as a student working a summer job in a London pub. Back then I added up the round of drinks in my head, keyed in the total, and then returned the change - also calculated in my head. All so much quicker than scanning barcodes and knowing which combination of buttons to press to allow credit card payments. Thanks to recent experiences with supermarket self-service checkouts I am not wholly disgraced - only one customer asks if this is my first day.
There is an afternoon lull and the manager suggests it would be a good time for me to take my break. Break? Yes that's correct - I have half an hour to myself. Off I go to the local coffee shop and sit down in a comfy chair. I finish a large coffee before it hits freezing point, and read the newspaper from cover to cover; two things I last achieved over five years ago. Bursting with caffeine and enthusiasm I return for the second half.
While I am clearing glasses from the tasting counter a lady approaches and asks to try the Sancerre. I look around frantically but discover that yes, she is speaking to me. Before today I had imagined that I would spend most of my time at this very counter, discussing the characteristics and qualities of each wine on offer, with customers listening respectfully before offering their own thoughts. The reality so far has been that as soon as anyone looks vaguely interested in pouring themselves a glass I scuttle off to straighten up the New World section. But right now I have no option but to smile my 'what good taste you have' smile and pour a small amount into her glass. She takes her time to check the colour, swirl the liquid, sniff it,and eventually taste it.
'What do you think?' I ask brightly. I then go on to espouse its superb qualities - 'this Sancerre offers intense green fruit flavours with predominant notes of gooseberry. On the palate it has exceptional flavour intensity... '
'It's not bad, but not as good as...' she mentions a rivals offering. 'They have a really good Sancerre'.
I mumble my protestations - surely at this price you cannot find a better balanced example from the heart of the Loire Valley - but she is not for turning. In an attempt to salvage the situation I suggest she try the exceptional Rioja we also have open, but the lady is not a red wine drinker. She leaves empty-handed. Disappointed, I return the bottle to the counter and am taken aback when I see another open bottle of Sancerre. I remove the cooler wrap from the white we were discussing and am horrified to discover that she was not in fact tasting Sancerre, but the altogether steelier Italian Gavi. As we've already learnt from Miles, wine tasting is not an exact science. And as the sceptics say, a glimpse of the label is worth fifty years experience.
The day ends and the manager sends me off with a bottle to try at home. As I'm not really sure what I'm in the mood for, he inevitably suggests a bottle of Riesling. This time it's German. Loosen Doctor L Riesling 2006. Wine experts, affectionados, call them what you will, all rave about Riesling. I'm not there yet. Yes, I enjoyed it. What I liked was the slight sweetness (I think the technical term is 'off-dry') combined with a lovely, crisp acidity. I also liked that it is low in alcohol, at just 8.5%. 'Very drinkable, and very enjoyable at the end of a hard day's work' was the verdict of the exhausted Mr R. Widely available, €11.49
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