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

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.

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.

To Boldly Google

Our daughter's education has now begun in earnest, and suddenly we are all thrown into a new milieu, that of National School (State run primary school). Having mastered early starts (sort of), healthy lunches, school books and schoolbags, I am now free to concentrate on getting to know the mothers whose company I am going to be keeping for the next eight years. That's what I think. It's all very well to discuss how your daughter is doing in school, or what extra curricular activities she is pursuing, but as to their own lives, well that's another story, and seemingly not one that's open for discussion. Having sussed out and eliminated child minders and nannies I try making a few small inroads, taking care to approach a different mother, or group of mothers, each time. I don't get very far, but let me clarify that this is not a military exercise, just a hopeful attempt to find a few like-minded people, with whom I can move beyond the superficial.

The superficial is all around - car park full of SUVs, toned bodies leading up to crease-free faces, immaculate grooming, daughters in designer anoraks. It is abundantly clear that we live in a small pocket affected only by one aspect of our booming economy - rising property prices. Therefore fewer families are moving into the area and we remain immune to many of the challenges affecting education in modern Ireland. And so, when handed the contact list for junior infants, I felt like I imagine Fionn mac Cumhaill must have felt when he first tasted the Salmon of Knowledge. From now on I too can stand in dutiful silence at collection time because, with the information provided, I don't have to ask any questions. I can find out all I need to know online.

After several days deliberation I decided that blogging is morally superior to googling. And so I pinned the contact list on our notice board and resolved to refer to it only when arranging a playdate, the modern day replacement for spontaneous playtime - sadly no longer an option for 21st century children. But curiosity did get the better of me and I decided to take a test case. Because of what I've written so far my options are clearly limited and so Mr Q and Wine Goose fell under the spotlight.

Mr Q is not necessarily the corporate hotshot he has led me to believe for years. Instead he could conceivably be spending all those extra hours, not in the office, but commuting to Clare where he is a successful county hurler. Or maybe he's really a freelance musician, available for drum sessions at lower than normal fees. The possibilities are endless... But persistence pays and after mousing through several pages I do eventually find the profile that fits the physique.

Wine Goose stars in 'Home and Away.' How glamorous. Where does she find the time? Failing that she could be leading an altogether duller life and recently have won a printmaking award in a midlands town. Then a golden nugget, I find out where she went to secondary school. People from outside Ireland who have spent a long time in the country often observe how important this seems to be to us. With good reason. Nothing gives us the ability to form an instant mental picture of the person we're dealing with that their school. I won't take this further today but it is a theory that demands an entire blog - comments welcome.

Search a little further and I can find out when they bought their current home, and how much they paid. Wine Goose is no techie, and all this information was gathered using very basic methods of research. What purpose does it serve? Information is power, as long as you don't let any of it slip.

If you're planning a traditional Halloween dinner of bacon and colcannon, why not skip the wine and go for the best match with this meal - a glass of milk. Can't do it, then nip out to your local wine shop and search the lower shelves for a bottle of Gruner Veltliner. The herbaceous and grassy tinges will bring out the meat's flavours and perfectly complement the parsley sauce, €13.99.

Harp Bar moment

Mr Q and I dined out recently at what restaurant reviewers nowadays describe as a 'neighbourhood restaurant'. I may be wrong, but my understanding of this term is a suburban restaurant, usually without any distinguishing decor, cuisine, wine list etc, that caters for people living in the immediate area, who will happily put up with the lack of glamour in return for comfort and convenience - an enjoyable meal out, not too pricey, and none of the hassle associated with travelling into town. On any given Saturday night, fellow diners will generally fall into the same socio-economic grouping and there will be lots of discreet nodding by the likes of Mr Q to fellow professionals, and the likes of Wine Goose to faces she recognises from the school run.

Most married couples on nights out 'a deux' do have occasional lulls in conversation and here I can fill these lulls by earwigging on parallel discussions i.e. how well Child A is doing on the school rugby team and how Child B is likely to get the lead part in the school play this year. And so, it was with great delight on my part, that on this occasion we were placed at a table next to a pair of Disco Ball clad ladies on a big night out. Homogeneous Blonde Southsiders both (the kind of girl that most men like Mr Q end up marrying), they looked liked they were getting up to leave as we arrived. But something persuaded them to park their derrieres and order another bottle of wine. A fruity little red, my ears were pricked.

I expected scandal, and I got it. Cheating husbands, affairs, names named. Even Mr Q could not avoid overhearing their now too-loud chatter, and for most of the meal we did manage to keep up a good flow of conversation, in a valiant attempt to shield the ladies from the eyes and ears of the entire dining room. Then, like in all the best novels, the evening drew to its inevitable conclusion and the adulteress uttered a name we both recognised. Our simultaneous sharp intake of breath awoke them from their reverie and they dashed outside for a cure-all cigarette, their wine bottle now empty. We left the restaurant soon after and repaired to a local hostelry for a nightcap, only to see them stumble in moments later.

There's a very fine line between ordering a second bottle and going home. Wine Goose and all her geese friends have crossed it many times, usually with exceptional results! But if it's revelation time, surely it's better to cross that line well away from home, or any resemblance of home. Those ladies might have travelled out of their local area, but they really should have stayed on that bus and opted instead for a noisy pizzeria in the city centre.

Back in the last century, before we were all so liberated and liberal, I had a friend who handed out some very good advice to another friend. This as a result of her showing up in her local pub with a man who should have been elsewhere, and being surprised when they bumped into mutual acquaintances. What, he said, were you thinking of, taking him there? You should have gone to the Harp Bar on O'Connell Street.

Obvious in hindsight.

For Sunday dinner this week the Q family enjoyed a delicious roast leg of lamb, served with roast veg and potatoes, accompanied by Chateau Beaumont 2004, a Cru Bourgeois from the Haut Medoc. Classic vanilla, cassis and blackcurrants on the nose. Importantly for goose, not too tannic on the palate, smooth and well balanced with lots of fruit. Widely available, from €16.99.

Requiem on a gala dinner

And so to the big night out.

Predictably, the night before was spent playing 'musical beds' a game long enjoyed more by the little people than their parents, whereby the household starts the night as a conventional family unit. Children are fed, bathed and story-told into a deep sleep by 8 pm. Mr Q and myself then enjoy a brief spell of togetherness, this usually involves Mr Q reading the newspapers and myself watching the soaps, with a few brief exchanges of conversation between us during the ad breaks. We settle into the marital bed soon after the 9 o'clock news, having assured ourselves that the children have been so tired out by the days activities and look so peaceful that there is no chance of them waking until the alarm clock rings the next morning.

The game starts sometime around 2 am, when child 1 wakes up and runs into the parents bedroom. Child 1 wakes parents, ousts father, and proceeds to fall fast asleep jammed up against mother. Just as mother gets back to sleep child 2 wakes and runs into the parents room, wakes child 1 and mother (again). Child 1 and child 2 then insist that they cannot sleep without mother, whereupon she crams herself into an impossibly small space between them and watches in disbelief as they fall fast asleep. Just as the first light of dawn is coming through the window, she herself caves into exhaustion and passes out. 5 minutes later the alarm clock rings and the little people awake refreshed and ready to face the day. As does Mr Q, safely ensconced in 'daddy's room' since the game began.

Preparation time, as usual is minimal. The new contact lenses are very comfortable and I no longer have bloodshot eyes within 5 minutes of putting them in. If there's any criticism, it's that my vision doesn't seem any better than without them. They'll work themselves into the correct position en route to the dinner I hope. My son, who helped me sort out my make-up bag last week, is refusing to reveal the whereabouts of the magic Laura Mercier concealer that hides all the bags and shadows under my eyes. I think that's called compounding a problem he already created. And my daughter has only landed one chocolaty hand on the dress before wandering off with the babysitter. Nobody will be looking at my left outer thigh area anyway. So we leave the house in relatively good shape.

If whisking means alternatively moving swiftly for a few moments, then screeching to a shuddering halt for several more, then we were whisked along the M50 to Carton House. On arrival we were most definitely moved swiftly into dinner, the pre-dinner drinks having been scheduled with no regard to victims of the city's traffic chaos.

To give credit to my maligned personal dresser, I shone like a brilliant jewel, my magenta dress providing a brilliant flash amongst a sea of black. However, it still could not prevent the eyes-glazing-over effect, with which I have become only too familiar at social events since I chose to stay at home with the children during their formative years. And so my dining companions chatted politely if disinterestedly about children until the tian of crab and avocado with gazpacho vinaigrette and frisee salad arrived, when I happened to remark that I felt the accompanying Chablis seemed a little young, and resembled more a Macon, with the honeyed flavours overpowering the minerality that would develop in another year or two. Now I had their attention. The conversation turned from the predictable subjects of Ireland's economic success and second homes to the much more interesting subject of wine. We learnt that the Dutch representative at the table is also a fan of white Burgundy, and that in Norway, considered such a progressive country in many ways, it is only possible to buy wine from Vinmonopolet, the state liquor stores. My contact lens never did kick in, so I had to resort to bringing home a copy of the menu, and checking out my theory later on, from behind the comfort of my spectacles. It was a Chablis Premier Cru 2005, Bouchard Aine et Fils. A wonderful wine from a highly reputed producer, but capable of much more ageing than the 2 years it was given before being poured into my glass.

My main course prediction was wrong. This time we were served Chateauneuf du Pape 2001, Domaine du Pere Pape. Another safe option from a good vintage, and drinking well now, but as I pointed out to my dining companions, it would not be my first choice to serve with prime Irish fillet of beef, with glazed mixed herbs and peppercorn crust served with parmesan potato and truffle scented jus. I think I would have gone for something weightier, like my prediction of a Bordeaux, more likely left bank with a higher concentration of Cabernet Sauvignon or indeed an Argentinian Malbec. When it arrived the beef course did not have any heavy or overpowering flavours or sauces so in fact the Chateauneuf stood up well to the test. The wines of the Rhone are not a personal favourite, but when matching them with food I find they go better with game dishes and casseroles than with red meats.

And so onto dessert, coffee and cheese (strangely in that order). Enough of wine and the wonderful surroundings of Carton House, it is time for Mr Q and I to be sped home, in time for another round of musical beds.

The Wine Geese and Wine Goose

Ever wandered into your local wine shop and headed for the Bordeaux section, intent on walking out of that minefield with a fine bottle of red that lives up to its price? Well you're not alone. Next time you're in there, why not try a different angle and look out for some unexpected names. Scattered amongst the venerable French families you are likely to spot more labels with Irish names than one would expect of a country with no history of wine production.

Start with the basic Bordeaux AC where you'll find Barton & Guestier, as well as Michel Lynch. Both names are slightly Frenchified, the men must have fallen in love with more than the soil! Move into Listrac-Medoc, where Chateau Clarke produces some of the finest tannic, medium-bodied reds for which the region is famed. Browse the Margaux labels and you'll find that Chateau Kirwan can compete with the best of them, as can Chateau Lynch-Bages in Pauillac. The Barton family pops up again in St Julien, with the second growth Leoville-Barton featuring at the top of the quality ranking in that appellation.

These 'wine geese' as they are now known, did not drift into Bordeaux by accident, decide to take the French on at their own game, and develop great wines. Like so many before and after them, they did not leave their country by choice. Indeed, this particular group fought many battles in Ireland during an especially bloody period in her history, and eventually fled, not only to settle in foreign fields, but indeed many of them went on to fight in other European armies.

It all happened over 300 years ago, when, following heavy losses in the Battle of the Boyne and the Battle of Aughrim, the 1691 Treaty of Limerick allowed a group of soldiers to leave Ireland and serve in France with the defeated James II, the last Catholic King of England. The term 'wine geese' is derived from the 'Flight of the Wild Geese', as their departure subsequently became known. Nowadays the term has extended to include all the Irish involved in wine production worldwide, and as of today Wine Goose herself!

The International Museum of Wine in Kinsale, County Cork, documents many of the families of Irish origin involved in the wine trade throughout the world, and for those interested in further delving into the subject, its website offers a breakdown of Irish involvement in the wine trade by country, winery and family. The museum also welcomes information on the Irish roots of wine families around the world and can be contacted via its website.