Domaine Heresztyn Gervrey Chambertin Vielles Vignes 2005 v Trimbach Cuvee Frederic Emile Riesling 2004

c£40 and £30 respectively

Some exemplary poker playing and a small lottery win on Friday night meant that I awoke the next morning in the mood to buy some weaponry.

I will not pretend that my assault on the London International Dive Show was an 'under the radar' kind of operation in any way, but equally I am not the kind to fail a primary objective. The conflagration of these meant that I found myself a few hours later standing on the banks of the Thames in Rotherhithe staring at my Sister down the barrel of a shiny new speargun.

Still, as is so often the case, the solution to one problem created a new set of questions and obstacles. Most are better left unconsidered or unasked, but the one I did feel in a position to tackle was just what type of cork I was going to put on the end of it to prevent poking people in between bouts of pescacide.

Having inadvertently stumbled across the answer to the debate surrounding bottle closure (synthetic closures are not the match for cork in every conceivable application), it was clear that something quality, ultra-traditional and probably French was in order.

Up for consideration then were a bottle of 2004 Trimbach Cuvee Frederic Emile Riesling, and a 2005 Domaine Heresztyn Gervrey Chambertin Vielles Vignes.

Now red Burgundy is a wine that I’ve not had much luck with, it’s not that I don’t like it- more that I don’t tend to like the people that do, and have a pretty low tolerance for brett and the old and weird winemaking techniques that go on down there. Riesling on the other hand I am besotted with, and particularly this one, which I had at a restaurant recently and thought it one of the finest whites I have ever tasted. I thought I knew how this little head-to-head was going to pan out…

Domaine Heresztyn Gervrey Chambertin Vielles Vignes 2005 – No dirt on the nose whatsoever, full of red fruit and a little vegetal leafiness. The palate is sumptuous, summer fruits; strawberries and raspberries, perfect acid and light tannins. Drinking beautifully now, this wine is all the ‘S’s; supple, subtle, suave, sleek, sexy and seductive.

Trimbach Cuvee Frederic Emile Riesling 2004 – Really tight nose, minerals, wet stone and no rubber. This translates onto a palate that is equally inexpressive, lemon peel, lime and taught, focused minerality, but none of the expansive exotic stuff of the last bottle I had. Seems very young and closed right now, or maybe a possible hint of oxidation, either way I wouldn’t have put it at much above a tenner.

A very one-sided showdown means that my speargun is now the proud possessor of stylish new hat from the Bourgogne.

Bring on the barracuda.

Montes Alpha 2008

Majestic, £12.50

My Father is a proud man, and wont to take umbrage at the slightest of slights. So needless to say it did not go unnoticed when I recently accused him of being a hoarder of oxidised-looking white Burgundy.

A commendable attempt to set the record straight last week saw a bottle of 1990 Duvergey Taboureau Chassagne-Montrachet make its way from the dusty recesses of his rack and into a fridge for judgment.

On opening the cork was sodden and mouldy, the liquid: Morning-After Yellow. Horribly oxidised.

Happily the next generation was on hand, to redeem the sins of the previous. I am a hedger and a fixer so had cleverly chilled a bottle of Montes Alpha's superb 2008 Chardonnay in case of this thoroughly prectable emergency.

It's seen a little oak and this is apparent on the nose along with some green fruit and a little minerality.

Loads of acid and a bit of astringency (probably) from the oak, backed by a touch of lovely honeyed sweetness and tropical fruit as it warms. Lemons and star fruit, and a swish long finish.

Buying remission has never been cheaper, or more delicious.

Electric House

191 Portobello Road, London £???

We decided upon lunch at the Electric on what was clearly the back-end of a very long and very successful run of excellent decision-making. But before eating it was obvious that we required a hat for the otherwise preposterously dressed CV - a man not entirely equipped to deal with the sartorial rigour demanded by West London. His hat's raisin of debt was not merely to complement my hat, but also to furnish him with an early Christmas present worthy of our longstanding friendship-cum-rivalry, and to secure his safe passage through the members-only doorway of the Electric.

Actually completing the purchase of a hat proved beyond our abilities at the time, although we did make it as far as having one gift-wrapped in All Saints (prior to beating the hastiest of retreats), and also incurred the wrath of a man whose top hats were revealed (by some pretty rigorous testing) to lack the structural integrity implied by their £40 price tag. The aforementioned merchant also accused CV of being drunk, or possibly of being a fully-fledged drunkard - clearly here was a man of great insight & integrity, and he was not to be trifled with.

But I digress, let me set the record straight about how we came to be in Electric House. The name that I used to secure access for CV & myself was not made up, as his insane ramblings below would suggest. The name we used was wilfully purloined, and - in the events that followed - probably also blackened.

Without the hat, gaining entry to Electric House was going require even more derring-do and subterfuge than we had accounted for. There was one brief moment at which the success of the entire venture hung in the balance: the otherwise charming young lady on the door felt compelled to remark upon the fact that I possess considerably shorter hair than the man whose photo popped up when I deployed my stolen name at the appropriate time.

A look of grave terror came over CV's face at the thought of what might become of two plucky adventurers caught in the act of deception, but luckily I was able to employ some quick thinking and skilfully deflected her subtle probing with an oblique reference to the excellence of my hat - we were on our way into the heart of the Forbidden Kingdom!

In reference to CV's review - I concur entirely on the food, and am even willing to defer to him on the wine in this case. I can shed no more light than my companion on the nature of the third dish, but I certainly enjoyed the chicken livers. Electric House, though, is one of those places that you do not really go to for the quality of the food. The atmosphere and the service are what bring in the crowds.

I don't think enough emphasis can be placed on the extent to which our waitress was both charming and long-suffering. Quite how long-suffering is a matter of debate, and one that can probably only be settled with recourse to close-circuit television, or possibly police reports. In any case, she was lovely, if not quite as disposed to furnish me with her number as I had hoped.

The Electric Brasserie downstairs offers more of the same, and more importantly has the advantage of being open to non-members. If you are not of a brazen disposition, and prefer your dining experiences to come sans outlandish acts of deception or forced entry, this may be the option for you.

The menu is near-identical to that in the club, the food every bit as consistent, and the service just as friendly. They are also blessed with the prettiest pair of hostesses that you are ever likely to come across. They certainly aren't knockout, Eastern-European-hooker beautiful like the hostesses at the superb Japanese restaurants that abound in Mayfair and Knightsbridge, but their general encouraging friendliness really does lift the mood in the inevitable 10 - 20 minute queue for a table.

All in all a successfully executed dining operation. The front of house staff may have gently prodded us in the direction of the door as a result of various aspects of my conduct, but they did so the most cordial manner possible, and I have no doubt we would be welcomed with open arms should we choose to venture there again.

Highly recommended.

TOD

Electric House

191 Portobello Road, London. £???

Disclaimer – At the very best the objectivity of this review should be doubted. What we ate, drank, and indeed whether we were actually there at all are all matters of some debate.

First of all it should be noted that Electric House is a private club, part of the Soho House Group, with sister venues in such retro-glamourous locations as New York and Berlin. This particular establishment was less salubriously located behind an unmarked door on Portobello Road, though within convenient reeling distance of a Sam Smith's pub.

In theory one should be a creative new-media type on an informal networking lunch and a paid-up member of the Group in order to gain entry, so what follows will probably be of little use to anybody bored enough to continue. However this is, in fact, no barrier to lunch, assuming you are a tenacious sort. Put on a good hat, storm in, hastily scribble a made up name and signature and run upstairs to the bar for some Espresso Martinis. Which is what we did.

The restaurant was curiously busy for a Friday afternoon, but TOD was quick to mark out territory by shouting loudly about an important call he was expecting and forcing a frankly scared-looking barman to look after his phone.

Once it had become apparent that we weren’t leaving, we were seated in good time having polished off our aperitifs at the bar.

The menu has a fair breadth of starters, mains and various bar snack type things, three of which we ordered; chicken livers on toast, fishcakes, and something else.

TOD also plumped for a bottle of Meursault, as part of an ongoing campaign to drag me through his inexplicable fondness for white Burgundy. There may have been some bread and/ or olives involved at some point before our charming and long-suffering waitress brought the food.

The livers were mouth-fillingly rich and rather tasty, the fishcakes unmistakably that and served with a white dip which I recall quite liking. It was doubtless Tartare, or some variant thereof, but in the interest of journalistic integrity all I can say with absolute certainty is that it was white.

I don’t imagine the third plate was much cop as neither of us have any recollection of it whatsoever above the fact that it existed. The wine was jadingly typical, 'though not, if I recall, subjected to a horrific mark-up.

We enjoyed coffees, and I whiled away pleasant half hour watching TOD on a concerted but predictably fruitless mission to extract our waitress' phone number. As he began to lapse in and out of consciousness it became clear that it was time to make a move. Unburdened by the credit card we had left at the bar, we made a fleet-footed escape.

If all this sounds a little damning-with-faint-praise, let me assure you that Electric House is actually a superlative eating experience. The food is good, the ambience buzzy and pleasant and the staff met behaviour that must have pushed the limits of credulity with an heroic stoicism.

*If anyone from Electric House ever happens to come across this review, please feel free to contact me with any revisions or clarifications you may have. Especially if you know what the third dish was.*