Felton Road Block 1 Riesling '03

It was becoming evident that I had a Reverse Hangover. One of those horrid ones where you wake up all perky thinking 'I might go for a run today, or alphebetise my bookcase, or write a novel.' But then by lunchtime the space behind your eyeballs hurts, and you want to plunge your head into fire, water or gas. All the while slightly worried because the Reverse Hangover's good-to-bad transition is the same order of events as normal-way-round dying.

My blood sugar and alcohol levels were clearly in freefall and some emergency medication was to be sought. Port would do it but I feared that some of my '85 Fonseca at 11am on a Sunday would overload my loucheness gland. And possibly give me gout.

Riesling then. Felton Road Block One 2003. 9% ABV, 'though described as a 'sweet style'.

The nose is nice, and it's all there; petrol, rubber, lemons. Not getting any botrytis 'tho. The palate is full, but not overly so, with quince-y fruit as well as tropical notes backed by that familiar wave of citrus. Relatively simple. The acid's holding up nicely, and gives a pretty perfect balance, and cleanliness. 'Though I hope that the good folks at Felton Road have learnt the difference between 'sweet' and 'off-dry' in the last 9 years.

A fine tonic.

Trimbach Riesling '09 & El Velero Ortiz Anchoas

£9.99, Majestic & £4, Sainsbury's

Most the week had been dominated by a (hitherto unexperienced) yearning to eat very expensive tinned Spanish anchovies.

For a tenacious sort finding them is not difficult, the tapas-inisation of the London food scene has seen to that, the problems arrive in locating companions, both people and wine.

Emily1's virtues are legion; she lives near me, reads the Romantic Poets, enjoys sweet wine, understands the importance of lunch, seems reasonably forgiving, and doesn't eat fish. More horrifically expensive anchovies for me.

Riesling's virtues are also legion. Lunch was a gim'me.

Aforementioned anchovies, quail eggs, sundried tomatoes, cucumber salad, pork pies, sausage rolls, couscous, ripe Camembert, apricot chutney, a baguette, and 2009 Trimbach Riesling.

The anchovies were good, firm and tasty, with a slightly metallic aftertaste. Each was indiviually wrapped around a single caper: a suitably profligate attitude to production costs.

Trimbach's effort was also straight up. A classic Alsatian style, wet rocks and sleek citrus on the nose, a wisp of smoke. Piercingly dry palate, lime and lemon peel, with just a hint of tropicality coming through on the finish.

This was a fine meal even by our own lofty standards, and a clear indication that the long hot streak that my sense of whimsy is currently enjoying shows no signs of letting up.

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.

Roka

37 Charlotte Street, London, £65 pp excluding wine.

The combination of St. Patrick's Day and TOD's Irish ancestry had apparently lent him power of veto when it came to my choice of headwear for the evening. I am a serious man, and do not take sartorial decisions lightly, so was not about to pander to any bandana related bigotry that he may have cultivated.

We were due at a restaurant called Roka, whose clientele possess more money than sense, class and style combined, which made my compadre worried he may know someone there, and worse... they would see him with me.

This unfortunate alignment led to a minor hissy fit and him catching a cab for home around twenty minutes before our booking.

Not one to let solitude come between me and the possibility of a cocktail, I made for the joint, scowled at the bouncer (really?) and ordered an unimpressive Mojito. Realising his early folly TOD gave ground on the bandana front, appeared sometime later, and we found our table.

Food was in his hands, as I had got to that stage in an evening when my Japanese becomes a little rusty. And what came, via some friendly, speedy, don't-bat-an-eyelid service was pretty damn spectacular. Light as air prawn tempura, belly tuna sushi so slickly unctuous that it required the waitress to assure TOD it wasn't Foie Gras, and a couple of dishes from their centrepiece Robata grill; some lovely lamb cutlets on the bone, and a bit of small bird, pigeon or partridge or some such.

It was all very, very good... far too good for the clientele. But what really got me was the consistency. It wasn't genius teetering on the brink of insanity, just a long, fine sustained brilliance. Which for restaurant with a grillion covers, almost as many chefs, and probably onto its third sitting of the evening by 10.30 is staggering.

Topping all this was a wine list that oozed an unfocused dandy-ish class. Leaning heavily on Rieslings, Gewurztraminers and other Franco-German joys, it spoke of someone who cared about food and wine and fun. Better still TOD had very generously offered to pay for the wine, though this meant I could feel the power/responsibility combo weighing down on me a little.

10 minutes in however I was no closer to divining any rhyme or reason, and I was close to a hissy fit of my own when I came across it: Trimbach Cuvee Frederic Emile 2004. £92 is not cheap, but the food deserved it, and good god it was good. Kerosene, and minerals, tight citrus acidity backing expansive tropical fruit. It had everything, and in sublime balance.

The best things in life are emphatically not free: we must all make concessions, be they monetary, moral, or personal.

Unless of course you're me.

Loimer Riesling 2007

Waitrose, £17.50

The proferred Prosecco had certainly taken an interesting Dadaist approach to the closure debate in opting for a beer bottle style cap, but being a man of both class and taste I was obviously not to be tempted.

Several years' worth of field data suggests that my life will be far, far too short to drink cheap fizzy wine. And I've never been one to argue with empiricism, even when I need an aperitif.

Happily a freezer and a bottle of posh Austrian Riesling were on hand, so I dug out the required receptacle and set about it.

I drink little white that isn't Riesling. I like the petrol, the acidity, the freshness, the variety, the intensity, and above all I love the smug confidence that I'm drinking something better than anybody else.

I love the grape but hate the way its complexity means I spend an evening smelling rather than drinking it, but with this example it seems I had struck gold.

Subtler on the nose than some; mineraltiy, oil, and a little green vegetable. In the mouth however is everything anyone could want: Tropical fruit, citrus fruit, apples, sugar (not cloying), acid (but no astringency), and beautifully balanced.

In an amusing, blurry, art-imitating-life kind of way, the bottle went imperceptibly quickly.

For the moment brevity's definitely got its upside.

Dr. Loosen Riesling Beerenauslese 2006

Majestic £9.99

Just when you thought the Bordelais couldn't push the breathtaking cynicism of 2009 any further Mouton Rothschild go and commission a Chinese artist to design the label of the flagship '08 wine.

Throw in the fortunate coincidence that 8 is, apparently, a lucky number for the entire Chinese nation and the fact that China is about the only market that buys Premier Cru Bordeaux to actually drink, and you can pretty much double the value of your wine in a single month. The Liv-Ex Fine Wine Exchange had the '08 Mouton Rothschild trading at £7,898 per case at the end of November, up from £4,254 at the beginning of the month.

Fucking masterstroke.

I needed something to bring things back down to earth, to shun the hype, the marketing, and the zeitgeisty nature of the current market. How could I resist 187cl of botrytised German wine for ten quid?

Quite what Majestic think they are doing trying to sell something as deeply unfashionable as a quarter bottle of super-sweet, 6.5% Riesling for a tenner is anyone's guess. But I commend it, and it tickled my sense of the absurd, so I bought a bottle to go with one of the regular '09 Dr. Ls.

The Dr L is a excellent wine: a single metaphorical teaspoon of residual sugar above bone-dry and full of well integrated lush fruit, backed by that slick, limey acidity so associated with Rieslings. But I was hoping the little Beerenauslese would be even better.

I have long ago given up bothering trying to crack the peculiar code system that the Germans insist on using on their bottles, so instead consulted the website to confirm that I was in for a classically sweet Christmassy treat.

"Chill the hell out of that mofo," was the opinion of the Russian who had bought some ok '07 Pomerol and a nicely gutsy Chateauneuf-du-Pape. However I chose to consult higher authorities who advised drinking at a cool cellar temperature.

On the nose TDN levels are just above detection level, giving a pleasing hit of petrol. Intense orange sweetness is perfectly matched by a long citrus acid finish, which completely cuts any potential oiliness. I'm not sure I would serve this with dessert as I think most would be just a bit too much for the wine's simple elegance.

The wee bottle brilliantly encourages solo drinking; enjoy on its own, on your own, with just the sticky-sweet sense of smug satisfaction for company.

Laithwaites Grand Tasting

The message simply read 'Help'

When I found him sometime later, dribbling to himself in a back corridor at Vinopolis it transpired that he had gone rogue and ended up cornered by a German lady who was alledgedly making him smell mushrooms before offering any of her Pinot Noir. The Shock and Awe approach to the Laithwaites tasting had been decided upon some time before, but it was clear now that TOD would need some guidance and a little more nerve if he was going to make it through.

Some other spirit knew this too, because, excellently, on our way back from the corridor we got lost and ended up in a pub. We did this I'm pretty sure without leaving the building. Sensing the hand of God at play I bought a couple of ales and we sat down to assess the situation.

Some time ago we had procured tickets to Laithwaites first 'Grand Tasting' session in the cavernous Vinopolis at London Bridge. The show promised 200 wines from across the globe served by their enthusiastic producers, lectures and tutored tastings from industry experts, friendly and knowledgeable staff on hand to offer advice and 10% off any wine bought on the day. We were clearly going to be hopelessly out of our depth...

On re-entering the arena TOD immediately latched on to two young ladies in Laithwaites shirts who were serving Le Chai au Quai with a big plate of cheese. They didn't seem to know much about Bordeaux, but were contented to listen whilst he told them all about how much he loved cheese. The wines were fairly nondescript apart from the top-of-the-line Pauillac, which had a nice attack.

I left him to go remonstrate with the German lady from earlier. She was still trying to get people to smell mushrooms and Liquorice Allsorts, but having been briefed on this I flatly refused. Instead I ate some of the Liquorice Allsorts and had a glass of Chilean Pinot Noir, which was, interestingly, mushroomy. We then made our way back to the main hall via a man who who had some Whisky to get us in the fighting spirit.

Downstairs we set about some more serious drinking.

The producers stalls were mostly set out by country, to aide the nationalist set. An Aussie gave me some fizzy Shiraz which the winemaker had, rather unimaginatively I thought, made taste exactly as you would expect, i.e. of Vimto.

Onwards to a pleasant Spier Pinotage 2008, nice but lacking a little varietal distinction. I chose not to believe the man’s optimistic declaration that ‘This is probably the finest red you will taste today’ but it seems others were more easily gulled as this was voted the crowd’s favourite wine of the day.

A brace of modern, zippy Rieslings from Von Buhl were good enough, but didn't really excite, so I moved to the next stall with the intention of practising my inimitable Spanish on a woman from Carinena. 'Though this was scuppered when she inexplicably took against me when I asked if her wine contained any.

Meeting up with TOD again we spotted an opening at the sole Argentinian stand, and an opportunity for one of his famously prolix Proustian eulogies on the joy of Malbec.

Unfortunately before he could really hit his stride the producer happened to mention Chilean wine... "Bastards the lot of them!" exclaimed TOD loudly as the atmosphere around the table darkened. The man serving the wine looked frightened, but another, standing beside us made the mistake of pressing TOD further on the finer points of his assertion. He muttered something about the Chilean being an unpredictable sort before declaring them "Untrustworthy in matters of business and affairs of the heart." This did the job and, as people started to edge away, I kept a close eye on the Chileans at the stall next door in case the scene turned ugly.

Up until this point the highlights had been some cracking NZ Pinot Noirs, especially the Forrest Wines Stonewall 2008 which matched a cracking savoury nose, to a smooth deep and long fruit palate. But the best was saved 'til the very end.

The final NZ stall we visited was that of Seifried Estate, whose ice wine Riesling was a revelation. Full and honeyed in the mouth, with bags of clean lime acidity on the finish.

We left with the firm intention of taking advantage of the 10% off deal at the shop, but queues were prohibitive. Instead we stole a couple of tasting glasses and made our merry way.