Ridgeview Bloomsbury 2007

Waitrose, £20.00

At about 6 o'clock on Friday morning I had a broken leg. After a couple of hours and three X-Rays this had been downgraded to a combination of torn cartilage and 'funny-shaped bones'.

The previous evening had been a strange one: I recovered temporarily from an early fall to enjoy some ping-pong and a wildly successful trip to a Mayfair casino. But the £300 winnings were beginning to weigh me down, and by the time we left I could barely walk.

At around 4am I abandoned my intention of going to Cornwall for the weekend and made like a snail for Accident and Emergency.

The croupiers may have been kind earlier, but in life I was limping in. Distinctly unamused by the earlier diagnosis, I needed some form of invigorating tonic to re-establish perkiness to my sleep-deprived body.

English sparkling wine has been enjoying a stellar few years. Down in the South both the soil and the globally warmed climate are similar to that of Champagne, and in the best years all three grapes can ripen nicely. It's even rumoured that Champagne houses are buying up land here.

The headline news at last year's Decanter Wine Awards was that an English fizz, Ridgeview's 2006 Grosvenor Blanc de Blancs, had taken top prize in the Champagne and Sparkling wine category.

The Grosvenor is, obviously, all Chardonnay. Mine on the other hand was Ridgeview’s 'Bloomsbury', which adds Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier to give the full Champenois menage.

The Decanter judges found the Grosevenor to have 'plenty of elan'. Which is no doubt reassuring for the hopelessly pretentious amongst us. But I have no time for dictionaries, and wanted to get on to the bottle in hand...

Initially it has a light mineral nose, but not much going on.

A fine-ish mousse. Very champagne-y on the palate with loads of citrus acid. Lovely breadiness comes through on the nose once it opens up. There's lots of fruit but to my mind not enough body for the acidity. Gimme a granule more sugar in the dosage or a billion barrels of crude to burn, and this'll be a cracking wine.

It's young tasting and I'd like to see it in a few years, but still fizzily good for both body and mind, especially at the price.

If I could walk I might go buy another.

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.

Cousino-Macul 1987

c. £10 for recent vintages

If genetics are to be believed I am indubitably fated to become a hoarder of cheap wine.

Brief inspections of my grandmother's wine rack reveals it to be full old and dusty bottles of non-vintage champagne allegedly from the 1960s and '80s Pinot Gris. My father does a good line in oxidised-looking white Burgundy from average early '90s vintages, and Bordeaux from never-before-heard-of Chateaux.

A recent raid on his cellar turned up a bottle of 1987 Chilean red, laid down no doubt when I was still a mewler and a puker, and obstinately silent on the grapes that may have made it.

On the basis that we had nothing to celebrate Friday seemed as good a day as any to crack it open...

Cork was in good condition, and once double decanted it poured a deep garnet, not too brickish, and rather appealing. No taint whatsoever.

The nose gives this one away in a flash. All blackcurrant, nothing else, a lone Ribena-y dimension. Subsequent research confirmed this- 100% Cabernet Sauvignon.

Fruit is definitely still there on the palate, with a touch of woodiness, some cherry and blackberry flavours, but it's probably on its way out. Tannins are exceptionally light, and after half an hour have gone completely. The structure now is all bright acidity, which makes it remarkably fresh.

This is wine on the borderland of good and very good, and for me puts paid to those suggestions that Chilean wine is in its infancy. If they were making reasonably priced varietals with the legs for 23 years of bottle age back in the late '80s I suspect they're doing some properly clever stuff now.

Perhaps I shouldn't rail against the science. Perhaps the old people are wise. Perhaps the only way forward is buying up as much Concha y Toro as I can find before embracing the fuzzy slide toward mere oblivion. Perhaps...

3-Way IPA Showdown

Utobeer, £2.00 - £4.00

Following gallant victories over the twin mights of Canada and Holland the Indians were up next. And so I decided to toast the strong and historic friendship of our two nations by drinking lots and lots of India Pale Ale.

A 4 hour lapse in concentration at Borough Market meant that we returned home with some Bison steaks, three bottles of white Bergerac, a dressed crab, 6 avocados, a small bottle of apple juice, an Ostrich feather duster, some biltong and a rabbit's head. But most importantly we also had the required brews.

An unromantic sort will doubt the story that IPAs were created because a highly hopped, high alcohol beer was better at surviving the voyage to India in colonial times. I am not an unromantic sort, think it's a good story and will continue to imagine the beer fueling 200 years of running around the globe forcing our language on indigenous populations.

But what I had was not your regualar British IPA, with its sensible-ish alcohol levels, and pleasant malt/hop combinations. This is American style IPA, and, as I understand it, the idea is to create as strong a beer as possible and then hop it to hell so that it appears balanced. It is considered an advantage if the resulting brew turns out to a.) Have interesting flavours, and b.) Not be so bitter as to make you want to rip your tongue out. But neither of these are by any means essential.

So what I had was 6 bottles of a British beer brewed for people living in India, and recently updated by the Americans. Or at least I had five of those and something else, because Flying Dog had confused things further by throwing the Belgians into this little cultural hotpot and creating a 'Belgian-Style IPA.'

The Brew Dog lot have been causing waves in Britain since 2007 with their agressive styles, clever marketing, and irritating schtick. Flying Dog have done the same in the US since 1990 and Sierra Nevada, the grandaddies of the tasting have been going since 1980.

So on to the main act: Flying Dog v Sierra Nevada v Brew Dog. In order of preference...

Sierra Nevada Torpedo 7.2%
Another crap Sierra Nevada label hiding a fearsomely good beer. Loads of hops and some citrus creeping in. Fizz is very fine. The balance is perfect, and though it's less agressive than the Snake Dog and Punk it's possibly (just slighty) better.

Snake Dog IPA 7.1%
Really tingly green grass flavours and some malt-heft, but it's the hops that dominate giving a superb and uncompromising bitter finish.

Punk IPA 6.0%
Definite hoppy brightness, but changes quickly into sweeter peach and stonefruit flavours giving a surprisingly sweet, but not cloying, finish. Blighty more than holds its own in the field.

Sierra Nevada Celebration 2010 6.8%
Unmistakeable pine-y IPA nose. Slight maltiness balances really well on the palate and it wears the alcohol well, though the finish is a little short.

Raging Bitch 8.3%
A little of the yeast on the nose, and the sweetness on the palate. Lots of vegetable green freshness comes through and a little fruit. The combination is big in every way and intriugingly drinkable, but seems a tad incongruous. Another cracking Steadman label.

Hardcore IPA 9.2%
Too much of the bad; too sweet, too hot, too much alcohol. Not enough of the good; little hop character and only a bit of malt. No bite, balance or bitterness. Disappointing.

For the record I'd happily drink any of these beers, except the Hardcore, on a regular basis. The top 3 are very, very close, and some of the finest brews I have ever tasted.

Barista Pinotage 2009

Majestic, £5.99

Oh how I laughed the day that all the skin fell off the Russian's hand. But a year on and the same thing happening to my face seems less amusing.

A quick search reveals an astonishing 47 conditions that cause peeling skin. A few, such as overdosing on Polar Bear liver (is it that good?), seemed unlikely, but it still left a long and unpronounceable list of potential triggers.

I obviously needed some first-hand (excuse that) information from the Russian, so decided to pay a visit. And knowing that insider tips don't come cheap I made a beeline for the cellar to find some red wine to placate him.

Amongst the usual array of Syrah and Cabernet I espied an imposter from South Africa. Quite what had possessed me to buy more Pinotage I have no idea, but I can't have been in a happy place at the time. Either that or the devious bottle shape had made me think I was picking up a tasty Zinfandel. I don't think I had it before my last venture to Majestic, but unfortunately the new manager there doesn't know me well enough to have power of veto yet. This seemed like a good opportunity to make good on that mistake.

The label designer had abandoned a 'minimalist' style in favour of 'plain lazy' so I accessorised with a Cat Rabbit and made my way.

The nose is savoury, but not funky, with a little dark fruit coming through, and something intriguing that I couldn't quite place.

The palate is initially dominated completely by coffee. How they've made fermented grape juice taste quite exactly like black coffee is another mystery not worth exploring, but with the silly name and all it's clearly their gig. Luckily it soon gives way to a bit of light fruit and some peppery herbs, not much length and only a little structure, but pleasant enough. If tasted blind I'd guess at a slightly weird Languedoc wine involving Syrah, Mouvedre and other hangers-on.

Suprisingly nice. Not as surprising as finding out I actually did have Polar Bear Poisoning would be, but definitely nicer.

Flying Dog Beers

Utobeer, £2.50 - £4.50

Firstly let's begin with a quick shoutout to Ed over at The Beer Bunker who confirmed the excellent Utobeer in Borough Market as a likely destination to encounter some Flying Dogs.

I recall little of a recent trip to the United States of America, but one thing that does stick is spending a fair amount of time staring at a number of blurry and obscene Ralph Steadman cartoons on beer bottles.

And what beer! Huge on flavour, alcohol, distinction, and faux-Gonzo copy on the labels. Good enough to stand out in the already excellent American craft brewing scene- it filled the gaps between bouts of vintage claret very nicely indeed.

And so below, ranked in order of preference, are the bottles I picked up:

1. Snake Dog IPA 7.1%
Big, bold, crunchy hoppiness balances the alcohol perfectly. Flowers, peaches, enough richness. A smidge better than brilliant.
2. Gonzo Imperial Porter 8.7%
Really heady stuff. Starts with caramel sweetness and clever, distintive smacks of coffee and dark chocolate, before unwinding with a cleansing bitterness.
3. Double Dog Double IPA 11.5%
Another cleverly balanced, hop-heavy IPA. Pretty delicious but not quite as bright as the Snake Dog.
4. Old Skratch Amber Lager 5.5%
A good interpretation of a noble US style, perhaps doesn't quite have enough of the moreish malt sweetness that makes Sam Adams so successful.
5. Tire Bite Golden Ale 5.1%
Good, refreshing stuff, but lacking swagger. A touch dilute.
6. Kerebos Tripel 8.5%
Should have left it to the Belgians. Drastically deficient in the malt-beeriness necessary to balance the sugar and alcohol. Way too hot.

Le Pont de la Tour

36D Shad Thames London, £230 for 3

Now that the dust has settled and we have time to compose our thoughts and reactions, things have got a lot more confusing. So I’ll go for objectivity, present the facts straight, and leave long and difficult conclusions to someone else.

TOD arrived by taxi at my house at ten in the morning. He had some pink champagne for my family, a waistcoat which he struggled to put on for some time before discarding along with his hat, and was wearing pyjamas. These last were specifically ‘to give the impression that I’ve been to bed.’ A valiant attempt at subterfuge but more composure, less erratic behaviour and fewer stories about the visions he had of himself cooking bacon, would have completed the illusion better.

We were due at Le Pont de la Tour at Midday, though by 11 this was beginning to look unlikely, especially as past heroics mean TOD is blacklisted at Addison Lee. But arrive we did, at some point, via a pub, a cab, a members-only gym and a walk through the rain along the South Bank of the Thames.

Le Pont de la Tour’s opening salvo was by some distance the finest I have encountered in this country. They gave us frutos secos with the Martinis. Proper ones too: mixed, and with both sizes of corn.

The food is of the type that comes littered with technicolour smears, jus and garnish. Sister’s aubergine tower starter she said tasted like pizza. Which is probably a compliment of sorts. My own ‘Foie Gras Parfait’ (a special concoction dreamed up originally to make anyone who orders it sound like a prat), tasted like liver pate, the toast like toast, the garnish wasn’t bringing much to the party, and I left the smear of orange.

For mains TOD and Sister had a piece of accessorised Salmon. The chef's deconstruction of the other ingredients means I can’t tell you much more, but the fish was cooked to perfection.

I decided on 'Daube de Boeuf' because I didn’t know what it was, and was delighted to discover it means a large slow-cooked shanky bit of cow. Another diner may not have been so happy with the situation, as the internet has since informed that, of course, that’s not what it means at all.

I had noticed early on that this is one of those places that, rather pretentiously, does not give you salt or pepper. I’m not too keen on this practice at the best of times, but here it really serves to highlight the complete lack of flavour of everything that we ate. The ability to braise a bit of beef to melting perfection, but make both it, and the accompanying jus, taste of paper and water respectively is a peculiar skill to cultivate.

There are various reasons that my memory of the events is a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure that being unable to tell what most ingredients were using the traditional means of seeing and tasting it is quite high on the list.

Still, the obsolescence of sensory perception probably wasn’t making much of a difference to TOD who I established at one point was neither thinking about nor hearing what he himself was saying:

TOD – “Is everything OK man? There seem to be a lot of lulls in the conversation”
CV – “What? No there aren’t.”
TOD – “Well then I must have been asleep. Did I fall asleep?”
CV – “What? No. And when were these lulls?”
TOD – “They’re happening all the time. You know… when you and your sister aren’t talking.”
CV – “You mean when you’re talking?”
TOD – “Yeah.”

Our unblemished palates may not have required a trio of superb sorbets (rasberry, apple and a third which Sister correctly identified as Ribena), but these silences clearly needed filling. Initially I was a little concerned as they looked exactly like most of the other stuff we had just been served, but accompanied by homemade Lengua de Gato biscuits (not as good as out of a packet), they were brilliant.

A jolly post-prandial game involving throwing sugar cubes at each other was frowned upon by service which occupied a hinterland between frosty and hostile. Apart from the sommelier, who was quite good, but this was just as well because it was she who was tasked with the job of explaining the most staggering fuck-up of the day…

The week before we dined, D&D restaurant chain (of which Le Pont de la Tour is part) had spent a fair amount of time merrily issuing press releases claiming that they were slashing the prices of 100 of their top wines by up to half.

Needless to say that upon entering the restaurant I had commandeered the list from TOD, to prevent any daft choices, and set about it excitedly. Repeated assurances that it did contain up-to-date prices may well have been true, what it did not contain were any of the quite large selection of wines in their Top 100 which I was thinking about ordering.

Eventually we settled on a bottle of IGT Toscana (I do not use the ‘S-term' because I'm not keen on coming across as a tosser, and this one was pretty ordinary anyway) which was subject to their usual 400% mark-up. Not cool.

The very beginning and very end of our meal were pretty excellent, but the best that could be said of the middle was that it was extremely inoffensive. Mediocrity is a terrible criticism, but here I feel they've got away pretty lightly as the another way of describing it would be bland, souless, cynical, cold, outdated, imprecise, stuck-up and absurd.