‘Do you like it?’
These were the first words ever uttered to me at a wine tasting and, it’s fair to say, they changed my life.
The question was posed by Jerry Williams (pictured above), then President of my university wine society, now lifelong friend, and delivered with his trademark affability and genuine desire to discover my opinion on the wine in question, one whose identity – along with 95% of the, literally, hundreds of bottles he and I have shared since – I have long forgotten.
Fresh in town and with an approach to and knowledge of wine that could be generously described as Enthusiastic Consumer, I did what most middle class English people did then and do now. I froze.
What was the right answer? I asked myself wanting, as all publicly educated schoolboys do, to please this venerable (ok, he seemed like it then, he was two years ahead of me) man in authority.
‘Erm…’ I stuttered inchoately, playing for time, the alcohol already interfering with my usual ability to extemporise and generally wing it.
Jerry continued to beam genially. There was – and still is; I think this is what makes him such a successful documentary maker – something about his smile and evident generosity of spirit that put me at ease and invited candour.
‘Yeah,’ I replied honestly. ‘I do.’
Jerry nodded sagely and continued to beam. I breathed a sigh of relief. I seemed to have passed my first grown up wine tasting test.
‘Great,’ he continued, burying his nose in the wine and inhaling deeply. ‘Why?’
Looking back, I can see how lucky I was to have met Jeremy Williams. In that moment – and in many, many since – he made the world of wine approachable, enjoyable and fun, qualities that have never left my own journey from that day to this. Above all, he taught me that wine tasting could be this easy: do you like the wine? If so, why? If not, why not? Simples.
And yet most people tie themselves up in knots when it comes to wine and wine tasting in particular. Myriad considerations other than taste – of class, of not wanting to get it wrong, of looking a fool – flood the mind when really the only reason to ever apply any kind of intellectual or critical faculties to a glass of wine is to try and work out why you like a wine (or not) so that, armed with that knowledge, you are then in a better position to be able to repeat the experience (or not) in the future. That really is it.
And yet, for the vast majority, wine remains a mystery. An intimidating world littered with well-dressed smart arses whom, they believe, don’t want you to join their secret club, a world they accordingly shy away from, not believing it or its arcane language and practices are for them.
Which is such a shame. Of intergalactic proportions, in fact. Because, in reality, it’s filled with lovely, generous, unpretentious people like Jerry who only want one thing: to share something that has given them so much pleasure and that could give it to you too.
I understand how this state of affairs has come to pass, however.
The British, and the English in particular, are not comfortable with wine in a way that, for example, Australians are. I remember visiting Yering Estate, a beautiful winery in the Yarra Valley, north of Melbourne, in the early Noughties. My brother in law and I were happily making our way through the estate’s offerings when a voice cut through our mildly drunken reverie.
‘How are you finding the cabernet, gents?’
We both looked up to be greeted by the disconcerting sight of what I can only describe as a full on Aussie surfer dude, complete with unfeasible tan, long blond hair and white teeth that would have made even a Californian orthodontist feel inferior. We duly passed on our complimentary thoughts. The young bloke – and he could have been no more than 20 – nodded thoughtfully.
‘Yeah, it’s a goodun’. But I have to say I prefer the ’98, you know? The tannins seem to have rolled off and mellowed a bit with age. I’ve got a bottle stashed away for the beach tonight. It’ll be great with a bit of steak from the barbie as the sun goes down.’ He grinned widely and guilelessly. ‘Let me know if you need anything else guys.’
He turned to pour for some thirsty punters on the other side of the bar leaving me gobsmacked. Gobsmacked because I could never, ever imagine – either then or since – having such an interaction in the UK. Oh you can be as lyrical as you like about football or cricket, boxing even, but as soon as you start to apply any kind of vaguely florid language to wine, where you might show you’ve thought about what you’re pouring down your throat, applied some sort of discernment to it even, then the average Englishman’s alarm bells start to ring. At best he will think you effete, at worst as someone who might have Grindr on their phone.
There are many other reasons for this kind of fear, a fear which, by the way, isn’t just limited to blokes or the grape – viz any kind of utterings on art, literature, classical music, opera and ballet – but which seems to be particularly acute in relation to wine and middle England, combining as it does their terror of not showing off or being knowledgeable about anything artistic (back to the smart arses again), along with that even bigger elephant in the suburban cul de sac: class.
Class is something I will come back to again and again on these pages. I think it is safe to say that if there is an indelible belief that good food, or an interest in it, somehow renders you upper class, then a parallel interest in or love of wine instantly transforms you into something considerably more egregious: a toff.
The roots for this are manifold and too complex to go into here. Suffice to say, in the UK we have no tradition of producing wine and so it has never been an everyday fixture on the table in the way that it is, say, in France, Italy or Spain. Wine, historically, was imported (and was therefore expensive), mainly from France for consumption by, to be fair, the upper classes who were the only people who could really afford it; everybody else drank beer. Mention today the words ‘Burgundy’ or, worse, ‘Claret’ and people will still imagine damp cellars in fusty country houses with liveried butlers uncorking ancient bottles for the delectation of Hooray Henried shooting parties above.
And then came Food and Drink.
Presented by the genial Chris Kelly, Food and Drink hit UK tv screens in 1982 and lasted till 2002, bringing with it a light-hearted and demystifying format to a subject that had hitherto been wracked by the English determination to find food neither accessible nor fun. For the first time it was alright, its jolly presenters seemed to say, to enjoy food, to think about it, even be passionate about it as a source of pleasure. It tried to do the same with wine. By and large, it failed.
The trouble was, you see, that its wine presenters, the fabulously theatrical Oz Clarke and Jilly Goolden, made the fatal error of not only sounding posh but also, in Jilly’s case, of being a woman. To this day, I have heard it mentioned – and not in entirely complimentary tones – when someone has begun to enthuse about wine that they ‘sound like that bloody woman from the telly.’
And their legacy lives on. Trying to get normal English people to talk openly about wine is like getting blood out of a stone. There is stigma still, in polite company, about deploying one’s God-given senses in the pursuit of vinous pleasure, in trying to evaluate what it is about the glass in your hand that turns you on or off, as though doing so is a little unclean, the sensuality involved a little shameful.
It’s not, actually. It’s rather fun.
In future posts I’ll be introducing you to what I drink every day, what I keep for special occasions and everything in between. In the meantime, however, I urge you, stop being so English and start asking questions about what you’re chucking down your neck. What is it that has lit up your taste buds so? Did it remind you of something or somewhere or someone? Did it smell of a place, conjure up a memory or was it just that, on a cold autumnal evening, that glass of red simply matched your mood and comforted you? Whatever it was, stop, take a moment to think and then file it away for another time.
Because if you do, if you invest but the smallest amount of time in what you drink, you will reap the dividends: wine lists in restaurants will no longer be a daunting source of fear and potential social embarrassment; a supermarket aisle will suddenly resemble a sweet shop of bacchanalian opportunity rather than the slightly panicked, blind smash and grab that it is for so many; bottles taken to dinner parties can be handed over with confidence and enthusiasm rather than the usual half muttered apology, ‘I’ve got no idea if this is any good…’
Now I grant you, as you journey through the myriad cabernets, chardonnays and rosés on offer you may have to step outside your comfort zone and start to think a little differently, learn a few new words, start speaking a new language even. And like any new language it’ll take time and may even need a little practice (oh, boo hoo) which will necessarily involve you stumbling a bit, making a few mistakes and perhaps even sounding a little bit funny along the way.
Who cares.
Just chalk it all up to very pleasurable experience and above all remember that no one in the wine world worth their salt will ever make fun of you as you do so.
All of which brings me back to Jerry.
This is a man with an encyclopaedic knowledge of wine. Who attends the Bordeaux en primeur tastings every year just for the fun of it, who has made his own excellent wine in the Languedoc (a superb Faugères since you ask) and who has, in his time, written for the revered industry Bible Decanter. None of which you would ever know if you were to sit down with him for a glass of the good stuff. Why? Because wine, for him, is simply a source of pleasure and never a tool for social one-upmanship or intellectual belittlement.
And he is not alone. The same can be said for Jack Chaddock of MARC Fine Wines in Mayfair, Andrew Edmunds and the staff of his eponymous restaurant in Soho, Vic(toria) and Gavin at Handfords in South Kensington and a hundred others too numerous to list here. All of whom could be called Jerry and all of whom want one thing for you: to drink well.
Jerry gave me a gift and I’d like to pass it on to you. So join me. It really is a lovely world out there. Full of vinous colour and well within your grasp should you so desire.
All you have to remember is that it all begins with a single word. Why?
