‘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?

‘I only went in for a handful of prawns!’ I cried plaintively to my wife. ‘And I came out with half a trawler in my bag. How?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said warmly, a benevolent smile on her face. ‘It’s Moxons.’

Moxons, you see, is one of those shops from which you simply cannot emerge solely with what you had intended to buy on the way in. You can’t. It’s impossible. Try it.

South Kensington is blessed in many respects: it has enough world class museums to keep the average American family  off the streets for weeks, legion bars and restaurants where the first language is ‘Ciao’, and a Lycée where high born French offspring go to be taught how to professionally pout, shrug and smoke Gauloises on street corners.

And it also has Moxons. One of the finest fishmongers in London.

Helmed by the ever affable Phil (left, above), this tiny gem on Bute Street is a reminder of what we have lost in a globalised world. Namely, a local shop staffed by passionate and knowledgeable people who take an enormous amount of pride in sourcing and selling the best produce they can find.

The depressing thing is this approach used to be the norm until we were persuaded that what we really needed was to be sold four day old, previously frozen fish, preserved under nitrogen and wrapped in ridiculous amounts of plastic by someone who, if push came to shove, would have a hard time identifying a piscine arse from elbow.

Moxons is different. Very different. For a start, its fish are spankingly fresh, coming, in the main, from day boats at Plymouth. Secondly, its four young staff have 37 years worth of experience between them. What this means to you and me as we’re standing in front of the slab on a Tuesday morning is that not only were the clear eyed, glistening specimens staring up at you probably only hoiked out of the water just over 24 hours ago but also the guys helping you to choose between them actually know what they’re talking about.

And what fish. You cannot help but be bewitched by the sheer abundance the oceans have to offer and whose bounty you have barely, you realise, begun to touch. Beguiling, kaleidoscopically coloured mackerel jostle on the ice with enormous turbot and dainty sole, both lemon and Dover. Orange dotted bril vie for attention with lascivious monkfish tail and thick halibut steaks while the, frankly, just plain ugly gurnard, once used as lobster bait but now the trendiest fish you can serve up in SW7, waits for a well-heeled Cinderella to come along and scoop it up. And that’s before you even get to the fresh crab and lobster, mussels from Teignmouth, oysters from Essex and langoustines from Scotland… to name but a few of the delights on offer.

And somehow, none of it smells of fish. Not even remotely. Lean in and inhale the positively Hogarthian still life before you and all you will smell is… well, that heady mixture of salt, ozone and fresh seaweed. In other words, the sea. It’s like having your own private jetty over the Atlantic in the heart of west London.

And all this from an unprepossessing, if not preternaturally neat and tidy, site the diminutive size of which would give your average oligarch pause for thought before he tried to garage his Maybach in it.

‘We get a lot of private chefs these days. And Spanish,’ Phil said ruefully to me recently one morning. ‘It used mainly to be French but now it’s the Spanish.’

‘Many English?’

He screws his face up in that way only an Englishman can when he wants to say the right thing.

‘A few,’ he replies diplomatically.

Which is a shame – a tragedy almost – but an understandable one. For over the years we, the English, have fallen for that lie that fish are smelly, tricky to cook and, if left for more than ten minutes in the open air, virtually toxic. In other words, not worth the bother. Best leave them to a small, sterile section at the back of the supermarket whose presence we can politely ignore.

And as I stand watching the tightly choreographed dance behind the counter – how four grown men slice, debone and filet in such a small space is, to me, a constant source of wonder; how they manage to emerge laceration free and still friends at the end of the day is nothing short of a miracle – a small part of my heart breaks.

Ultimately, good local shops like Moxons are about people. People who care, who love what they do and, as a result, connect with you and root you to the place where you live in a way no chain, with its often well meaning but invariably underpaid, itinerant work force and their greedy venture capital paymasters, can. Sadly, in London and in the wider UK (and on the continent too, for that matter), they are a dying breed.

‘We just like nice things,’ Phil says in his habitually gentle manner. Looking around the densely packed store, I cannot help but agree with him. How he manages to squeeze so much temptation into such a small space, everything from fresh burrata to tinned tomatoes, handpicked samphire to Jersey Royal potatoes, tinned tomatoes to Spanish almonds, I have no idea. All I do know, however, is I am weak in the face of such opulence.

And so I start to think about lunch. And then dinner. And then tomorrow’s lunch and the day’s after that. Like I said, weak, and before I know it, I am back out on the bustling streets of South Ken with a large bag groaning with impossibly fresh mussels, a dressed crab, a filleted bream, a couple of Amalfi lemons and, best of all, a large portion of cod from the thick end of the fillet.

I stride home, happy. Not just because of the food in my hands and the prospect of a quiet meal with my wife, but because of the way that this all too brief but very human interlude has left me feeling about life and where I live. Ultimately, to paraphrase Phil, we like nice people.

Roast cod with burnt butter

|| Shopping ||

A thick piece of cod filet (go by sight not weight for quantity), skin on (I beg you)
A large knob of good quality unsalted butter
Salt and pepper.

Cod is one of the meatiest of all fish and so is great not just for a hearty lunch but also as a meat substitute for burly blokes who profess not to like anything that swims (you know the sort).

|| Cooking ||

Turn your oven on to about 200/220 degrees C.

Take an oven proof frying pan and put on a moderate to high flame. When the pan is hot, put in your oil of choice. This can be olive (avoid other vegetable oils) or, ideally, a hard fat such as lard or, best of all, beef dripping.

When it begins to smoke turn the heat down a touch and lay your filet in, away from you and skin side down. Cook for about two to three minutes. (You’re aiming here to just brown the skin rather than cook the fish per se. Pans and cookers vary and so, with a bit of practice, you’ll discover exactly how long you need to leave it in for this stage.)

Then place the pan in the oven and leave for about ten minutes (see my note above for precise timings). Personally, I like my cod (and salmon) medium rare. For me, it’s done when you press it and although it feels firm, there is a bit of give or bounce to the flesh.

When it is done to your liking, take it out, let it rest for a minute or so and then plate it up. Then take the same pan, put it back on a moderate to high heat and throw in the butter. Be as generous as you dare and watch first as it melts, then foams and finally begins to turn nut brown. In an ideal world you catch it at this point, but don’t lose too much sleep over getting it right. Finally pour the beurre noisette (as it’s called) over the fish and serve.

If beurre noisette isn’t your thing, or if the weather is especially hot and you need something a bit lighter or fresher, you can always skip the burnt butter stage and drizzle a little pesto over the fish or, simpler still, just dress it with some good sea salt and a slice of Amalfi lemon on the side to squeeze over.

Accompaniments: anything you would serve with meat. You’ll see in the photos that I served the cod with roast Romero peppers and a warm french beans with vinaigrette. But it can go with just about anything from new potatoes to tomato salad, from steamed samphire to steamed greens, Puy lentils to chips. Really, anything.