Author Archives: juleslewis

‘Fear of Flavour and the Birth of the Bland’

13 Wednesday Aug 2014

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Bybo Directors Tim Harms and Jules Lewis 1 (3)

 

Flowery, soft, supple, juicy, zesty, smooth, voluptuous, tasty, spicy – or god forbid – easy drinking.  What do such terms really tell you? Are they descriptive, or merely a convenient, lazy, shorthand dashed off by the uninspired to promote a dull product.

I recently saw a tasting note where a Spanish rose’ was described as mineraly, not once, but twice in the same sentence! This currently fashionable, and overused term, is not only bandied about inaccurately (confusingly used to denote/ describe acidity rather than the actual mineral content of a wine) but is wholly inappropriate for a warm climate rose’ – two mineraly then?

So, should the descriptive language surrounding wine be figurative or literal? A recent broadsheet article stated that ‘ordinary people enjoying a bottle of wine at the end of the day couldn’t give a monkey’s about the story behind it or wine education’. So perhaps we have the descriptors we deserve, ‘tales told by idiots signifying nothing’,  accurately reflecting our preference for bland, neutral, insipid whites and blackberry juiced, alcoholic, over-sugared, cloying reds.

The Utilitarians, Mill and Bentham, thought that the greatest happiness of the greatest number would inevitably lead to the death of opera and the continuation of bear baiting, they thought that there should be moral and aesthetic arbiters for good taste.

‘The best way to give the public what it wants is to reject the express policy of giving the public what it wants’.

John Reith, essentially a Victorian, argued that high culture only needed to be made available for most people to embrace it. His position, via the BBC, was to educate inform and entertain, but if it’s a mammoth audience or market you covert then perhaps education is not the best bet.

There used to be a progression in the world of drinking. The bibulous were inevitably led by some elder, a Yoda or Master Oogway to take the straightforward and natural journey from sweet, fruit-flavoured drinks to something drier and more sophisticated. Occasionally they were led down dark and winding paths to encounter and appreciate the complexities of sherry, port and fine old sweeties. This rite of passage began with a sneaky shandy or cider in ones’ ‘yoof’, then bitters, wines and eventually spirits and brown spirits.

In recent years, let’s say the last 40, the big brewers realised that, if something is insipid, has no real virtue, or taste, given the right conditions, people will consume lots of it. I will spare you the brand names and grape varieties but you know where I’m going with this.

People became afraid of flavour ‘I know what I like and am sticking to it’ unadventurous and scared to move on. Those that did, were encouraged to eschew complexity for simple, primary fruit flavours, promoted by egalitarian pundits who simplified wine to the level of fruit juice – reducing and homogenizing descriptors to papaya, kiwi fruit, and melon and at its lowest ebb ‘cats pee on a gooseberry bush’!

Wine is now the drink of choice for many, but is that because, in its big branded form, it is easier to understand than say beer or spirits? And has it become simpler in structure and flavour, yet higher in alcohol, to make it sell more.

Does this signify a fear of drinking or a fear of flavour? The desire to drink (and drink lots) is apparent, but drink without work, drunkenness without fuss, no journey, no grown up flavours, no progression – pass the raspberry cidre.

 

 

 

 

 

‘Kid’

14 Monday Jul 2014

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‘Some folks’ lives roll easy as a breeze
Drifting through a summer night
Heading for a sunny day
But most folk’s lives they stumble
Lord how they fall
Some never roll at all, they just fall

Some folks’ lives’

My eldest son is ill and I don’t fully understand the nature or indeed the full extent and duration of his illness – despite my amateurish attempts at comprehension.

‘Kid what changed your mood
You’ve gone all sad so I feel sad too’.

The other morning, as I pulled a shard of glass from my dog’s paw, I wished, beyond hope, that I could remove what ails my boy in such an Androclean manner.
The time when he considered me to be a hero has passed, but as he is admitted to hospital today, that’s precisely what I have to be.
I hope to write again sometime soon, but have of late, wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth.

‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’

11 Wednesday Jun 2014

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Does your life occasionally echo that Ink Spots refrain? The VOR and I have become used to missing that Saturday dance and get disproportionately excited about any invitation out. The downside to such unbridled and child unencumbered joy is that we often arrive too early, and are either obliged to help cook, set up, or as so often happens, find ourselves at the mercy of the uncrowded room, fellow early birds and elephants therein.

The VOR, being a woman, is immediately at an advantage with openers such as ‘I love your hair, shoes, dress’ or the marvellously complementary ‘You look great, have you lost weight’? forever endearing her to her conversational companions.

I, on the other hand, am the kind of man who knows little of car engines, the myriad charms of accountancy, the stock market, house prices, football or the crippling cost of school fees and am often caught with my proverbial pants down.

Low rather than high powered, I smile benignly, nod appreciatively and endeavour to achieve the general state of alcohol induced anaesthesia required to survive most ‘mine’s bigger than yours’ male exchanges – eternally aware of the all seeing eye of the VOR checking that I do not say anything rude or inappropriate.

If someone is aware that I am involved in wine, openers such as ‘I hate Italian wine’ (general) or ‘Don’t you just loath Sauvignon Blanc’ (particular) are not uncommon. To my knowledge I have never said ‘Isn’t the law boring’ or ‘Invasive surgery – who needs it’? Although a comment about Ugg boots being great for concealing fat ankles continues to haunt me.

Too near a generously overstocked bar I was moving swiftly from the Ink Spots through Mose Allison to Dr John, swearing silently not to deliver any comments about puffy talocrural regions, when my solitary reverie was interrupted by ‘X’.

‘God, pass me some of that I’ve had one helluva day’ – not indicating whether it was bad or good – I relinquished my grip on the bottle of neutral and acidic fizz.

Wearing that most versatile and indestructible modern business combo of grey suit and open necked blue shirt, he fixed me with his gaze, shook my hand firmly, then held it a little too long for comfort.

‘X’ he said, giving me his single syllable name. ‘Julian’ I replied, secretly envious of his unshakeable confidence whilst bemoaning my less dynamic three syllabled moniker.

‘Just smashed our monthly sales targets’. I think I said ‘Cool’ which is a word I probably shouldn’t use at my age, but at least I was engaging in the dance.

‘Investment in staff training has really paid off and now that our sales team have product knowledge we expect significant month on month growth’.

‘What do you sell’? I asked. ‘Wine’ he replied. ‘Didn’t they already have previous knowledge’? I countered, concealing my amazement as I recharged his glass.

‘Well, it’s desirable but not entirely essential, basically it’s just rapid FMCG turnover, same as any commodity, it’s about volume, traffic and money, the key is to close the deal’.

Warming to his theme he informed me that DTH (direct to home) sales – my acronyms were improving with every sentence – were now worth about £800 million which roughly translated to around 13% of the total market share,

‘That’s around 10 million consumer’s regularly buying wine online. The big high street retailers collar 28%, while the other well-known suppliers, such as us, net around 25% of all online sales’.

‘So what’s your secret’.

‘Exclusive products, large margins, good customer service and unbeatable opening offers’ he replied.

Familiar with his system, but conscious of my legal team of one, I said that if I were a consumer I would have reservations over ‘real’ value for money – or should I say VFM – and felt that impossibly cheap introductory offers, implied that the wines sold were more competitively priced than other retailers but that after the initial sale they reverted to a higher price.

‘Good point, you obviously know your stuff, but the fact is most of our customers are pretty lazy, they prefer us to choose for them then automatically re order’.

‘And if they don’t’?

‘Then our sales teams cold call them and entice them back with more special offers or bigger discounts to sweeten the deal’.

‘But what about the quality of the wine’?

‘For the vast majority it makes no difference, but we have higher level products to cater for those who think they know what they’re doing’.

‘Are your customers not concerned that by buying exclusives they’re unable to compare prices with other retailers so have no idea of their real worth’?

‘We don’t just do exclusives, our higher range products are traceable but it’s all about quick turnover old boy’ he said. ‘Our customers are wine drinkers not wine lovers, and everyone’s a sucker for a free gift’.

‘Perhaps I’m in the wrong business’.

He was about to belatedly ask me what I did, when the VOR (Spidey senses tingling) took my arm, and with perfect timing, swept me away saying

‘Darling there’s someone you really must meet’!

“The profound unbounded sea”

13 Tuesday May 2014

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“How vain and foolish for timid untraveled man to try to comprehend…..the profound unbounded sea”……. Ishmael
Winter’s over, and its passing heralds the warmer water and fleetingly tepid sunshine of Spring. Long and fearsome, a succession of huge storms battered the south western coast – dredging sand, hurling rocks and debris, destroying homes and livelihoods and uncovering the bodies of ships long dead.
Dangerous and unpredictable, the sea was an interesting place to be – especially with a broken fibula. Stubborn at the best of times, I kept going in throughout my convalescence. Unable to stand only paddle, I negotiated my bloody-minded way through unruly, achingly cold and spiteful tidal surges. I love the wildness and the solitude, the spray on my face, rain and hail, the weak yet piercing rays of the low northern sun in my near sighted eyes – It’s my one sure thing and it’s been mine since I was an eleven year old boy.
I go down to the “sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat – bobbing sea” for renewal – washing away what has been a particularly testing year. I momentarily mislay the risk of starting a new business and the nerve jangling effect on my family’s security. I forget, for a short while, my eldest son’s illness, my wife’s worries, my ageing parent’s mortality and my own recently revealed hereditary osteoporosis. On the biggest days I go without the kids (I would worry too much and they would worry too little) I am not fearless, but it’s something I am compelled to do. There is no way of not going in, waves aren’t just measured in size but by the willingness of other surfers.

There’s a nervousness to the car park, minimal chat and brittle laughter punctuate the frostily crisp morning air. From the bluff it looks big but from the sand bigger still – you brace yourself for something most folk would perceive as lunacy. Entry into the water causes a sharp intake of breath and you collect your thoughts for the long windchilling paddle. Snaking and duckdiving you navigate the rips and impact zones. Doubts kick in, progress is slow, punctuated by ice cream headaches as your hood periodically fills and drains. Larger, less uniform, rogue sets appear and the topography becomes confusing with no one out back to line up with. You go deep down, trusting your leash as it stretches to breaking point pulling it back hand over hand like an extra in the opening scene of Les Miserables. Clearing your head in a momentary lull you wonder if you are making headway against the restless and relentless sea.
Mid to low, the tide is moving out fast. The rips are strong east to west, shore to sea, forcing you toward the rocks with startling swiftness. Big, grumbling, ocean swells roll past breaking with a sound reminiscent of a giant rolling boulders across a dancefloor. You must think quickly, clearly, decisively – this is where experience comes in and slows things down. Climbing the rocks is out of the question, the swells too big and I only have one good leg – foolish boy! Following the rip out to sea is the only option going with it until it dissipates. A few miles out I relax, regain my composure and consider the landscape. There is less activity farther along the coast and I paddle quietly through the softly undulating unbroken swell until I am able to prone in a few miles to the east. I limp leisurely along the beach, a chastened, certainly colder but slightly self-satisfied man. Dressing silently, I nod and smile sagely at kindred spirits not now-a-bed and holding their manhoods cheaply.

Driving homeward through the bare country lanes, my body regaining feeling with the heaters assistance, the phone signal kicks in. “Get bread and eggs” says the VOR. I laugh to myself as I turn the car towards the village shop.

 

“Babe, beginning of a great adventure”

18 Tuesday Mar 2014

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I recently spent an informative day with Mother. Not my mother, although her day will come, but the uber cool creative agency in London. They have offices in New York and Buenos Aires, but my meagre expenses wouldn’t stretch to Argentina. I came away feeling energised, and a tad more hip – I have a beard which helps – although unlike my young creative advisers am a trifle nearer my sell by date.

I was informed that I was a challenger brand in a bull (not a reference to the Pampas) market, and that I needed a back story – most clients just make theirs up, they said. Mine happens to be true, although I’ll add some blarney later.

“A glorious day, an empty beach, freshly caught shrimp, crab and mackerel and no wine!
While I gutted fish, lit a fire and kept the kids from capsizing – I am manly like that – the VOR magnanimously volunteered to go shopping.
An experience akin to The Clash’s “Lost in the Supermarket” followed. “Unable to shop happily”, she returned exhausted and together we toasted the setting sun with something described as “Good with Fish”
“You should have gone yourself”, said the VOR.

She had encountered a common conundrum. Paralysed in the face of so much choice, many a wine consumer is forced to settle for fail safe, special offers, a pretty label or just getting “something French to be on the safe side”. Subsequent market research confirmed this to be fact. “You should help” said the VOR, “what’s the use of all that knowledge and experience if all you do is bang on about it at the dinner table”. She had a point, I should have gone to the shops myself.

Like the “King of Pop”, I wanted to be starting something and online was my preferred route. Being a shopkeeper meant less time playing with surfboards – but I was about to encounter some serious brainache. Online wine sites boasted exhaustive drop down menus, sorted by country, region, style, colour and price. A myriad, miniscule, bottles floating in white space flashed before my eyes, together with enough multi coloured offers and jumbled visuals to make a maniacally bill postered wall look minimalist. I struggled to get beyond the home pages and I’d failed my MW theory.

“There’s no emotion” said the VOR (a rabid and evangelical foodie), “You can’t weigh it, touch it or squeeze it like food. It’s impossible to physically interact with a bottle of wine until you open it and drink it”. She had a point, some feeling was desperately required.

“How are you to know if it’s an interesting, stylish and delicious drink – designed to go with food rather than dominate it – or an over produced, neutral, alcoholic and sugar – driven monster, deliberately created for mass market appeal” – She didn’t say that, I did.

Essentially it all comes down to pleasure. I believe that by approaching wine in a careful and thoughtful way, informed by food and occasion, increases the pleasure derived from it. Over processed, over produced wine is like its equivalent in food – it just doesn’t make you feel good!

So I did something, I started a wine and food matching company called bybo. It’s not like “A Man Called Horse”, but it’s just as emotive. It’s not really a hobby, although it does keep me off the streets, nor is it a desire to do a good deed – I have always considered myself selfish rather than philanthropic – but I do have a mission. I want to sell quality wine to people who care about value rather than price, supporting growers and producers to ensure they stay connected to the land and environment in which they work. I oppose a mono – branded world by favouring slow rather than fast food, field over factory, local above global. Phew, that’s philanthropic. Truth is, I just want to make enough money to spend more time at the beach. Got to go the tides on the turn”.

 

“The Unbearable Brightness of Seeing”

26 Wednesday Feb 2014

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When it comes to buying food and wine, I am, as Sam and Dave, “A Soul Man”.  I choose carefully and slowly – sometimes annoyingly so for the VOR – enjoying the whole shopping experience, for which I set aside a considerable portion of time and family income. I care about what we put in our mouths and stomachs, and try to avoid, where possible, mass market bulk produce. Part of this stems from my concerns about regional variation and difference, chemicals, pesticides and additives and partly due to the basic sensations of taste – I almost never confine my decisions solely to price.  This may seem a trifle elitist, and is, I admit, often beyond my budget – but that’s how I roll.

I like shopping locally, rather than globally, in order to ensure that innovative and energetic small businesses remain open – not the lazy one’s mind you – but I champion the shopkeeper as civic leader, pioneer, entrepreneur and innovator – Oh and they need to sell good stuff.

It’s also about sustainability and sustenance, slow rather than fast food, local economies, farming, agriculture and community – as I write this, the VOR is evangelically joining a small online fruit and veg supplier that sends a monthly seasonal selection direct to your door – in a box.

Soul and Body, Lightness and Weight, to quote Kundera’s great novel, are important when choosing wine. The history of traditional winegrowing areas, the winegrower and makers singular vision with an eye on the future but roots in the past, thus ensuring that vineyards are not being grubbed up (the more observant amongst you may have noticed rapeseed replacing vineyards during your summer drives through France) and that families can remain connected to the land. It’s that community thing again –  but it costs more to care.

I bet you didn’t know that many of the wines you routinely buy off your local supermarket shelves also arrive in a box.

Not the kind of 2.5 litre “goon bag” that looks uncool on the dining table, but a 24,000 litre polypropylene bladder on a container ship. On arrival – at rather depressing dockside locations – it is then decanted into a bottle (often bearing an exotic brand name or critter label) and hey presto the bourgeoning thirst of the unromantic is satisfied at the rate of 1.3 billion litres a year.

No doubt about it, big BIB equals big business, but in the words of John Berger “To remain innocent may also be, to remain ignorant.”

At 56p a litre pre shipping, and with 57% of the average £5 UK wine being pure tax (a cost presumably dressed up as protecting the interests of the national liver rather than the exchequer) this keeps costs down and profits up, – but “what gaineth a man if he loses his soul”.

You can play the green card for UK bottling under the auspices of environmental issues in reducing carbon footprint via shipping, but what about the glass?  You may prefer to buy your wine for the cost of a London pint but you still like it to come in bottle – right! If you have 20/20 vision you can discern “bottled and filled in the UK” in very small print on the back label of these wines, although qualitatively it’s much the same as “brewed under licence” – which brings me neatly back to Kundera and “Words Misunderstood”.

“The Language of Lurve”

09 Sunday Feb 2014

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I am not sure if the late Barry White ever said “lurve” or if he even “saved my life”, but as the most romantic day of the year approaches we may legitimately ask – what is the language of love?  French, Italian and Spanish are three languages that spring immediately to mind – but how best should we communicate our true feelings to the object of our desires?

The Holy Roman Emperor Charles V said that he spoke Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men, and German to his horse – the true object of his desires remains a mystery (his Queen was Portuguese) but my moneys on the horse.

As the VOR is the object of my desires, and a woman, I am going to follow the example of Charles and John Cleese in “A Fish called Wanda“, and use Italian as my linguaggio dell’amore.

Valentine’s Day can be potentially tricky and difficult to get spot on. You may have got the wrong gift, you may have gone dangerously over the top and bought so many flowers that she may think you believe her to be deaf. You may have completely misjudged her mood and personality and bought some lingerie that you may be better off wearing yourself, or you may have mistakenly decided that it is all just a deeply cynical marketing ploy and have consequently failed to buy anything at all!  If any or all of these scenarios apply, wine is the answer.

A carefully chosen Selezione San Valentino, should smooth your passage through many a sticky situation. The word Romance is derived from the Latin Romanicus meaning “Roman style”, although some linguists believe that the English word romance derives from a vernacular French dialect – which is why you should kick off with some Champagne.

Now choose carefully, avoid the searingly acidic, tooth enamel destroying examples masquerading as bargains on the high street and get something with a high proportion of red grapes in the blend.

Champagne Gobillard, Brut Tradition NV  – should do the trick, a traditionally made wine with great character and finesse made metres away from the grave of Dom Perignon – how’s that for terroir. Gobillard et Fils are a family owned house a mere 5k from Epernay with 26 hectares of predominantly premier cru vines. Deliciously full bodied and well-rounded, made from 70% red grapes (Pinots’ Noir and Meunier) together with 30% Chardonnay, it’s just crying out for some oysters (native ones should cost about £1.85 each, Pacific ones £1.20 – at this time of year).

Follow up with some Prossecco Spago Frizzante, Ruggeri NV  – as nothing beats a double helping of bubbles.  The Ruggeri family of Valdobbiadene are regular recipients of Italy’s coveted Tre Bicchieri (three glasses) award, and this delicious example of their art is a little less fizzy than most Prosecco, with a fine, soft and gentle bead, coupled with aromas of apples and freshly baked biscuits. Just pull the string to release the cork.

Finish off with a Vin Santo DOC, 2007, from Fattoria dei Barbi.  This classic dessert wine from Tuscany is made from late harvested Trebbiano, Malvasia and Sangiovese grapes hung over wires in well-ventilated rooms and dried until well into the New Year. Pressed and fermented with natural yeasts around Eastertime – hence the name vin santo, literally “holy wine”- it is then aged in small barrels of oak or chestnut called caratelli.  Barbi’s wonderful viscous, intense, aromatic, nectar goes perfectly with Cantucci or Cantuccini – traditional, Tuscan, almond biscotti – so don’t forget those as well . As Barry once said “Your Sweetness is my Weakness”.

“Ti auguro un Buon San Valentino”.

“Work in progress”

29 Wednesday Jan 2014

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“There is something quietly civilizing about sharing a meal with other people. The simple act of making someone something to eat, even a bowl of soup ….. suggests an act of generosity and intimacy. It is in itself a sign of respect.” Nigel Slater

I love food, and as Nigella so succinctly put it in How To Eat, “I don’t believe you can ever really cook unless you love eating”. I also love wine, but am constantly surprised and disheartened by the kind of undrinkable plonk that friends routinely serve up at the dinner table.
Wine goes with food, not as a faddy matching hint, but as an equal partner in a simple pleasure – life-giving and life enhancing.
Good food can be expensive, simple food isn’t, but cheap processed junk food comes at a high physical price. We are justifiably anxious about what we put in our bodies so why do we attempt to save money on the wine we serve – shouldn’t it be of the same quality as the food?
Ever been to a dinner party where the food was delicious but the wines came via an unscrupulous “3 for £10” or “was £9.99 now £4.99 “ offer designed to seduce us into accepting thin, sweet, raspberry juiced reds or neutral insipid whites as the norm. There are many producers who do not manufacture wine by the tanker full, making lovely stuff to go with simple food at prices that will surprise you. Such wines demand the spending of an extra pound or two but you are richly rewarded – and the food tastes better.

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I have just started a venture to promote the drinking of good wine – with the aim of giving folks some much-needed Liquid Spirit, a la Gregory Porter.
It’s called bybo and is the reason that my blogging activity has been less than prolific of late.

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We recently did a bit of food styling for the website, which was a fun way to spend a working day with friends – and a lot more difficult than I expected.
Although not narcissistic, possessing the kind of looks more suited to radio rather than photography – excepting Katie (the VOR) of course – we did fancy ourselves as competent hand models. Behind the scenes, things were not as perfect as Mark’s photos suggest. Tim and I smashed numerous glasses, ruined at least two tablecloths but had some great laughs and still managed to warm Katie’s lovely food up in time for dinner.

“Life’s too short”

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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“To drink bad wine” – to quote the late Simon Hoggart. But somewhat worse to drink no wine at all.

Now, if you’re an alcoholic, a recovering alcoholic, an alcoholic in waiting, or “stark raving mad” – to quote Henry Fielding – you may have fallen victim to the most miserable New Year Resolution of them all – the dry January.

A concept unique to the British Isles – the home of binge drinking – the dry January is the classic nanny state answer to the excesses of the festive season.  Many of my friends have embraced this concept, (a desire for yet another shared experience, or alternatively as a form of competition that does not require exercise). Statements such as “If I can do it you can”, “We are all in this together” and “We can have one hell of a ****up come February”, provide scant compensation for Hurricane Hercules, biblical rainfall and the polar vortex – personally I prefer Claret.

If you are deluding yourself that the aim of a dry January is to substantially improve the function of your liver, it is probably best to refrain from drinking until March at the very least. By which time – on venturing forth for a tipple – you may find that your local pub, club, cocktail bar or restaurant has closed down.

I grant you the liver does take a beating over Christmas, but better to slow down than to give up. Being good for a month, then binge drinking at the end of it, doesn’t solve the problem – it makes the miserable dreariness of a northern European winter harder to bear. It increases social awkwardness and lures many an unsuspecting (and boring) evangelical model of temperance into the open, bingo winged, arms of the sugar-packed soft drink industry.

Moderation in all things is the answer, this keeps your doctor happy, blood pressure, cholesterol and obesity down, and increases your ability to operate the television remote in the nursing home of your children’s choice.

Drinking less alcohol appeals more to my rebellious inner child. A minimum of two days off the booze a week (choose the dull days) has to be good for the liver and the wallet, allowing you to drink better wine for the remainder – particularly at the weekend.

Better wine means spending more money, but here’s the best bit, quality wine forces you to savour and enjoy it, makes you focus on what’s in the glass and enables you to discuss it without slurring your words or falling asleep.

Remember, hoovering up large glasses of neutral smelling, flabby, tasteless whites and sweet, cheap reds, (filled with unfermented sugar) are the reason many of you are currently enduring a dry January.

As you get older you need to watch those units of alcohol – don’t waste them on cheap plonk!

“Gustatationary Substitution”

03 Tuesday Dec 2013

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“Is a power far beyond the wildest notion

only one precise solution is the key

Gustatationary Substitution is for me”

I came across a unique example of substitutionary gustation recently, whereby tasting notes were declared defunct and replaced by a tennis pro-esque fist pump to indicate the quality of the wine. Presumably a single fist pump was preferred as there was a glass of wine in the other hand? As entertaining, and momentarily exciting, as I found the concept I was mortified at the increased likelihood of spilling the wine during such an energetic method of approval.

When I first joined the wine trade, it existed somewhere between mothballed and food stained pinstripe and the shiny, man-made fibres of the future. And I didn’t fit in. My personal preference, for impartial advice, came from the be-t-shirted hipsters and college drop outs of Oddbins, whose witty and irreverent descriptions filled the shelves of their teeming, untidy and exciting high street stores.

My first boss was a man who saw himself as a jewel in a dung heap, whose shine masked a deep insecurity that manifested itself in appalling and ungenerous snobbery. Being a callow youth, I was unable to see that he was afraid of me and my big nose – as he was already suffering from the presbyosmia, or loss of smelling ability, that begins in middle age. Despite this unheeded affliction he was trusted to buy pallet loads of wine – with a myriad of faults – for people whose taste buds had caught the Last Train to Clarksville. A more generous and magnanimous man would have asked my opinion, given me the fist pump of approval and then passed the opinion off as his own. Moral: don’t diss the young when it’s your duty to help them.

My next lash from the tongue of disapproval occurred during a vertical of Cos D’Estournel going back to before the Great War. After so many brilliant, but aged examples, of this venerable property my tannin jaded, but distinctly un- presbyotic palate was enervated by the exciting, fruit forward and recently bottled 1985. As I enthused about the wine in the glass – after being asked my opinion on this occasion – I was immediately admonished for preferring it to the superior 1986. Now, I had read my Clive Coates and Michael Schuster and I knew the received opinion about the 86 being the better wine – but what if I loved the wine in the glass and wanted to buy it? It certainly got my fist pumping. Moral: don’t diss a potential punter.

Where is this leading to you may ask? Well, there are two types of tasting note and taking into consideration inexperience and received opinion. together with a glimpse  of a label, neither can be replaced by a fist pump.

The first is an objective note, purely analytical, often devoid of emotion and listing the wines constituent parts, merits and demerits, quality and potential longevity. It is also used to provide context as to where the wine sits in relation to others in its region or commune and to frame it within its own vintages. This kind of note often comes with a shorthand, and often controversial, score.

The second is of the journalistic variety, often subjective and full of personal opinion and perspective. Although designed to promote and sell the wine, it contains a description of what the wine smells, or reminds the consumer of, great if its flowers,  fruits and holidays, not good if its sweaty saddles – but then again. This is a positive note, usually unconcerned with shortcomings and centered around the wines affinity with food.

To conclude this rather long post, I want to illustrate how easy it becomes to overlook the true purpose of wine in the pursuit of nerdyness.

Some years ago, during day two of the Master of Wine examinations, students were asked to identify two pairs of French wines in a new/old world flight of four. The traditional double blind format also required comments on region, commune, vintage, quality, capacity to mature and use of oak. Diligently working through my allotted three minutes per wine, I was struck by the clarity of the final wine of the flight, a 1er Cru Les Amoureuses, Chambolle Musigny 92 from Comte Georges de Vogue, so much so that I stopped scribbling and drank it.

Moral: Wine is a wonderful drink, best shared than consumed alone – as friendship is its engine and true purpose. Analyse it by all means, but remember to retain perspective and a sense of  humour, together with an ability to communicate your enjoyment and wonder through your tasting note – a fist pump is not enough.