Our nine merchant partners – Armit Wines, Corney & Barrow, FromVineyardsDirect, Honest Grapes, Mr Wheeler, Private Cellar, Swig, Tanners and Yapp Bros – represent the cream of the UK’s independents and boast centuries of experience between them. They all have particular areas of expertise and stock wines that you would never be able to find on the supermarket shelves or local off-licence.
There are few finer places to be during these endlessly dark days than Bellamy’s in Bruton Place, London W1. And there are few finer folk to be there with than Chloe Smith, from strategic partnerships at The Spectator, and Laura Taylor, marketing director of Private Cellar. Gavin Rankin, le patron qui mange ici, is as
Good grief I miss our Spectator Winemaker Lunches! As you know, these extremely convivial and really rather bibulous events are held — or were held until the dread plague and pestilence fell upon us — in the boardroom at 22 Old Queen Street roughly every fortnight. A maximum of 14 readers join me and a
Nothing but good news this week. Hurrah! Firstly, I know you’ll be thrilled to hear that my don’t-eat-anything-white diet is working a treat. That’s no bread, rice, pasta, potatoes, cheese, cream, milk, sugar and so on. And, yes, clever clogs, cauliflower is allowed. I’ve also throttled back on the vino and managed to shed 7lb
It was when the old lady passing the bottle bank lobbed me two quid and told me to get myself a nice cup of tea that I realised my lockdown face fungus had to go. I hadn’t shaved for months and as I battled with the empties that spewed noisily from my split carrier bag,
It dawned on me, with a chill, that I probably won’t live to drink the 2019 en primeur clarets that I’ve just forked out a substantial wodge for. It dawned on the considerably younger Mrs Ray, too, now busy earmarking which bottle to drink with whom as she throws aside her widow’s weeds and dances
Lockdown is easing at last. Hoo-blooming-rah! Being the pessimistic optimist that I am, though, I know it’ll only be a day or two before the mother of all spikes appears to spoil our fun. But, heck, until such time, I’m going to celebrate long and hard. Come and join me and don’t forgetthe corkscrew! We’re
It is with a real sense of achievement that I report our council was obliged to send the recycling lorry down our street twice last week rather than the usual once. And don’t think for a moment it was there to pick up extra piles of paper or plastic. Nope, the lorry came simply to
As regular followers of these offers will know, Jason Yapp and Tom Ashworth, co-proprietors of Yapp Bros (they are, in fact, step-bros), are a wicked, evil pair. Nothing delights them more than luring innocent and naïve drinks writers to their doom over endless glasses of their vino. I’ve lost count of the number of times
What did you do during the great lockdown, Daddy? Well, son, I grew a beard, watched all 264 episodes of Frasier and became a raging inebriate. Well, I didn’t so much grow a beard deliberately as do nothing to stop it sprouting. And while I fully intend to see the whole Frasier canon chronologically, I
I swear it’s only the vino that keeps me and Mrs Ray going. I mean, there’s precious little else to look forward to these days. I’ve given up on the impossible jigsaw, can only watch so much telly and if I never do another Zoom quiz it’ll be too soon. No, all I look forward
I admit it freely: I’m a lockdown lush. There, I’ve said it. I simply can’t help but be undone by the siren call of the corkscrew which — during these dark times — comes earlier each day. And, judging by the titanic quantities of vino I see knocked back during my early evening Zoom calls
I don’t know about you but lockdown is slightly losing its lustre Chez Ray. Joke over, thanks, let’s just get back to normality, whatever the new normality might be. In the meantime, though, as the drear days of social distancing and isolation turn to weeks and the weeks to months, it’s strange what delight one
So herewith the Speccie’s 10,000th issue. Hurrah! And what finer reason needed to crack open some tip-top vino? My old man, Cyril Ray, from whom I learned my love of the grape, was assistant editor here in the days of Brian Inglis, Bernard Levin and Katharine Whitehorn, having started his career in 1936 as a
Well, I never expected to spend my 60th birthday under lock and key, that’s for sure. I had a slightly troubled youth, it’s true, with several run-ins with the rozzers during my teens — culminating in a salutary scolding at Maidstone Magistrates’ Court in August 1976 — but after a (fairly) blameless middle age, I
These are strange days indeed and Mrs Ray and I are positively hoovering through the vino. Thanks heavens, then, that independent wine merchants are still delivering. They are nothing less than the fourth emergency service and I give them a hearty hip, hip, hurrah. And enormous thanks, too, to Esme Johnstone of FromVineyardsDirect. So tasty
I fear Jason Yapp is slowing up a bit. The co-proprietor (with step-brother Tom Ashworth) of Yapp Bros is notorious for his love of long lunches so I felt more than a little short-changed when, last week, he dashed for the early train before the digestif trolley had even slipped its moorings and steamed into
Spring wouldn’t be spring without our annual offer from Chateau Musar, that extraordinary Lebanese winery that is the epitome of triumph over adversity. As readers well know, Auberon Waugh and Simon Hoggart — my late, great predecessors as Custodian of the Corkscrew for The Spectator — were huge fans of Chateau Musar and I, too,
I write this from Camp Bah Humbug, whither I’ve been banished by my ever-loving. I had merely suggested that it might be time to dispense with a Christmas tree this year and that was it. Off I was sent to the gulag and told that if can’t say anything nice I’m not to say anything
We’ve Christmas firmly in our sights this week. I’ve written many times here and elsewhere about suffering from that debilitating festive condition known as CADDAD — Christmas Affected Doom, Depression and Despondency — and about how the only known cure is a regular supply of fine vino spaced generously throughout the holiday season. Well, I
At dinner the other night, our host spotted a well-priced magnum of fizz on the list and beckoned the sommelier. Alas, it turned out the magnums were no more, the last one having been sold two nights previously. ‘Oh dear,’ sighed my chum. ‘I guess we’d better have it by the half-magnum, then, and see