Jonathan Ray is The Spectator’s drinks editor.
We’re planning to go seriously upmarket with our briefer offers this year, with each merchant tasked to rootle out exceptional wines that you cannot find elsewhere. This first offer is a cracker. The 2005 Bordeaux vintage was a remarkable one — so sought-after that much has vanished from the market. But Private Cellar has kept two
Corney & Barrow have really pulled out the stops on this one. They presented a couple of dozen wines for me to taste and so delicious were they that it was the Devil’s own job trying to whittle them down to six. In fact, I gave up trying, which is why there are seven wines
I’m honoured — and nervous — to be following in Simon Hoggart’s colossal footsteps in these pages. Simon, God rest his soul, was not just one of our greatest political journalists; he was one of our best wine writers and his Life’s Too Short to Drink Bad Wine is a classic. I know that this column,
I have always longed to get on a plane and command, ‘Take me to Cuba!’ Well, the other week I did just that. Sadly, it fell a little flat, the stewardess’s wintry smile telling me that she got a lot of that on the Gatwick-Havana flight. Still, it kept me chuckling for the next eight
LE RESTAURANT GASTRONOMIQUE Hotel Le Bristol, 112 Faubourg Saint-Honoré, 75008 Paris. +33 (0)1 53 43 43 00 lebristolparis.com by Jonathan Ray Hotel Le Bristol’s Restaurant Gastronomique is a swanky spot and no mistake. It’s all thick-carpeted, wood-panelled splendour, with a regiment of waiters per table and a touch too much one-two-three-and-off-with-the-cloche for my taste, but
I have always really, really hated flying. The first whiff of an airport and I’m scared out of my wits. But not only am I terrified; I also loathe and resent the contempt in which passengers are generally held by the airlines – the way we’re herded like cattle and the way we’re expected to
As befitted someone who spent half his life looking at it, my father had a beautiful watch. Although I don’t recall the make, I do remember how sleek and elegant it was. My father’s whole life seemed to be ruled by time and by his pathological hatred of being late. I remember once sitting in