Jonathan Ray is The Spectator’s drinks editor.
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 in this offer. Sorry, but there it is. I just couldn’t choose between them. Corney & Barrow’s MD, Adam Brett-Smith, was in especially munificent mood too.
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, which he made his own, is something of an institution for its readers. If I can bring a smidgeon of Simon’s wit and perspicacity to the Spectator’s wine club, I will be doing very well. Happily, our old friends Tanners of Shrewsbury have come up with a mighty tasty selection with which to start off the year.
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 and a half hours between movies, meals and snoozes in Virgin Upper Class. Havana was humid and sticky and it was as stifling inside my elderly rust-bucket of a taxi as it was outside. ‘Air-con on half?’ grinned the driver, winding down his window halfway, ‘or on full?’, winding it down as far as it would go. We agreed on full and set off, swerving between potholes, stray dogs and broken-down cars.
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 please, please don’t be put off, for the food here is outstanding with a capital O. It’s President Sarkozy’s favourite spot (the Elysée Palace is almost next door), and it’s no surprise to learn that head chef, Eric Frechon, not only boasts three Michelin stars, but also the Légion d’Honneur.
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 eat unspeakable food with a neighbour's elbow in the face.
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 a restaurant with him as we awaited the arrival of his lunch guest, an old friend whom he had bidden to arrive at 1 p.m. My father and I had got to the restaurant 20 minutes or so before the appointed hour, as was his practice, and at five to one he glanced at his watch and sighed crossly, 'Tsk, in five minutes' time the bloody man will be late.' In later years, although a complete technophobe, my father bought himself an answering machine, fearful of the calls that he might miss when he was out.