Simon Berry

Aubert de Villaine’s office in Vosne Romanee has a wonderful view of the hill-side of his legendary Domaine de la Romanee Conti. Aubert will point out, If you are lucky enough to be received by him, the balance inherent in the view. Closer to the window, further down the slope, is Romanee Saint-Vivant. Up the hill, beneath the trees that crown the summit, are premier cru vineyard such as Les Petits Monts and Aux Reignots. But in the middle, following an invisible contour line, are the vineyards that lie at the heart of his estate: Richebourg and La Romanee Conti. You don’t have to be a geological expert, or use scientific instruments, to understand why you’re looking at hallowed ground. Not too high, not too low. Not too steep, not too shallow. The middle ground.

The sherry industry always used to admit that 75 per cent of its UK sales occurred in the weeks before Christmas. A large proportion of this was to teetotallers, who needed something to offer the family, or the vicar, or Father Christmas, or whoever happened to drop by over the holidays and was in need of what my late lamented nanny used to call ‘Festive Cheer’. The great advantage of a bottle of sherry was that, after the guests had departed and there was something left in the bottle, it wouldn’t turn to vinegar as rapidly as the remains of a bottle of wine. That’s the point about fortified wines. That’s why they were invented in the first place.

I blame my mother. Although gin wasn’t her ruin, I have to admit, she did enjoy a gin and tonic. And as any student of the spirits industry will tell you, you never drink what your parents drink. The problem, I now realise, was that gin in the 1970s wasn’t very good. Tonic water was even worse: the primary aim of even the best known (Ssssssh — you know who you are) being to disguise the roughness of the gin. And vice versa, I suppose. Gin was dying on its feet, being replaced by the infinitely cooler vodka, which clever advertising in the 1970s had transformed from the equivalent of grappa into the current generation’s choice.

When I’m gathered, as my granny used to say, I’d like to be remembered as the man who reintroduced the imperial pint of champagne. I’m not an ambitious creature, by and large. But we all want to leave our mark upon this world somehow, and that’s where I’ve set my sights. I’ve been trying for over 30 years, and sadly I’m no closer to winning this particular battle. But, as my old granny also said, pointing to a picture of Robert the Bruce and the spider, ‘If at first you don’t succeed…’ The imperial pint makes for a perfect-sized bottle. You get four proper-sized glasses from it — as opposed to six from a bottle, or three from a half-bottle. Champagne is designed to be shared, preferably with one other person.