Bruce Anderson

A rioja to beat the new year blues

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There was only one flaw in my Christmas this year. I did not spend enough of it with Santa Claus-age children. It is of course easier to delight in the charm if one does not live with the brats all year round. However adorable they may be, there are moments when they are also living instances of the doctrine of Original Sin. Moreover, in a Father Christmas household, it is helpful to have a bedroom some way from the parents. Admonitions will have been issued. The little ones will have been prohibited from invading the parents’ room until, say, 8 a.m. But admonitions do not automatically command obedience. Misrule is — and should be — one of the joys of Christmas Day.

There can be pathos as well. Roy Hattersley once wrote that one of the sadnesses of human life is that animals you love will predecease you. This year, friends lost Hogan, a beloved terrier, just before Christmas. The dog was 16 and died in his sleep, saving the owners a tearful final journey to the vet. The news was broken to the children and there were tears aplenty. Shortly afterwards, a littlie was packing an overnight bag. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘I’m going to set off for the doggies’ heaven and bring Hogan back.’ Sunt lacrimae rerum.

One delicious Christmas feast drew on jamón and other charcuterie, from the magnificent delicatessen at Hispania Restaurant. The Spanish understand fish. Beef, I am not so sure, at least outside the bull ring. But pig: the finest Spanish pork products easily outclass any other nation’s. The talk complemented the gluttony. What was our favourite meal? I suggested caviar, followed by a few Whitstable oysters, then jamón, and then a game bird: possibly indeed a brace of golden plover. I remember one dinner with Alan Clark at the old Mijanou restaurant where we each had a brace of plover followed by a woodcock.

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