When I worked at Berry Bros & Rudd 20 years ago, I had a wonderfully eccentric customer who liked to ring up during bathtime. He was a confirmed claret lover and, although he longed to broaden his horizons, he could never quite muster the courage to do so.
We would spend 20 minutes or so discussing tasty alternatives from the Rhône, Spain, Italy or the New World, but his nerve always failed him and he’d retreat guiltily back to the safety of Bordeaux.
Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
TRY A MONTH FREE
Our magazine articles are for subscribers only. Try a month of Britain’s best writing, absolutely free.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate, free for a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first month free.
UNLOCK ACCESS Try a month freeAlready a subscriber? Log in