Drink

Drink: Vines with deep roots

A limestone escarpment meanders south from Dijon. The product of prehistoric geological conflicts, it is now an arcadian idyll: the Côte-d’Or. Ducal Burgundy was one of the hauts-lieux of civilisation, and its resonances are all around you. But even before there was a duchy, Charlemagne enjoyed the wines of Burgundy, as had the Romans. That

Drink: Life after Lafite

I had an old friend — now, sadly, dead — who spent his final years in terror of his wife. I had an old friend — now, sadly, dead — who spent his final years in terror of his wife. By the time he reached man’s estate, he had developed a taste for good claret.

Success problem

Another great Bordeaux vintage on the cards? Peter Grogan examines the unexpected problems created by never-ending success The art of assessing the likely future quality of very young red wines by sniffing away at what are known as ‘barrel samples’ is a decidedly arcane one. I’m no good at it and I haven’t even been

Digestif

Heavenly jockeys, splitting trousers and plenty of Pinot Grigio – Imogen Lycett Green enjoys a breathless lunch in the Cotswolds with Jilly Cooper Two hours earlier she had rushed, panting, into the Crown Inn in Frampton Mansell. ‘I am SO SORRY I am late!’ she said, falling into the fire-smoky bar wearing leggings, knee-length brown

Time is of the essence

We move through silent streets walled by shuttered houses and closed stores. I know that the French leave en masse in August, but in Cognac the ritual seems also to extend to wintertime. Even the landscape seems somnambulant. Skeletal vines whose cordons point crabbed fingers towards where the sun should be line the roadsides. Yet

Hine: the vintage house

Bernard Hine has impeccable manners. However, as we meet for an apéritif at Hine House, he is a little disgruntled. The source of his unhappiness is a stomach upset which means he is unable to indulge in the foie gras and the 1953 Vintage port, among other treats. A lesser man would have made his

Liquid hideaways

Last year, in a nod towards austerity, I gave up my membership to Milk and Honey, a cocktail club in Soho. I rationalised that as a non-member, I could still book a dimly lit, silver-toned booth downstairs to enjoy their delicious Penicillin — a reviving concoction of peaty whisky, honey, ginger and lemon — at