Are You Roger?

            I sat in a small bakery, sipping my coffee, reading the paper.  Well, not really the paper.  I mean it is technically a newspaper, but it’s online.  So, I was actually reading my iPad.

            I often do that over a morning coffee and yes, this is my favorite place.  Matter of fact, I only go to another bakery, or to….my god, Starbucks…if every other place on earth, or at least within walking distance, is closed.  This is a pretty big city, so that happens only as often as I have a date.  Can’t remember the last time for either one.

            It’s called Sam’s Bakery and maybe Sam owns it, but I don’t know.  Never met Sam.  His waitresses’ names are Rosy, Jacqueline, Judy, and Sophie.  They’re not all here at the same time, not all the same age, and not all the same breast size.  Yes, I notice those things.  But, just so you don’t think I’m some sort of perv, I don’t know the actual cup sizes.

            At that moment, a woman sat down in my booth.  Never happened before.  Not old, not young, but younger than my forty-five years.  Nice looking in a fresh, wholesome kind of way, with wavy mouse brown hair, and brown eyes.  No dipping neckline.  Nothing like that.  She wasn’t smiling.

            I was taken by surprise and didn’t say anything, just sat staring.  I live alone and I’m not used to women approaching me.  Can’t remember the last time for that either.

            “You’re Roger, right?”  The voice was girlish, with a kind of whispering sweetness.

            “Yes,” I said.  How did she know that?  “How do you know that?”

            “From the ad.”

            Now I was confused.  I’d sold an old bicycle a few months ago and a radio and three books, none of which were valuable.  Besides, they were long ago sold.  Maybe she read my confusion as distrust.

            “You must get a lot of responses.  That’s quite an ad.  My name is Mabel.  Well, that’s not my real name.  My screen name is Helena.”  Barely a pause before she rambled on, “I don’t suppose Roger is your real name either, but you’re just as I pictured you.  A father figure.  A little bit of a traditional dresser.  I hope you don’t mind me saying that.  I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that and it might make everything more real.”

            She didn’t like my Khakis and white shirt and beige Cardigan?  I keep the top button buttoned.   “This is how I always dress.”

            “Oh,” she said, “I like your voice.  Very masculine.”

            The two waitresses, Rosy and Judy, kept looking in my direction. 

            “You said your name is Mabel, but not really?”

            “Well, women don’t usually give their right name, right?”

            “My right name is Roger.”

            “See, that’s different.”

            “How?”

            “Well for one thing, you’re not wearing a wedding ring.  I am.”

            “Maybe I forgot to put it back on after I shaved.”

            “Oh, that’s clever.  You like to keep secrets.  I love a little mystery.”

            “How’s this for a mystery?  I have no idea who you are.”

            She started to say, she’d told me, but changed her mind.  “I like that idea.”

            “What idea?”

            “Playing the role. Strangers meeting.”

            “It’s the ideal role, we being strangers and all.”

            She laughed, a good throaty laugh.  “I like what you said you’d do to me.”

            “What did I say?”

            “The parts about making me do things.  Awful things.  While you watched.”

            You need to know, I don’t drink.  Nor do I put random ads online.  Nor do I know this woman, or what in God’s green earth she is talking about.  She looked like a normal housewife.  Not bad looking, but nothing glamorous.

            “Did I say that?”

            “You know you did, Roger.”  A sly smile crept in.

            “Did I tell you the part about the cockroaches?”

            She looked blank. “Or the spider webs across … well, you know. Drinking frog poo?  Eight ball in the side pocket?  Anvil tossing?  The horse-leg barbecue?”

            I expected her to bolt, but she didn’t.  The smile came back.  “You’re such a kidder, Roger.  You silly man.  Humor drives me wild.  Is there a men’s room here?”

I pointed.

“I’ll go in first,” she said.  “But, hurry, I don’t like to get cold.”  She scooted out of the booth and flew across the length of the bakery.

            I took another sip of my coffee.

            Another man came in, stopped at the door and looked around.  It’s a small bakery, as I said.  Finding a place to sit is not as difficult as waiting for a supercilious maître d’ and pressing a twenty dollar bill in his greedy hand. 

The guy wore a black raincoat and his dark, thinning hair was slicked back.  A little portly.  His eyes darted.

            Finally, Judy walked over to him.  “Are you Mabel?” he asked.

            “She’s in the men’s room,” I said.

Berry Bros & Rudd - London's oldest wine merchants

Berry Brothers & Rudd, London’s oldest wine shop (1698) holds a special place in my heart.  You’ll soon find out why.  Nope, not because of wine.

This wine shop caters to the world and has for about 315 years.  That alone is remarkable, but consider this:  It’s been at No. 3 James Street the whole time, selling first coffee and wine, then wine and spirits, as it does today.  Not that St James is the only location.  There’s one south of London, as well as Japan, Hong Kong, and Singapore.

The store is so understated, you could walk right by without noticing.  Dark exterior, with window displays and foot high lettering across the front.  You may notice the famous (but smallish) sign of the coffee mill hanging out front.  Coffee mill?  For a wine shop?

Yes, the widow Bourne (first name lost in the mists) started out selling coffee and supplying various coffee shops up and down the street.  Coffee business lasted into the 19^th Century. Besides the coffee shops that gradually disappeared, St James’s Palace, built by Henry VIII on the site of a leper hospital, is only 223 feet away.  It was the official royal residence until Queen Victoria’s time.

Step in the door at Berrys and look down.  The wide planks, fastened with hobnails have been there awhile.  So, I asked a clerk, “When was the last time these floors were polished?”

“I think the janitorial staff took care of that in the 19^th Century.”

You’ll also note a lack of bottles, or at least not very many bottles.  You’ll have to go into some of the side rooms for that.  One small room dedicated to wine and another to spirits.  So, it’s a small operation in a small shop?  Not exactly.  In the cellars sit millions of dollars of potables.  Although, oddly enough, although Berrys is the oldest wine shop, it does not have the oldest cellar.  That honor belongs to the cellars of The Stafford London Kempinski Hotel, one of London’s premier hotels, about a stone’s throw away.  Cost runs to $400 a night for a cheap room.

As you would imagine, Berrys’ cellars also have a colorful history.  Exiled to London, Napoleon III and future Emperor of France (not to be confused with Napoleon Bonaparte) lived in one of Berrys cellars, now called the Napoleon Cellar, of course.

At Berrys, traditions die hard.  It was not until 2001 the shop displayed any bottles.  Now they’ve got about 2000 bottles on long shelves in a couple of rooms. How can a retailer get away with that?  Simple.  Only about 5% of Berrys business is retail.  Hard to explain to the average tourist who thinks long and hard about proudly buying a single bottle. 

Lots of fabulous cellars around the world get their wine from Berrys.  Restaurants, hotels, the Royal Family, collectors, old families who have made Berrys their go-to wine shop for decades, or even generations.  Don’t know for sure, but I suspect you’d quickly recognize the names of many of their customers.

Quick, who was the first British Monarch to buy wine from Berrys?  George III, of American Revolution fame.  1760.  Now Berrys holds two Royal Warrants, which mean they provide beverages to the Royal Family and are allowed to advertise that fact.

A little known secret about Berrys.  You and I step through the front door, have a scan or two, maybe inquire about this wine or that, have a look in the spirits room, and head back out on the street.  But, the serious oenophile will be invited into a back parlor and parked in a deep leather chair to discuss wine needs over a glass or two, of wine, sherry, or whiskey.  Lunch may be served.

Don’t have any idea of the most expensive bottle of wine here, but I’d guess the 1942 Chateau d’Yquem comes close at $2385 per.  Yquem is pronounced ee-keme.   Berrys is a wine merchant, meaning they buy and sell.  Sometimes the buying comes from estates, or recently uncovered one-of-a-kind items.  They also sell wine under their own label.

Not every wine is beyond your means and mine. Berrys also sells wines priced for the multitudes, some under $15.  If you want to check out all the offers, here’s the site:  http://www.bbr.com

Ever wonder why the Brits call red wine, claret?  In my case, only for about fifty years!  Back a few centuries, when part of what is now France belonged to England (12^th Century), the main wine sources were inland vineyards, mostly sporting Malbec grapes, sometimes known as “Black Wine.”  But, English tastes went for lighter fare.  Bordeaux came into its own and since the wine was lighter, in both color and flavor, it was called claret.  Oenophiles and historians will shout and scream at the incompleteness of my all-too-brief description, bypassing hundreds of years and the bloody tug of war that led to final separation of the two countries.  Take it outside, ladies and gentlemen.  I’ve got wine to drink.

The Bordeaux Region is the red area in the lower left.

Perhaps you want to set up a corporate wine affair for a hundred fellow toilers.  Berrys can do that easily.  Big room downstairs.  Long oak tables.  Wine glasses the size of paint buckets.

But, why does Berrys tantalize and fascinate, and hold that special place in my heart?  Right beside Berry Brothers & Rudd, there’s a little alleyway called Pickering Place and named for William Pickering.  You see, the Widow Bourne’s daughter married William Pickering and they continued to run the business.  But before the Pickerings, the little alley and the area behind it was called Stroud’s Court.

Go ahead and step down the alley and checkout the courtyard.  This once was a din of inequity for gambling, bear baiting, and duels. Can’t believe a place like that carried my name! It was also home to the Legation of the Republic of Texas until Texas joined the Union in 1845.  Look for the plaque:

    TEXAS LEGATION

In this building was

the legation for the

ministers from the

Republic of Texas

to the

Court of St. James

1842-1845

You should know by now, there’s always more to London than the pedestrian view.  Only an old wine Merchant?  Think again. Find Berry Brothers & Rudd and you’ve found another historic paragraph in London’s fascinating story.  This Stroud will drink to that!

Misadventures in German

I sat alone in my favorite German bakery, sipping my coffee, typing on my iPad, watching the flow of the crowd.  Small shop.  Five or six folks is a multitude.  The shop clerks scurried.  Oven doors slammed.  Essence of bread floated through the air.

An older man walked in and sat at the table next to mine.  Only three tables in the place.  I’d spoken to him on occasion, so I murmured a quick “Morgen,” and went back to typing.

He smiled and forced a conversation.  “Blah, blah, Berlin, black, blah, blah.”  Clearly he expected an answer. 

I didn’t disappoint.  “What?”

“In Berlin,” he said in German.  “The President.  Black blah, blah, blah.”

“President Obama?”

“Nein, nein, nein!”  His irritation showed he knew he was talking to a fool. “California,” he blurted.

I only knew two Presidents from California.  “Reagan?”

“NEIN!”  It appeared he was about to crap his pants and fling a healthy handful my way.

“Nixon?”

“NEIN!!!”  A handful wasn’t going to do the job.  He was going to have to scamper out to the car and retrieve his shotgun.

“The GOVENOR!  CALIFORNIA!”  Curious onlookers started taking bets.

“Jerry Brown?”  An ambulance was called in case this guy didn’t make it.

“CALIFORNIA!  GOVENOR!  BLACK blah!”

“Schwarzenegger?”

Relief flooded the crowd.  My conversationalist mopped his brow.

“In Berlin,” he said, his face beginning to fade from red back to winter white.

“Film,” he said, staying in German, trying his best to keep it on my imbecilic level. “Lots of money.”

I agree.

“German is hard,” someone muttered.  Small comfort.  Some of the women had tears in their eyes.  Tears of pity for the demented foreigner who could only speak in single syllables and barely knew about the greatest German ever.  Except he’s from Austria.  And he isn’t the President.

Chocolate and Wine at Wein Hauck

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Wasn’t long ago if you’d mentioned wine and chocolate, I’d be thinking Mars bars and Mogen David?  Are you out of your mind?  Turns out I was out of mine.

Pairings don’t always work.  Spaghetti and caramel sauce.  Teenagers and cars. Conversations and narcissists.   Angela, the high school cheerleader and …but anyway, you see my point.

Couple of weeks ago, I got an invite to an evening of chocolates and wines.  I’ve come a long way since the Hersey days.  Much more of a sophisticate, conjuring up images of Nutella slathered on pale skin, wine delicately poured into navels.  Should have known, in my world, dreams and reality live two turbulent oceans, and a mountain range apart.

You mean actually eating chocolate and drinking wine?  Well, knock me down!  Why that’s like pairing maple waffles and hamburgers….wait a sec, a popular fast food chain already tried that.  Ok.  It’s like pairing scotch and root beer.  Damn, one of my friends drinks that all the time.  Well, hell!

Got it!  That would be like pairing me with a fat woman with bad breath!  Uh oh.  I remember one time in my misspent youth….hate to change the subject, but let’s wander back onto firmer footing:  chocolate and wine.

Ever heard of Wein Hauck?  Small place in an off street near the old market in Kaiserslautern, Germany.  http://www.wein-hauck.de

If you get the chance, drop in between 2 and 6:30 p.m., weekdays except Monday.  Don’t take a chance.  Go to the web site for exact times.

Often Wein Hauck offers off the beaten vineyard events.  Music and wine.  And in this case, chocolate and wine.

Even if there’s no special event, the small shop intrigues me and tingles my taste buds.  I picture wine tasting as a blind date, except you don’t have to buy dinner, and you can move on to something more attractive and still call yourself a gentleman.

I thrive on small shops, especially when it comes to wine.  Hole in the wall bodegas in Spain.  Gordon’s Wine Bar in London.  (http://stroudallover.blogspot.de/2015/02/gordons-oldest-wine-bar-in-london.html)

If you’re carefully selective, you'll find small shops are friendlier and their survival rests on every single bottle they sell. Wein Hauck is a prime example.  The owners search for wines themselves, wander the vineyards, chat with the vintners, and only sell the best they can find.  French and German bottles dominate Hauck’s cellar, but they also offer a few Spanish delights, as well as some very interesting spirits. Picked up a few bottles of a bubbly and satisfying Crémant from Alsace, just a couple of weeks ago.  A jewel.

For the pairing on this evening, we tread both Italian and French vineyards.  Here’s a glance at what our hosts served:

Prosecco (Maschio dei Cavalieri), with 60% Chocolate, flavored with caramel and Fleur de Sel.

2014 Côte de Gascogne, with another 60% chocolate, this one with ginger.

Our molars coated with chocolate, our palates already well-graped, we moved on to the red wines:

2011 Cabardes, with 60% chocolate and mildly spicy red peppers.

2011 Vacqueyras, with 70% chocolate from Sao Tomé.

2011 Côtes de Bourg, with 85% chocolate from Ghana.

You want to know the bottomline, right ?  All the wine pairing worked supremely well, but none except for the Prosecco, would I choose to drink without the chocolate.  Sounds like the wines were not up to snuff.  Nothing farther from the in vino veritas.  These wines paired exactly correctly with the accompanying chocolates.  That, my friends, is difficult.

That’s also the magic of pairing that goes beyond red for red meat and white for chicken and seafood.  Start talking chocolate and wine and the red and white rules take a nose dive.  Same goes for wines and cheeses.

In my own late night excursions into  the wonders of the grape, I’ve found sturdy white wines, especially some of the Spanish drys, stand up well to the heavy flavor of beef.  Similarly, I’ve tasted reds just perfect for a particular cheese.

All in all, Friday night at Wein Hauck  led to a solid evening of tasting and chatting, but standing around sipping wine and eating chocolate….how bad could it be ?  Our cordial hosts took us on a tasting tour that opened my eyes and brightened my evening.  The  Wein Hauck selections paired remarkably well, but had I sipped them without chocolate I would have moved on.  Neither my palate nor my mind had made the adjustment to chocolate.  Just another point in favor of a small, quality wine shop that knows how to blend flavors and select the best wines for each occassion.

Wein Hauck is adept at  specializing rather than trying to blanket the planet. This small shop is a wonderful place to ferret out good wines at reasonable prices.  They also offer their remarkable expertise in leading the novice to experience some out of the way stops on the wine road.

Want to know a bit more about unusual pairings?  Here's a great place to start.  Check out this blog from my good friend, Laura.  http://laurauncorked.com

Look for upcoming wine events and in the meantime, stop into Wein Hauck.  Tell them the guy with the broad grin and the chocolate moustache sent you.