The computer, the dog, and the Prosecco…

Posted on | April 17, 2006

I pressed the bell to Jasper’s apartment front door and I was immediately announced by his wired-haired dachshund - Rufus. Jasper was devoted to his dog and whilst in the past I had been fairly immune to his charms it was now the case that I was beginning to actively dislike him, through no particular fault of his own. Let me explain…

The other week ‘J’ (as most of Jasper’s friends referred to him) sent ’round an email on account of it being Rufus’s birthday and he proposed an evening ‘a l’Italiana’ to celebrate. Was, Rufus, I wondered, also to be treated to Osso bucco or perhaps he preferred French cooking? Somehow, I can’t for the life of me explain how it happened, I think at the time when I was reading his email I became distracted by a phone call and without thinking must have right-clicked on my mouse or done something rather stupid, but anyway, suddenly, Rufus was on my computer desktop. No, let me rephrase that - he was my computer desktop - all 300 x 230mm of him. This was really too bad as I had grown rather fond of the previous image - ‘Landscape at Gylieu’ by Charles-François Daubigny. A quiet pastoral scene painstakingly painted in 1853 and which I had found terrificly soothing over the last few weeks. Instead I had… Woof! Woof! and the full horrow of this enlarged canine staring at me slowly dawned on me as I gazed upon the leering, panting face with his long tongue hanging out over his sharp teeth. What’s more he was eating my icons.

I was therefore even contemplating Rufus’ impending removal from my computer screen as ‘J’ opened the door to his apartment. He beamed at me and I stepped inside. It appeared that I was the last to arrive for the smallish party which seemed in full swing. ‘J’ thrust a bottle into my chest and demanded I unleash its contents as soon as possible. Now I never like to be sniffy about other people’s wines but I became concerned at ‘J’s apparent lack of discernment at the bottle in my hand. Across a rather hum-drum label was printed in large type the word ‘Prosecco’. Now I have drunk a fair amount of Prosecco in my day (a wine made by the Charmat or Cuvèe Close method where second fermentation is controlled in large tanks at often higher temperatures than the first, before they are bottled and released on the market - young and with no ageing) and this one was not even DOC (Denominazione di Originata Controllata) not coming from the area known as Conegliano-Valdobbiadene. Nor was it certainly the more highly reputed Prosecco of the even more strictly and smaller area known as Cartizze where some 107 acres produce the Superiore di Cartizze - these vineyards lying between the steepest hills of San Pietro di Barbozza, Santo Stefano and Saccol in the community of Valdobbiadene and are the more highly prized from the area. It was, however, I noticed, made in Modena - a town more celebrated for its washing machines than its wine. Prosecco is, in fact, the name of the grape. An unfortunate description for a hugely popular wine which means it cannot be protected under EU legislation - only places are protected.

As it was an unusually hot night I arrived with a panting thirst. Something effervescent, cool and light in alcohol was just what was called for. I set to work removing the foil and even as I took the cork in my hand I realised that it seemed a little stiffly slotted into the neck of the bottle. At which point I looked up and noticed that there was a slight lull in the conversation and I had somehow become the focus of everyone’s attention. Now this didn’t bother me too much as I know what I am about when it comes to punt bottomed bottles and planned to have this one despatched in a matter of seconds. But the cork would simply not move and my exertions began to show in the heightened colour of my cheeks. It was then that I realised there was now total silence in the room… As I continued to struggle with the bottle I began to hear a little sniggering. Without warning Rufus suddenly attached himself to my leg and began to gyrate on my trouser in what I can only describe as a rhythmic movement and it was at this point that the sniggering was turning into loud guffaws. I marshalled all my strength and with an enormous twist managed to wrench off the top of the cork. I took stock of my situation. I was standing in the middle of the room like some conjuror whose trick has gone badly wrong with the kind of expression on his face which suggested his attractive assistant had quit her job the day before. On top of which I was the active object of desire of some kind of badger eater. Swift action and, above all, a clear head was required. I noticed ‘J’ leaning against the doorway of his pretentious kitchen, which had been doubtless purchased in a reckless manner on some hire purchase agreement, in paroxysms of laughter clutching what looked to me like a bottle of Ruggeri Superiore di Cartizze - an altogether different proposition from the glassware that I held in my hand. I dropped the errant bottle from a height of about 2 feet onto Rufus’s head and tossed the mushroom top cork into a bowl of walnuts nearby. As ‘J’ rushed to the aid of his semi-conscious mutt I mumbled something about the bottle slipping from my hand and disencumbered him of the Dry spumante which I opened in a flash. Turning to the other guests, with a look of triumph on my face, I asked: ‘anyone for a glass of Italian fizz - very pale colour, classic apple on the nose. Very smooth in texture with a lovely delicate mousse, finishing on a fruity sherbet flavour. Only 11% alcohol…?’

I subsequently learnt that ‘J’ had bought these unrewarding bottles some time previously and as each one shared the same characteristic he enjoyed putting his friends through the mill. When I got home I decided that, at all costs, Rufus’s visage had to be effaced from my computer screen. After several hours of trawling the internet for an explanation how to accomplish the task I sat back and admired my handiwork. The graceful lines of the Royal Navy’s battleship HMS Nottingham steamed across the screen. It wasn’t Daubigny but it wasn’t Rufus either. Just to be sure there could be no recurrence I emptied the Trash Can and simultaneous with the electronic woosh and clank was just audible the faint whisper coming from my lips - ‘woof!’

Hugh Stanley

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