The Cellar

Posted on | July 19, 2006

Monday evening - day after the World Cup Final…

“Oh Huuugh be a daaarling and fetch a lovely bottle of wine for our delicious supper… here is the key to the cellar.”

Fiona’s enunciation was anachronistic to say the least. It grated on many people but I had always enjoyed Audrey Hepburn so why not indulge Fiona without judging her? If she wanted to sound like an Aunt Augusta that was fine by me and I was reminded of that rather witty exchange in the Importance of Being Ernest when Algernon (a bachelor) asks his butler, Lane, why the servants drink his Champagne. Lane responds: “I attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. I have often observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand…” No comment.

When Fiona had requested my help in choosing the wine, a wise move I thought at the time, it was, I gathered, to accompany a delicious (but unseasonable) roast rack of lamb preceded by an egg in aspic. The latter being one of my pet hates, I reckoned that only a glass of Champagne (perhaps a Tarlant NV - excellent value ) would do to dull its sickening texture and flavour. No point in drinking something expensive.. And with the lamb… well, I would see what the cellar contained.

Fiona handed me a key which looked as if it would unlock a dungeon in the Tower of London. Certainly marrying the key to the lock would not be a problem. I headed off down the corridor without much further instruction and shortly on the right I saw a large, thick door slightly ajar and behind which I could see stairs leading into a dark abyss past a net of old spiders’ webs.

I passed my hand into the darkness and fumbled for a light switch managing to turn on a naked bulb which was set into the low ceiling below at the bottom of the stairs. I made my way down the decrepid old staircase brushing aside the cobwebs. On arriving at the bottom I surveyed the scene under the dingy old bulb which I managed to hit with my head as I ducked under it giving me that sensation of an egg being broken over my head. There was a disused washing machine with what looked like an old pair of quite racey suspenders hanging through the doorway, an old ironing board prepared for use but caked in several layers of dirt and an artist’s easel with an oldish, damp looking advertisement for a rather small Renault car in place of any masterpiece. There was, also, a small wooden wine rack with one bottle poking its neck out of the middle. I went over and pulled it from its quadrangle - a Châteauneau-du-Pape whose domain I failed to recognise. I looked to see if I had missed something and since there was clearly nothing else of interest in the cellar I made my way back upstairs to find Fiona. I washed my hands in the loo on the left as I walked past towards the kitchen.

“Oh Hugh… you are oorfully clever…. Thank you so much.” Fiona said with aplomb and with no hint of any diffidence caused by the lack of stock in her cellar.

But by then a couple had arrived from London who had been invited down for the day.

“Do let me introduce you” said Fiona, this is Hugh Stanley and he has just chosen this wonderful bottle of wine to go with our supper.. ” so saying she held it aloft as if it were the Jules Rimet trophy, only I was pretty sure nobody would want to steal this bottle. They both looked at me and I felt rather uneasy that my reputation was somehow backing the only bottle Fiona and her husband owned - and about which I knew nothing. “If anyone is to be congratulated it is you Fiona”, I replied rather humbly but I felt this only had the effect of somehow enhancing my wine connoisseur skills in the eyes of the couple. Humility and understatement always conveying an impression of exalted status.

Eventually Harold showed up and Fiona immediately regaled him with an update of the last hour including completely over-emphasising my role in the wine list finishing with “…Hugh is so oorfully clever.” Harold smiled at me benignly.

The egg in aspic was quite disgusting and was relieved only by a cold bottle of Bollinger Grande Annèe 1997 which materialised from their fridge. Very dry, creamy, texturally utterly complimentary, good toastiness coming from the oak with that pinot dominance I love so much (this one really ‘RD’ too) - one needed something to cut through that gelatinous mat. Oh why did anyone still produce this dish? But the Champagne was far too good for our starter which did no favours to the wine.

We moved onto the roast lamb accompanied by the anonymous bottle brought up from the cellar along with more plaudits from Fiona as to my choice. I was beginning to worry why we continued this charade. There was only one bottle so I couldn’t understand why we had to pretend there was more. I was feeling distinctly uneasy. I had been asked to open it and pouring a small amount into my glass I had already detected notes of overripe pepper, cooked flavours, odd herbaceous odours, even a touch of anisole… I didn’t want to stake my reputation on this wine any more than I had wanted to select the winner of the World Cup (although I had always said Italy would win).

“I think you ought to know…” I said, looking directly at Amy and Sebastian “that I had very little to do with choosing the wine…”

“Oh” said Amy, “we know you are an expert, of course Fiona would have sent you to choose the best wine to accompany our food.”

How irritating. Clearly, something more dramatic was called for on my part to divorce myself from the cellar’s treasure trove.

Looking over to Harold I whispered: “Harold, this is ridiculous, you know you only had one bottle in your ‘cellar’. Why pretend otherwise?”

“Oh Hugh, you’re such an idiot!. You don’t mean to say you went down into our proposed laundry room and mistook that for our wine cellar? We haven’t been down there since we moved in.” Well, did you?”

“You mean, there is another cellar…?”

“Of course, idiot!” Where do you think I keep all those bottles from my father?”

By now he had used the word ‘idiot’, at least twice, which was a little strong. How was I supposed to know? I was being made a fool of, and where, I asked myself, was my error? I needed to do something quickly and decisively.

“I want you all to know…”, I said in a loud voice, “that this is the worst Châteauneauf-du-Pape I have ever had in my whole life… It was the only bottle you had in your ‘cellar’ (emphasising the word and nodding at Harold), so I assumed it would be worth trying - but I was wrong. I didn’t want to prejudice our taste buds by mentioning it earlier. You must be very disappointed Harold given that you had cellared it for so many years.” I wondered if this sounded a trifle supercilious but was pleased with my surreptitious allusion.

My statement was greated with silence. None of us drank any more from our glasses.

Harold went to fetch another bottle from his ‘other’ cellar. Next time I would take proper directions and I had thought, for just a moment, that Fiona must look quite fetching in those suspenders… May I be forgiven!

Hugh Stanley.

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