Drink - Victoria Moore on little shops of horrors
I've run out of wine again, which at 10.30pm on a weekday can mean only one thing: a visit to the corner shop. Sadly the innocent local shop has vanished into the chapter of English history that contains the village fete, boys with catapults, and long, white knee-socks as worn by people who grow up to be respected members of the community. Years ago you went to the corner shop to buy a bag of self-raising flour or some yeast to bake your bread. Now its successor makes a killing on designer ice-cream for the depressed and terrible wine for everybody else.
I know the corner shops of London, from Willesden Green to Kentish Town and Brixton, all too well. There they nestle, between kebab shop and mini-cab firm, the primary-coloured sign promising "Off licence" drawing you in like a punter to a seedy sex joint. Their grimy windows and dusty shelves are not meant to tempt. They know you will buy not for the luxury and exhilaration of falling in love with a beautiful grape but because there is no other option - and very often you're late for dinner at someone's house.
So what is there? Country Bulgarian red, as always, a selection of French poisons from anonymous vineyards and, of course, Ernest and Julio Gallo, the Brothers Grim, represented in force. In such dens as these, it can feel as if the dazzling variety of oenophiliac pleasure has been reduced to a single, humiliating choice: red or white.
Memories of past experiences notwithstanding, I venture forth to seek advice from my local shopkeeper. "I want to spend a fiver," I tell him. "Please can you choose me a decent bottle?" The compliment I pay his taste is more than well spent; he responds with a double measure of flattery.
"For you, I choose champagne every time."
Then, taking no time at all to reflect, he presents me with a merlot, Vin de Pays d'Oc 1996. The bonus is that it's only £3.89. The downside is that I've tried this sort of stuff before. Worse, I've taken it to people's houses and always pretended that it was someone else's offering when people began spitting it out. Not that they ever expressed any dissatisfaction with the wine - of course not. They were only laughing so hard at the host's not-at-all-amusing joke that they simply couldn't keep the liquid in their mouths. To be on the safe side, I grab a bottle of chianti at £4.99 as well.
Apparently corner shops buy all their wine from the local cash and carry, which explains why they all sell the same stuff. And they seem to base their selection on whatever sells the most - which is why they keep buying the cheapies.
Back at home, I pour a glass and offer it to our visiting canary, my latest love. "What's it like?" I call from the kitchen.
"Nice," he shouts.
"Really?" I ask with suspicion.
"Well," he says, "I must confess that I'm drinking it very gingerly. I'm afraid to take a sip in case it kills me."
My cousin, however, who is always more discerning in such matters, is unimpressed. "I can't drink that," she says, "but perhaps it's my own fault for getting myself used to more expensive stuff."
To me it doesn't seem bad, though I can't say I'm exactly enjoying it. The answer to the corner shop problem is simple. Unless you spot something brilliantly unexpected, you just have to spend a bit more money. You're paying over the odds anyway, and it's your own fault. For £2 more you can get something you recognise with an AC tag on it. There is almost always a Macon Villages or a Fitou - a good, sturdy red from the Midi.
Failing that, and if you're taking your purchase to a dinner party, buy the most expensive-looking label you can find, remember to remove the tell-tale orange price tag and explain to the hostess that you bought it in the vineyard on holiday. Perhaps it hasn't travelled terribly well.
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