Drink - Victoria Moore finds that the man from Oddbins is very much to her taste
What do people do with all the wine guides they buy? Malcolm Gluck's Superplonk appears in the bestseller lists each Christmas, like the great aunt you know exists but forget all about until it comes round to that time of year again. Soon after unwrapping, it's rammed onto the bookshelf beside all those other dry lists of price and name and supermarket printed on that horrible school jotter paper.
Why struggle with these catalogues at all when down the road there is, no doubt, a living breathing version of them capable of taking your tastes into account (and learning them too), making juicy little recommendations, and teasing with a snippet of information here, an amusing anecdote there? If this were a function offered by a website, it would be held up to noisy acclaim and the ant-trail of internet-users pointed firmly in its direction.
The truth is that wine merchants are sorely undervalued, and in this broad category I include the high-street chain Oddbins which, despite earning the approval of both critics and the masses, is still underused.
Last October, I went to Oddbins and chose a crate of red wine. At least, I followed a man called Keith round and round the shop, doggedly trying to explain my tastes while he plucked bottles from shelves on my behalf. I kept wondering about the wines displayed at eye-level with the jolly labels. "Ah, good," said Keith. "We like people like you - you buy the ones we want you to buy." I couldn't decide whether this undermined his integrity or underscored his good taste.
Keith told me that he's drunk his way (several times, no doubt) around the shop. Oddbins tells me that all its employees come with a passion for wine - it's what drives them into the job - and that the management actively encourages on-the-job training through courses and tastings. Those little, informative labels you find hanging round the necks of bottles are composed by the shop staff. Cynic that I am, I've always suspected Head Office of sending guidelines out to the branches, but apparently not.
With all the various discounts on that particular day, I ended up spending £5 to £6 a bottle and, we agreed as we slurped the last of it a week later, every single one was great.
A few weeks ago, I went back to the same branch for fresh supplies. I'd been particularly impressed with one of the wines - a 1997 Cotes du Rhone called Belleruche from M Chapoutier at £5.99 (I recently found it priced at 20-something pounds on the menu of Frank Dobson's favourite restaurant). It was easy to identify: the family-owned merchant-grower uses distinctive labels that incorporate Braille writing. Certain I could manage to choose good wines on my own this time, I carefully picked another three, then went to the till. I was fairly sure that here was Keith again.
"I'm just trying to work out . . ." I said, staring at him rudely. "Yes, it was me that served you last time," replied Keith. "So you liked the Belleruche, did you?" I decided I'd better seek his opinion on my own selection and, shamefaced, proffered the labels for his viewing. One of them, an Italian Barbera, Keith deemed satisfactory, but he believed that I could swap two of my other bottles for better versions in the same price bracket. I shambled over to the shelves and did as I was told.
They were all delicious. Now, in the same way that there's only one person in the world I'll let near my hair with a pair of scissors, I don't trust anyone else to choose my wine. I've acquired a new accessory: the personal sommelier. No one should be without one.
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