Little Ole Wine Drinker Me

Last week: I went to my first ever wine tasting evening



Although I usually only drink the odd small sweet sherry over Christmas, I couldn't help but jump at the chance to attend a wine tasting evening held at our offices last week. At just 13€ a ticket, 'The Grape and the Glorious; Wines for Christmas' sounded like a promising event; the opportunity to taste some affordable but quality vino, mingle with colleagues and nibble on some fine cheese, bread and cold meats. All part of my education. Plus I was sure there would be spittoons just in case I really wasn't in the mood for boozing.

Our hostess was Sarah Morphew Stephen, who boasts the title of first ever female Master of Wine after making her mark on what was previously a male-dominated universe. A delightful lady, Sarah is knowledageble, witty and bursting with anecdotes and top tips to help novices like myself remove the cloud of mystique that surrounds the world of viticulture.

After a brief introduction from Sarah,where she explained how duty effects wine quality and by investing just a couple of pounds more than £3.99, you can happen on a rather decent bottle thank you very much, we got stuck into the whites. Our first wine on the list was the Vignobles Des Aubas Colombard-Gros Manseng 2010. Not so dissimilar to my usual white of choice, Sauvignon Blanc, this wine was dry, nice and crisp and packed with citrus flavours. Suprisingly, this Gascony nectar will only set you back £5.99 from Majestic. Until that evening I had never heard of Majestic Wine Warehouses before, but after trying some of the wines Sarah had selected from their range and seeing the competitive prices, I will definitely try to find an opportunity to browse their aisles. According to Sarah, it's hard to find staff with such great expertise, thanks to their meticulous training - the person hired to head up the Spanish wine section was sent to Spain on a month-long assignment shadowing the country's leading expert. For my training at Virgin Megastore, I was escorted into a cupboard, handed a roll of 99p stickers and a pile of cd singles and left there for the rest of the day to get on with it.

Our second white was 'Tesco's Finest' Mendoza Chardonnay 2009. Dubbed a 'granny' wine by Sarah due to it's potent nature (14 degrees alcohol makes it sweet enough to please the less discerning palate), this is best enjoyed with a heavy starter like foie gras. Finding it a little rough and overpowering and in the absence of such fancy schmancy entrées, I was more than happy to move on to the rosé. Sainsbury's provided the Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon Rosé, my second favourite wine of the evening. It was interesting to learn that until around 3 years ago, the popularity of rosé wine had completely dwindled thanks to the dodgy reputation thrust upon it by old 70's favourite Mateus. Thankfully we now have a much more palatable range to choose from, including Shiraz rosés and the likes of d'Anjou made from aristocratic grapes. On the other hand, Mateus is still the most imported wine in the USA. No way rosé.

Sarah definitely displayed a preference for New World wines, reflecting the growing trend in the UK where French wines are now only number 5 on the list of most imported, with Australian being the most popular and Chilean not too far behind. By far the highlight of the evening was The Crossings Marlborough New Zealand Pinot Noir, the most expensive, of course (£9.95), but definitely worth seeking out at The Wine Society.




Beware of overflowing spittoons.......

 
Although the wines under scrutiny that evening were mostly available in UK stores, Sarah had also taken the time to visit some Belgian supermarkets and suggested some viable alternatives. We came away armed with bundles of information and hurriedly scribbled notes. In total, we tried 7 wines, leaving me enough time to catch a train at a reasonable hour and my colleagues to empty any remnants from the stray bottles dotted around the room, which I'm sure they did admirably.

Would I try this again?: Go on then. Just one more for the road.
                                     More than £3.99? Sorry it's the end of the month.

Some interesting points from a Master of Wine:

1. "It's not food, it's mood"
Giving me carte blanche to ignore any wine snobs that I may encounter in the future, it was refreshing to hear an expert play down the importance of the correct pairing of wine and cuisine.

2. 72% of all wine purchased in the UK is consumed within 24 hours
The other 28% is presumably consumed in the checkout queue.

3. Adding a tablespoon or so of sweet dessert wine to a poor quality white wine can work magic. Likewise with port and red wine
Now there's an excuse to purchase a bottle of port if ever there was one...

They Eat it in the Congo

Last week: I ate Congolese food for the first time

As a child, I was a rather fussy eater to say the least. At primary school, I made an art form of hiding uneaten vegetables so that I was allowed a slice of chocolate cake for afters and, on one occasion, my cousin's Grandma served me sugarless jam sandwiches for lunch because there was nothing else in her pantry that I could stomach. There were some days when my diet consisted of 2 oz of Cola Cubes and whatever my parents managed to force feed me in the evenings.

I still have my moments, but on the whole, I am far more compliant these days, although my mother-in-law would probably beg to differ. Important as it is to me to broaden my culinary horizons, there are some things that I really don't think were ever meant for human consumption. I'm thinking specifically of one occasion when I was tucking into lunch in a French school canteen when my exchange partner proudly exclaimed "eet eez ze Sheep's brain". Or when killing time before a train in fabulous Brussels art nouveau bar A la Mort Subite, I inadvisably ordered popular Flemish bar snack 'kip kap'. One of the few Flemish words I've managed to retain is 'kip' (chicken), so misguidely, I expected a plate of chicken nuggets with some funky kind of dip, but to my horror, received a dish full of cubed 'tête pressée' (pressed pig's head) with a rather unappetising layer of jelly as the icing on the cake.

Last Thursday, I was invited along to an office night out to bid au revoir to my lovely colleague Joni who is about to embark on an exciting opportunity working for the EU Delegation in the Gambia. It was a tall order locating a Gambian restaurant in Brussels, so we settled on a Congolese joint in Matongé - the ethnic quarter of Ixelles. Apparently you don't get more authentic than Kuumba, and at weekends, the place is packed to the rafters with Africans hankering for a taste of home and Brussels locals out to try something other than moules frites. On a week night, Kuumba was far from rowdy, but we were enough in our party for a convivial atmosphere.

We had opted in advance for the €25 per head buffet, a little steep if you ask me, but nobody did. On the plus side, I would've had no idea whatsoever what to order and this way, we all got to try a little of everything. There was bound to be something really tasty that I liked....wasn't there?

Waiting for our feast to arrive, my eyes scanned the drinks menu. It was a sad state of affairs; even after overcoming my initial disappoint at the glaring absence of 'Um Bongo', I was dismayed to see that there wasn't anything of Congolese origin - some cheeky homebrew to liven up proceedings, for example. But no. It was Jupiler all round. When in Belgium...

Cassava is the world's third most popular carbohydrate though it's difficult to see why. Resembling lumps of marzipan, I can safely say that it's the only thing I've ever eaten that tastes of nothing (although there is a slight aftertaste of wet dog). I was not alone in my disgust for this; one colleague was so repulsed that she was compelled to move the plate to the next table to avoid the cassava appearing in her field of vision. Maybe there are different ways to serve it and this was just cassava in its blandest form. I might be a big fan if it was topped with baked beans and cheddar and served with a smile at my local Cassavaulike.

I was delighted when a bowl of plantain was delivered to my end of the table along with a relatively tasty spinach dish. I'm pretty sure there was some kind of meat lurking among the leaves, but was informed to keep stumm as the vegetarians were arm wrestling over it on the other side of the table. Meanwhile a severed fish head was looking up at me from my plate. I picked at it for a while, nibbled on a bit of crispy skin and then realised that the only way I was going to sate my appetite was by scoffing the whole thing - eyes and all. I braced myself with a hefty swig of beer and, just as I was about to take the plunge, the waitress served up a piping hot dish of Chicken Mwambe. Saved by the belle.

The Mwambe contained far more bones than I would've cared for, as did the fish stew. But compared with what came next, this was a veritable feast. The pièce de résistance was a plate full of the wonderful delicacy that is goat meat. The first time I ate goat meat, it was in a Jamaican curry, a necessary and clever ruse clearly employed to disguise everything about it. But at Kuumba, it was presented to us in its natural state - tough, overly salty and tasting exactly like how a goat smells. Five kinds of vile.

Authentic indeed. Maybe even a little too authentic for my pampered Western palate.

Would I try this again?: I would resort to cannibalism first.

Y Viva Espana!

Last week: I had my first homecooked Spanish meal

A lazy Bank Holiday Friday spent mostly in pyjamas in front of the TV could have no better conclusion than a dinner invitation. Although I am passionate about cooking, nothing beats being catered for and waited on and the idea of a Spanish hostess was particularly appealing. Maria and her Belgian boyfriend, Rémy, promised us a typically homecooked Spanish menu with substantial amounts of alcohol to wash it down: They did not disappoint. Unfortunately, I don't get to indulge in Spanish cuisine very often. It's way too many years since I holidayed in Spain and we are not exactly falling over decent Spanish restaurants here in Liège. There are several tapas establishments, but outside of Spain, tapas bars are the very antithesis of what they should be and often set you back a small fortune for something that is little more than an average bar snack.

This was going to be a great evening...

We were greeted with a very refreshing aperitif called Pomada, a Menorcan Xoriguer gin based cocktail which helped liven up my demeanour after my sloth-like existence of the previous hours. Conversation flowed and we listened to a vastly eclectic soundtrack of everything from 90s Spanish Indie to 50s Surf Rock with a few Bix Beiderbecke numbers thrown in for good measure (appealing to the budding tapdancers amongst us). Maria and Rémy's flat is a great place to hang out, its 16th floor panoramic peninsular view being one of the finest I've seen of Liège.

The food was nothing short of heavenly. First of all we nibbled on lomo and slices of bread smeared with tapenade and a fairly mild but tasty Spanish cheese called Queso Idiazabal from the Navarra area of Northern Spain. Maria's homemade tortilla (or Pincho de tortilla, as it was served on bread) was by far the best I've ever tasted and I'm hoping that it's not made according to some top secret family recipe as I'd like to steal it and try it for myself. Next up was Rollo de berenjena con jamón y queso - a simple but elegant starter of ham and cheese enrobed in aubergine. Right up my street. I'm not sure what technique was employed to make this cheese melt in the mouth so beautifully and burst with so much flavour and creaminess, but I'm pretty sure I could never pull this off. For our main meal we had cod baked in a rich tomato and pepper garlic sauce - Bacalao a la vizcaina. My parents taught me that it's impolite to lick your plate at the dinner table, otherwise I can guarantee I would have had tomato sauce in my eyebrows.

Maria informed us that the dessert was her first attempt at a family favourite that hadn't gone according to plan as it was too fluid in consistency. I think the idea behind Natillas de chocolate is similar to blancmange, but Maria's version hadn't set properly. She was disappointed, but it didn't stop us guzzling down the tasty chocolate pudding (everything goes down the same way) and we decided that we should add a little alcohol, just because there was a bottle of Licor 43 that needed finishing off and it would've been rude not to. Scrumptious indeed.

The evening was rounded off with a couple of rounds of whisky and a few parlour games. 'The Rizla Game' is one of my personal favourites; the person sitting to your left sticks a cigarette paper to your forehead bearing the name of a famous personality and your job is to ask the right questions and discover your identity (as played by the Nazis in Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds and during many a fun night round at our house with friends and family, long before that American horn-rimmed chancer dreamt it up). On this occasion, all I managed to reveal was my poor political knowledge, taking forever to guess that I was, in fact, sleazy Italian leader Silvio Berlusconi, which I then embarrassingly mispronounced as Berscolini and called Roberto. Oops. Well, I can name the entire cast of Dallas and all the members of Spandau Ballet and their wives, but politics is just not my strong point.

Another game that we embarked upon was a card game called 'Jungle Speed', which is basically a more sophisticated version of old favourite 'Snap'. When I say 'sophisticated', I mean more complex, as there is nothing sophisticated about fighting to the death over a wooden totem, which you have to be the first to grab if your card matches your opponent's (possibly also played in Nazi Germany). Rémy informed me that the last time he played, he managed to break a girl's tooth. I contemplated wearing a helmet, gum shield and shin pads. The game is both fun and so tense that you can hear each of your opponent's heartbeats racing. I am proud to announce that I cleaned up with all my teeth still intact, although Maria may have the odd bruise.

Would I try this again?: Copacabana! There's no place like la casa.

Songs For Songs' Sake Part 4

If a Kid - Great Mountain Fire
Burnt Toast and Black Coffee - Mike Pedicin
Flipsville - Stormy Gayle
Tomorrow - Kitty, Daisy & Lewis
Primrose Hill - John & Beverley Martyn
Saxophone No. 2 - Lord Kitchener
Hi-Heel Sneakers - Jose Feliciano
I Could Be So Good For You - Dennis Waterman
Killing in the Name of - The Apples
Harpsichord Shuffle - Wynder K Frog
Son of My Father - Chicory Tip
Blow Your Head - Fred Wesley & the J.B.'s
Jenny Artichoke - Kaleidoscope
Little Surprise - The Wave Pictures
Where Do All the Raindrops Go? - Brent Cash
For You - Solvent
Echoing Light - Brian Olive

Feeling a Little Saucy...

Last week: I tasted HP Guiness

I have just returned to Belgium after a much-needed week off work, giving me the opportunity to fly to Liverpool and spend a rather splendid week celebrating a friend's wedding, attending a surprise 60th birthday party thrown for my Aunty and, most importantly, spending some quality time with my nearest and dearest. As is customary on these visits back home, I consumed far more than I should have; bacon butties every morning, real British ales in the delightful Turk's Head and Dad’s delicious curries, not forgetting the essential St Helens delicacy - pasties. More than ever, the streets of St Helens are now paved with budget shops galore: Poundland, Home Bargains and a plethora of 99p shops (rumour has it, there is a 98p shop in Burnley). You can now even visit Poundbakery where you can choose any two pies/pasties from the myriad of flavours in return for handing over just a quid. The woman in front of me in the queue was buying eight items - hopefully to feed a family of four, although, judging buy her frame and complexion, I suspect that this was just a light snack in between bargain hunting. I hasten to add that the thrifty price leads to no loss in quality - I had the tastiest Chicken Korma pasty known to man.

I am like a kid in a toy shop when I'm in a UK supermarket. Although I consider Belgian food among the finest in the world, the Belgians score nulle points when it comes to convenience food and anything you can buy in a packet/wrapped in plastic is either overly expensive or just down right revolting. In UK shops I am instantly drawn towards anything bearing the beaming face of Ainsley Harriott or brandished with a sticker proclaiming 'Just add water'. Whilst quality is high on the agenda in Belgian supermarkets, variety often takes a back seat. A recent nationwide competition to invent the most creative flavour for potato chips inspired 'Indian Curry' crisps which have adorned shop shelves back in England since most of us were in short pants.

The highlight of this latest visit was to be found on the condiment shelf in Asda. Sporting a big red half price sticker, amongst a collection of at least 57 other glass or squeezy bottles was the novelty item that is HP Guiness. I am not a lover of Brown Sauce. In fact, I don't really know what it is. Have you ever tried explaining HP Sauce to a Belgian? Good luck with that. Powerless to resist the cut-price offer, my Mum bought a big bottle of this new variety and, the morning after the night before, it appeared in front of me as I grappled with my sausage on toast. With that familiar squelch, my sausages were soon decorated with the stuff. Suddenly my breakfast had all the hearty qualities of a Steak and Ale pie and I was drooling and squeezing on more sauce. Mmmmmm.

Would I try this again?: I am kicking myself that I didn't go back to Asda for a bottle to bring back with me.

My Top 5 Sauces:

 1. Heinz Curry Mango Sauce
Fruity, tangy and spicy, I get through at least one bottle of this per month, drowning everything from sausages to salad in it. I particularly like it mixed together with mayonnaise, tuna and onion and ladled onto a hot, oven-baked potato.

2. Chip Shop Curry
Unappetising in apperance given it's pooey-brown-with-a-hint-of-green colour, maybe it's nostalgia, but there's nothing better than chip shop curry turning your chips soggy. Of course this industrially manufactured flour-based mush bears little similarity to curry, but if you're lucky, you may find the odd raisin floating around to add a touch of the exotic. You can now buy Harry Ramsden's Chip Shop Curry Sauce for just 29p a sachet, saving you a trip to the local chippie. Just add water.

3. Sauce Bresil

When it comes to sauce, it's a photo-finish between the Brits and the Belgians. One of the best things about Belgian friteries other than, of course, their chips, is the variety of sauces on offer. Bri prefers the wildly spicy Samourai sauce (I can almost hear the advert: 'Samourai Sauce. Mayonnaise For Men.'), whilst I usually opt for Sauce Bresil, which I guess is not unlike Heinz Curry Mango.

4. Sauce Lapin
The Belgian version of my Mum's gravy with a twist: a spoonful of the treacle-like Sirop de Liege is added to give a sweeter and richer flavour. No rabbits were harmed in the making of this sauce.

5. Horseradish Sauce
The culinary equivalent of Vicks Vapour Rub, this sharp and powerful sauce has a huge kick and clears out your sinuses a treat. Horseradish is from the same plant family as wasabi which should also be handled with care.

Oedipus Schmoedipus

Last week: I saw my first Greek Tragedy.

Murder and incest. The subject matter of this blog knows no bounds.

Thanks to my lovely friend Elise, who works as a seamstress in the costume department of the Brussels Opera House, last week I found myself with a free invitation to a production of the ultimate Greek Tragedy: Oedipus. Romanian composer George Enescu's Oedipus was premiered in 1936, so as operas go, it's a relatively modern work.

What I know about Greek mythology, I could write on the back of a postage stamp with a shovel, so I decided that a quick Wikipedia visit was in order beforehand, so as to familiarise myself with the legend, preempting that I wouldn't be able to follow the story or understand the subtitles. (Incidentally, the subtitles were projected in both French and Flemish - Flemish on the right and French on the left - and then swapped over mid-way through the performance, so that, no matter where you are seated, you have the opportunity to follow subtitles in your language of choice for at least half the proceedings. How very diplomatic).

The story of Oedipus goes something like this:

Once upon a time, King Laius and Queen Jocasta give birth to a son, who is then abandoned after a prophet announces that he will kill his father and marry his mother. The boy survives and is named Oedipus and brought up by King Polybus and Queen Merope who he believes to be his biological parents. When Oedipus also hears the horrific prophesy, he flees from his parental home. During his travels, in self-defence, he kills King Laius, leaving Jocasta a widow. Anybody who can kill the sphinx will be entitled to marry Jocasta and it is indeed, Oedipus that slays the monster. On discovering that he has murdered his father and married his mother, Jocasta commits suicide and then Oedipus gouges his own eyes out. Nobody lives happily ever after. The end.

Hardly an episode of Hi-De Hi.

The curtain lifted to the spectacular sight of around 120 people lined up on scaffolding at various heights all dressed in the same drab brown colour and waving olive branches. The main action was taking place in the centre where it appeared that a plastic baby was being baptised by the High Priest. Well I assumed it was the High Priest, but with his matted dreadlocks and tatty clothing, all that was missing was the dog on a string and you could forgive me for thinking I'd been transported to Glastonbury. I was quite disappointed that there was no fire juggling.


After this joyous ceremony, up popped ultimate party pooper, blind prophet Tiresias to throw a spanner in the works, predicting doom and gloom and announcing that this little baby's fate would be to bump off his Dad and shack up with his Mum. I don't know about you, but christenings I've attended have usually been followed by a rather pleasant buffet reception in the church hall or a trip to the local boozer to wet the baby's head, with no sign of Mystic Meg in sight.

For poor Oedipus it only went downhill from there, and the only adjective that springs to mind to describe his plight is 'wretched'. I think the cheeriest thing that came out of his mouth was "Happy is he who dies before he is born". But despite all this misery and despondency, I rather enjoyed myself. We had great seats (the tenth row from the front, central) and it was quite something to be in such a spectacular and prestigious building, even managing to sneak in a guided tour with Elise during the interval. The music was exquisite and performed beautifully by the orchestra and, although opera is not necessarily my bag, I could appreciate the vocal acrobatics and melodrama of the whole affair. I was particularly impressed with the scenery, which at times was built very high up and involved actors climbing up some rather long, narrow ladders. Their gymanstic prowess was to be applauded. I still haven't quite worked out why there was a fighter jet on stage at one point, though. I'm far from the world's authority on history, but I was under the impression that planes had yet to be invented in 5BC. I complimented Elise on the costumes which were delightful and explained how perplexed I was to see high visibility tabards and scally shellsuit tops amongst attire more fitting of the era. She couldn't shed any light on the matter.

But the beauty of being with Elise was that I managed to pick up on some of the insider gossip. Which is, of course, for my ears only!

Would I try this again?: Which one? Murder or incest?

Other celebrity eye gougers:

Betty Blue



Houston



Elle Driver











Roll Up, Roll Up...

Last week: I ate lacquements

The month of October means only one thing here in Liege:

The Fun Fair is in town!

The Foire de Liege runs for more than 1km through the Parc d'Avroy and is brimming with sensory delights; flashing fluorescent colours, lip-smacking sugary and savoury aromas and a whole host of heart-stopping attractions to fling you into positions you didn't deem possible.

Fairgrounds are much of a muchness wherever you go and, in many ways, the Foire de Liege, is not unlike the fairgrounds of my childhood with dodgy boom-boom chart/techno music, worthless tat for prizes, greasy hamburgers and seedy looking power-happy guys with tobacco-stained faces operating the dodgems. You can even hear French equivalent cries of 'Scream if you wanna go faster' in a thick Walloon accent if you listen carefully. In other ways, however, there are some subtle differences. In terms of political correctness, we have always been streets ahead in the UK and freak shows were dispensed with many years ago as were live animals and, even after so many years living on the continent, I am still in a state of shock when I see sad-eyed poneys tethered to a merry-go-round and my hot dog is served up by a bearded lady. And whilst I've never seen anybody win a goldfish in a polythene bag here in Liege, I have certainly never been able to enjoy a hearty mug of mulled wine at St Helens Show.

Nowadays I have a split personality when it comes to the fun fair. In one way, I revert back to childhood and overexcitement gets the better of me. One attraction I am still powerless to resist is the Kentucky Derby, where I enthusiastically roll wooden balls into holes until my plastic horse passes the finishing line first, much to the dismay of the five year-olds competing against me. But the more dangerous hair-raising attractions are now a thing of the past for me, after several bad experiences have seen me doubled over and vomiting after being spun sideways and upside down until my face turned green.

The last days of our Indian Summer at weekend gave me the perfect opportunity to drag my husband to the Foire de Liege for the purpose of trying something new for this blog. Not brave enough to be strapped into a bungee rocket or stupid enough to waste money on trying to win a furry Bob l'eponge (the French think 'Squarepants' is going too far), I figured it was time for a sweet treat. At the Foire de Liege, you can find all the usual fairground delicacies, but if you want to be truly Liegeois, you should forget candy floss and join the back of the endless queue for a box of lacquements.  

So, what the Dickens is a lacquement?

Other than being a potential heart attack wrapped in a serviette, lacquements/laquements/lakemans (in typical confusing Belgian fashion, there are allegedly 7 different officially recognised spellings) are like thin waffles sliced in two and stuffed with sugar candy syrup. They are then heated in a waffle iron (every home should have one) and served doused in even more syrup. After some research (lacquements are such a local speciality that they have a very limited appearance on Google Search), I discovered that two of the key ingredients that seem to give them their distinctive taste are orange flower and cinnamon. They were invented in 1903 by Monsieur Desire Smidts who named them after his place of work, but why they are still the fairground fodder of choice over 100 years later, nobody seems to know. Thinking back to my previous places of  work, I wonder if I could have made my millions by creating my own cake and naming it 'Bolton Virgin Megastore'....Or a pie called 'Remploy'?

Apparently it is quite a shocking state of affairs that I have lived in Liege for over a decade and never even tasted a lacquement. Real sticklers for tradition, many of my Liege comptatriots descend in their droves on the October fair just to get their mitts on a box of the sugary delights. They couldn't care less about the dodgems or the Hook-a-duck. "What's the fuss about?", I wondered.

Surely at 7 Euros for a box of 6 they should be a strong competitor for the best thing I've ever tasted? We sat on a bench on one of Liege's many charming squares in the October sunshine and tucked in. Within seconds I needed a bath, suddenly realising why they come in a handy portable box and that the general trend is to take-away so that they can be eaten in the comfort of your own home without embarrassing yourself in public. Oh well...at least there's a nice ornamental fountain around the corner where I can shower down. Which was switched off....

We enjoyed our tasty treat and had a second one each the day after, but a week later, there's still two left in the fridge (and I made some sensational Walnut and Honey Loaf in the meantime), so maybe they're not really my cup of tea after all...

Would I try this again?: The jury's out...

If you've got a waffle iron going rusty in your kitchen cupboard, you can find the traditional recipe here.