Ken Gargett

thanks John. but what i failed to mention was that it was, of course, all work.

right, having stuffed up the first attempt, here goes again. spent the last couple of days in the Barossa for the Yalumba 175th anniversary (not bad for a new world winery). extraordinary stuff. some of the stars - please remember that time meant there was no way to look at all the wines and i missed some amazing ones and didn't get photos of some. but not a bad lot. okay, huge thanks to John S for his magnificent work in downloading these as my computer has decided that is all too difficult. please note, these are not in any specific order. done in various brackets. and not tasted in this order. we started with a glass of Pol, as one does. the 1921 Pol Roger (some champers experts have described this as one of the greatest champagnes ever made). disgorged in 2013. Pol kindly contributed the three bottles for the day. personally, worth the trip alone. heaven on a stick. i will confess that i asked one of my friends at Yalumba if they'd mind if i took one of the empties home for the shelf. no problem. turned out to have a couple of inches left!! there are now, and no they will not be posted, photos of me guzzling from the bottle as fast as i could put it down my throat. the Chardonnay bracket, magnums except for the DRC. all three superb. DRC tops, Giaconda and then the Bonneau but loved them all. Bonneau du Martray Corton Charlemagne 1999 DRC Montrachet 2004 Giaconda Chardonnay 2011 (interesting that the choice was for one of the worst ever Aussie vintages, compared with a cracker for white Burgs). i missed a few in the Riesling/whites bracket. the star was the Egon Muller, again in magnum. amazing wine. Hugel Schoelhammer Riesling 2009 Yalumba Pewsey Vale Contours Riesling 2004 Egon Muller Scharzhofberger Auslese 1988 just wow! This was the Cab and friends table. Tignanelllo 1985 magnum - this was sensationally good. Sassicaia 1985 - I've seen this wine twice before and both times you would not hesitate to give it 100 points, more if possible. i think it is one of the all time greats. they opened two bottles. one was a touch corked (this tasting surely must have convinced those there that it is the time to dump the cork), the other was very good but not absolute top shelf. La Conseillante Pomerol 1982 magnum - for me, disappointing. should have been better. Vega Sicilia Unico Gran Reserva 1985 - just stunning. perhaps the best Vega i have ever seen. some Bordeaux, which were amazing. Haut Brion 1990 - really good. Lafite 1990 - if you had to show an alien what great Bordeaux can be, this would be the bottle. Latour 2012 magnum - huge wine. wonderful. this was always going to be the bracket for me. Domaine Dujac Clos de la Roche 1995 - magnum. superb Burg. then we had two truly legendary wines. and they drank like it. lots of debate as to which took the bikkies. i went back and forth but in the end gave the 99, 99 points (power of suggestion) and the 85 100 points. but i feel i shortchanged the 99. these are 'lord, take me now' wines. DRC La Tache 1985 DRC La Tache 1999 the Grenache table was full of stars - Vieux Telegraphe Chateauneuf 2010 Beaucastel Chateauneuf 2009 Yalumba Tricentenary Grenache 1999 Rayas 1999 loved them all but in the rush, only got a pic of the Rayas. it and the VT the stars but the other two within the proverbial bee's appendage. among the tables i managed to miss (and still kicking myself but just not time to do them justice), the Shiraz table - a couple of older Yalumba Octavius, Henschke Hill of Grace 2009, Guigal 'Hommage a Etienne Guigal' 2005 and the Chave Hermitage 'Cuvee Cathelin' 2009 (missing those last two really hurts). saw some from the Cab Shiraz table including the Penfolds 389 from 1964. no photos. Then the dessert and fortified table. magnum of Yquem 1999 - drinking exquisitely. warres 1977 in magnum. had been sent from the cellars. seen a lot of this wine and always loved it. but this was the best bottle (magnum) by a street. just ethereal. decades to go. finally, a curio but what a wine. Yalumba Port 1923. a version of an Aussie colheita. bottled in 1935. over 100 years old and yet i doubt anyone who saw it would ever imagine it won't go another century. finally, a cleanser before dinner, the 2016 Pol Roger. it was a bit of a special day.

love it, westie, but how on earth is the very title of this thread not an all-time oxymoron. cat lovers. mancave. can you think of two things more incompatible?

absolutely. endlessly. we knew of him from football but not that well - far less coverage then. then the movies. then the murder. i gather instructions were left to fight against any of his money/possessions ever going to the brown family, et al. what a class act. if there is a hell, he is a very uncomfortable man now. otherwise, worm food and that is too good for him.

indeed. jay it was. i'm sure. nice guy. quite tall? please say hi - i doubt he remembers me. the family have a huge art collection i believe. as well as kidnappers, i believe they own a few more of the absolute pointy end resorts in nz.

thanks Westie. would you like me to write you a doctor's note?

if limited to one and not 100 for each category - resort - the main resort at Lizard Island was a place i really did not want to leave. cape kidnappers resort in NZ pretty close - the service there was extraordinary. the son of the owner was out from the US when i first went there. so he showed me around. we had a flunky following us. one thing tall people will understand. hotels never get the height of the shower head correct. always too low. as we looked at my room, i noted that but said nothing. after the tour, when i checked back into my room, it had been adjusted for my height. the other place, although it is now only used for the owner and his mates, was the Lake Rotoroa Lodge in the north part of the south island of nz. trout fishing lodge. great cellar, brilliant chef, huge wonderful rooms with heated floors. so good. in the old days, you'd arrive and an aussie flag would be flying and they would be at the door, as your transport pulled in, with your favourite cocktail. i would email the manager and arrange for him to have a photo of me and a big trout (yes, i caught a few), displayed above the bed in my mate's room and he''d do it. wouldn't last there long but he'd do it. and if you need any more convincing, it is the place on the cover of the book, '100 places to fish before you die'. restaurant - i think i have eaten at el cellar can roca four, maybe five times. they would be the four, maybe five best meals of my life. doing what i do, i do get to go to far too many restaurants here and offshore. it is a cut above. everything. bars - there is one i can't wait to get back to, every time i go to spain. in madrid. la venencia. was hidden down a back alley off a square - some local friends showed me - now there is a huge hotel just across the tiny lane but it is like watching muggles. they simply do not see this bar. out of the hotel and straight passed it. every time. it serves only sherry. five versions. nothing else. out of jugs filled from the five barrels. the walls are dark brown from the endless cigars though banned now by spain. the owner is the Spanish basil Fawlty. never speaks to customers. writes the bill in chalk on the bar. cash only. such a wonderful place. i have done a few articles on the place. this one from about five years ago. i still keep in touch with the three guys mentioned. turns out one is the Spanish authority on bullfighting and often travels Europe giving lectures. and Stefan (@99call, if i have done that right), you'd be happy with the 'equal workers'. La Venencia (the best hole-in-the-wall bar in the world) For almost a century, the ultimate hole-in-the-wall bar has been La Venencia, a small, drab, dusty room down a narrow back alley off the Santa Ana Square in the El Barrio de Las Letras district of Madrid (‘la venencia’ is the Spanish name for the elongated tasting tool sherry producers use to take a sample from a barrel). Some years ago, an equally drab building, directly across from the bar, apparently a regular home to Gertrude Stein when she was in town, was torn down and replaced by a ritzy hotel. Sit for a moment, watch the patrons, as they hop in and out of their limos. They never notice the old bar. Feels a bit like watching the Muggles in Harry Potter, never noticing the magic around them. Founded back in 1922, this old bar was once word-of-mouth stuff only. Then around ten-fifteen years ago, someone mentioned it in a guide for British soccer hooligans touring Spain. No one was happy – not the regulars, the place itself and certainly not the travelling fans who discovered the place only served sherry and they couldn’t even get a beer. A Spanish friend first took me there around the turn of the century and I fell in love with the place. I visit it every time I am in Madrid. Step inside and there is an old wooden bar, one man working it, hundreds of dusty old sherry bottles on the shelves behind him and, at the end, a collection of ancient barrels. There are a couple of tables with rickety chairs and a small area up a few stairs, only used by couples preferring their own company or when the bar overflows. That is pretty much it. The walls are stained dirt brown through grime, smoke and time – the only parts not brown are where plaster has flaked away, leaving fresh wall exposed. There are a few posters celebrating Sherry festivals back in the early thirties and fifties. Presumably, they had other priorities in the interim. The floor, as with most of the place, is under untold years of dust – it is almost like the rings of a tree. What could this layer reveal? As mentioned, the only thing you can order is sherry, plus some few very good tapas. Pressed salted tuna (mojama), great anchovies, Iberico jamon, Manchego cheese, chorizo, preserved meats, but each glass of sherry arrives with a bowl of nuts, olives or chips. All depends on which sherry. Your tab is written in chalk on the bar and at the end of the evening, the cash (only) is deposited into an ancient wooden register, worked by an old-fashioned lever. There is an old dial phone attached to the wall. Who knows if it still works. In all my years of visiting this bar, I've never managed to exchange more than three words with the owner, even considering the lack of a common language. He is not rude, but makes it clear he is not there to chat. Even with regulars, he is taciturn in the extreme, rarely sharing much. Before stricter regulations hit Madrid, as they have done worldwide, this was a great place to settle back with a cigar and relax from running around enjoying what this great city has to offer (without a word of a lie, last time I was in Madrid, just near La V, I walked around a corner and straight into Tom Jones, to which a friend later said, ‘it’s not unusual…’). The galleries, museums, Goya’s extraordinary Black Paintings at the Prado, Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ at the Reina Sofia, the bars, the restaurants, the people. Samuel Johnson said that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. I'd amend that – when a man is tired of London, he should head straight to Madrid and revive himself. Cigars are no longer permitted, indeed the bar now shuts for an occasional few minutes whenever the owner steps out for a cigarette, but sitting down with a mouthwatering sherry, a few anchovies and a good book to read, though the light is always dim, is still a joy. Last visit, I'd spent hours walking the streets in 35°C heat, so it was doubly welcome. As ever, there was a brown film of light making things vaguely visible. A few grimy bulbs struggle to provide illumination for the entire place. An old fan turns languidly, as though it really could not be bothered. After my eyes adjust, I start with Manzanilla. That salty, oystershell brine gently envelopes the senses and it dances across the tongue. Crisp, clean, lean, delicious. A good, full, chilled glass, surely exactly as sherry was always intended to be served – at a good bar with friends and a tapas or two. Not as some somm-inspired match for a chef’s Daliesque dream. The sherries, a choice of five, are all poured from cleanskin bottles. They range from 1.90 to 2.20 Euros a glass, making this brilliant value. You can buy full bottles or halves, as well. When the cleanskin is near empty, it is simply filled from one of the barrels. Apparently, our host ducks down to Jerez regularly to select the barrels. I move to a chilled Fino and it is a godsend in the hot weather. I wonder if any drink could have been more perfect at that moment. Full of flavour, yet light as a feather. I have plans to visit on several more occasions before I leave the city in a week’s time, so know I’ll enjoy the full range, but for the moment, I settle back and start to unwind. A local walks in, greetings are grunted, a glass produced and sherry poured, without even asking what was wanted. The local leans against the bar silently, enjoying his newspaper. The cast of characters which move through La Venencia is all a bit operatic. A few duck in for a quick glass and move on. Some stay for hours. One deliveryman comes in with an armful of pots of orchids, sips on a Fino and is on his way, flowers intact. An occasional tourist sticks his nose in, realises that this is sherry-only territory, recoils in horror and vanishes. Two gentlemen walk in, one looking for all the world like the reincarnation of Lenin in a suit five times too big. Perhaps they are filming something nearby? Groups link up. Late in the evening, there is the post theatre crowd; earlier, it will have been the pre-dinner throng. The Spanish version of the bar where everybody knows your name. The next day, on the other side of the city in a small outdoor bar (so we can all enjoy a cigar), I am discussing bullfighting with three complete strangers I have just met – you just have to love this city – all of whom are aficionados (of cigars, bullfighting and sherry – indeed, I am told that if I do not smoke cigars, do not like sherry and do not take long lunches, I am not a man). It turns out, one of them makes a pilgrimage to La Venencia every day, for his sherry. And has done so for thirty years. When a day or two later, I sample the Palo Cortado, it comes with a bowl of roasted nuts. A much deeper brown, this is a different beast. Old teak and orange rind notes. Wonderfully complex and yet so easy to drink. The Amontillado is another joy. For me, paired with their sardines on bread, it is pretty much my favourite Spanish combination. I try ordering sardines and get a blank look. I make like a fish swimming, to the amusement of the bar, but it does the trick. ‘Ah, anchovy’! Close enough. The sherry itself is soft, complex, dry and lingers wonderfully. Perfect with the oily fish. I think about whether I could move to Madrid so this could be my local. Naturally, La Venencia was a popular hangout for Hemingway, although I did see one blog question the veracity of this, citing that as there were no pictures of him or any Hemingway memorabilia, how could he possibly have been there? Thereby, entirely missing the point of the place. He was known to drink here with Republican soldiers, no doubt collecting information and stories, as this was a favourite anti-fascist haunt. To the best of my knowledge, Hemingway never wrote a word about this place, nor did he ever mention it in dispatches. Some say it was because he never set foot inside; I prefer to think he was protecting his friends and comrades. Speaking of pictures, it is strictly forbidden to take photographs, this rule apparently a relic of the Civil War, for, as one of the main places the forces opposing Franco met, any sign of a camera usually meant a spy in the midst. Another rule is strictly no tips – the Republican soldiers who frequented La Venencia saw themselves as ‘equal workers’. Opening times? They seem to be marginally more regular these days, but when I first started coming here, they were about as reliable as a Madrid street map. You take your chances, but like everything in Spain, no need to go early. My final visit this trip to Madrid. It is plus 40°C, so a Fino is compulsory. As I walk in, our friend behind the bar does not seem unhappy to see me. Did I imagine a flicker of recognition? I sit down, feel the stress run off me, and try and catch up on my notes. Oloroso. All walnuts and teak, citrus, glacéd fruit. Lovely, but the Fino is, for me, the star. As I walk over to the bar to pay for the final time, the owner tallies the bill in chalk and says something to me. In shock, I don’t catch it, but I tell him I will be back, probably in ‘dos anos’. He smiles and shakes my hand. I'm a bit stunned. I feel vindication, acceptance. I feel like I have just received a Spanish knighthood. I can’t stop smiling till I reach the Chuka Ramen Bar, the best ramen in the city, next door. I love this place. Address Calle Echegaray, 7 28014

i have told rob to watch this many times. it is brilliant.

i think fuzz is correct. can't believe that this is resurrected. however, i never write on the phone. i do thank you for the kind words but i honestly didn't even know i could post using a phone. i have never gone onto foh by phone. not sure i can with those vpn thingees. what i sometimes do, if it is to be a longer post, is do it in docs and then transfer it. but never the phone.

time to watch some rerun of friends?

so you dream about my life!

i'm sure everyone has them. If the other mods deem this to be offending the rules against US politics, please just delete. My intention is not to do so – just thought this was one of the weirder dreams of late. So please do not turn it into a debate about politics. I assure you that the dream was in support of no one. And no one emerged in a manner that one would suggest was to their credit. Good luck if you can make anything out of it. I swear I am not making this up. Started in a small and ratty school hall where the republicans were announcing their candidate for the presidency for the next election. The winner…. Jennifer Aniston. Ms Aniston took to the stage and agreed to accept the nomination on the condition that from now on, everyone wore brown. This all annoyed the presumptive nominee enormously and so he left. He lost the power of speech and turned into a very large grumpy cloud. His supporters turned into very small clouds. They all spent the rest of the dream attempting to blow everything over – like the clouds in Monty Python – but could not so much as move a blade of grass. Which kept making them grumpier. The democrats took one look at all this and decided that if it was not compulsory to vote, it should not be compulsory to have a candidate and so they withdrew all candidates from the election. They did, however, request that everyone in the country stand to attention with their arms folded. And if they were going to have a policy, it would have been that the sky should be blue. (I promise, I am not making this up). Back to Ms Aniston. The republicans decided the gloss had worn off and they needed a strong, intelligent man of integrity for vice president. So they announced they would find a sportsman. A spokeswoman for all the sportsmen in the country announced that no sportsman would demean themselves so much, and was so lacking in integrity, as to ever be involved in politics. The republicans then decided that if they could not have a vice president, they should have a policy. Which would be the only policy for anyone in the election. Ms Aniston led the chant. “No wine for schoolkids, no wine for schoolkids.” Fortunately, at this stage I woke up.

at least i amused myself, even if no one else.

hi Jimmy. a very long while. great to see you back. they all had hits and misses but Harrison did have some crackers.

i'm sure i posted this once before ages ago. i think it is one of the most wonderfully charming, weird videos - for a great song - out there. anyway, for reasons unbeknownst, up popped another clip for another brilliant Harrison song this morning. more celebrities than you could imagine and they look like they had great fun doing it, especially ringo star.