Wine Review by Melton Thornaby – New York

I’VE NEVER MUCH liked the taste of wine. But I learned from a remarkably early age that I have a sensitive and cultured palette, and am able to identify a myriad of complex flavours and tastes – quickly getting an accurate site map of what the great unwashed might consider a palatable sensation in their ulcerous mouths. Which is how I fell into wine.

Today finds me sitting next to the fountain in Washington Square, New York, drinking a bottle of semi-serviceable Italian plonk. It turns out to be Cantina del Taburno Falanghina, and says on the label – in agonisingly small print – that it was bottled in Campania in 2008.

This information is actually of very little interest to me at this precise moment, as it is lunchtime. I just want something to wash down the industrial-sized bacon and avocado sandwich I bought about an hour ago at the Hello Deli on West 53rd Street.

My Nanny

But since we are now on the subject of Cantina del Taburno,  I will say, if pressed, that this particular falanghina has a pleasantly dry and lemony finish. I am also reminded for some reason of tinned fruit with condensed milk. My nanny used to force me to eat tinned fruit with condensed milk – a desert of which I was never over fond, and of which I am surprised to be reminded today – particularly having parted with around 15 bucks for the bottle.

I’m in New York visiting an old girlfriend Lady Hogg Gravel, who lives just around the corner from here at the tackily expensive end of Fifth Avenue. She’s having a fundraiser this evening, for which I sent over a couple of cases of Nicolas Feuillatte bubbly. I think she will enjoy the toasty fruitiness of the pinot noir and pinot meunier, but I’m guessing that her guests will be far too generically American to appreciate the subtleties of the blend.

Next week I’ve been invited to a Whisky Tasting and Dinner Cruise on the Hudson River, which will apparently offer over 100 Single Malt Scotch Whiskies, while cruising around Manhattan Island to the sound of Mantovani and Barry Manilow. Fine wines will also be on offer, but I shall try and avoid them and stick to the single malts. Surely I should be allowed an occasional night off from the acidic rigours of the grape.

The cruise is on September 10, and I am sure I will experience the usual sinister shudder down my spine as the boat chugs past that large building site behind Battery Park.

Delightfully Sordid

So, what’s a chap to do in New York for the next 7 days? It’s such a dull place once the novelty wears off. This is my twenty seventh visit to the Big Apple, and I have taken more bites out of it than I care to remember. Some of them unpleasantly sour – the buildings are too tall, the roads are too busy, the women are far too loud, and Broadway is quite frankly too long.

Thankfully, Manhattan has some of the best restaurants in the world. So, after the New York sun has shot its bolt and slumped exhausted behind Hoboken, I usually manage to keep myself thoroughly over-entertained.

My favourite restaurant in New York is the Chanterelle in Harrison Street. The décor is unadventurous, the menu hand-scribbled, and some of its more pretentious customers might actually find the surroundings a little scruffy. But the duck is sublime, and the oysters are served with caviar and pickled cabbage. I shall eat there this evening, then jump in a cab and finish off at the 119 Bar in East 15th Street. I’m told it is a delightfully sordid and dimly lit place – ideal for getting quietly hammered and picking up penniless musicians.

Writing and wine reviews by Melton Thornaby