OK. Confession time. Most of my dinners and associated glamorous wines usually belong to someone else. In the words of Steven Segal in The Seige, “I’m just the cook.” I don’t mind saying that I’m good at it though. So I should be. My dad was a bit of a cook himself. Egon Ronay Chef of the Year, Michelin and Egon Ronay stars, Head chef at Quaglinos when he was 24, and Chef de Cuisine at The Chewton Glen at 27 blah blah blah..Yeah. He pretty much did it all, and left me with a couple of very serious handicaps.

1) I am not a cheap date.

2) Nobody will cook for me.

Well, that’s not strictly true, but it does mean that I’ll probably have to date a chef.

My dearest friend Eleanor Smyly (mentioned in previous blogs) is a blistering cook, and one other friend, namely Victoria Kirsty Moore, author, journalist, and resident wino at The Daily Telegraph, is so fussy about what she puts in her mouth that she has pretty high standards in the kitchen too. In fact, I love her cooking, especially when in her considerable comfort zone of Italian–influenced nosh.

She has been very generous over the past few years with her own food and wine when I haven’t been able to eat as well is would normally like, and my birthday last week was no exception.

I was planning to cook one of my favourite starters, a mouclade soup, as mussels are very much in best of season, when VM reminded me that in her fridge was an entire tinned lobe of foie gras that she brought back at considerable personal cost some years ago, after holidaying with some of her best friends, the amazing Sasha and George Smart. They are like a beautiful, young Joan Collins married to an opera-singing Nigel Havers, and have two of the most charismatic and beautiful children that I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. The (excellently named) Joe even has a cocktail named after him by his godmother, the aforementioned Victoria Moore, and Olga will no doubt be as strong and as beautiful as her mother. She is a carbon copy, it seems.

Anyway, Victoria went to Aveyron. Got busted coming back through Luton. Had a weight under her kindle. Now, she worked out that it would be handy karma for her to get it back, so she gave the geezer in customs a bit of a wink and smile. Seems that he was a pretty low-temperatured dude, the customs officer, so he gave it back.

(Couldn’t help this bit. Withnail and I is the best film ever made. Fact.)

Now, we only have a limited time to let’s move on four years to last Tuesday. Below, in the first photograph is the vintage liver, holding court next to three very handsome and viable suitors. Out of shot is a plate of grilled Poîlane Sourdough Toast. Naturally.

Warburtons would not do in this scenario.

So.

Welcome to the Olympic finals of the Foie Gras tasting. The liver in question was only a nipper at the last Olympics, so let’s see what it has to offer this time round…

First up to bat is Château Jolys Jurançon, Cuvée Jean 2008 (£13.99 from Waitrose)

The smart money would probably be on this being the finest match, because Gascony, where it’s from, is home turf for a whole lot of those poor ducks and geese.

Well it isn’t so sweet that it hurts the teeth, but it has a firm crystalline sweetness of lemon verbena and barley sugar. It is surprisingly linear in the mouth too. MW tasting students take heed. Although the flavours may ‘remind’ you of Sauternes, it is ANYTHING BUT the shape of a botrytised Semillon. Also, is that botrytis that you can taste? Really? Isn’t it just very very sunny? No vinegar spice? At all?

Right. Let’s see.

Smells like Sauternes. A bit. But no noble rot.

Tastes like Recioto di Soave. Sort of,

and

Has the shape of a piercing, sweet Loire Chenin Blanc.

This is the photofit description of a Jurançon. I love this wine. But only with a slather of sweet meaty fat on the dry, hard, salty toast. In fact, I’m not even sure if I could drink this on its own.

It’s the way the this wine’s orangy sharpness washes and cleanses the mouth and teeth after every bite of this smooth oily chilled paste, and replaces it with a Werthers Original that makes me smile.

Back of the net. A perfect match.

Round 2….

Les Lions de Suduiraut 2009 Sauternes (£14.99 for 37.5cl from Averys)

Grrrrrr. Meaoow. Nmnmnm. This is absolutely and utterly delicious wine. It is allegedly a newer, lighter style of Sauternes from this estate, designed to appeal to a younger audience. Presumably with cash to burn. Or perhaps 'younger’ means under 70?

Anyway. I recognise its youthful, Cream Brûlée and apricot swagger. Château Suduiraut is not only one of my favourite Châteaux in Sauternes, but one of my favourite wines in Bordeaux. I tend to migrate towards Coutet and Climens, and, on a slightly lighter budget, the ever improving Château Liot. The attentive amongst you will notice that they are all from Barsac. Blame my dad. He liked them too, and that’s what I was weened on in my dad’s restaurants. With Dutch apple pie. A bit of a treat for a thirteen year old, to be fair. However, Suduiraut is unmistakeably a thoroughbred Sauternes that never gets old. It has a purity and transparency that the more golden, bitter-caramel wines of Barsac don’t have. It’s like Cognac versus Armagnac. Maybe it has slightly less upstairs, but boy does it look good in a suit. If you want to taste greatness for not much money, try and hunt down the Chateau Suduiraut 1982. In no way a universal success in the region, this vintage of this wine is extraordinary, and at its peak now. While I’m at it, the same thing happened at Chateau Climens in 1991. It is better than the Yquem of the same vintage. Five times better. They picked before the rains opened, and it is fucking amazing.

As much as drinking this is like being wrapped in a light fluffy duvet of meringue and caramel, it just too broad, too sweet and not honed enough to perform the same trick that the Jurançon pulled off earlier. The wine is nearly great, and shows off its provence and the credentials of the fantastic 2009 vintage, but save it for birthday cake.

(Sing this while simultaneously waving one straight arm above your head like a homey.)

“Would wine in the tall bottle please stand up, please stand up, please stand up.”

Pray silence for the one and only, Hugel 2001 Gewürztraminer Vendanges Tardives.

This is flipping delicious. This is, without question, the smartest and 'greatest’ wine here. I’m quite sure the Suduiraut will give it a really good run for its money in ten years or so, but thank you, darling Victoria, for opening this on my birthday. Absolutely devastated that I forgot to taste it again later. What a waste. It is an asian-spiced 'apple and lychee’ tini, with hints of turkish delight, bergamot and jasmine. It is so soft, it’s barely there, floating away on a cloud of soft floaty balloons of acacia scent. Right. There you go. 'Wine wank’ over. But what wine. It needs a slice of Chaumes. Not foie gras. If you ever need proof that great wine and great food, a great meal does not necessarily make, this is it. It is a bloody car crash with the liver. Not enough acidity and all that soft texture means that the foie gras just stays stuck to the mouth, and the feral notes in the wines make this expensive tin of meat joy taste like nothing more than old raw liver. Thanks, but no thanks.

So, wines 1, 2 and 3 crossed the finishing line in the following order. 1, 2 and 3.

Main blog over.

Afterwards, I cooked one of Victoria’s favourites, Tournedos Sterimberg, a thick slice of angas fillet with a crust of dijon mustard and posh peppercorns, with a creamy, mellow sauce of sautéed fresh green peppercorns and more mustard. Enough of it to fill a paddling pool, and dive into it with a big pile of shoestring fries and a bitter chicory salad.

I’m not going to go into it now, but this dish has magical powers. Contrary to popular belief, mustard has the magical ability to soften and polymerise tannin in the hardest of young, punchy, gutsy wines. It’s a trick that I use to make bring feisty young wines into line quite often. Ally this with a wine that already has savoury and peppery characteristics, like, say, a St. Joseph, and alchemy is created. However,….

….this rather incredible wine was so young that I fear that we commited infanticide. I’m still crying inside about it. I really wished that I had put it in a decanter hours before. It was tight-lipped, sinewy and had all the charm of Mike Tyson before a fight. It had only just begun to show sparks of St. Josephness when I had to leave at 11. It had been open for 3 hours. I orginally bought it for Victoria’s Christmas present two years ago, and it just wasn’t ready. Sorry Miss Moore. My bad. I dearly hope that it tasted magnificent the next day. Must remember to ask VKM.

Long live Chave. Far too bloody long, it would seem.