Clambering into bed last night I had a decision to make regarding this morning’s organic gardening class. In a typically cowardly act of procrastination, I decided to decide nothing: set the alarm for 8am and if nature should chose to wake me in time for the 7.45 start, well then who am I to argue. Luckily for me, my subconscious was never one to pick a fight with nature and I slept blissfully through until 8. When I made it in, one of my friends told me how her day had begun. She was up and getting ready for organic gardening when her roommate stirred in her sleep. She asked her if she wanted to come to gardening class too. “Hmmmm,” came the thoughtful reply, her eyes still firmly shut. “I think I'll garden in my sleep.” I felt a lot better. That’s exactly what I’d been doing.
I was still knackered of course. Today is the dreaded theory day. No cooking; just watching and listening. It’s not as bad as it sounds though as the sommelier from the local hotel is over giving one of a series of wine lectures that last throughout the course. Today we are covering France and have a guest speaker in, a Frenchman from Burgundy named Pascal who is a wine merchant and importer. He has also been a wine producer and sommelier at various times in his life, and is extraordinarily knowledgeable.
He is talking specifically about Burgundy and the South West. We have six wines to taste, three from each region. They are all extremely good. In particular, he is trying to show us what great value is to be had with wines from the relatively unfashionable South West region. He succeeds. A couple really stand out. There is a 2006 Chateau du Cedre from Cahors. Predominately Malbec, it is a big, multi-layered, complicated wine. It will hold up well for the next few years and at under €20 a bottle is a complete bargain. As Pascal points out, it would cost three times that were it from Burgundy (which would be impossible since it is a Malbec).
A year or so ago I was fortunate enough to have my first taste of Chateau d’Yquem, the most famous and expensive sweet wine in the world. I was doubly fortunate, since I was drinking the 2001 vintage, which is considered to be among the best four or five of the last century. As I reached out across the table to take up my glass, the man to my right, a huge Geordie with an unlikely but encyclopaedic knowledge of wine, clamped his shovel like hand on my wrist to stop me. “Have you ever drunk d’Yquem before?” he asked, in his almost indecipherable accent. “No,” I replied, with trepidation. “Then be carfeul,” he said. “What you are about to do is going to be very expensive.” I really wasn't prepared for what followed. There would be no point trying to describe its colour or viscosity. The bouquet? Who knows? Which one of the many complex aromas could I be conceited enough to try and isolate and identify? And the taste? Why squander words trying to describe the indescribable when just one will suffice? Nectar. Very expensive nectar, if you care to add two more.
My other favourite wine from today was also a sweet wine. A 2006 Clos Uroulat from Jurancon. It had a wonderfully deep, amber colour. The nose carried sweet honey and melon and rich white fruits. They flooded over onto the palette - apricots and figs with a lovely mineral flavour that stopped the sweetness from overpowering the wine. This was the great thing - the sweetness wasn't its most remarkable quality, it was its freshness and cleanliness. There was no cloying sickliness. It didn't feel like a thick, syrupy dessert wine. Pascal is a big fan. He suggests that its refreshing qualities impart upon it a wide remit, and recommends it with foie gras. At €25 a bottle I’ll take a case or two and do exactly as he tells me.
In an earlier rambling I discussed what separates us from the apes. After lunch today we have a lecture on the very thing. It is, after water, the second most consumed drink in the world: tea. The theme of the session is Afternoon Tea. This means, after the Camelia Sinensis lecture, more bloody cakes. A lot more. Sponge cakes with no butter, Moroccan and Tunisian orange cakes, rum and raisin cake, Christmas cake, fairy cakes. Granny’s cake, great granny’s cake. Aunt so-and-so’s cake, that old Doris down the road’s cake, you name it, we make it.
Aside from the cakes we are shown a Treasure Chest of Sandwiches. It goes something like this: take one rectangular loaf of good fresh bread. Carefully slice through the top of it, just under the crust, but leave one of the long sides still attached, like a flap. Prise the flap open and cut down the four sides of the loaf but not all the way through the bottom crust. Now take a very long, thin, sharp knife and insert it in the bottom of the loaf, just above the crust opposite your flap. Use it to work down the two long edges and free the centre of the loaf from the bottom. Hey presto! You have removed the centre of the loaf and are left with your 'Treasure Chest.' Now, and assuming you have not died of old age during the time it has taken you to do this, slice the crustless loaf lengthways into an even number of slices. Make interesting sandwiches out of them. Now cut them into finger size pieces and delicately fill the original loaf. They will take up more space now of course, so the 'lid' of your 'chest' is held open, revealing its sandwich treasures to the assembled crowds. It is a genuinely spectacular, if utterly pointless and ludicrously time consuming endeavour that only the terminally love struck or clinically insane would consider undertaking. Thanks to this, amongst other excruciatingly painstaking demonstrations, such as the icing of the Christmas cake with homemade marzipan, the entire demo takes us to almost 6pm, and we didn’t even stop for a break. You cannot imagine.
The butterless sponge cake tasted like cardboard. The rum and raisin cake was good, but then it had two of my favourite things in it, so it should be. The Christmas cake wasn't all that. It lacked structural integrity. It certainly wouldn’t stand up to the Pineapple and Brandy cake I made for my sister’s wedding. (Admittedly my first attempt at that didn’t go entirely to plan, and I smashed a few things in the flat when I decided to ice the finished article in the middle of the night after a particularly heavy session, but we got there in the end). The fairy cakes were good. But the orange cakes, and I do not exaggerate here - they made the whole day worthwhile.
The tiredness felt particularly acute today. Maybe it was the inactivity, or the morning wine. Or maybe it’s just the cumulative effect of the past few weeks. I honestly cannot remember the last time I had a dream that wasn’t about food. I see no reason why tonight will be any different, so I think it is time I took control. I might treat myself. A big fat slice of Tunisian orange cake; the hints of cinnamon and clove emerging from the sweet syrup that seeps through the pores of the sponge. And when it's finished, I think a dusty half bottle of d'Yquem. Perhaps a 1929 or a '67. Very expensive, yes, but it'll sure beat the hell out of gardening in my sleep.
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