I knew we were running out of wine, again, so I was just about to head out yesterday afternoon to pick up an extra bottle when Graham determined that we ought to open the bottle of champagne that’s been in the fridge ever since he came home. Haven’t really fancied it because it looked like the really cheap stuff that the French use for cleaning drains.
There are four basic classes of French champagne:
- Stuff that’s so expensive that there’s no socially acceptable way to buy it
- Stuff that’s expensive but not so much so that you’d not slip a bottle in your shopping trolley to celebrate something special
- Stuff that’s quite affordable, and delicious, but it’s made outside the genuine appellation region so it can’t be labelled as champagne
- Stuff that’s genuine but is so revolting the French ought to be ashamed to sell it. Even to the English
Our bottle was from the latter class, and well down the bottom of it at that.
“This is disgusting!” I spluttered.
“Yes. But it’s better than nothing. Keep going. It’ll improve by the time you get to the bottom of the glass, just see if it don’t.”
It did, of course. And by the bottom of the second glass you’d hardly have known it was revolting at all.
Oh but this morning I have the kind of hangover they lock you up for if you stagger out into the sunlit streets of Paris before noon. The kind of hangover that makes you wish you were teetotal.
