We were sat at a spectacular dinner table. It was the kind of dinner table that made me feel uncomfortable. It was the type of dinner table that had too many knives, forks and plates. It was the kind of dinner table that instilled a mild panic in me when I realised I couldn’t remember which plate I needed to use for the bread: was it the one on my left, or the one on my right?
‘Erm, I would probably say the wines that are the second cheapest in the supermarket’ I replied after a moment of deliberation. There was no point trying to make things up or use what little knowledge I had about wine, since I didn’t know anything.
‘Actually, I think I’m not too far behind you on that one!’ Sarah laughed. ‘Are there any particular wines that you’re a fan of?’ It was at that point I decided to come clean. I said that I was more of a beer man, and that I had come to the group, more or less, by accident.
‘So, what kind of beers do you like?’ replied Sarah, struggling to get a conversation going. It was at that point I realised that I didn’t know too much about beers either, other than I liked a nice pint of fancy German wheat beer, but wasn’t too keen on the overly hopped beer that hipsters like. I then dug deep and said that I enjoyed a good glass of ‘porter’ from time to time.
I was starting to feel a bit out of my depth. When it came to conversation about food and drink, I knew that I was going to be rubbish at it. There wasn’t the need to comment on the quality of the spices used in the ‘chicken night’ dishes from the Wetherspoons in Brockley; the conversation about food began and ended with the reflection that it was all ‘very cheap’. I was also painfully aware that I had accidentally signed up for what was going to be the most expensive meal I had ever had in my life.
I had found the restaurant easily: a direct train to Cannon Street, and then a walk up Leadenhall Street. Caravaggio’s, a Sicilian restaurant, was located in the heart of the City. As I walked, I was aware of the richness of the architecture of the district: I soon found Lloyds of London, and remembered my trip to the ‘Holiday Meetup’, and walked past the Leadenhall building.
This part of the city seemed to be less like London, and more like Manhattan; it was bold, flashy, and made up of steel and acres of glass. To kill time, I had wandered around Swiss Re Tower, which was colloquially named The Gherkin. This was the famous London skyline viewed from a whole different perspective. Rather than looking at it from a distance, I craned my head skywards, and took some photographs. I looked around to the surrounding streets, and realised that they had become eerily quiet. Even the busy city pubs seemed to be relatively empty. Everyone, it seemed, had decided to go home, apart from a single soul glanced through an office window; someone who was invisibly tethered to a computer.
A third glass of wine arrived, along with the restaurant’s sommelier, Laura, who introduced us to Eurizone Bianco 1614 Carricante. Laura explained that the wine takes its name from an Eruption of Mount Etna in 1614, which lasted for ten years. Made from a combination of Carricante and Riesling, we were told, ominously, that we should expect an ‘explosion’. Sarah reached for the glass and started to take long, noisy extravagant sniffs.
Our starter was octopus. I hate octopus. I had once tried it before in a Portuguese restaurant in Vauxhall, and my overriding memory was one of confusion; I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to eat anything that resembled fishy chewing gum. Our starter comprised of finely sliced octopus, some prawns, pea shoots and pieces of mango. I tried the octopus, which, this time, reminded me a bit of sliced chicken. I then tried the wine, which had been especially chosen to match with the starter. Although there wasn’t any pyrotechnics, even my kebab attuned and chili dampened palate detected what could be described as a ‘long, surprisingly sharp, yet gentle’ finish, a sensation that was at odds with what was suggested by the bouquet.
I soon realised I was sat at a great table. Although there were about sixty people at the event, our organiser, Christos, had booked only three tables. As we ate, we talked about beards, the state of the railway network, challenges of living with housemates, and Croydon. By the end of the octopus course and my third glass of wine, I had calmed down and started to enjoy the event.
The second course was a risotto with purple aubergine and salted ricotta. The third course, a roasted filet of suckling pig served with a cheeky red. Our sommelier gave us tasting notes which mentioned an aroma of black cherry, strawberry, chestnut honey and prickly pear.
As we ate, we shared stories about our jobs; the challenge of being an employee in the rail industry, the trials and tribulations of being an accountant, and what it was like to work in the insurance industry. There was only one person on our table who was quiet: a young woman who worked at a care home for the elderly.
The final course was a ricotta cake with almond and lemon. It was served with a sweet dessert wine that had ‘explosive aromas of exotic fruits, jasmine and candied citrus fruits; complex but easy to enjoy’. It was with this dessert, and the wine, that I could finally see (or, more specifically, taste) why you might want to go to these type of events.
My own philosophy of food had always been one of simplicity: I eat to live, rather than live to eat. It wasn’t just the food that offered me a suggestion about the hidden delights of gastronomy; it was the sommelier, the fancy table, and the easy conversation. Fine dining was a world away from my own day to day living of simple food, quickly eaten in front of the telly, before returning to an all-encompassing environment of email messages, problems and queries. I could see how food could be, and was, escapism.
By ten o’clock, everyone on our table had decided to head off home; it was work the following morning. I joined Christos’s table. I asked him about his group.
Christos’s group currently had around fifteen hundred members, and it had been running for seven years. He wasn’t the founder. Instead, he took it over when the original group leader had decided to do something different. He started to become interested in wine whilst he was working ‘just over the road’ in Lloyds of London, taking a wine course, which led to a wine certificate, which he told me was a formal industry qualification. His main job is running wine tours, and running wine events. He had taken members of the group to France, and as far afield as South Africa. Knowing the origins of the wine, he argued, adds something to your experience when you drink it.
It was late when I left the restaurant, drunk. I decided to walk the first part of my journey home; past Monument station and then cross London Bridge. The air had changed; it had become blustery, and had acquired a chill. Halfway across London Bridge, I looked across the Thames and saw Tower Bridge covered in distant, sparkling lights. I took a photograph, another memento of my night out. It was one of those moments, when you feel that you had a place in the world; the feeling that you’re in the right place at the right time. I suddenly realised what the feeling was. I was feeling happy.
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