Tommy Ogden

Last Sunday, I was enjoying a lovely holiday in Normandy with a few dear friends and at about this time in the early evening would just have been squeaking out the cork from another French red. I love red wine. As warm, rich and deep as I am not — it always makes me happy. Sometimes too happy, of course, but if you told me I could only drink tea and the vin rouge for the rest of my days I’d say ‘fine, put the kettle on and bring me a glass.’ Well, one of those depending on the hour, of course. So far, so boring — humans have been enjoying fermented grapes since we dropped out of the trees ourselves. The corkscrew was, as you know, invented right after the wheel.

Photo of our Normandy wine haul taken by Kevin.

The problem is, I have no taste in wine. None at all. I know the basics, like the regions and the famous grapes, and I understand about the smelling and swishing and tipping the glass, but in terms of flavour I have no idea. I read the labels, telling me I can find chocolate, strawberries, coffee, oak, cherries or tobacco (everything but grapes, it would seem) but all I taste is wine. And that’s fine of course, because wine is delicious, but I just feel like I’m missing out on all those flavours. And it means I miss out on the conversation, which is half the fun of anything. If I joined in, I know I’d immediately out myself as an impostor by claiming to detect ‘gooseberries’ instead of ‘whiskey’ or something.

Making an awkward analogy with music,  I’m the person who can only say ‘I like a bit of everything really.’ Which is awful, really awful. Nobody wants to be that guy. Again, it’s fine to like music without really being able to discern what elements of it are ticking one’s boxes, because music, too, is delicious and noone is obliged to read Pitchfork before enjoying a tune. However, I get so much more joy in being able to read and think about the music I’m listening to, to pull out the textures, timbres and timings, and talk and argue about the use and importance of these qualities with my friends; and I know I’m missing out on this stuff with wine. I’m tone deaf in the taste buds. It’s a sad state.

Anyway, this ignorance of mine must stand out most when I’m stood in the aisle of a stocked hypermarket looking blankly at the ranks of green glass, as I was on Monday morning before returning through the tunnel to London. ‘This is France,’ I’m thinking, ‘so they’ll all be good even if they are relatively cheap (or at least, good enough that I won’t be able to tell the difference) so how do I choose?’ And I’m cajoled by a bottle with a picture of a sweet old church and a sticker suggesting it won a bronze award from no place I’ve heard of. Because, you know, awards are good. And when I got home and supped it I found it perfectly delicious, but I’m still troubled because I don’t know how.

It’s not just wine either. Fast forward to Friday evening, and I was back in Manchester, at St. Clements church for the annual Chorlton-cum-Hardy beer festival. A cheery, portly and maybe even a little tipsy chap stood before me guarding stacks of promising-looking barrels, ready to fill my glass with the ale of my choosing. But what to ask for? I look down at the handy leaflet I picked up from the table and glance across a few flowery descriptions. ‘Liquorice? Lemon? Chocolate? What do I want beer to taste like?’ It was that feeling of the wine aisle again. I was an impostor, and I was sure everyone could see that.

Photo from the Chorlton Beer Festival website.

Again, I went with entirely superficial selection criteria. First I chose a beer called Brahms & Lizst from the Ulverston Brewery because I liked the name and because I like that bit of the country. Also, it was near the entrance, the church hall was crowded with beer connoisseurs and I was a bit nervous of getting in people’s way.

Once I felt ready enough to head back in, I went in search of Marble 57 as I actually know that brewery (it’s quite a famous little one on Rochdale Road) and because Merlyn had recommended it to me. Also, at 5.7% it was potent enough (I know real ale festivals are about savouring, not getting scalloped, but I still like my money’s worth in alcohol by volume, thanks). I got in another half. It was scrumptious. You know, all beery.

Finally, I ventured a bit further into the church hall to look for Wobbly Bob from the Phoenix Brewery. I went past the big old Phoenix sign in Heywood so many times living in Rochdale that I thought it only right I give them a try. Also nice and beery.

Out in the warm evening air, I was enjoying the merry atmosphere around the church grounds. A covers band strummed acoustic guitars by the cider tent, and as they bashed out the hits of the Stones and Kaiser Chiefs and so on, I realised that a younger, more cynical version of me would’ve huffed at a group like that, but here I was enjoying it. Was I getting old and dull? Well, yes. But I’m still sure this was a good thing. I mean, half of Chorlton out on a sweet summer night, together at the church and shouting along to Starman by Bowie. What else would work? Indie pop jangle? Post rock drone? Nah, this was perfect. Or perhaps that was just the Wobbly Bob kicking in. Taste is a strange thing.