Nina Lloyd writes A hospitality girl at heart, I fell in love with wine from behind the bar. It took time to get my formal wine training, but for years I have been fascinated by the world of wine – especially the slightly cowboy approach to winemaking in my home, Australia. When I first moved to London I worked at an Italian restaurant with a fantastic wine list, where I learnt Barolo from Barbaresco. I finally found myself in a digital marketing role with a London-based wine distributor. With this job I have undertaken my WSET up to level three, met passionate winemakers from across the world, and discovered just how vast the wine world is. Pretty sweet gig!
Cheval Blanc & Dr. Pepper
It began with an Instagram story. Mindlessly tapping through, my thumb paused on a message seeking “any somm or wine person” who could work that Saturday night at a private event. Despite my full-time employment, part-time participation in the gig economy does make life in London more financially bearable. The only issue with this particular gig was that my claim to be a “somm or wine person” was tenuous. Only a few months into my first wine trade job and not a single WSET certification to my name, this claim relied mostly on enthusiasm.
However, emboldened by my fifth (or seventh?) glass of the evening I decided that there was no reason why I shouldn’t be the person for the job. Years of hospitality work had at least taught me that if you feign knowledge with enough conviction, guests will believe anything. Either way, there must not have been many wine people on Instagram that night. Or, more likely, the real ones had their real jobs to go to on a Saturday. I would have to do.
I received a call from the party planner the following morning to run me through the evening ahead. As my hangover set in, I can’t say I really understood how a “small formal dinner for 50 people, followed by a Halloween rave for 200-odd people,” would work. All I needed to know was that they needed me, with my infinite vinous wisdom, because the wines were fancy and expensive. The evening’s host was a self-made Girl Boss, who, while knowing nothing about wine, had hired someone who did to fill her personal cellar with £100,000 of it. An inspiration. Having gone to such an expense, you might as well pay someone who knows their stuff to serve it.
Whilst on the phone, the planner sent me the list of wines for the evening.
“The red is the really special one,” she rattled on, “like crazy expensive Bordeaux. So that’s why we need you there Nina. How long do you think that one will need to decant?”
Scanning through, it was hard to digest much other than the eye-watering prices listed adjacent. I did my best to pull together my Bordeaux basics to keep my job for the evening. 1998, means old. 1er Grand Cru Classé, means the really good stuff. Château Cheval Blanc? No idea.
“Ah, yeh I think an hour should be fine for that one.”
“Ok great hun, see you at four pm then.”
The rest of my morning was spent scribbling notes on the evening’s wines. I had been told not to expect a particularly wine-curious crowd, but some people might ask questions. To not leave anything to chance, I made notes on everything from the vineyard’s clay soil mixed with coarsely textured gravel, to the explosive notes of Chinese five spice on the palate.
Upon arrival, whatever expectations I had for an intimate dinner of 50 people at a St John’s Wood mansion, were quickly adjusted. Greeted by a large and frantic team marching in and out the 12-foot-tall door, muttering into walky-talkies to execute the elaborate skull, snake, and autumnal foliage decorations, I made my way to the newly minted cellar to find the elusive wines. Now I simply had to open and decant six bottles. An easy enough task, I thought, as I zealously speared my waiter’s friend into the 25-year-old cork, only to pull out its crumbling remains. This is why you pay professionals. It took three types of cork screws, seemingly two hours, and one tea strainer to decant the wines. This left just enough time to let it breathe, while I prepared for whatever questions might come my way.
As the guests arrived, it became painfully clear that the most useful question to prepare for would have been how to best pair wine with ketamine. The sexy Buzz Lightyear, Princess Jasmine with her monkey, and other nondescript half-dressed Halloween partygoers almost didn’t make it to their seats. When they did, the Chateaubriand served with truffle didn’t seem to take their fancy. It turns out the English affinity for claret only goes so far, as they barely made a dent in the six decanted carafes.
So what do you do with five opened bottles of Cheval Blanc? My study was not wasted; at least one bottle was shared amongst the team working that night, who indulged me enough to let me wax lyrical and pretend that I’d known of this wine for more than twelve hours. But there was work to be done, we couldn’t drink it all. The good thing about rich people is they don’t drink tap water. Bottle only, VOSS® preferred. And those posh Norwegian bottles can also carry 750 millilitres of wine. It was that or the drain.
Far from the vineyards of Saint-Émilion the wine found its final resting place: a Brixton share house where it was paired with Dr. Pepper pork ribs, made for me by the person I loved. There’s a good chance that by the time it reached our glasses, some of those notes I’d read about had faded. I don’t think we cared. In my memory, the soft and luscious tannins held up against the gloriously fatty ribs, the brooding spices complimented those in the sauce, and the sticky fingerprints on my glass marked a meal well-loved. I remember the thrill that we may be the only people to have ever tried this precise pairing, more than I do the long lingering finish of the wine. The debate over how much we’d actually be willing to pay to try it again, more than any aromas of cigar box or dried roses. It was a spectacular wine, no question. But in the end, that was irrelevant to the wine moment I’ll never forget.
The photo is the author's own. Caption: 'A before and after of the famed wine. From behind the scenes at the St John’s Wood party, to its final dinner, by way of VOSS bottle.'
