I am worried. I am worried because my calamitous house move is just the opposite.
It is going TOO smoothly.
Nobody is trying to ruin my life.
This afternoon we go to visit the house to measure up and what d’ya know…we have only gone and bought a house with an AGA. It’s probably worth more than the house. Maybe I need another mortgage? The good news is there is lots of space in the loft for my 2,000 vinyl records that I have informed my wife on our very first date, I can never be parted with. I think they will be at home up there, kind of looking down on the master in the bedroom below. Lily and Daisy seem to like the prospective abode, though they demand to paint the entire house pink, including the outside and possibly the grass. As we leave, the 135-year old next-door-neighbour stands stoically at the door, perhaps a little miffed that his neighbours of 40-years are leaving to replaced by a family with the collective IQ of three. Two if you include me.
In the evening, a Trimbach dinner at Sketch restaurant in London where I am seated next to Jean Trimbach. It is undoubtedly the most pretentious restaurant in the world and Jean’s introduction does not really go with Rhianna on the PA in the background (eventually it is turned down.) The toilets are still those bloody disorientating white egg-shaped cubicles that are impossible to open and when you do get your love sausage out, you hear a round of applause which really puts you off peeing (I am not making this up.) What happens if you take a shit? Does the maitre-d’ break the door down and give you a certificate?
Still the wines, a vertical of Frederic Emile from 1989 to 2002 is very fine. Whether Jean Trimbach ever made it back from the loo is still unknown? But if you do hear banging on the toilet doors and a man with an Alsatian accent crying for help, you know that it is Mon. Trimbach.
Filed under: alsace, house move, london tastings Tagged: | frederic emile, jean trimbach, sketch, trimbach
