It was an easy target. A recent Twitter flurry over the by-the-glass wine list at Gordon Ramsay’s Michelin-starred London restaurant Pétrus focused on the punchy prices. And it’s true: charging £14 for a 125ml glass of the cheapest white, a Colli Tortonesi Timorasso 2018, when a whole bottle costs just over £20 retail (a 400% mark-up) is certainly greedy. Never mind the 125ml glass of Pétrus 2003 at £1,150, roughly a 350% mark-up. But what struck me more was how boring the wines were.
I’m not going to kick the cheapest red out of bed (a decent 2019 Dolcetto d’Alba.) I won’t refuse a glass of Château Belgrave 2010 (£28) if you’re paying. But it’s mostly a predictable series of Burgundies and clarets. That’s what I’d expect from a restaurant with a Bible-like list of classics such as Pétrus. Here’s the odd thing: although Pétrus’s USP is its snobby exclusivity, the conservatism of its wine list shows an English timidity that puts it firmly in the cultural company of Café Rouge or Côte.
In truth, British wine lists have improved a bit. Few would have imagined, 20 years ago, that Picpoul de Pinet or Albariño would today be bistro chain staples, even if usually not very good examples. Yet far too many restaurants still offer up a selection of the bland and unchallenging: a “gutsy” Malbec, a “smooth” Merlot, a “fresh” Chardonnay – never mind bland Sauvignon Blanc and offensively inoffensive Pinot Grigio. Personally I’d rather just drink beer. Whose fault is this tedium?
“Lots of people are really not curious about wine,” one senior executive at a big importer tells me. “So various safe names become the fall back options – New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, Rioja, Chablis, the dreaded Prosecco and Pinot Grigio. I know whenever I suggest things like Fiano or Aglianico, a salesperson will say, ‘Something has to make way for it.’ ”
Part of it may be English people’s worry about mispronouncing a foreign name and looking stupid. It’s not a worry that seems to trouble many Americans, for example, though maybe when you run the world rather than being a clapped-out, post-imperial power, you can afford not to give a toss. But our cultural cringe before the mythical figure of the snooty French wine waiter still casts a shadow.
Such lists are maddening to those of us who can tell within 30 seconds whether the pages are blah-importer-composed or chosen with an enthusiast’s passion and curiosity. And for me, it’s a reflection on the restaurant too: if the management don’t care about what you’re drinking with your meal, what other corners are they cutting?
Diners are willing to experiment with menus: wine lists should be no different. At least in London, most people don’t worry about mispronouncing burrata or za’atar: not because there’s no snooty Italian or Palestinian waiter curling their lip, but because they’ve tried them and liked them. If we never tried anything new, we’d all be…
