THE GOOD LIFE Pamela VANDYKE PRICE
People, journalists should often be reminded, not merely read what is written, Sometimes they follow the advice in print. Therefore the one sort of standard one can keep, albeit heartbroken, undergoing an internal con- vulsion, threatened by bailiffs and poten- tially savaged by the sub-editor, is to differentiate between things of which one says 'This is good (or bad)', and 'I like this (or I don't).'
Now 1 am not one to be paltry with my dislikes. I think big. At a random pounce I list the poems of Keats (which make me feel I'm talking to someone whose breath smells of soiled nylon underwear), the novels of the Brontes, those lemming-like Riders to the Sea and that unchic Lady from it, the insanitary Wild Duck, the works of Coleridge, the first act of Die Meistersinger, the moment in the Ninth Symphony when voices start yelling, Milan Cathedral, the paintings of Cezanne, King Lear, the novels of Dickens, those fearful Three Sisters (couldn't someone lend them the fare to Moscow?), Schubert's ghastly Winter Jour- ney and bovine Maid of the Mill, and every single play, opera or circumstance in which a woman dresses up as a man as entertain- ment. If exposed to any of these 1 become pettish and ultimately savage.
But I, too, read. And when a writer who has given me great pleasure with his thrillers —William Haggard—writes about one of my favourite places—Cyprus—I read with avidity. But I should have been apprised of gastronomic confusion by the fact of his hero at one point taking the heroine to dinner and ordering medium steaks, at which the soppy thing says she's glad he doesn't feel he has to order them rare to prove something about his virility. Anyone rude enough to ignore asking me how I liked my steak would be asked for boeuf tartare, I should make some sharp comment on the horrors of beige meat while I took the wine list from his hand and ordered something I knew he wouldn't appreciate, and his virility could just die a natural death.
Apropos Cyprus, this travel article refers to 'some potable, even good white wines (the reds are quite frankly terrible).' Why didn't Mr Haggard say that he just didn't like them? (Just as I don't like medium done meat of any ilk.) For it so happens that Cyprus is the third most important source of supply of wine to Britain.
What we drink from Cyprus at present is, mostly, the fortified wines, some of which may certainly be simply moderate in quality as they are in price. But as the girl who star- ted drinking on perw and followed it up with parsnip wine at college during the war, am I to sniff at this? As for the better Cyprus sherries, I would certainly, prefer a true for lino from that island than a bad con- coction from the south of Spain (and I don't think Alejandro Cassinello, whose Fino Tres Palmas of La Riva is the wine on which I would encourage everyone to grow their sherry taste buds will rebuke me for saying so).
Good Cyprus sherry isn't just cheap, as some rather indignantly tell me: Keo's Flor Fino is about £1.10 (from the Keo Centre, 50 Frith Street. wl, and other Cyprus provision stores), and their Pale Dry £0.73 (Peter Dominic), Mosaic Dry £0.74 (Gough Brothers), Cyprus Dry £0.74 (Old Chelsea Wine Stores), Kyp Pale Dry £0.65 (Young and Saunders, Edinburgh), Emva Medium Dry £0.67 (Hedges and Butler). All these, remember, enjoy what is still amusingly called 'Imperial preference' or an indulgent rate of duty, so that price doesn't directly reflect the quality.
But the table wines are only at the begin- ning of their benevolent invasion of Britain. The best of the whites, slightly petillant and called Bellapais, is still in such demand in CYprus that it isn't exported. Otherwise, try those with the brand `Kolossi' or 'Lady' or White Arsinoe or Aphrodite which you will find in most Cyprus restaurants and Greek and Cyprus provision stores. These whites are not subtle, they have southern toughness and are best enjoyed with Mediterranean food. The roses, more robust than most, are pleasant—but I admit rose is to me an indeterminate choice.
The reds, .however,• are really worth sampling, because, as even their makers admit, they actually taste better in our damp, chilly climate than in their heavenly birthplace; full-bodied and soft without lacking guts, they please with highly- seasoned salady dishes, stews, gratins, rechauffees and, of course, anything even vaguely related to moussake, from cottage pie to corned beef hash. Othello (another Keo), Afames, and Dark Lady are names to ask for, and all cost around f0.70 a bottle. I like them. So do quite a lot of distinguished drinkers, including several masters of wine, one of the most influential cookery writers, an important instructor in wine, the manager of a most austerely classical wine merchant, the greatest of gastronomic writers, the reputed finest palate of a generation, the whizz kid of the most progressive of wine marketing concerns, the character whose memoranda cause questions to be asked, the most impartial of teachers of wine . . . Actually I could go on. We don't say they are greater than Lafite 1945. We think they're good. And we drink them with enjoyment.
All right, Mr Haggard-1 could drop names of great wines I don't like. I can admire them. But I don't put others off them. Please write more thrillers—and we'll go on drinking more and more Cyprus.
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