posted August 17, 2010 04:05 PM            

FRANCES D'EMILIO | 08/16/10 03:25 PM | AP
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Read More: Eat Pray Love, Eat Pray Love Gelato, Eat Pray Love Julia Roberts, Eat Pray Love Movie, Elizabeth Gilbert Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert Gelato, Julia Roberts Gelato, Rome Gelato, San Crispino, San Crispino Gelato, San Crispino Rome, Food News

ROME — Named for a saint and naturally tasting heavenly, San Crispino gelato already was a pass-the-word must for devotees of the Italian treat.

Then a Roman bus driver gave Elizabeth Gilbert the buzz – "The Best Gelato In Rome" – and San Crispino became enshrined in her how-I-found-the-real-me journey-memoir, "Eat Pray Love." Fans have been making pilgrimages for melt-in-your-mouth inspiration ever since.

In the book that's now become a movie Gilbert recounts her rapturous encounter, not once, but three times in one day, with the gelato. In a single, mouthwatering paragraph, she waxes enthusiastic about the flavors. First she had the honey and hazelnut combo, then she returned for a pairing of grapefruit and melon, and yet again for an exotic nightcap of cinnamon-ginger.

While playing just a bit part in the movie, gelato is getting a big boost from the film's ads, with Julia Roberts, who plays Gilbert, with a puckish look on her face and a cup of (presumably) San Crispino ice cream in her hand as she sits on a stone bench in Piazza Navona.

Gelato worshippers intent on finding this Roman temple of gelato, however, don't get much help from Gilbert. She doesn't say just where she had her San Crispino gelato.

Did love-at-first-lick come on Via della Panettieria, a narrow street near Trevi Fountain?

Or at the San Crispino franchise – horrors! yes, the "best" gelato in Rome is franchised – on Piazza della Maddalena, a tiny square behind the Pantheon?

Or perhaps at the gelateria where the two brothers who founded San Crispino opened their first location, in 1992, on Via Acaia in the working class San Giovanni neighborhood?

Wherever Gilbert had her gelato epiphany, "we are happy we were cited in the book and especially that she liked our gelato," Pasquale Alongi, one of the brothers, modestly said as lemons were squeezed for San Crispino's "limone" gelato in the "laboratory" on Via Acaia.

Giuseppe Alongi said he and his brother set out to make gelato with "equilibrium" and create flavors that are not too sweet and with only natural ingredients.

Pasquale, a former law student, and Giuseppe, a former medical student, were inspired by the fresh-tasting pastry made by their mother from the South Tyrol region near Austria. Their father is from Sicily, also known for the freshest of ingredients, such as the pistachios from Bronte, a town on the slopes of the Etna volcano. They are the only pistachios the brothers consider good enough to use in San Crispino gelato.

"When we make lemon flavor, we use only good Amalfi lemons," said Pasquale. "If we don't find them, we do not make the lemon flavor."

That would be a shame. San Crispino's lemon gelato coats the tongue with silkiness bordering on sensual, yet presents enough pizazz to almost cause a pucker.

And there are no cones at San Crispino because, as Giuseppe explained it, cones are "contaminated" by greasing agents used in baking pans and thus shouldn't come in contact with gelato.

"We lose 30 percent of our customers when we tell them we have no cones," he said in his store near the Trevi Fountain.

"The owners have a purist approach, everything natural, no intense colors, no flavorings," said Francesco Amore, the San Crispino franchisee near the Pantheon who said he became a "disciple" of the gelato when a friend introduced him to it.

"You have to have a very refined palate to appreciate it," said Amore, recalling how the Alongis fermented basil leaves for six months and made all of two tubs of basil gelato last fall. The basil flavor was quickly scooped up, and then it was finito.

For Italians, gelato is more than a sweet treat. "It's a moment for us to get together," Amore said, venturing that Romans are loyal to their gelato shops in the same way they grow up with lifetime loyalties to one or the other of their local soccer teams.

And that love has been a lasting one. Some 2,000 years ago historian Pliny the Elder cited a recipe using snow, honey and fruit nectar. Around the same era, Emperor Nero, notorious for partying in his fabled Golden Palace in Rome, was said to have devoured copious portions of frozen fruit drenched in honey.

An almost reverent air pervades a San Crispino gelateria. Unlike other shops in Rome, which display a riot of colors and textures of gelati brimming in display tubs to set customers salivating, San Crispino keeps the flavors of the day in 22 "pozzetti," or metal tubs covered with shiny lids.

Workers behind the counter lift the lids with a delicate motion, as if they are about to open a container of precious jewels, then offer tiny spoonfuls for the undecided to taste.

Pairings of flavors are chalked in on a blackboard entitled the "San Crispino Experience'" to guide customers, said Amore, who added he gently suggests what he hopes will prove to be a happy marriage of flavors.

On this boiling August day the combos include hazelnut meringue, white fig and cream; pink grapefruit and chocolate and rum, as well as the classic pairing that so impressed Gilbert – San Crispino honey with ginger-cinnamon.

Contrary to what Gilbert writes, San Crispino does not mean the "crispy saint." The Alongis chose the name because the saint is the patron of shoemakers and is pictured with tools in his hand, an image the brothers thought captured the handmade care behind their product.

"We wanted to find the best ice cream in Rome, but it actually said it is not only the best ice cream in Rome, it is the best ice cream in Italy, and we think it is," said Steve Donague from Manchester, England. He was ecstatic that there was "lots of rum" in trio of Armagnac, rum and chocolate combo.

Of course, Rome is a city all but bursting with gelato. And while the no-cone formula evidently worked for Gilbert, those who like to share their licks are hardly left in the cold.

Dutch tourist Peter Der Graaf polished off a cone of strawberry, pear and limoncello, made from the dessert liquor, at his favorite gelato haunt in Rome, Giolitti's, a family-run place that has been making gelato for some 100 years and is arguably the Italian capital's best-known gelateria.

"I like the taste, the coldness, the texture," said Der Graaf, as his 9-year-old son, Jelle, took a few licks from his dad's cone outside the shop, near the Italian Parliament.

Nazzareno Giolitti, whose namesake grandfather first started dishing out gelato in the early 1900s, ventured that eating gelato is "a form of socialization. It's being together with a family."___

Associated Press reporter Leonardo Moauro contributed to this report.

___

posted August 27, 2010 12:17 PM            

Despite a strong showing by the U.S., the winner of Bushmills competition to be the whiskey maker’s apprentice (aka the Whiskey Olympics) was … Bulgaria!

Irish whiskey maker Bushmills held a competition for a month-long apprenticeship to master distiller Colum Egan. Competitors sent in videos and essays from all over the world and nine finalists were selected.

The finalists, which included the head sommelier from a three-star Michelin restaurant in southwest France and a former Wall Streeter from the U.S., were at Bushmills the past two days to compete for the title.

The events in this Olympics of the whiskey world included: archery (no joke), barrel making (seriously, no joke) and wall climbing (you can’t make this stuff up).

Of course, there were also whiskey events, which included sorting bottles of Bushmills by age and identifying different Bushmills whiskeys by taste.

The winner was Ivan Ivanov, 28-year-old bartender and lifeguard from Bulgaria, who shot, climbed and swigged his way to the title.

“It’s unbelievable!” Ivanov said. “Amazing. It’s like a dream come true!”

So, how did he do it? Is he a skilled archer? Did he spend a lot of time exercising his whiskey-drinking muscles?

Actually, he said he didn’t do any training at all.

“I’m a Bushmillers lover,” he said. “I’ve tasted most of them. So I relied on my senses!”

On his senses — and his marketing degree.

He was at a disadvantage during the online campaign to be selected as a finalist, as there was no Internet on the beach where he was working as a lifeguard.

But, he said, he tried hard to remember his lectures from school.

His secret weapon?

"I actually went for the oldest marketing strategy in the book — mouth to mouth!” he said.

(Oh, I'll bet you say that to all the girls!)

Along with the month-long apprenticeship, a month’s stay in a luxury penthouse and £5,000 ($7,700) spending money, Ivanov will also have the opportunity to make his own whiskey. It has to have a base of Bushmills but he’ll be able to put his own stamp on it.

So what will Ivanov’s signature whiskey be?

“It will be a little taste of Bulgaria!” Ivanov said. “I’m sure anybody’s going to like it.”

posted August 30, 2010 03:56 PM            

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By JOHN CLOUD John Cloud – Mon Aug 30, 6:55 am ET

One of the most contentious issues in the vast literature about alcohol consumption has been the consistent finding that those who don't drink actually tend to die sooner than those who do. The standard Alcoholics Anonymous explanation for this finding is that many of those who show up as abstainers in such research are actually former hard-core drunks who had already incurred health problems associated with drinking.

But a new paper in the journal Alcoholism: Clinical and Experimental Research suggests that - for reasons that aren't entirely clear - abstaining from alcohol does actually tend to increase one's risk of dying even when you exclude former drinkers. The most shocking part? Abstainers' mortality rates are higher than those of heavy drinkers. (See pictures of booze under a microscope.)

Moderate drinking, which is defined as one to three drinks per day, is associated with the lowest mortality rates in alcohol studies. Moderate alcohol use (especially when the beverage of choice is red wine) is thought to improve heart health, circulation and sociability, which can be important because people who are isolated don't have as many family members and friends who can notice and help treat health problems.

But why would abstaining from alcohol lead to a shorter life? It's true that those who abstain from alcohol tend to be from lower socioeconomic classes, since drinking can be expensive. And people of lower socioeconomic status have more life stressors - job and child-care worries that might not only keep them from the bottle but also cause stress-related illnesses over long periods. (They also don't get the stress-reducing benefits of a drink or two after work.)

But even after controlling for nearly all imaginable variables - socioeconomic status, level of physical activity, number of close friends, quality of social support and so on - the researchers (a six-member team led by psychologist Charles Holahan of the University of Texas at Austin) found that over a 20-year period, mortality rates were highest for those who had never been drinkers, second-highest for heavy drinkers and lowest for moderate drinkers. (Watch TIME's Video "Taste Test: Beer With Extra Buzz.")

The sample of those who were studied included individuals between ages 55 and 65 who had had any kind of outpatient care in the previous three years. The 1,824 participants were followed for 20 years. One drawback of the sample: a disproportionate number, 63%, were men. Just over 69% of the never-drinkers died during the 20 years, 60% of the heavy drinkers died and only 41% of moderate drinkers died.

These are remarkable statistics. Even though heavy drinking is associated with higher risk for cirrhosis and several types of cancer (particularly cancers in the mouth and esophagus), heavy drinkers are less likely to die than people who have never drunk. One important reason is that alcohol lubricates so many social interactions, and social interactions are vital for maintaining mental and physical health. As I pointed out last year, nondrinkers show greater signs of depression than those who allow themselves to join the party.

The authors of the new paper are careful to note that even if drinking is associated with longer life, it can be dangerous: it can impair your memory severely and it can lead to nonlethal falls and other mishaps (like, say, cheating on your spouse in a drunken haze) that can screw up your life. There's also the dependency issue: if you become addicted to alcohol, you may spend a long time trying to get off the bottle. (Comment on this story.)

posted December 28, 2010 06:25 PM            

By Piers Morgan

The traditional British pub means everything to Piers Morgan - it's a home, a sanctuary and a place of endless fun. Now he reveals how he has fulfilled his lifelong dream and become a landlord himself...

'I have two ambitions in life,' said the late, great Oliver Reed.

'One is to drink every pub dry, the other is to sleep with every woman on Earth.'

Mr Reed sadly died without achieving either of his goals, though I bow to nobody in my admiration of the gloriously determined efforts he made to do so.
Mine host: Piers Morgan and his wife Celia in his pub, The Hanson Cab

Mine host: Piers Morgan and his wife Celia in his pub, The Hanson Cab

But it was the legendary hell-raiser's devotion to the British pub that appealed to me more than his latent lust for the global female form.

I'll confess now that I'm a pub addict. Always have been and always will be. So much so that I recently bought one, becoming the proud co-owner of the historic Hansom Cab on Earl's Court Road, Kensington, West London.

The purchase completed a lifetime's love affair with the institution that began during the Roman occupation of our country with small inns under the name of 'tabernae'.

And I mean lifetime. From when I was five to 13, my parents ran an uproarious country pub in the sleepy village of Fletching in East Sussex, called The Griffin Inn. It was the era when drink-driving was rife, lock-ins were the norm and barely a night went by without people fighting, illicitly fornicating, getting arrested or simply falling over - drunk as the proverbial skunk.

For a young lad, with his two brothers and sister, it all seemed utterly thrilling and, quite literally, intoxicating.

One of my mother's most shameful ever moments came when the local primary school headmistress made a formal complaint that my mother's treasured eldest son had arrived for lessons 'smelling of alcohol'.

I had. But only because I'd spent half an hour doing the fun job of 'bottling up', which involved replentifying all the empty shelves with new bottles of beer, wine, spirits and mixers.

A couple of trips down into our dark, dank cellar and I'd emerge with the aroma of Oliver Reed after a three-day bender. And yes, I did used to sneak the odd gulp of flat bitter or a decaying Pinot Grigio.

We moved to a nearby village called Newick as I began my teenage years and at the tender but eager age of 15, I experienced my first alcoholic beverage - a pint of Strongbow cider. Consumed with slow, deliberate glee in the corner of The Royal Oak, just off the village green.
Barrel boy: Piers Morgan grew up in a pub after his parents took over a sleepy village hostelry in East Sussex

Barrel boy: Piers Morgan grew up in a pub after his parents took over a sleepy village hostelry in East Sussex

It was strictly illegal, of course. But in those days, village pubs were full of youngsters my age. So long as you looked even vaguely 18, you were fine.

I loved that pub with a passion that even a scantily clad Eva Mendes being brought to my dressing room couldn't match.

Every Friday and Saturday, I'd pile in there with my mates and drink as much Strongbow as I could before my body gave way. Those evenings would follow a familiar pattern, and one that some of my critics today might recognise. I'd get louder and more obnoxious as the cider took its grip, until eventually someone would pour a pint over my head, temporarily blinding me in the process. I'd then wheel around, lashing out at suspected assailants until the leggy landlady Mary, object of all our adolescent dreams, would utter the immortal words: 'Piers, you're banned!' And throw me into the street.

From there, I'd stumble the mile-long walk home, occasionally lurching into a hedge.

The next morning, I'd be back at opening time to beg forgiveness from Mary - who would always capitulate, but often only when I'd agreed to do a few shifts behind the bar.

The Royal Oak became, along with cricket, the focal point of my life.

When I chart the funniest ten evenings of my life, at least three or four would involve the Oak. Including the night my Army colonel brother Jeremy beat his own record for drinking a pint of beer, without spilling a drop, while standing on his head. He did it in 4.8 seconds, considerably faster than most of us could do it standing upright.

Unfortunately, he then tried to repeat the exercise later that year in a restaurant called Joe's Brasserie on Wandsworth Bridge Road - using warm lager instead of bitter, and a weird-shaped glass. Halfway through the attempt, the bubbles flew up his nose, and he reared up like a speared gorilla and began to projectile-vomit over everyone.

Fortunately, the staff were on hand to drag him outside, including a barman called Guy Ritchie. Yes, that one. (I met him years later with Madonna, and asked him to 'get me a pint for old times' sake' - he laughed, she didn't.)

On another memorable occasion in the Oak, a local gipsy with very big arms decided the pub needed livening up and started punching everyone he could get his hands on. It was like a scene out of a John Wayne Western as he began smacking my friends over the bar one by one - as I gallantly led the women, and myself of course, to safety.

When the fifth victim was deposited over the bar, and left bloodied on the floor, the police arrived and took our assailant to their van. We later learned that he had beaten up six policemen en route to the station.

Apparently, he'd been in training for a big illegal prize fight, and we were perfect sparring partners.
Barrels of fun: Piers in the cellar of his new enterprise

Barrels of fun: Piers in the cellar of his new enterprise

The big night in the Oak was always the annual bonfire parade. In East Sussex, this is a massive deal, with every village converging on each other's event in tribal colours, clutching burning poles and letting off rook-scaring firecrackers at all and sundry.

I vividly remember sitting amid a huge group of men in blue and white hooped shirts from Lewes chanting their pagan ritual songs: 'Remember remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot...'

As they reached a crescendo, the pub would explode with bangers and Catherine wheels and everyone hurled their beer into the air. It was filthy, dangerous and fantastically entertaining.

The Oak became a sanctuary as I reached my late teens. A place to escape the rigours of college and work. Village pubs are habitual, safe places. Same old faces, in the same old chairs, drinking the same old beer.

I liked nothing better than sitting in the corner by a roaring log fire on a Saturday morning, sipping a pint of the local brew, Harveys, and doing a crossword.

It would always smell of the night before - a toxic bouquetmix of cigarettes, booze and human sweat. But it also smelled of home.

Even now, when I walk into the Oak - sometimes straight from Gatwick Airport after a ten-hour flight from LA - I breathe in the familiar fumes and sigh with relief.

The day after I was fired from the Daily Mirror, I knew exactly where I needed to be to get away from the jubilantly frenzied media stomping on my professional grave. I drove to Sussex, parked my car outside the Oak, and walked down to the front door.

As I entered, a large number of my oldest friends were waiting, and delivered a perfectly timed slow handclap of mocking applause. It was the perfect antidote to the nonsense up in London. I took a bow, the applause increased in volume, then one of them said: 'Right, you may be the most humiliated man in Britain, but it's still your round. Get the beers in, Morgan.'

Three hours later, I retraced my old stumbling walk home (by now I'd bought the other half of my parents' house in Newick) and soaked in the comforting scent of springtime flowers in the village. All the angst and tension of the preceding two weeks dissipated.

Pubs have that effect on you. It's why I always understood why men such as George Best took solace in them.

I met him once, in a pub in Fulham on New Year's Eve. He was sitting in a corner with a friend, sipping white wine and fending off a neverending stream of admirers buying him drinks and wanting pictures. Besty was charm personified.

After midnight, I went over to say hello. He shook my hand, and listened to me reciting the same old 'You're the greatest footballer I've ever seen' mantra he'd heard a million times before.

I suspected he wasn't really listening. But I had my moment with a true sporting legend and he had a moment of cheap gratification from a fan. The kind that I think Best needed, and liked, despite his protestations to the contrary.
One of the best: George Best found solace in the relaxed atmosphere of a pub - something that new landlord Piers Morgan can appreciate

One of the best: George Best found solace in the relaxed atmosphere of a pub - something that new landlord Piers Morgan can appreciate

I watched him from afar for another couple of hours and saw a man completely at ease in the pub environment. He was genuinely never happier than when propping up a bar with a drink, among other regulars, chewing the fat and whiling away the time.

As I hit my 20s, I hit London and discovered bars. They seemed to me like lesser mortals to pubs - harsher, lighter and less, well, dirty. You had to wear smarter clothes and jostle with the throng to get a drink.

The truth is I've never liked bars the way I like pubs. I bought a house near Wimbledon with three of my old village mates, and we soon located the best local pubs. One gloriously rough dive in the centre of town was so disgusting the grime from the never-cleaned carpets would corrode your shoes like a flesh-eating bug.

But it felt real and authentic. And we'd happily lounge at the bar all night telling stupid stories and laughing our heads off before seeking a kebab or curry as blotting paper for our alcoholraddled bodies.

One night, Alex 'Hurricane' Higgins came in and drank us under the table. No, he really did end up under a table, gurgling but with a smile on his face.

Last summer, the same village mates and I went to a Test match at Lord's - as we do every summer - and ended up afterwards in Gordon Ramsay's nearby pub.
Ale and hearty: Piers enjoys a pint outside his pub

Ale and hearty: Piers enjoys a pint outside his pub

After calling him on location in the Borneo jungle to get his staff to find us a cigar cutter (my bold move worked - they did), we then conducted an impromptu armwrestling competition outside. You couldn't do this kind of thing in an American bar, you'd get arrested.

But in a British pub, anything - short of frightening the horses and upsetting the children - goes. So there we sat, grunting and groaning into our pints as we tried to break each others' arms. Very silly, yet very amusing too.

A couple of years ago, my little brother Rupert (he's actually 6ft 4in, but will always be little to me) became manager of the starry Punchbowl pub in Mayfair, co-owned by the aforementioned Guy Ritchie.

It was a perfect country-style place - no jukebox, video games or tawdry decor. Just a good old-fashioned drinkers' pub with good food out the back if you wanted it. The twist being that loads of celebrities went there, from Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell to David Beckham and Sting.

Rupert's finest hour came when he answered the phone to me saying: 'Sorry bro, can't talk now, serving Clint Eastwood.'

My own favourite night there came after Freddie Flintoff had skittled the Aussies in the 2009 Ashes at Lord's. A few hours later he and his wife Rachael arrived at The Punchbowl in a taxi and he was wearing the biggest grin I've seen since Cherie Blair got lockjaw.

'Good day at the office, Mr Flintoff?' I enquired.

'Not bad, thank you, Mr Morgan,' he chortled. 'In fact, very satisfactory indeed!'

'Drink?' 'A pint of Guinness please.' He drank it like I imagine Guy the Gorilla used to drink his morning supply of milk at London Zoo, very fast and without seeming to touch the sides.

'Another?' 'Seems rude not to!' We spent the next few hours guzzling more beer, fine French claret, steak and chips and chocolate-chip pudding - followed by Amaretto chasers. Freddie was exactly as you'd imagine him to be - funny as Hell, the kind of guy you'd always want to find in a pub.

When my brother decided to move on from The Punchbowl a few months ago, I decided it was time to make a move into the pub ownership business myself - along with Rupert and another partner called Tarquin Gorst, who also co-owns The Punchbowl.

We looked at a number of places in West London before discovering that one of my local pubs, The Hansom Cab, was up for grabs.

It suited our purposes perfectly. Slightly run-down, but in a great area, with loads of potential. The roles of each partner is clearly defined: Rupert to manage it, Tarquin to do all the finances, and me to bring a bit of stardust to proceedings through my thirsty celebrity friends. (Incidentally, there must be pubs with a trio of owners with names posher than Piers, Tarquin and Rupert - I just haven't encountered one yet.)

It's been great fun getting stuck in to turning it round: painting walls, changing furniture, sticking up old photos and bringing in Ollie Couillard, a hot shot chef who used to cook at renowned restaurants Chez Bruce and La Trompette. It's important to offer seriously good pub food if you want to run a seriously good pub in London these days. I think we do that.

Two weeks ago, on the night that CNN threw a big party to launch my new American show, Piers Morgan Tonight, I took a load of guests down to The Hansom Cab afterwards. It was amusing seeing Dragons' Den stars Duncan Bannatyne and Peter Jones fighting to get served in my own pub against newsgirls Emily Maitlis and Sophie Raworth.

But not quite as amusing as watching Steve Jones, the disturbingly good-looking Welsh television heartthrob, stage-whispering to me: 'Where did you get those barmaids from? They're so fit!'

I looked to where he was pointing, and raised an eyebrow.

'Seriously, man, you don't see barmaids that hot in pubs normally...'

And on and on he drooled for quite some time, until eventually I felt compelled to clarify the situation as one of the objects of his fantastical lust re-emerged into view to pour him another pint of Harveys real ale.

'Steve,' I said, calmly.

'Yes Piers.'

'Meet Celia.'

'Hi Celia...'

Pause.

'She's my wife.'

There was a deliciously long silence as the full horror of his behaviour dawned. At which point Jones collapsed into a curled-up ball of shame, moaning: 'No, no, no, no.'

Yes, my friend. Celia's now considering an offer to pull the pumps once a week.
ANDREW FLINTOFF
Steve Jones

Welcome regulars: Cricketer Andrew Flintoff and TV presenter Steve Jones have enjoyed Piers Morgan's hospitality

Later that evening, Lord Lloyd-Webber turned up with his wife Madeleine, and sat in a corner devouring a fine bottle of Mersault. Meanwhile, my CNN presidents, all three of them (Worldwide, International and America), drank real ale and saluted the unique magic of an old-fashioned British pub.
Naomi Campbell

Top customer: Naomi Campbell is one of the many famous faces seen at The Hansom Cab

Thanks to the wonders of Twitter, word got out that a load of stars were in The Hansom Cab and locals began arriving in droves to join in the fun. I cranked up the music, got Celia to pour me another pint, and led the party.

Then came my most testing moment as a new pub owner - closing time. 'Lock-in?' asked one guest, desperately.

I looked at Rupert, who shook his head. 'No chance, bro, the police station's right next door.'

Near anarchy broke out as others realised that there would be no post-midnight drinking. But my horror at being the bad guy soon turned to joy at this new power I had.

'Get out, Bannatyne!' I ordered.

'And you, Jones!' They laughed, and went on their way. God, it felt good.

A few nights ago, I invited another load of friends down to The Hansom Cab for a party, including Freddie Flintoff (obviously), Amanda Holden, Katherine Jenkins and James Corden.

As we stood all night, laughing and joking over a few pints and bottles of wine, I realised that I'm simply never as happy as when I'm in a pub with friends and family.

There are 53,500 pubs in Britain, but the number is declining every year and nearly half the country's smaller villages no longer have a pub. This is a tragedy. Samuel Pepys described the pub as the heart of England, and he was so right. It's something we have that no other country does in the same way. The pub is a part of our fabric of society that should be protected at all costs.

Of course, things have moved on from Anglo-Saxon ale houses. There are now karaoke pubs, strip pubs, gothic pubs, biker pubs, rock pubs, Irish pubs and sports pubs. But the pub, in all its guises, remains an essential fixture of British life.

Not that I don't continue to experience humiliating moments in them. Strolling up to another local, The Crown, in my village of Newick last New Year's Eve, I was confronted by two security guards at the door.

'We're full up,' they said.

'But I've lived here 33 years,' I protested. 'Surely I can get a drink with my friends?'

One of the guards stared at me as if I'd just asked if I could run off with his daughter.

'What part of "full" don't you understand?' he sneered.

posted February 11, 2011 09:51 AM            

Recalling Jon Favreau's "Dinner for Five," "Vine Talk's" weekly half-hour chat-and-sip-a-thon features guests the likes of Julianne Moore, Kyle MacLaughlan, Nathan Lane, Daniel Boulud, Marcus Samuelsson, Joe Bastianich, Patricia Clarkson, and Penn Badgley. Tucci picks a different wine region each week, pours for the whole audience, and then, over drinks, they discuss.

Ray Isle, wine editor of Food & Wine magazine, and the show's resident expert, gives us our assignment: "Taste all six wines, and pick a favorite." (The audience, along with the panel, determines the best wine of the bunch each week.) And in case you think this is all sip and spit, Isle adds, "We haven't given you anything to spit into, so don't spit on your neighbor." In other words, swallow and enjoy the vino.

I swirled, sniffed, and slurped my way through the six featured wines, all Chiantis, while learning I can build muscles at the tips of my fingers from swirling wine glasses. Who knew? Featured sommelier Jordan Salcito (Daniel, Eleven Madison Park) explained that 2003 was a very hot year for wines, which led Tommy Tune to ask, "Is there a connection between wine and sexuality?" At which point we were half expecting a surprise visit from Tucci's recent co-stars Cher and Christina Aguilera, for a little Burlesque improv on the topic.
58Share

"I can't drink anymore wine for the rest of my life," Tucci blurted out at the end of the show." But Stanley, you must; it's weekly.

posted April 14, 2011 08:31 AM            

If you want to invest in wine, look no further than the Bordeaux vintage wines of 2010, which are being called unique by connaisseurs,Stacey Golding, investment director of Premier Cru Fine Wine Investments told CNBC.

"The vintages are already being compared to 1899-1900, so that gives you a fair idea of how rarely this comes around," Golding said.

"The big debate is the quality of the two vintages together side by side, and the answer that keeps coming back is they’re both excellent, but different. So they’re very different from each other," Golding said.

2010 was a special year, she added.

"For the 2010 (wine), the big weather pattern that made the difference was the dry summer. June right through to the end of August there was drought conditions in Bordeaux, but warm days mixed with cool nights, and then rain in September just as the harvest was coming round which really changed the entire vintage," said Golding.

Golding said the region of Bordeaux was "a bit like a Victorian wall garden," adding, "it has its own system and weather patterns, and the individual weather patterns are what creates the uniqueness of each vintage... If you find an Australian or Californian wine you like, that’s fabulous because you can buy it year in and year out and it will pretty much taste the same."

Other countries are not involved in the premier wine market due to the age of the vines, she said. "Under 25 years the vines are considered young," said Golding, "The French would call it terroir."

However, "there are very expensive wines that come from all regions, they’re just not as investable … Bordeaux has the most stable financial secondary trading market for any wine market," she said.

China and Hong Kong are Bordeaux’s biggest export markets, Golding added.

"For 2010, she advised investing in "the top five, Maison Lafite, Mouton Rothschild, Haut Brion, Duhart Milon, Lynch Bages"