The campaign for corkage
There isn't any campaign for corkage actually. But there should be . By Kate
Another very tough week but another anniversary to cheer us up. Jude and I realised on Monday that Thursday March 11th marked exactly 10 years since we met each other, one late, hazy night at the Dog Star in Brixton. We still find it somewhat amazing that we both ended up there on that occasion (Jude was not then living in London
Royal Academy
As always, the one flaw was the wine list. Veeraswamy does not have the worst list I have ever encountered but they have a real dearth of wines I really want to drink, and I knew that by Sunday I would really want to have a drink.
“I think I’ll phone up and ask about corkage,” I said to Jude.
He looked sceptical.
He was right. It is an age-old complaint, but completely valid, that restaurants should put the happiness of their customers first. Those that won’t take bookings (one of my most passionate hates) and those that flatly refuse to consider corkage are absolutely not thinking about how to make people as happy as possible.
“We have a booking on Sunday,” I explained, trying to sound as polite and friendly as possible, “and we would very much like to bring our own wine and pay a corkage charge.”
Silence.
“It is a special occasion,” I continued. “An anniversary. So we would really like to drink our own wine.”
“No,” came the brisk, bossy retort. “We do not allow corkage.”
I was instantly furious, but since fury would not get me very far I swallowed hard and did my best to keep my voice neutral.
“Oh really?” I said. Perhaps there was a touch of frost. “Well, do you have any wines on your list made without the addition of sulphur?”
Another silence.
I plunged ahead. “You see, I can’t drink wines made with sulphur, so if you don’t have any then I can’t drink anything. And it is a special occasion. “
Kate 1. Veeraswamy 0.
“I will get the manager,” said the voice, sounding a good deal less bossy.
I was put on hold, the dry hiss being broken finally by a clipped, “Hello?”
“Hello,” I replied, “I was just asking your colleague about corkage. I am coming to your restaurant with my husband on Sunday, it is a very special occasion and I would very much like to drink some wine but I can’t drink wines made with the addition of sulphur and I doubt very much that you sell something like that.”
There was a very long pause. I started to silently congratulate myself on a masterstroke.
This was premature.
“Well, how can you say this?,” demanded the manager “How do you know when a wine is made without the addition of sulphur?”
Instant fury again.
“Because,” I replied, this time letting my voice go cold and hard as ice, “I run a business specialising in the sale of wines made without the addition of sulphur, so I am quite, quite sure.
“In fact,” I continued, warming to the theme, “I started this business because I am allergic to wines made with sulphur.”
This of course was a complete lie. I did no such thing. However, I was now utterly caught up again in how dangerously angry the refusal of a business to try to make its customers as happy as reasonably possible makes me. And the burning desire to get my own way in spite of this.
I clenched both fists in intense exasperation at the frankly ridiculous turn the attempt to drink great wine with good food had now taken, but took a deep breath and replied, as brightly as I could
“Yes, I suppose you could say so.”
“Right,” said the voice, sounding unsure. There was a pause. I could almost hear the anti-corkage forces mustering: he would not be easily beaten.
“Right,” he said again, this time sounding more confident. “As it is for medical reasons, we will allow you to bring your own wine. But,” he paused again, “your husband will not be allowed to drink any of it.” His voice was taut with triumph.
“I beg your pardon?” I answered slowly, completely incredulous.
“Yes,” he rejoined, clearly enjoying himself immensely now “If you cannot drink anything else for medical reasons then you may drink your wine. But your husband must drink what we serve”.
“Even if we pay corkage?” I asked, my mind reeling at the idea of Jude and I, who so rarely get the chance to enjoy a bottle together, sitting down to a meal where only one of us is having a sublime wine moment.
“Even so,” he assured me.
“Right,” I said. I was too astonished to be angry. “I will have to get back to you.”
I think I heard him chuckle as I put the phone down.
This was a dilemma that did not seem to bother Jude.
“How are they going to stop me drinking the wine?” he asked.
It was a good point, although such was the strength of feeling I sensed against my request that I had visions of a waiter hovering just over Jude’s shoulder for the duration of the meal, leaning forward to stop him each time he attempted a sip of medicinal wine.
“I don’t know darling, but I am sure they will find a way,” I replied darkly.
I was right.
On arrival at the restaurant there was initial confusion about the corkage issue. Our waiter, a cheerful, rather geeky looking man, folded his hands together and in tones generally employed by those about to break incredibly bad news, began a lengthy and rambling rebuttal of our request of get the wine opened.
It was Jude’s turn to ice up. He was very hungry at this point; not at all in the mood for more corkage dramas.
“We phoned up and confirmed that it was ok to bring wine,” he said testily. “Days ago.”
Cheerful man scuttled off, clutching our bottle. A few seconds later a manager appeared and smoothly apologised for the confusion. He assured us that the wine would be opened and poured for me (at this he very pointedly gestured only in my direction), forthwith.
Sure enough, our bottle appeared, opened, and I was poured a glass after confirming the condition was fine. Then the waiter cheerfully informed us that he was taking the bottle away for safe keeping until my glass needed to be refilled. And so it continued. Every so often the bottle would appear, my glass was filled, and the bottle would disappear. Jude’s glass had been immediately removed when it was established he would not be drinking wine.
He drank beer instead (to be fair, this is often the best all-round option with spicy food). The wine, a great personal favourite, worked its magic. 2008 Casot Maiolles Canta Manana Rose – richly textured (thanks to no fining or filtration) and definitely spiced and perfumed, it stood up to the spices on my plate (nothing too hot mind), and generally got on pretty well with them all. It did turn the food more fiery, but in my experience, most wine which works with spicy food will do that to a greater or lesser extent.
I ate a Red Mullet tikka served with orange chutney, which was delicious – very delicately smoked with a bit of a black pepper tang which was perfectly complimented by the sharp, sweet, scented orange. Then a mild vegetable and cashew nut curry with plenty of fresh, spongy Roti for mopping up the sauce, was equally good.
And then, biggest surprise of all, when the bill arrived there was no corkage! We were bemused but decided not to say anything. Jude had consumed £15 worth of beer (not because he drank unfeasibly large quantities but because a single glass cost £5), and we had water too, and then there had been quite a performance surrounding the whole thing. So, it was a lovely meal in the end and quite a joyous celebration. Particularly joyous on my part as not having the bottle in front of me I managed to drink pretty much all of it before I realised what I had done. Thankfully it was a wine of utter purity, or today would be pretty challenging.
It was not a cheap meal but it was very good. I am generally a great admirer of this group of restaurants – Chutney Mary, Veeraswamy and Amaya as well as the excellent Marsala Zone places and I am sure we will go back – to the former for smart celebrations and the Marsala Zone for cheap and cheerful.
I just wish they would come up with a sensible corkage policy.
As always, the one flaw was the wine list. Veeraswamy does not have the worst list I have ever encountered but they have a real dearth of wines I really want to drink, and I knew that by Sunday I would really want to have a drink.
“Yes, I suppose you could say so.”
“Right,” he said again, this time sounding more confident. “As it is for medical reasons, we will allow you to bring your own wine. But,” he paused again, “your husband will not be allowed to drink any of it.”
On arrival at the restaurant there was initial confusion about the corkage issue. Our waiter, a cheerful, rather geeky looking man, folded his hands together and in tones generally employed by those about to break incredibly bad news, began a lengthy and rambling rebuttal of our request of get the wine opened.
He drank beer instead (to be fair, this is often the best all-round option with spicy food).
