Stagger Lee

Milo Waterfield's short film Stagger Lee

Stagger Lee turns up in songs like a recurring nightmare. He is the original bad motherfucker.

The story has been told and re-told by Lloyd Price, Ma Rainey, Sidney Bechet, Bob Dylan, Taj Mahal, Duke Ellington, Woody Guthrie, Bill Haley & His Comets, Wilson Pickett, Ike and Tina Turner, Fats Domino, Doc Watson, Dr. John, Tom Rush, Travis MacRae, Professor Longhair and later, by The Clash ("Wrong 'Em Boyo") and The Grateful Dead (where Billy's wife hunts down Stagolee for revenge and shoots him in the balls.)

The story goes that Stag Lee killed his friend Billy Lyons or "De Lion" in 1895 over a Stetson hat. Each songs tells its own version of this charismatic pimp and cardsharp. Here's the original hat incident as re-counted in the St Louis Missouri Globe-Democrat in 1895:

William Lyons, 25, a levee hand, was shot in the abdomen yesterday evening at 10 o'clock in the saloon of Bill Curtis, at Eleventh and Morgan Streets, by Lee Sheldon, a carriage driver. Lyons and Sheldon were friends and were talking together. Both parties, it seems, had been drinking and were feeling in exuberant spirits. The discussion drifted to politics, and an argument was started, the conclusion of which was that Lyons snatched Sheldon's hat from his head. The latter indignantly demanded its return. Lyons refused, and Sheldon withdrew his revolver and shot Lyons in the abdomen. When his victim fell to the floor Sheldon took his hat from the hand of the wounded man and coolly walked away. He was subsequently arrested and locked up at the Chestnut Street Station. Lyons was taken to the Dispensary, where his wounds were pronounced serious. Lee Sheldon is also known as 'Stag' Lee.

By the 1910s, the story of Stag Lee was well-known in African-American communities along the lower Mississippi River. Mississippi John Hurt, from the Delta, did the first recording in the 1920s talking about "that bad man, cruel Stagger Lee". The story then migrated to the mountains where musicians played it on porches in the traditional string-band style of the traditional Appalachian ballad.

Po-lice officer, how can it be?

You can 'rest everybody but cruel Stagolee

That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

– Mississisppi John Hurt

My favourite, and most twisted, version is Nick Cave's Murder Ballads (1996). According to Nick Cave, talking in Stag Lee's voice, he was an openly gay criminal, who killed the macho boyfriend of the prostitute Nellie Bound.

What will be the next incarnation of this folk anti-hero? I'd like to know. It's a story that changes shape as much as the Devil. But one thing's for sure, it's the Devil - and Stagger Lee – with the best tunes.

Link: Old Blue Bus: Down Home with Stagger Lee

Rich hippie rock star

Keith Richards in Morocco with a local kif, 1967

Usually smell evokes our deepest memories of the past; this perfume unburies the deepest dreams for my future.

The dream is always the same. One day I will buy a palace in Morocco with 16 rooms, or enough for all my friends from around the world to crash whenever they "need a break". I'll spend the day in slippers and kaftans, with wafts of this perfume floating behind me in every room. Sharing a shisha and endless glasses of fresh mint tea in the shade on those bright Tangier afternoons. You'll never know who will turn up, sometimes Paul and Jane Bowles will fang by and we'll have a Naked Lunch... Who knows? But I do know: I'll be wearing this –

"Racy, dangerous, sensual tropical floral with extracts of rare Indonesian flowers, Madagascan Vanilla Bean and Clove Bud."

Ooooh, I so want it. Now.

Link: Rich Hippie Rock Star

RIP Jackie Orszaczky - peace brother

Jackie Orszaczky and Tina Harrod

This morning I was told of the death of Sydney funk legend, and friend, Jackie Orzasky.

What a loss to the Sydney music community. The depth of his music was only matched by the depth of his generosity and vision. He nurtured the best talents in the city. Tuesday nights at the Newtown RSL was one of the best nights in the country. You never knew who would jump up - just to have the chance to play with Jack. The atmosphere was always electrifying.

My favourite (and humble) memory of him is when we first met. We were standing outside The Macquarie Hotel, having a cigarette during a break. He turned to me and said, "are you a musician, too?"

I stammered, embarrassed, terrified - "um, no". My friend jumped in (bless her) and said, "Yes she is. J plays the piano".

"Well bring it down next time! We'll have a jam!"

There are many great memories, nights, songs of Jackie. My heart goes out to Tina Harrod, his inspiring wife, and their daughter.

Jack would never say good bye, instead he'd put his hands in a prayer position and bow down to you. Just like some funkadelic Indian swarmi, he honoured the god-like self in you. The same part that we share with all humankind and find in the best music, and that, so often, involved Jack.

PEACE BROTHER


Link: The official Jackie Orszaczky website

Oz Clarke & Michael Broadbent on wine, women and song...

Imagine my excitement when I saw this headline on the January edition of Decanter Magazine. Two wine industry legends promoting my blog? On the front cover of Decanter?

Alas, no. But here's a lovely description by Oz Clarke, from the article, about his favourite wine. It more than made up for the dashed hope:

"People always ask the best wine I've ever had. I tend to think about which girl I was drinking it with. One of the best wines I ever had was with a gorgeous girl I eloped with by train to Tuscany. We went into this little taverna, and asked for some red wine. The guy went out the back, got a really old scruffy litre bottle, went up to a vat, and squirted out this purply, foaming, prickly, sour, six-moth-old iwne, put a little cap on it and said "there you are". It cost next to nothing. We bought some salami, cheese and bread, lay out in the fields in the sun, and it was one of the best drinking experiences I've ever had."

Link: Decanter Magazine

The fifth taste: umami

There's more to taste than sweet, sour, bitter and salty. There is also umami: the fifth taste. What I'm always searching for in a wine, in everything.

"Both the word and the concept are Japanese, and in Japan are of some antiquity. Umami is hard to translate, to judge by the number of English words that have been suggested as equivalents, such as savoury, essence, pungent, deliciousness, and meaty. It’s sometimes associated with a feeling of perfect quality in a taste, or of some special emotional circumstance in which a taste is experienced. It is also said to involve all the senses, not just that of taste. There’s more than a suggestion of a spiritual or mystical quality about the word."

Link: The fifth taste

This wicked tongue

Wicked women and wicked tongues, Pt 1: the Hindu Goddess Kali

"Her tongue is out as a symbol of sudden embarassment. The story goes that while in a frenzy of destruction, no other God or Goddess could stop Her. Finally her somewhat detached husband, Shiva, descended, and lay down in Her path. She accidentally stepped on His chest, was overcome with shame, and was forced to stop destroying."

Link: Kali Puja at Chanduni Baari, Oct 2006

Detox

Yeah, detox is a good idea. In theory. But it's my birthday in January. That means only one thing. Time for Champagne.

This year, I'm as old as Jesus. Quite an achievement in itself. Granted, I haven't achieved as much as Jesus H. Christ. But you know, there's always February. Life is too short.

Then there's Easter. I can hear the tap, tap, tappity tap of the crucifying nails already...

Top 5 wines - Dec '07

number 5: Ailes de Paloumey Haut-Medoc 2003

Like Sienna Miller drunk: otherwise stylish except for this moment. This Bordeaux needs a few more years in the bottle. But still beautiful now, despite the lapse.

number 4: Domaine de L'Amandine Cote du Rhone 2004

If this was fashion, it'd be a life vest. In the easy-to-reach section of the supermarket, this is a trusty Cote du Rhone that will save you if you are in immediate danger (of not having anything good to drink on a cold night).

number 3: Cote de Beaune-Villages 2005 from Bouchard Pere & Fils

Fun! Usually I don't bother with the crap on the back label, but this time it rang true: "Notre but, c'est votre plaisir." Our goal is your pleasure. Simple but nice. Like two kisses on the cheek.

number 2: Knappstein Clare Valley Shiraz 2003


A very classy wine to wrap yourself up with on a cold winter night. The 15% alcohol will keep you warm, if the christmas pudding characters do not. It's theatre (from the balcony).

Number 1: Chateauneuf du Pape Roger Sabon Reserve 2003

Givenchy show, Paris Fashion week 2007

Something symphonic. The character just built and built. I even felt sad at the end of the half bottle (I could only afford a half bottle) because it hinted at the potential that could have kept developing...

Overall, a good month for red wine!

'The Musician' Majella Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz 2005

What can I say about musicians? Erm, the less said, the better. Better talk about wine. It's hard for me to separate the music from the wine... oh, familiar territory.

Majella 'The Musician' Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz 2005

Why do I like this wine? The complexity is incredible for a wine so young; hints of chocolate (my favourite!) and brambly undertones. It's big and it's in-yer-face but isn't that what you need on a cold winter's night? It's stunning Coonawarra with hints of eucalypt and sea spray, and it knocks most wines at £8.99 out of the water.

However, for all the joy it brings, there is a terrible, tragic story behind the name of this wine. It is named after Matthew Lynn (son of the owners' of Majella), killed early in 2005 in a hit and run accident. A 20-year-old who wanted to make music his life, hence the name, and it is a wonderful tribute.

“Without music life would be a mistake.” as Nietzsche said. It's a matter of separating the Who and the What. Music and Boyfriend. Wine and Music.

I don't know much, but I know...

I love you?

This wine is a freak (amazingly good value) and very, very reliable; a good musician showing up to the gig and just tearing it up, every time.

Paris Hilton's Prosecco in a Can

A bit rich


I once loved Prosecco. But now Paris Hilton has her own dodgy tinny, Prosecco Parties are forever tragic. Sorry girls. It's all over.

The prosecco is imaginatively titled 'Rich'. Just like Paris. Except with taste. And depth. And substance. Etc, etc.

Paris brings out sparkling wine in a can, Holey Moley, 13 December 2007

For the Sake of it 為

私は為を好む。

I am in Tokyo this week. I have no idea what this Sake is called or even what the alcohol level is: but guessing from this photo of me in front of my computer, it is pretty high.

If you know the English name for it, if there is an English name, please send me an email or message.

Rice wine: it's very good. I liike, I liike.

Turning Japanese and a bit mad:
Anna Karina in Godard's Pierrot le Fou (1965)

See you back in London in a week.
一週間のロンドンで会おう。

Love,
愛 jmd
x x x

Home for run away girls

my shrine to Louise Bourgeois

La Chapelle, Le Corbières AC, Cave de Castelmaure 2005 £6.49 (Oddbins)

Facebook. Is it a blessing or a curse? It keeps friends close but do I need to know someone I once loved is getting ready to throw a party for the real love in his life? I've been adding people, and, removing people since I've been here. Sadly, it sometimes feels more like an audit than a party.

It's a very different experience travelling with email, facebook and text messaging than it was 10 years ago when I wrote postcards and letters. Now, it's never been easier to be closer to friends, but its never been harder to work out to know who are your real friends.

Recently, my status update on Facebook read: JMD is in a home for runaway girls.

It was a bit random to say, but I had just seen the Louise Bourgeois exhibition at the Tate Modern. I have followed her work for a while, she is 96 years old after all, yet this exhibition was the most comprehensive I've seen. I was so inspired by her body of work, when I got home, I made a little shrine to Louise Bourgeois in my new apartment. Above is a postcard of her (who sends postcards anymore?) and her piece entitled: "Home for run away girls. Empty Houses. Les Fillemere d'Antony." Empty houses left behind.

Which brings me to my wine tonight: La Chapelle, Le Corbières AC, Cave de Castelmaure, 2005




Made by a small co-operative nestled in the Corbières hills (between Perpignan and Narbonne) in the Languedoc, South-West France, the quality of the end wine is decided by everyone before it is released. There's not just one person's reputation on the line, it's the whole terroir.

You can tell the fruit is of the highest quality and handled with care by a group of like-minded people.

South-West France is producing very interesting, modern wines at the moment. I like to sample wines from this area; there seems to be more experimentation, and less hindrance by old traditions and customs like other regions in France. The French agitateur is alive and well here, thank God.

Made from Carignan (50%), Grenache (30%), Shiraz (15%) and Cinsault(5%), it has unexpectedly fresh, clean characters shining through without foresaking the strong brambly, dark tones of French rustic wines. The depth develops over the night like a wine you'd pay double the price.

This wine proves friends working together, winemakers working together, can sometimes do a lot more than an individual or an individual winemaker. And I bet it's not on Facebook, or perhaps it is... Can you really be a runaway in the 21st century?

Run to the Corbières hills

La Tâche, a modern love poem

Love poems of old
Used to be descriptions of flesh
They described this and that
For instance eyelashes

And yet redness
Should be described
By greyness the sun by rain
The poppies in November
The lips at night

A modern love poem, by Tadeusz Różewicz

"What wine would you be?" I was asked at a party on Saturday night.

What the hell. "I'd be La Tâche 1990 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti."

Why not? But I won't lie to you. I have circled this wine for years and years, read about it, heard it mentioned in whispered, reverential tones, yet - I have never tasted it. The 1990 La Tâche sold at auction for $US9000. Only 1200 cases are made a year. All I can tell you is what other people say once they've tasted it, there are even photos of people anticipating, sniffing it, drinking it.

I can only imagine it is what I'm missing in every other wine...

This is fantasy stuff, and all I know is, if I was a wine, I'd love to be drunk in the same escstasy and rapture as La Tâche. Yes, I'd like to be La Tâche.

As Woody Allen toasted, "Here's to an ideal without compromise." Hopefully, one day, you too can meet myself as a wine...

1990 DRC La Tache Domaine Romanée-Conti 1990 1 Magnum Lot $US9000

Stunning, full-on, classic La Tâche nose that displays almost unbelievable complexity so with many different elements that it is impossible to even begin to describe them all; the primary components include ethereal and still fresh pinot fruit, clove, knock out spiciness, anise, hoisin, soy and a trace of earth but these elements only hint at the sheer depth. The flavors are big, rich, refined, classy, penetrating and superbly powerful yet everything is in perfect balance... The finish is intense, pure and so long that it is haunting; I can literally still taste this wine days later after I've had it because it has such a dramatic and emotional impact. This is one of the finest, perhaps even the finest young Burgundy I have ever been privileged to try and it only seems to get better with each passing year. In short, this is absolutely brilliant. 99 POINTS.

Robert Parker Jr's 100 in Langton's Auction magazine:

I cannot think of a more profound, young red Burgundy tasted than DRC's 1990 La Tâche. Although it still requires another 3-4 years of cellaring, it is incredibly endowed, with an extraordinary perfume of Asian spices as well as jammy black raspberries, cherries, and blackberries infused with smoke, toast, and dried herbs. Full-bodied, but ethereal, with layers of flavor, as well as mind-boggling delicacy and complexity, this youthful La Tâche will be at its finest between 2004-2015. 100/100

Ain't no sunshine

jazz tan

"I don't like the summertime because everyone goes to the beach...What's the deal with the beach? It's where dirt meets water, is it that fucking amazing to you? Maybe I'm just jealous; everyone's got tanned skin, white teeth. I've got white skin, tanned teeth. NOT my environment. You put me under a neon beer light, I look pretty cool." Bill Hicks, Philosophy.

Quinta de Bons-Ventos 2005 Vinho Regional Estremadura 12.5% alcohol £4.99 Oddbins

Pack your black lace veil rather than your bikini. Like the traditional Portugal - where women dress in black in the harsh midday sun and where fado singers tell mournful sea ballads about lost sailors – there's a lot more to the Quinta de Bons-Ventos than a cheap holiday made for the British market. Taste the sunshine, but like the locals, take refuge in the cool shade.

What adds to the dark allure of this wine is it is a blend of ancient Portuguese grape varieties: Castelao (Periquita), Camarate, Tinta Miuda and Touriga Nacional. My palate could not decipher it at first, and it felt like I was drinking a red wine from another planet. If you are bored drinking the same varieties all the time, this is a very exciting buy. And you support indigenous grape varieties not wiped out Mondovino style by the major grape varieties such as Shiraz and Cabernet.

Recommendation? If I have to go to a funeral, I'm taking a bottle of this wine to the wake. Celebrate life going on. Have a glass with your old friends, remember old times, and smile through the tears. It's a dark wine but also full of cherry-delicious joy. Excellent value.

Bloody Good Red: a wine for tigers

Dreamtigers

"In my childhood I was a fervent worshipper of the tiger: not the jaguar, the spotted "tiger" of the Amazonian tangles and the isles of vegetation that float down the Parana, but that striped, Asiatic, royal tiger, that can be faced only by a man of war, on a castle atop an elephant. I used to linger endlessly before one of the cages at the zoo; I judged vast encyclopedias by the splendour of their tigers. (I still remember those illustrations: I who cannot rightly recall the brow or the smile of a woman.) Childhood passed away, and the tigers and my passion for them grew old, but still they are in my dreams. At that submerged or chaotic level they keep prevailing. And so, as I sleep, some dream beguiles me, and suddenly I know I am dreaming. Then I think: This is a dream, a pure diversion of my will; and now that I have unlimited power, I am going to cause a tiger.

Oh, incompentence! Never can my dreams engender the wild beast I long for. The tiger indeed appears, but stuffed or flimsy, or with impure variations of shape, or of an implausible size, or all too fleeting, or with a touch of the dog or bird."

Jorge Luis Borges, Dreamtigers

Bloody Good Red 2005, Santa Cruz, USA 13.5% alcohol £8.99 a bottle (Oddbins)

I am born in the Chinese Year of the Tiger, so I couldn't go past a label featuring a tiger holding a glass of red wine in its paw and licking his chops. There's even a knocked over bottle behind it (see there - the similiarities between me and tigers are endless).



Like Borges, as a child I judged National Geographic on the quality of their tiger photography. For this reason, the label alone, passes my test. Turn it over, and the label is either written by the label's drunk tiger or a drunk copywriter. The idea of either writing a wine label was enough to make me laugh....


But apart from the label, the wine is powerful and the blend is certainly courageous. I haven't had the opportunity to try much Californian wine; and, when I have it's been of the ubiquitous Gallo family range, which is so bright I feel like I should put on sunglasses.

They don't mention the varieties on the label but every part of the palate is tickled, and all at once: Carignan, Petite Syrah, Cabernet Franc, Sangiovese, Zinfandel (of course), Barbera and Shiraz.

Randall Grahm, the winemaker at Bonny Doon, notes:

'Though we are working in a Mediterranean climate, there is an aspect of a cooler-climate Loire Cabernet Franc that manifests: floral, spicy with dusty rose, cherry, and cola notes balanced by finely integrated tannin and buoyed by the strong raspeberriosity for which Bonny Doon has long been known and distrusted.'

It's full-bodied, but not sickly sweet (which, unfortunately, is the stereotypical Californian wine) and has a savoury, almost flat finish. If democracy was a wine, then this is how it would taste; every variety takes an equal and fair part in the overall taste to create a harmonious, even finish.

But that's not how I imagine a Tiger, mine is closer to William Blake's "Tyger! Tyger! burning bright in the forest of the night". But how do you put a real tiger in a bottle? Or a dreamtiger, for that matter.

Blake's Tyger from "Songs of Experience"
(written in London in 1794, having never seen a real tiger)

At least, I wasn't mauled by high alcohol and sugar... No, as a "tiger" myself, it was the tiger on the label, drinking a glass of red, that got me in; and, once there, I was happy to stay for a lazy afternoon on the savannah and drink a glass or two of bloody good red.

Vetiver (1961) by Guerlain

"When all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you
And the smell of their roses does not remain...
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?"

--Bob Dylan, "Queen Jane Approximately"

I don't care, take the flowers back. I'm not in flowery mood anyway. I am wearing Guerlain's Vetiver today. No flowers here.

When I first heard it was a man's perfume, I was slightly shocked, until I thought of a huntsman (or huntswoman, like in those period-piece French films) riding through the forest after a rain shower, the rich and warm smell of the earth and a moment's pause by a stream for tobacco, the smoke curling through the mist. It smells like the freedom of luxury, and its sudden relief.

Spit or swallow?

Marie Antoinette and her endless bottles of champagne

Getting drunk is a bad look - pudgy cheeks, broken heels, mascara smudged from crying, fights on the pavement with boyfriend...

So let's get back our dignity. From the realistic to the ridiculous, here are a just a few little tricks from Wine Woman & Song.

Wine Tastings
Spit or swallow? Always spit. It can be intimidating enough without looking like an amateur. Anyway, you generally get a glass (or two or three) at the end.

Sparkling Mineral Water
For every glass of alcohol, drink one glass of sparkling mineral water in between. Not tap water; it must be San Pellegrino or one of those Italian sparkling mineral waters - San Pellegrino has more calcium in it than milk (a tip from Vicki Vasarelli, winemaker in McLaren Vale).

Where there are trays of drinks
Be careful when drinking from a waiter's tray at large events. A friend and I were doped this way and it WAS NOT FUN. Always watch the drink be poured if someone buys you a drink.

Only drink Champagne
Drink quality, not quantity. I know, I know this is an ideal situation.

Vodka
Vodka is the cleanest drink you can buy at the bar. Your head will thank you the next day.

Beer before Wine, makes you feel fine...
For the least tragedy the order goes: beer, champagne/champagne cocktails, white wine, red wine, spirits/cocktails, shots...er, if you must.

Shots
Personally, as soon as the sambuca is lined up on the bar, I know it's time to call a cab. One too many bad experiences. Anyway, it's pretty tacky. Who still gets excited by that? Ugh. But I do love my tequila...

Martini
One - you are life of the party; two - you are under the table; three - you're under the host. Four - you are under the weather: you won't be seeing much of the next day except the toilet bowl, Im fraid.

Play your own cards

Remember these tips. Then do it again!

BTW - for anyone who thought I was going to give BJ tips from the title of this blog, sorry. They are top secret :)

the international language of wine

Montparnasse cafe, 1931

On Wednesday night in Paris, I lost my friends. My mobile was out of credit. I called, left a message, I emailed. No luck. I didn’t even know the name of the hotel they were staying in.

Unfortunately, it was dinner time and I was hungry after shopping for lingerie all day at Galeries Lafayette. (Hard life, I know, but so many stairs in Paris) I decided not to waste my night any longer.

Across the road from the hotel were a row of restaurants featuring Breton crepes. My friends were vegetarian, so here was my chance – sausages, mince and cheese, here I come!

The waiter thought I was Italian, and that was just fine with me. Although, perhaps, an autistic Italian with a bad stammer. Ah well - he was still flirtatious (the cliché holds true!) and looked great in his rugby jersey (the World Cup is on at the moment in France). Anyway, I seem to have perfected a dopey smile that works every time language fails.

He took me to a table squished along a wall with eight other tables so close together he had to pull the table out so I could get in to the booth seat along the wall. Next to me sat two American women.

I’m glad he thought I was Italian. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to middle-class Americans in Paris. They fussed so much over their menu, I nearly reached across and yelled – "Who cares, for godsake, just shut up and eat – it’s all good here in France! Do you even know what food is??"

Perhaps, I was a little tired and emotional after shopping all day.

I thought I ordered only a glass of Bordeaux; he brought over a bottle. My Italian is worse than my French. But I got this far with my dodgy Italian, so I had to keep up the charade and pretend that's what I had ordered. And anyway, the place was now packed full of local Parisians getting their Wednesday night fix of provincial authenticity; perhaps he did not hear me. Or, he did hear me, and decided I needed a whole bottle of wine to blot out the American women’s inane conversation.

Fine, I’ll have a whole bottle of Bordeaux - tutto il vino è buono! (All wine is good!) Instant friends, me and the waiter.

Nothing like a single woman in a restaurant ordering a whole bottle of the finest red in a restaurant by herself – classy! I felt like Holly Golighty without the sunglasses.

Ten minutes later they’re still discussing “what a green salad” really meant. Was it just lettuce? Could they share a crepe? Can they order the chocolate crepe first and then a salad, but no wine, just tap water… Honestly, I’ve never heard a worse order at a restaurant.

The waiter pulled out the small table next to me. In came two characters straight out ofTais Toi (the slapstick French film starring Daniel Auteil and Gerard Depardieu).


Next to me sat a serious middle-aged man in a beige trench coat and the other, his joker friend, who sat opposite in a pink polo. This guy had more one-liners than an episode of Friends. Everytime he jibed his friend, he raised his eyebrows at me, as if to say – "You know how it is." Sure, I do, I have no idea what you are talking about. But it felt good to smile along. I didn’t want to disappoint this obviously very funny guy.

His friend was pointedly ignoring him and making great flourishes of his arms while peering down through his glasses over the menu. He looked up now and again and scolded his friend like a child. Each time, the joker frowned mock-seriously at me as if to say, "Oh yes, very serious meal we’ll have here – but just try to make me take it seriously with someone as serious as you!"

I don't know what they were talking about but I do know I love being part of an in-joke. Even if I have no idea what it is. Any minute now I expected the joker guy to place a whoopy cushion under his seat when he stood up. Not that he’d have a chance; the tables were so squished together, our elbows practically knocked each other while we ate.

All this silliness was certainly more fun than the American women next to me.

The Americans were not happy. Their salad had tomatoes in it. Was it any wonder the waiter got their order wrong when they ordered one dessert and a salad between them at the same time, I wondered.

The wine was the typical standard Bordeaux you find in a Parisian restaurant. The French guys next to me had a pitcher of Rosé and a whiskey Américain. But then, all of a sudden, they both stopped to stare at my bottle of wine.

Now here’s where the conversation gets sketchy. The serious guy pointed to the proprieter’s name on the bottle. He became pale. “You know, this is Sarkozy – and it’s right.” The joker laughed and said in English, "Right! Right! Right!" And nearly fell off his chair trying to show me how off-the-scale right wing it was to be Sarkozy.

Apparently the wine I was drinking was owned by a cohort of Sarkozy. I said, "Ah well, I have plenty, you have some." They rejoined, "non, non, non!" I insisted, "S'il vous plait". They looked over at the bottle as if it was a bitter lemon.

Instead, they gave me some of their Rosé, which they weren’t particularly impressed by, either. I said, "But I like Rosé, it felt like régénération!" That impressed them, they filled up my glass.

Okay, they’ll try a glass of my wine. They’ll take the nasty right-wing Bordeaux off my hands for me. I said, "you’ll be doing me a favour if it’s that politically corrupt."

And so on. We talked about Burgundy and Domaine Le Romanée Conti, which this Bordeaux clearly was not. About the river in Bordeaux. The National Assembly in Paris. I’m not quite sure what else they were talking about but we seemed to have a discussion about how the first vines in Australia arrived the same time as the French Revolution.

By now, the Americans clicked on I was Australian. They tried to pull me away from the good time I was having. Thankfully, they left early (of course they did). Even though the Americans and I spoke the same language – English – I spoke more in common with the French guys sitting next to me even though we had no idea how to explain these complex ideas to each other in French. Let alone Italian.

The rest of the evening, through dessert, we had a rollicking time talking in disjointed French about politics, wine and our favourite desserts.

All three of us decided to order flambé crepes just so we could watch the flames burning up in front of us on the table.

The joker guy started to sing everything the serious guy said. I didn’t know the songs, but I sang along, too, and clapped. The serious guy tried to get back to the conversation about politics. Unfortunately for him... more songs!

At the end we agreed, pointing to the bottle, there’s so much in one bottle of wine than just wine: there’s politics, history, geography.

The bottle was soon empty between the three of us. I was genuinely sad to leave and we kissed each other goodbye on the cheeks like long lost friends.

Le Freak, c'est chic?

Thierry and Guy Le Freak Shiraz Viognier 2005 (£6.99 a bottle)

Le Freak

5 things Le Freak has learnt from Australian wine:

1. Unlike most French wines, the name of the varieties are right upfront: Shiraz Viognier.
2. No pretentious pictures on the label. No Chateaux, no rambling brooks, pencil sketches etc etc
   
3. Strongly branded with bold, modern text "Le Freak".
4. No blaring of region except in small print on back: Vin de Pays D'Oc. So de-emphasised, I nearly missed it.
5. Shiraz and Viognier, although traditionally French, is insanely popular in Australia. And when I mean insane, I mean - why?

5 things Australian wine can learn from Le Freak:

1. Easy to remember name based on song (prompting you to sing, Le Freak, C'est Chic! in the bottle shop. Or is that just me??)
2. The tasting notes asks you to "chill" the wine - this definitely should happen more in Australia. Especially red wine. Although I wouldn't have thought to chill a Shiraz Viognier, even on a hot summer evening.
3. The Viognier is not too heavy-handed.
4. Only 13 % alcohol - not a fruit bomb like most Australian Shiraz Viognier at 16% alcohol!
5. It looks kinda cool and not too try-hard. Although Australia is very good at making fun of itself! So maybe this is not a good point.
   

Overall, this red is a bit of a Freak in the traditional French wine market. But is this the future of French wine? To become more accessible, more Australian?

This has to be the most Australian tasting French wine I've ever had - full-frontal fruit, although it falls away very quickly on the palate.

But has it thrown the baby out with the bathwater? On the second glass (always a good test of new world wines), it blands out. Perhaps it needs the alcohol and more Viognier to give the fruit some oomph to carry on into the second glass. And that's a big thing for me to say, as I'm not one for big alcoholic wines.

I spy Foster's Eye Spy wines here - in marketing and flavour. Which in comparison, are not freakish enough.

Eye Spy wine

(Although, the idea of a table full of bottles with eyes does freak me out a little bit. Especially after a few glasses of wine!)

Cliché is a place in Paris?

You could say most of the things you do as a tourist are cliché. Visiting the Eiffel Tower – cliché. Lying on Jim Morrison’s grave, again, cliché. Having a croissant with a good cup of coffee, also cliché. But all this so-called cliché in Paris doesn’t seem to make any of it any less enjoyable.

What’s the definition of cliché? Something so overdone that it’s lost it’s meaning. But I could see the Eiffel Tower a million ways, or visit the Pere-Lachaise cemetery again and again, or enjoy a warm croissant every morning without any less thrill than when I experienced these things the first time I went to Paris.

Anyway, perhaps I’ve been guilty of perpetuating my own clichés. Too often I’ve sold Rosé by saying – "Well, you do know, that’s what they drink in Paris!" It must tap into a dream for women about living the life of la Parisienne. Because it never fails to sell Rosé.

Is it true or just cliché?

As soon as I put my bags down in my hotel room in Montparnasse I was keen to find out immediately - do Parisians drink as much Rosé as I had made people believe?

I ventured out onto the streets of Montparnasse to find something to eat and just stare at what everyone else around me to find out what Parisians really drank and ate.

It was late afternoon and the sun was just about to set. If I was going to be cliché about it, I could say, the sunset was blushing pink like a Rosé. But then that really would be a cliché because it wasn't true. Plain yellow sunlight fading into the usual same-old black night.

But wait! Looking around on the cafés in the street, very intellectual looking people discussing over wine glasses, were pitchers of... Rosé.

I took a seat at a bistro on a busy street in Montparnasse, full of cafe tables along the pavement. I chose a foie gras salad – slices of foie gras, slices of duck, toasted croutons on a bed of lettuce and tomato sprinkled with parmesan and a vineagrette. Probably the most simple, yet satisfying meal I’ve ever had. (Hyperbolic, but true). Then like silent clockwork, along came a wicker basket of sliced French bread on my table.

I pretended to read the menu and ordered a pitcher of the Côte du Provence Rosé, about two and a half glasses.

Côte du Provence Rosé

Côte du Provence Rosé is not something I have had a chance to try a lot of in Australia. Mainly because, like Guinness, it does not seem to travel well. Just as there’s nothing like a freshly poured Guinness in Temple Bar in Dublin, or a Budvar in Czesky Budejovice – the Côte du Provence seems to taste better in Paris; and I'll hazard to say, it probably tastes even better in Provence. Anyway, it just made sense in Paris.

Looking around me, I saw three men in heated discussion over a pitcher of Rosé. A woman sitting alone on a street table with a glass of Rosé being chatted up by a man at the next table. Three students drinking a Rosé (ok, one had a beer).

Côte du Provence featured on every wine menu. I found it to be even more refreshing with a meal than water, and with it’s natural acidity it’s a very good palate cleanser. Obviously, there’s no tannins because there is no oak used when making Rosé. It’s more fun than a white wine, and less to think about than a Red.

As they say, simple wines with sophisticated food and simple food with sophisticated wine.

Cliché, c'est moi?

The waiter was very kind as I sat for dinner by myself on the first night. Not always a pleasant experience as a woman. But, I have to say: the waiters are amazing in Paris. I know, I know, another cliché.

I’d even go so far as to say as the waiters in Paris are quite flirty. But that’s one cliché I don’t mind indulging in, over and over again.

Montparnasse at night. (From my balcony, because I'm too shy to take photos of people enjoying dinner - me, tourist?!)