It's finally happened. It was inevitable. You run into Oz Clarke at a party.
And you're drinking this rando white wine … what's it called? Columbo? It tastes fine, but you know nothing about it.
But you want to impress Oz, because he's on TV and he's got that intimidating accent.
"What do you think?" He asks, pointing to your glass.
Your hands are clammy. Your eyes dart around. You need time. You need a hero. Suddenly, another British voice murmurs in your ear:
Tell him you love its acidity.
What? How? Who?
Obviously, a six-inch tall James May sitting on your shoulder. Obviously.
Only you can see me, James tells you.
Meanwhile, Oz asks if you know anything about Colombard.
It's the offspring of Chenin blanc and Gouais blanc. May tugs at your earlobe. You repeat the factoid. Oz nods approvingly. May continues telling you what to say. You recite vacantly:
"And it was grown in France for Cognac. And Arm and Hammer. Er, I mean Armagnac." Good save.
Bad news, friends. There will never been a miniature James May perched on our shoulders. Nobody's around to whisper the answers in our ears.
But at least we have the grape.
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