Some years ago, on a trip up America’s Pacific Northwest, I spent a night in Portland in a hotel that was depressing in the way that not-quite-posh, not-quite-cool hotels can be. As part of its attempt to inject a sense of pizzazz into my cavernous room, there was a welcome pack whose starring feature was a can of Pinot Noir – the size and shape of a Diet Coke can, with a joke on the side about this being ‘soccer mom’ wine. The reference to hassled housewives ferrying their progeny about to games, desperate for surreptitious booze, depressed me further and I added ‘wine in tins’ to the list of vulgar American inventions I’d forever resist.
While neither the eco side of them nor the promise of hipster high times in parks really worked on me, the fact is that they are novel and thus fun
Flash forward a decade and wine in tins has departed the domain of pissed suburban mums and entered the world of the hip, expensive and desirable. Of
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