Jonathan Ray

Our Spectator Wine Time Friday/BYOB lunch last week was a belter, with 15 of us managing to see off 21 bottles quite comfortably and with no apparent ill effects. Indeed, we all left pretty much as steadily as we arrived, and I was proud that several readers still had it in them to enjoy a

It’s been something of a liver-challenging few days for the lushes of Spectator Towers. A fascinating volumetric tasting of 2013 Château Angludet (served to 60 readers during lunch from halves, bottles, magnums, double magnums and an imperial) was followed by the first day of term at the Spectator Wine School and by a memorable Spectator

So how’s your sober October going? No, nor mine. I ticked two consecutive days off the calendar, which is more than I’ve managed since, gosh, January. Baby steps, I know, but it’s bloody difficult. Mrs Ray is not helping. One minute she’s chiding me for being a lush with no self-control; the next she’s hovering

Phew, we made it in one piece. Nobody was seasick, nobody fell overboard, and nobody got shot. I’m talking, of course, of our Spectator Clays, Claret and Cognac Cruise in Thames sailing barge Will, during which 30 or so readers and a crack Spectator team blasted at clays with pump action shotguns and blunderbusses before

It was the mighty Andrew Edmunds’s memorial last week – he of the eponymous restaurant and the Academy Club, those last vestiges of old Soho. All the great and the louche were there paying their respects to this delightful man of many parts – restaurateur, clubman, wine lover, fine print purveyor, flower arranger, fly fisherman

I’m just back from a week in Alsace and I can’t stop grinning. It’s my favourite of all French wine regions, ridiculously pretty and warmly welcoming. The winemakers are just so genial and – unlike many other regions we can all think of – inherently collaborative, forever bigging up the wares of their rivals, who

So, there we were, my chum and I, nearing the bottom of our second bottle of perfectly chilled Franciacorta, that wonderful Italian fizz that knocks spots off prosecco. It was a gorgeous wine, we both agreed, from a gorgeous country, full of gorgeous people, eating gorgeous food and living gorgeous lives. In a perfect world,

Mustard’s Grill on the St Helena Highway, Napa Valley, is a top spot. Self-described as a fancy rib joint with way too many wines, its most celebrated dish is the Truckstop Deluxe – ‘always meat, sometimes potatoes, rarely vegetables’. I can never get enough of it and have popped many a shirt button there. It

This ridiculous cost of profiteering crisis is taking its toll. All of us – apart from the sleek, smug fat cats – are suffering and tightening our belts, but I’m damned if I’m going to be done out of my vino. And I’m damned if you are too. I mean, what else is there to

Hey you there on your sun lounger! Take a gander at this summer sale, courtesy of our chums at FromVineyardsDirect. These are extremely toothsome bin-ends and overstocks at pre-duty increase prices. I’ve tasted them, rejected the also-rans and beaten FVD down on price as much as I can. There are some cracking mystery cases included

Well, crikey, that was fun! The recent inaugural Spectator tour of Champagne, that is. We had a hoot, visiting five producers and enjoying two first-rate dinners courtesy of Taittinger and Pol Roger. We learned lots, laughed lots, drank lots and I don’t think a single spittoon was sullied during the entire trip. Bravo! Oh, and

I confess to feeling a trifle delicate when tasting the dozen or so wines from FromVineyardsDirect for this offer. A late night at the Academy Club had turned into early morning at the Experimental Cocktail Club and neither Mrs Ray nor I were at our best. Indeed, Mrs R decided it was all too much

There are worse ways of spending the late May bank holiday than tasting a dozen or so wines from Swig, the merchant beloved of my sainted predecessors Messrs Waugh and Hoggart. Mrs Ray did question why I had to start so early, finish so late and ask so many neighbours to help but then she,

Feeling desperately fragile after a cocktail-soaked long weekend with Lunch Club in Berlin, I tried to appease an exasperated, eye-rolling Mrs Ray by vowing never to drink again. Wouldn’t touch a drop. As I rallied, though, and the Berliner katzenjammer slowly cleared, I pulled myself together and pointed out that there was work to do

I happily did my bit for Blighty during the coronation and drank nothing but English wine, beer and spirits the whole weekend. If I was guilty of slightly over-egging the pudding it was only through an excessive bout of patriotism and I can report with pride that even my much-needed hangover cure – The Original

I’m seeing Jason Yapp next week and am deeply nervous. It’s been a while since we caught up and as followers of this column might recall, he and wicked step-brother Tom Ashworth have form in leading me astray. I think I told you about our little adventure in that backstreet bar in Biarritz. It was