Never one to shy away from a new experience – especially if the experience involves free alcohol – I was intrigued by the invitation to a cognac tasting event last night at The Maven Bar.
I emailed soon as I saw Rowena (@YelpLeeds’s) tweet. Within minutes I got a very welcoming reply from someone called Claudio – how could you not want to meet someone called Claudio! – telling me to to be there by six. Excellent, I thought, what a pleasant way to spend an evening, learning about a drink I wasn’t very familiar with in a bar I’d not been to before.
At five I was meant to meet my dapper little friend Harvi in a slightly less salubrious bar across the other side of town. As five-twenty-five came and went – went with Harvi’s share of the bottle of wine diminishing rapidly – and still no show, I did worry a little about turning up to the tasting with my critical faculties dulled and my sensory equipment satiated by previous self-indulgence. Fortunately, just as the half hour passed, Harvi burst into the bar with a huff and a puff – and just the slightest suggestion of a sweat – as if he’d maybe, for once, realised how late he was and (I know this is too unlikely to have actually occurred, but indulge me in the daydream) had broken into a bit of a jog.
Pouring himself a large glug of the house red he babbled his excuses. Something about work . . . I’ve long since stopped taking any notice. It’s all complete fabulation as far as I can tell. “I’m going to a cognac tasting in twenty minutes,” I informed him, “but you haven’t been invited.”
This news appeared to rattle him. He began to recount another tale of woe about work. I really couldn’t bear to listen to any more.
“Okay, okay, you can tag along. But if anyone questions you, you’re on your own!” I said.
“Thanks, matey,” he said, ” . . . who could possibly question me?”
Ten minutes later I stood up, demanding that he down the rest of the wine if he wanted to accompany me.
“Don’t loom over me with your arms crossed over that bloated belly like that,” he drawled, “you look ridiculous . . . and blue is so not your colour.”
“If you’re gonna get all Gok Wan on me you can bugger off home and try it on your wife,” I said, “I’m going . . . now!”
And with that I turned on my heels and made my way to the door.
Harvi scuttled along behind, as fast as his little legs could carry him.
“Let’s stop for a sandwich,” he gasped, “had nothing since breakfast . . .”
“There’s no such thing as “us” . . . I’m not being late because you need to stuff your face. Get a bag of crisps or something there.”
That shut him up.
As we dashed passed the North Bar I noticed @JacquiPybus sitting at the window table. I did the funny, “hello, can you see me!” dance, and the slow talking thing with no sound coming out, “fine, yes, you, cognac tasting . . . Maven Bar . . . Maven . . . no, M A V E N . . . ” Then, as our attempts to communicate through a pane of soundproof glass were obviously to no avail I decided to take control of the situation, make a decision, exercise leadership potential (all the stuff I generally rely on people like Jacqui to do for me) and I pushed open the door.
It was three minutes to six. No time for pleasantries – though that didn’t stop Harvinder hugging and air kissing and catching up on gossip and going through the usual palaver while I stood back and tapped my watch. I waved to Richard (@Tikky66) at the bar.
“Cognac tasting, Maven Bar, starts at six . . . in exactly one minute,” was all I thought Jacqui needed to know; “see you there!”
I bundled Harvi back into the street, realising that my last few words sounded in the imperative mood rather than the inquisitive – though what was the worst thing that could happen? If the event was small they would make up the numbers, and if it was large they would simply merge into the masses. Either way, it would be nice to see them there.
Harvi and I reached our destination just as the Parish Church clock chimed six. We entered the small, shady, inconspicuous doorway, climbed the stairs remarking on the restful green and cream tiles that lined our way up, pushed the big black doors marked with an “M”, and found ourselves in a surprisingly light and airy space. It took a few moments for our eyes to adjust after the gloom of the hallway. The room is basically square, painted a very dark, matt grey with dark bare floorboards, with windows along two full walls opening onto a view of the market and Kirkgate further along. Mostly the space feels quite spartan, the sort of place you’d lean against the bar to drink, though there is a small seating area and a couple of tables along one corner. The bar stretches along a whole wall almost to the right with a mirror behind, and to say it’s well stocked would be like saying Harvey Nicks sold a few handbags.
Within seconds of entering the bar we were served drinks by “Big Dave” who told us he’d made French Mojitos. Rather nice too! Highball full of ice, plenty of mint, just the right amount of sugar set off with the zing of lime. I could get used to cognac, I thought.
There were about twenty of us, I’d guess, by the time Jacqui and Richard arrived, so when we were invited by Nino to sit down there was plenty of room. We were introduced to a young chap, Anthony, impeccably turned out, who was something called a “brand ambassador.” I whispered to my neighbour that I couldn’t imagine a time when I’d ever consider severing diplomatic links with alcohol, even though I’ve had the occasional hostile relationship, but thankfully my ill-considered quip went unnoticed.
Anthony, in a beautifully lilting French accent, apologised for not having a projector, then proceeded to intersperse his prepared speech with little laptop dances, waltzing the computer screen to the left and the right, showing the assembled drinkers his powerpoint slides. His first slide was a map of the region in France where Remy Martin is produced – cognac is a regional thing and “all cognac is brandy but not all brandy is cognac!” – but I’m afraid my eyesight is so poor that he could have been showing me holiday snaps from Blackpool. Jacqui assured me that he wasn’t.
Anthony went on to tell us how cognac was made, what type of grapes were used and why they made great brandy but were hopeless for wine, and a lot about the particular history and traditions of Remy Martin. As frequently happens at this sort of event, there’s always one person who knows this stuff already and cannot contain himself, constantly chipping in an extra piece of irrelevant information, contributing footnotes, adding a nuance here, questioning a shade of difference there, until I got utterly confused. But that didn’t really matter. All part of the fun.
Another round of drinks was distributed. This time the neat cognac itself. We were encouraged to shout out what we tasted. Responses varied from “erm . . . syrupiness?” – my stunning contribution – to “vanilla,” “chewy oak,” “burned apricots,” “dried peach blossom,” “overripe nectarine,” “plum tart baked in a charcoal oven using logs from three-hundred year old trees,” “honey made from bees that have fed on nothing but the nectar of rare orchids,” . . . I may have made some of these up, but you know what people are like when they get the chance. Harvi ventured something about spiciness – something he pretends to know a bit about, he says it’s “cultural heritage,” though we all know he shops at the local Asda – and was greeted with a round of applause by the people at his table . . . all I can say is that this cognac is strong stuff.
By the time Big Dave brought the last drink round I may have been a tad tiddly. Perhaps the earlier wine was not a good idea. Anyway, I cannot recall what the last cocktail was called. I tried to take notes but all I seem to have scribbled was something about the Chinese calling cognac “horse with man-head spirit,” “VSOP ha ha ha,” and the figure “£700”, which I believe is the cost of an empty, new barrel – it might sounds a lot but we were assured they lasted an eternity so over time must recoup the cost many times over.
Obviously these sort of events are corporate and capitalist and completely lacking in authentic, independent, local spirit. It was also hugely good fun, really entertaining, and genuinely educational. I’ll definitely pop back to The Maven Bar for the occasional cocktail (if Harvi is buying that round) and if Remy Martin ever fancy sponsoring a local writer then I’ll gladly wear the t-shirt. I could easily get a taste for French Mojitos.