It being my birthday's eve, I grilled a big ribeye (enough for 2), made some garlic mashed potates, and opened (of all things) a bottle of Bordeaux. To be specific, the 86 Pape Clement, which I have had in my cellar since its very infancy (both the wine's and the cellar's, for those keeping score at home). Nice wine. Not great, stunning, knock-your-socks-off wine. But very, very, very nice wine in that understated Pessac-Leognan sort of way [insert soundtrack of Floyd's "quiet desperation is the English way"]. I might have another, but probably not. Ah, well, it's only Bordeaux.
Poor, poor Bordeaux. Little love for her here.
Poor, poor Bordeaux. Little love for her here.