>> Ah the uncouth peasants from the swamp,
In Ndjamena, Chad, in 1982 or 83, somewhat battered after months of urban fighting, a new Sudanese restaurant was discovered by a French doctor. He said they had a nice dish made from chopped meat. I went there with a bunch of French medics to get a change from the very monotonous hotel food. We sat at a long table on the verandah. The restaurant was Muslim but willing to send a boy to the bar down the street for wine. My Frog companions called for a couple of bottles of red. It came in whisky bottles, straight from the fridge.
Glasses were poured and sipped. There was a very long silence. Eventually the senior French surgeon said in a strangled voice: 'Well, it's wine.' No one thought they would be able to drink much of it. As it warmed up, however, it revealed itself as some sort of very robust North African stuff, quite strong too, and more bottles were quickly ordered so that they would have time to reach, er, room temperature. By the end of dinner everyone was in quite a good mood.
Honestly, Pat, doesn't it taste a bit better when it's been in the glass for half an hour? Even Beaujolais seems better warm to me. But tastes do differ...
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