25 November 2017
Hold the line
If only the clinic in question was as technophile as its clients - there must be a smarter way to manage queues. Or is there?
"The line is part of the fun" stipulated none other than Walt Disney, when he set about building his first theme park. He realized that people wouldn't feel the joy of his "happiest place on Earth" if they spent most of their day standing in dull lines, waiting. So his engineers and designers set out to incorporate the zig-zagging line-up areas before any ride into the attraction's theme. Over the years, these pre-ride zones have gotten more and more sophisticated, setting the stage with sounds, sights, videos, props and sometimes even animated characters.
But even basics keep prospective riders entertained: I remember a visit many years ago to the Matterhorn Bobsleds at Disneyland, where the inevitable Swiss theme materialized itself in a cantonal coat of arms being affixed to each pillar of the faux-wood roof covering the waiting area. Unfortunately, Switzerland has only 26 cantons, but the roof had more pillars. So the Disney gang simply continued adding made-up coats of arms to the extra pillars. We laughed so hard that we barely noticed the hour or so spent waiting in line.
Sadly, Walt Disney is dead, and greedier managers have taken over running theme parks. These days. waiting in line is for poor schmucks. At most parks, "Quick Access" tickets allow the more free-spending to bypass queues, skipping right to the front of the line. The price for this privilege is variable: More on busy days, less on slow ones. There are even ticket machines placed outside major rides, letting you buy up from a regular admission once you see the daunting line-up.
This of course means that managers now have different incentives than old Walt did. The less attractive and longer they make the wait, the more likely they are to rake in extra cash from Quick Access tickets. When I last visited a roller coaster park, I endured dull, cattle-like queueing, while giving the evil eye to those rich folks passing by in their dedicated lane - sometimes twice before I got on.
This time, the roles were reversed, for yours truly took the bait and spent the dollars for Quick Access. Sure enough, in a day at Bush Gardens, I got more stomach-turning thrills than ever before. Triple launch coaster, inverted coaster, dive coaster, sit-down coaster, I rode them all. First row, last row, hands in the air. And again.
It was a lot of fun. But something wasn't quite right. It took me a while to put my finger on it, but I finally found the missing ingredient: Anticipation. Not having to wait meant not watching the coaster go by time and again. Not hearing the people scream. Not visualizing every twist and turn. I just ran up the stairs, flashed my Quick Access barcode, and was on. And two minutes later, off again. There just wasn't the time to get anxious and excited, and then to have all that tension release as the train drops from the sky.
Walt Disney was right all along. The wait is part of the fun. It makes you appreciate what you are about to get, and lets you savor it more intensely when it is finally here. So, dear readers, if you thought that the latest post to this blog was a long time coming... you are welcome.
# posted by Oli : 16:59
04 June 2017
Borderlands
First came a visit to a small country in the heart of Europe. No, not that country. But the one that is home to an even smaller village - 500 residents, I am told - which became synonymous with hassle-free border crossings, and whose name now separates airport terminals from Finland to Malta. Tacked on to business meetings in Frankfurt, I took a little side-trip to Schengen.
In doing so, I was able to experience the liberties provided by the eponymous agreement first hand: My flight from Canada arrived in Brussels. There, I pulled out my Swiss ID card and showed it to a Belgian border guard. After that, I was able to take another flight to Germany, drive a car to Luxembourg, walk back and forth between it and Germany, keep driving into France, back into Luxembourg, and eventually back to Frankfurt. All without ever showing any form of ID again. It was only when I boarded a flight back to Toronto that a bored German policeman at Frankfurt airport had another quick glance at my ID.
Ever since the Schengen agreement came into effect, and notwithstanding short interruptions during the recent migrant crisis, this painless mobility is a reality across 26 European countries (and yes, this does include that other small nation). For Europeans, crossing borders without stops or inspections has become the default. But it is anything but.
The second trip in the same month was to another small nation, for which its borders are very much an existential, and contested, subject. Israel has seen its territorial boundaries shift several times since its foundation in 1948, and usually not in a peaceful way.
Consequently, it fortifies and diligently polices its borders, with the crossing procedure differing widely depending on the person in question. Unlike other nations, which at best distinguish between citizens and foreigners, Israel unashamedly applies a much more sophisticated profiling grid, which can make entering and leaving the country a breeze, or a serious pain. Fortunately, I have found myself placed closer to the former end of the spectrum. But the stern looks of the Israeli officials certainly do not let one take that for granted.
And how about the borders I cross most frequently? Canada and the U.S. still don't have any formal exit checks: There are no procedures involved for leaving either of these countries. When entering, though, the process has become more complicated and segregated in the years since 9/11. For non-citizens, visa requirements have been tightened and even visitors from countries without a visa requirement now need to apply for an online "travel authorization" before arrival. The U.S. introduced this paid process in 2008, and coaxed Canada into following suit last year. With every version, the form becomes longer and more intrusive.
Canadian and U.S. citizens remain exempt from these requirements, but they do now need to travel with a passport or "secured" Driver's License. Gone are the days of entire school buses of Canadians driving to the U.S. on the strength of their team football jerseys alone. All of this leads to slower, more cumbersome border crossings.
On the upside, though, there has also been a lot of investment into making the experience smoother for those deemed "trusted travellers". Taking a page out of the Israelis' book, American and Canadian officials have established a joint screening process which allows cleared individuals to obtain a card entitling them to bypass lines and use dedicated kiosks or automated gates to enter either country quickly.
The program is called Nexus, and when I was handed my membership card, the ability to seamlessly weave my way in and out of the country was very much presented as a privilege, not an entitlement. My recent travels certainly drove that point straight home.
# posted by Oli : 12:01
24 November 2016
Uberholspur
Today, I met Ivan. Or Evo. Or possibly Evan; it's hard to say from the scribble on the paper receipt he handed me at the end of a 20 minute, stop-and-go, round-about slog through Montréal's downtown in his beat-up taxi, whose passenger seat was covered in suspicious stains. While this guy didn't speak a word to his customer, he yapped on his phone non-stop.
Gustavo, Guy and Juan are part-time Uber X drivers. None of them considers driving a taxi to be their life's vocation, but they all told me how they appreciate the ease and flexibility of making a few extra bucks when they want to. They know that at the end of each trip, I will rate them on a 5-point scale, and they clearly make an effort to provide 5 star service. Similarly, they will rate me, giving me an incentive to be just as personable.
Uber has revolutionized the transportation business, and in the process has become the best-funded Sillicon Valley start-up company ever. It smartly connects supply and demand, prices competitively but dynamically, and uses technology and peer reviews to ensure excellent standards of service. It is also very convenient for business travellers: Passengers link their credit card to the app, with trips being billed automatically. Gone is the frantic search for (often foreign) cash, and instead of illegible paper scraps, the company sends perfectly formatted email receipts that can go directly into expense reporting.
One can now hail an Uber in nearly 540 cities around the world, and I have done so in many countries, often grateful for the way in which the app helps overcoming language barriers.
Of course, I also use Uber in Montréal, but not as often as I like to. It is not by choice that I end up in the taxis of Ivan and his ilk, but because of their effots to block the newcomer at every turn. In a typically French attempt to block progress and innovation, and defend entrenched monopolies, taxi drivers have been staging demonstrations, blockades, and even acts of vandalism against UberX vehicles throughout the summer. In none of their arguments did "customer preference" ever matter.
In an effort to find a compromise, Québec's provincial government has now agreed on a 12 month pilot project, under which UberX becomes more regulated (and more expensive), but is officially sanctioned to operate, although prime spots such as airport pick-ups remain off limits.
The increased paperwork requirements under the deal has led to a - hopefully temporary - drop in UberX drivers active in the city, which is how I ended up in yet another shabby taxi today. But in the longer term, the superior product will likely prevail.
Gustavo, Guy and Juan struggled to believe when I told them of the intimidation and vandalism their peers in Montréal have to deal with. Here's to hoping that even in Québec, Uber's innovative disruptors will soon see the obsolete taxi fleet fade in the rear-view mirror.
Labels: Quebec, technology, travel, USA
# posted by Oli : 22:36
20 August 2016
In chains
My recent long weekend in Michigan was entirely free of genuinely local experiences. Or was it?
As a smug European, I used to make fun of cookie-cutter chain outlets covering the United States from coast to coast, much to the delight of its variability-averse inhabitants. Unlike us culturally aware travellers from the old world, I used to think, all the Yankees cared for were perfectly standardized experiences, such as the "Italian" food on offer at over 800 Olive Gardens from Alaska to Florida.
It took me seven years of living in North America to actually visit one of them. As I sat and munched on my "tagliatelle noodles with a creamy alfredo sauce and porcini mushrooms", I contemplated the transition I had undergone to become part of the chain gang.
Some of the attraction lies in the loyalty programs, which everyone from hotels to drug stores has placed in my wallet, capitalizing on personal predilection as much as professional curiosity. Part of it is also sheer laziness: Proximity allows for more frequent, less planned jaunts south of the border, meaning that research into authentic dining spots is often replaced by a quick smartphone search for a familiar name.
Most intriguing, though, is the growing appreciation for the notion that local culture in the US is in fact chain culture. The big brand outlets I visited in the Great Lake State were quite different from the ones I found in California or in Texas. The decor may be identical, but the people are not. The midwest's bumbling-but-friendly residents, with their expansive demeanor and taste for potato, add an unmistakable local accent.
It is in inexpensive franchise outlets that the foreign visitor gets to observe unvarnished society: A group of middle-aged ladies catching up over dinner. A retired couple browsing for garish shower mats and towels at Walmart. Two young activists planning rallies from Plymouth to Pontiac (no, political rallies!) over soup and salad at Panera. A wedding party in cheap suits at the Sheraton, complaining about the flashy relatives from Kentucky. And a waiter at the Four Points taking so much pride in their local brews that she kept bringing pint after pint out to the patio, all while rustling up some coupons to make sure none landed on my tab.
All said and done, I felt like I got a decent taste of Michigan. And as for Canada, I have to confess that we are no strangers to chain culture either, something I was firmly reminded of as I pulled into the Exxon gas station outside Detroit. Adjacent to it was what any Canadian always expects to find there: A Tim Hortons.
# posted by Oli : 21:12
22 November 2015
Montréal's Mallorca
As I found out this week, Montréal also has its Mallorca. It is not in Spain, of course. But it, too, enjoys warm climes, sandy beaches, cheap flights from the motherland and all the conveniences of home. A conference brought me to Southern Florida's Fort Lauderdale, and thus into the heart of Floribec.
That Canadians enjoy escaping their long cold winters for a few days of sun is not news. But until this week, I had not quite appreciated just how much the Québecois are concentrated on a small stretch of ocean-lining suburbia north of Miami.
It didn't take long after arriving to spot the first fleur de lys flags outside motels, restaurants and convenience stores. And a quick stop at a Walmart brought the first sighting: "Lucien!" called a female voice from the cereals aisle, "t'en veux-tu des Fruit Loops?" A grey-haired man in white socks and an oversized Hawaii shirt shuffled over. "Ouais", he responded, "sont-ils en sale icitte?" When leaving the store, I noticed the minivan with the Québec license plates in the parking lot.
That night, as I sat down at a mid-priced chain steakhouse, I immediately noticed the two elderly men in the booth behind me twaddling in the thickest of Québecois accents. Somewhat maliciously, I continued to eavesdrop as the waitress approached them, curious to hear how they would struggle in Hanglish to order their food. Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard them nonchalantly asking for their steak in French - and the waitress responding in the very same tongue!
Yes, Floribec has its own ecosystem, which extends beyond restaurants and accommodation to include a monthly magazine and even three branches of the Caisse Désjardins, which I suspect to specialize in cashing Canadian pension cheques and arranging condo mortgages. While there are no clear numbers, the size of the resident French-Canadian population must be large enough to support this community year-round. It is not for nothing that Florida's two hockey teams, Tampa and Miami, play in the same NHL Division as the three Eastern Canadian teams of Montréal, Ottawa and Toronto: A few years ago, a study found that the Florida teams make more than 50% of their revenues from ticket sales from Canadians, keen to see their home teams play while they are on holiday down south.
During the school breaks, droves of families with their kids head for Florida's beaches, but the off-season mainly has retirees choosing the sunshine state's tropical weather over the cold of the motherland. Some keep a second car down south to navigate the uninspired suburbia of Floribec, while others drive all the way from Canada in their van or roulotte.
Much like in Mallorca, which I have also only visited on business trips, the charms of Floribec have eluded me. There was, however, one positive effect of my stay in Montréal's Mallorca that I cannot deny: Looking at my fellow passengers as I settled in on my return flight from Fort Lauderdale, I basked in a rare sensation of youth and sophistication. What the Québecois have known for a long time is true, then: La Floride, là, ça te fait du bien!
Labels: Quebec, travel, USA, work
# posted by Oli : 18:47
15 September 2015
Cruise control
Instead, the fastest one can legally go in Canada is 100kph (give or take a few exceptions in the wild wild West, where 120kph are on occasion allowed). It makes for long dreary drives and, unless you care to earn demerit points, a time-tested appreciation for the cruise control feature to relieve the heavy foot.
Fortunately, there are roads that are more exhilarating. Or more scenic, like the 860km we took in last week down the coast between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Having resisted the urge to upgrade to a not-so-subtle Mustang Convertible, we nonetheless found ourselves rolling down the windows of our rental car and turning up the Beach Boys soundtrack soon after leaving the city by the bay behind us. We embarked on the famous highway 1 south, the winding road along the Pacific that would lead us on for the next few days.
Once we had cleared the Tesla-infested redwood forests around Silicon Valley, the view opened up to the ocean, and the breeze infused our car with a tangy salty scent that was much more authentic than the one out of air freshener sprays. The sound of waves crashing competed with the roar of the occasional passing Harley - for highway 1 is firmly in the hands of pleasure drivers these days.
Along it, iconic towns such as Santa Cruz with its old school boardwalk, Monterey with its 17 mile peninsula drive, and Santa Barbara with its Spanish colonial style architecture awaited us. Between them, the coastline kept changing: From rugged coves to wide beaches, to dunes and sheer cliffs. Deserted stretches such as Big Sur alternated with coveted residential areas, where villas loomed behind commanding gates.
It is true that we were hardly alone: On this long weekend, the roads were busy with RVs, muscle cars and even cyclists, the latter living on the edge in more than one sense. But no matter: We were not in a hurry, and still able to find an uncrowded turnout from which to watch the sunset.
When stopping in cities, we set ourselves apart from the hoards by walking a few blocks to downtown (and thereby availing ourselves of free parking to boot!), using the opportunity to stretch our legs while strolling in the California sun. And when we hiked up a hill a few miles inland, we had it all to ourselves. The typical highway 1 road trip, evidently, does not include unmotorized activities.
And that's perfectly understandable, given the beauty and joy of the road. Yes, I hardly went faster than 100kph on the entire trip. But why would I? Even the Germans would have to agree that when you cruise along the Pacific coast, you don't need cruise control. You just coast.
# posted by Oli : 08:44
12 June 2015
Swap
Or perhaps paddock would be more appropriate, for they went on a the crusade to Montréal for this year's Formula 1 Grand Prix. This is the weekend when the city fills with all sorts of suburban petrolheads parading their souped-up Honda Civics down Crescent Street, revving the engines of their polished Dodge Chargers, and ogling the girls in short skirts and high heels promoting some tire brand. And as if this wasn't enough, there is the constant roar of race cars going around the ever-same 4.4km of island race track.
The allure of all of which has always passed me by, whereas my friends have travelled as far as Belgium to attend a Formula One race. It was only a year ago that it finally dawned upon us that we were looking at a perfect win-win situation here: One clan keen to get close to the action without paying extortionate hotel rates, and the other eager to leave the city for peace and nature.
We agreed to switch houses faster than a pit crew switches tires.
We had both been to each other's homes multiple times, but never without the hosts being present. It felt a bit awkward to leave my own place shortly after my guests had arrived, and even more so letting ourselves into their house south of the border a little while later.
But after a brief phase of getting used to the notion of - very temporarily - living in the Green Mountain State, it turned into a nice change of scene. Not only did we enjoy the outdoors on hikes and while indulging in Vermont's finest, we also took advantage of some of the amenities which are clearly lacking from my castle: A patio, a large kitchen, a fridge with an ice machine... and a gigantic TV with more cable channels than there are days in a year. No, this was not some medieval dump!
This clearly wasn't my castle, but we started feeling at home before we knew it. Being hospitable without even being around, our friends had stocked the pantry and the liquor shelf with equal generosity. But before we able to fully avail ourselves of the hoard, time had come to go back whence we came.
Upon our return to Montréal, the din of the engines had died down, and my friends had packed their bags for the ride back south (by hybrid car, not Mustang). From their comments in my guest book, and the empties in my recycling bin, I gather that they, too, must have enjoyed their stay.
And so, just like the cars on a race track, the house swap will likely come around again soon. For I quite enjoyed being the lord of the castle, even when it wasn't my home.
# posted by Oli : 21:57
25 April 2014
Lone Star
But in this vast (but not largest, Alaskans like to point out) Republican state, there is still a formidable liberal hold-out: Austin, state capital and self-proclaimed Live Music Capital of the World. A recent visit with former Texans gave me a chance to find out if this was but another hollow superlative.
Certainly, the warm southern welcome was evident, and the scent of freshly grilled, juicy spare ribs lent the balmy air a summerly appeal as we made our way to a fabulous Texas BBQ shop to tuck into the state's beef. The greasy proof of how much I enjoyed it was in plain sight all over my shirt afterwards.
With the body nourished and the day still young, it was time to do something for the mind, and so we headed over to the Capitol (by car of course, the 20min walk would have been just a bit too leftish) for a tour. It transpired that Texas' legislators only meet every other year (no overbearing state here!), and Six Flags over Texas is not just the name of a theme park on my bucket list.
But what about that live music? All of 6th street comes alive with it every night. On weekends, the street is closed off to traffic (in Texas!) so that revellers can stroll from one bar to the next, and pick from the bands playing within where to go next. Contrary to my expectations, it's not just country music that's on offer (although there was certainly some of that, yee-ha!), but an ecclectic mix of styles and talents that makes the city so exciting.
And then there's Esther's Follies. "It's an Austin institution", said my friends as they took me there. In its 37th year now, this unique and continuously updated musical comedy show takes aim at news and gossip local and global, and crafts it into entertaining, amusing, and - the horror! - satirical acts of song and dance. I had a blast, and was surprised to find this kind of daring humor in the supposedly so redneck Lone Star State.
Oh, and speaking of the Lone Star: It's a lie. While the single star may be a Texas icon, the state capital has embraced it with such vigor that you'll never see but a single one: From park fences to manholes to freeway overpass beams - they are all over the place! So come to Austin, where day or night, on stage or off, you can live amongst the stars!
# posted by Oli : 03:47
05 April 2014
Double Act
Yet here he was, reaching out into his social sphere, and asking if anyone would be interested in joining him to see a play. I followed the link to the performance details and was sold. We connected, got the tickets, and were good to go.
What made this reunion rather unusual was the venue for the play we had picked: A Broadway theatre. My friend had not, as he later confessed, actually expected anyone to take him up on his suggestion. But when I raised my hand, he suddenly found himself planning a trip overseas: From Zurich to New York. To see a play. And to catch up with his desk buddy from 6th grade. Why not?
For me, the Big Apple was only an hour's flight away, which sadly still hadn't made me visit the city more frequently since I moved to Montréal. So it was about time. Soon, I found myself sitting in a hotel lobby, waiting for my friend to arrive. Would I still recognize him, after all these years?
As it turns out, my friend had the very same preoccupations. And they were just as unfounded. Not only did we immediately connect again, it felt as it we'd never really lost touch in the first place. Yes, there were questions to be asked and updates to be delivered, but it was just like a well-practiced two man band taking on a new act: Wandering around a rainy New York, the harmony and the rhythm came naturally.
It was only appropriate, then, that these two old chums would go see two other long-time friends on stage - one of which, indeed, having had a defining influence on our youth through his work. So there we were, for the last night on Broadway, only a few rows away from two of Britain's finest actors, delivering an intense and stirring performance in a clasical piece about friendship, loyalty, and the passage of time. Or maybe something completely different, for Waiting for Godot is a famously absurdist piece. And thus just the kind of thing we always had a weak spot for. It was spectacular.
We vowed to take our double act uo again. Some time. Somewhere. For All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players.
# posted by Oli : 21:26
31 March 2013
Egg hunt
I, however, have moved on, both metaphorically and physically. But in principle, nothing has changed. Easter eggs are to be searched away from home, and the first long weekend of the year has to be spent travelling somewhere. In the past few years, the Easter Bunny had to deliver my treats to Egypt, South-East Asia, Berlin, and more recently Tennessee and Mexico City. So imagine my shock when, about two months ago, I suddenly realized that for this Easter weekend, nothing had been planned.
An evening of frantic airfare searches and destination wishlist cross-referencing ensued, followed by a pressing appeal to my most reliable travel buddy. Only once tickets were booked could I rest comfortably again.
And so it came that this Good Friday, I boarded a plane to the Windy City, which despite countless airport transits I had not visited as a tourist in a decade. Since then, a lot has changed, and under glorious blue skies and temperatures testifying to the end of winter, we explored both within the loop and outside of it. The trip also gave us the opportunity to take in one of the much recommended Architecture Tours. Travelling through Chicago's south side on the famous "L" train, our guide provided eye-opening views on the many design masterpieces the city hosts (not something you'd expect if you judged by the airport).
No Easter weekend, of course, is complete without a proper egg hunt. Fortunately, ours was rather easy. We simply followed the crowds to Millennium Park, along the shores of Lake Michigan. And there it stood: Big, hard, shiny, and albeit somewhat oddly shaped, by far the most impressive Easter egg I'd ever seen. On its reflective surface, my triumphant smile was testimony to a successful hunt - and a tradition kept for another year.
# posted by Oli : 20:14
17 March 2013
Altitude
"Most resorts are lucky to have one bowl" said the headline on the poster at the lodge. And below a panoramic picture of the terrain including its seven skiable bowls, it proclaimed: "Vail isn't most resorts."Indeed it isn't. When I told my boss, an avid skier herself, about my plans to spend a few days in North America's second-largest ski area (with Whistler-Blackcomb already off my bucket list), she told me to expect beautiful runs and excellent infrastructure. But she also raised my expectations by pointing out that Vail, along with its Colorado neighbor Aspen, is considered über-posh.
Looking at the cost of our lift tickets and the rent for the chalet, I could definitely agree. At almost $100 a day, access to the resort's runs certainly doesn't come cheap. On the other hand, a day in Mt. Tremblant will set you back by the same amount, and the Laurentian Disney on Ice simply doesn't compare to the Rockies' vertical drop and fluffy powder.
Not even United's mishandling of our skis could dampen our anticipation when we hit the road from Denver. Through heavy traffic, it took us to over 3'400m of elevation and into Vail. Unlike most alpine ski towns, which are up some narrow valley and require you to drive up a curvy mountain road, Vail is a purpose-built town directly off Interstate 70, with the same faux charm that I have come to expect from Tremblant and Whistler. But that is where the similarities end.
Clearly, Vail offers "high-touch" skiing, right from the get-go. As you approach the gondola, a cheery attendant hoists your skis into the rack. While you soar upwards, you can update your Facebook status or check on your stock options, thanks to the free in-gondola wifi. At the top, brightly dressed staff hand out not just daily grooming reports, but granola bars, too. They are as free as the drinking water available everywhere - much appreciated by thirsty skiers at over 3'000m of elevation.
Runny noses are an inevitable part of any ski day, and even at Tremblant and Whistler I was pleased to see tissue paper dispensers at every lift. Vail, however, takes service to another level: When you walk into any of the lodges, smiling ladies greet you and hold out a box of Kleenex. Once your nose is taken care of, you can then browse lunch choices including salad bars, Asian wok and Mexican burritos, and help yourself to free chocolates sprinkled around the tables. And should you need to use the washrooms, you'll find them stocked with lotion, sunscreen, and scented candles.
Delighted as much by all these thoughtful touches as by the stellar snow conditions, I barely noticed just how often my credit card was swiped around the mountain. Looking at my statement now, the term "champagne powder" certainly takes on a whole new meaning.
Not that I'd have any regrets. The resort's nifty mobile app kindly tallied up 51'199 vertical feet for me, and I've enjoyed every one of them. It is safe to say that Vail takes skiing to a whole new altitude.
# posted by Oli : 20:55
28 February 2013
Blind test
Typically, I do not indulge in such debauchery. But on a recent Saturday night, on occasion of a bubbly blind tasting amongst friends, precious champagne was indeed horribly wasted.
It was the second time that I was invited to join my friends for this fun event in a snowy corner of the United States. With none of us being an oenophile, we all bring one or several bottles of sparkling wine, from any choice of origin and price range, which are swiftly put in velvet bags and hidden away by our host.
Once we're all settled in with our little grading sheets in the ready, the first plopp of the night is not far off, and soon we're all eyeing, smelling, slurping and swallowing bubbles, wondering from which of the wrapped bottles they may have come. As we work our way through the seven varieties at hand, the differences become noticable. This one is much more pale than the others, there is hardly any perlage (hey, I can throw the odd wine snob word, right?) in that one, and #4 has an intriguingly complex set of aromas. What may be seen as a somewhat standardized drink suddenly seems wonderfully nuanced.
Openly commenting on the samples is frowned upon, but the expressions on the testers' faces speak volumes, the ohs and eews being potent clues. But would somebody dare invoking that flower vase in the middle of the table, which doubles as a spitting bucket? The spirits are high, and with one cork after the other popping, they are only getting higher.
At the end of the leisurely sampling, our grading cards are collected and swiftly run through a highly sophisticated weighting algorithm (okay, so it's just a spreadsheet) to come up with the fizzy flight's winner. And this is were the embarrassment starts.
Unsurprisingly, the bottom of the list sees the $3.99 André Rosé, a genuinely horrible concoction. The Cava doesn't do so well either, and even the specialty non dosé champers from the liquor store only gets mediocre marks. At the top of the podium, last year's winner is able to defend its title: The shockingly palatable, and even more affordable, $9.99 Barefoot Bubbly from California. It is closely followed by Cosco's Kirkland store brand champagne, an excellent buy at $20, and my personal favorite, on which I bestowed not just the highest marks, but also the comment "airline grade".
This, of course, is the very same product that another taster, who shall remain anonymous, deemed worthy of watering the flowers. In comparison, even christening boats with it seems less profligate. But the old monk probably wouldn't care either way. A la vôtre, Dom Pérignon!
# posted by Oli : 23:04
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