After all my pretentious posing and guffing on about grappa distilled in oak barrels with a hint of saffron what a pleasure to be brought back down to earth.
The venue: my sister's house. The occasion: an Indian carry-out. The grappa: a brand known by no other name than "Colli Toscani".
It reminded me of the pioneering days of grappa drinking when your old mountain cousins used to wait until the end of a meal and produce a bottle of something they had brewed themselves. No cork or screwtop here when a rag would suffice. The whole family would gather round to watch for your reaction. And, boy, did that stuff pack a punch.
This was no deadly brew like back in the backwaters of the Tuscan hills but still it took me back. Clear, pure and with the kick of a mule - just like I like my women. And it produced the desired effect, two hours of nonsensical rambling about the forthcoming World Cup. Once again I am proud to call myself a Tuscan.
Strangely, I could find no entry for this brew in my grappa bible. Good. Rating: immeasurable.