Wine lists give me the fear. I can still recall the prickle of adrenaline when my father handed me the leather-bound menu when I was in my early twenties because I had started working for a wine merchant after university. Should I play it safe or take a punt on something unusual that some people might hate? Perhaps it would be safest to pick the second cheapest. Their drinking pleasure was in my hands. Argh, the pressure.

You’d think that after 15 years of writing professionally about wine this anxiety would have faded. It actually gets worse. The more I know, the more indecisive I become. Is the wine a bit too young? Was it a good vintage? Meanwhile the rest of the table is getting thirsty.

One can ask the staff but in many places they’re just as clueless, if not more so. At a steak pla

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