Blissfully lost in the cellars of Gordon's Wine Bar
In college I had a friend who always drank red wine as we were prettying ourselves up to go out while the rest of us drank beer; the bad, cheap, anemic kind of beer that compliments a college student's budget and tastes faintly of mildew and sweaty armpits. I would tease her about the glass of wine in her hand as I swilled a libation I am now ashamed to admit I ever consumed. Her only response was to flash a knowing smile in my direction before taking another long, generous sip from her glass.

I would like to think that her smile reflected an insight into my future that I could not yet foresee. Perhaps in her omniscience she saw me years later, holed up in an ancient cellar bar steps from Covent Garden nibbling on a creamy, funky slice of blue cheese with a crusty hunk of bread in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other, all the while thinking about my lovely friend with the inky, blackberry tinted curls and green cat eyes who knew before I did that one day I would kick my cheap beer to the curb and open my eyes to the countless virtues and pleasures of wine.

My first visit to Gordon's Wine Bar in London's Covent Garden was an attempt to escape the frustrating crush of tourists packed into the markets, shops and pubs of this undeniably charming slice of the city. The way thousands of tourists gawk jaws agape at the performers on stilts and ten story high unicycles reminded me of the way visitors clog my walk down 42nd Street on my way to the city as they stare up into flashing neon crush of billboards and chaos of Times Square. Not only did the musty black labyrinth of ancient wine cellars dimly lit by a spare collection of flickering candles provide a quiet respite from the crowds, it also served up two of my favorite vices; red wine and stinky cheese.

 
The entrance to the bar.
The entrance to Gordon's is unassuming, with only a small black sign and standard issue lamppost stamped with the name to guide the way. Feeling my way down a creaky, dimly set set of stairs that would feel at home in any vampire movie, I wasn't sure what to expect. A pack of Goth kids lurking in the corners, a row of coffins, a heroin den? Instead, the space opened up before me once I hit the last step and I was greeted by an unexpectedly pleasant counter offering an enormous variety of fresh salads, pates, breads, cheeses, pickles and mustards. The man behind the counter told me he was just filling in for a few minutes and had never worked this area of the place before but invited me to order what I wanted and he would do his best. I opted for slices of taleggio and shropshire blue and a mesclun salad. The slices of cheese on the plate he handed me were large enough to feed every street performer in Covent Garden. I assumed that the generous servings were a result of his inexperience but on subsequent visits I realized that this was standard issue when the fellow manning the counter was clearly the regular and offered equivalent portions.

The cheese was accompanied by a baguette the length of my forearm and a salad brimming with fresh goodies including capers, tomatoes, olives and a side of anchovy. He then invited me to select my own garnishes, pickles and mustards, of which there were over a dozen, and then sent me on my way to the real gem of Gordon's; the wine bar.

Nestled into one of the many caverns of the restaurant is a shadowy, moody bar with a collection of wine barrels stacked behind it. From each flows a viscous ruby river of port, sherry and madeira and if the thick and sweet is not to your liking, Gordon's also has on hand a generous selection of red and white wines by the glass or bottle representing France, Chili, Spain, Italy, Argentina, Australia, South Africa and India. They also stock roses, sparkling wines and champagne but nobly adhering to their namesake, it is all about the grape at Gordon's and they shy from serving beer or spirits. The bartender was knowledgeable and enthusiastic about helping us select just the right thing; a Tempranillo for my friend and for me, a glass of Gordon's Old Wood Tawny from the barrel because it seemed the appropriate thing to consume that afternoon.

Established in 1890 in its present form, Gordon's is the oldest wine bar in London. Its hodgepodge of damp, wandering cellars reek of history and after a few glasses of Port you might just think you've spotted Rudyard Kipling skulking in the corner. A former resident of the apartments above, the author wrote "The Light That Failed" in the parlour above the bar. The title seemed appropriate as I squinted to imagine him writing in the candlelight. Before Mr. Kipling made his appearance, the space was a warehouse in the 1820s for the seed company Minier & Fair. Further back, it was home to Samuel Pepys in the 1680s. But Gordon's in its present incarnation does not need to rest on the laurels of the illustrious residents that once called the space home. It claims a storied history of its own.

The founder of the wine bar was Arthur Gordon, one of London's last "free vintners", a privileged few individuals granted permission to sell wine anywhere without a license as a result of Edward III's Charter to the Vintner League in 1364. Embarrassed by the enormous debt he owed to the league who granted him a loan years earlier, he passed the Charter as a way to compensate for his inability to settle up. The present Gordon family has owned the bar since 1975 but they are not related to its founder. It is merely a happy coincidence that they share his name.

With glasses and plates in hand we made our way to the maze of cellars lined with rickety tables only slightly illuminated by tapered candles stuck into jars dripping in oceans of wax. We sat there for hours, on our teeter-totter chairs, eavesdropping on the conversations of the eclectic group of people that find their way to this unique refuge in an otherwise chaotic place. On my first visit, an lovely elderly waitress wandered from table to table, relighting candles as needed, clearing plates and sharing snippets of the lore and legacy of the place she said to one couple she worked at since 1975. There was a group of actors gathered in one corner, businessmen escaping their corporate realities for an hour or two in others and tourists like me, merrily taking it all in while sipping port and nibbling on exquisitely stinky cheese. I had ample time on that first visit to reflect back on my friend from college, with her long black curls and knowing smile. I knew she would be proud of the fact that I had found my way, and I lifted my Port in silent tribute to her.