I got an email asking what wine to have with turkey. Bloody hell. I would have the wine that is being served by friends who are cooking goose, duck, a damned good chicken, lamb or grilling a bleeding marvellous (literally) piece of beef. I wouldn’t drink wine with turkey because I hate and despise turkey. It is a fowl curse on the name of meat.
Invariably when we are served this filth one of two things will happen: Normally, the bugger will be totally dried out. it’ll taste of nothing and have the texture of dry cotton wool. All of those dry mountains of flavourless horribleness to hack through; I shudder to think of it.
The second thing that might happen is that you have a bird that has been injected with all the fresh water in Western Europe (jets of pallid fluid gush out when you cut into these) all so some hard of thinking mouth-breather can say, “Oh at least it is moist.” Moist? Is that such an amazing accolade? Sure, it has no taste and the texture of cotton wool, but at least the cotton wool is slightly damp. No.
“Turkey with all the trimmings”, must be one of the most hideously depressing phrases in the whole of the English language. It suggests food on the wrong side of ruined, served artlessly and ploughed through like mush from a trough, all whilst in the company of people who, at best, would all rather be elsewhere.
“Sweaty tests” is what I say to turkey, and so the question about wine with turkey would not work for me. I’d have the wine and not the turkey.