Discerning Drinking, Chapter Twenty-four.

Originally posted 14th April 2013

It’s been an entertaining start to the Formula One season.  Couple of different winners, commoving races, meltdown at Red Bull, that kind of thing.  One thing felt missing though, but thankfully this weekend, at the Chinese Grand Prix, it returned.

Eddie Jordan’s shirts.

If Formula One was a doughnut, EJ’s sense of fashion would be the jam.  Last year I tracked down the shirts to a retailer near called Angelo Galasso (there is a ‘house‘ in London, near Harrods).  At around three hundred quid each, they are a little on the expensive side so one can only dream,  which leaves me seething with shirt-envy and style-angst until I win the lottery – or find some East End gangster’s loot stashed under a railway arch at Dalston.

I find myself up at 7am, watching Eddie parade his amazing ‘pretty in pink polka dot’ number like some kind of fuzzy flamingo.  Meanwhile, I’m still trying to get my head around ’50 shades of paisley’ from Saturday qualifying.  This calls for a drink.  I have red wine, that’s a given.  The sun is cracking the flags so how about some cheeky Sunday breakfast Sangria, Mike-style?

Look at any self-respecting Sangria recipe and you’ll see that it is actually very complicated, containing things like cognac, Grand Marnier, club soda and a specific type of red wine – Shiraz.  Even the well-appointed bar at Carmine’s couldn’t stretch to every ingredient so unfortunately, things became a little less like ‘beach bar in Marbella’ and more like ‘piss-stained sofa at the Luton Wetherspoons’:


For a pint of Eddie’s Super-Screwed Sangria you’ll probably need;

  • 0.75 shot Cointreau
  • 2 shots Absolut Citron
  • 2.5 shots Rioja
  • 3 dashes Angostura orange bitters
  • Topped with orange juice

It’s obviously named for the man himself and a vague similarity (at least in ingredients) to the Screwdriver cocktail.  There is little method save from filling the pint glass with ice, followed by the various liquids, then stirring everything up.


Pretty shit.  I tried it and left the rest on the kitchen counter.  It had vanished by the time I came back from my morning jog after the race so I assume its filthy pink iridescence had osmosised with Eddie’s shirt and that’s why there is a red sky tonight.  It tasted like fortified month-old grapefruit juice and not even I will stoop that low on a Sunday morning.  I returned to my coffee.  Eddie Jordan was gone, having handed over to the Formula One live feed, so I calmed down and switched over to Sky.

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