Excerpt from Author’s Autobiography ‘No Lawyers in Heaven’ (already published):

Pink Champagne

In this story the name of the protagonist has been changed to protect the guilty.

“A bottle of pink Dom Perignon please, waiter – I've had a real thirst for one for nine months now - if you know what I mean.”

It was all too apparent that the wine waiter did not.

It had been a memorable day in the career of Jamie Ruskin: that very afternoon in 1980 he had walked free from the Old Bailey having been acquitted of robbing a swanky Knightsbridge jewellers of its entire front window during an audacious closing-time raid, and was now enjoying his first meal out since his arrest. He was ensconced at La Bussola, a highly fashionable Italian dinner-dance restaurant, holding forth on the culinary delights he had just savoured compared to the fare which would have been almost thrown at him had the trial not gone his way.

“Now,” he declared to me and his other two guests. “If I’d gone down today, not only would I have drawn a fifteen stretch, but tonight I would be getting some pretty stale bread, a hard boiled egg and an apple. Instead of which I’ve had a feast.”

“Yes,” Jamie repeated decidedly, “a bottle of Pink Dom Perignon – if you please.”

The wine waiter, Juliano, had heard the request the first time, but had not been able to get a word in edgeways whilst Jamie was in full flow. It was plain that Juliano didn’t quite know what to make of the guest he saw before him; a man in his early 30s with handsome but somewhat hardened features, an expensive silk suit, crocodile shoes and a pretty but painted and peroxide blonde to his left.?The other couple, his best friends, were patently from the same batch. It was at least obvious to Juliano that we were celebrating some event or other, and that Mr Ruskin was going to be settling the bill. Finally, with the startling contrast of prison apples to the restaurant's succulent San Gennaro, Jamie ran out of steam and turned towards Juliano.

“Sir,” Juliano said modestly, “we have an excellent selection of Dom Perignon. We have in our cellar virtually every year in the early 1970s, and even a few older bottles if you like.” Then, the waiter produced a leather bound wine list and started to read from it. “May I suggest the '62, which is the favourite of Mr Fabrizzi, the owner.”

Jamie specifically ignored his advice. “yes – yes – yes, very impressive no doubt, but I don't care what year it is as long as it's pink.”

Juliano looked ill at ease, not least because Jamie's cockney voice was raised and the worse for drink, and that a number of the diners at surrounding tables were now looking on, some annoyed and others amused. Finally, left with no option, Juliano made his stand, and in a barely audible voice meant for Jamie's ears only, muttered, “I am sorry to tell you, Sir, that I have been the wine waiter here for 10 years and I have never served a bottle of pink Dom Perignon. In fact, I don’t think Dom Perignon ever made a pink champagne.”

“Is that so? Can I speak to the manager - please?” The way that Jamie emphasised the word 'please' made it clear that this was an order, not a request. I was beginning to regret having accepted the celebration invitation in the first place, but I was still young and foolish then.

Off went Juliano as if he had just been freed from a kidnapping, and Mr Carlini, all charms and smiles, was sent in. “Can I help you Sir?”

“Yes, you most certainly can,” was Jamie’s reply. “Now look, here's the score,” - Jamie was now in showboating mode. “I've had a real touch at the Bailey today, and a bloody good dinner here tonight – no complaints, no complaints at all.?But all I want now is to toast the health of my brief with a nice bottle of pink Dom Perignon – compared to what he’s cost me, it’s got to be a bargain.”

“Yes, and at least you’re not saying that behind prison bars”, I added.

Much of Jamie’s choice language was wasted on the manager, but he got the drift. He began listing the Dom Perignon they had in stock, and suggested a couple of old and, purely by chance no doubt, extremely expensive bottles.

“Not again,” moaned Jamie.?“I’ve heard all that from the wine waiter.?But, what I want, is a bottle of pink Dom Perignon.”

Mr Carlini started to perspire. “Sir, I have been the manager at La Bussola for more than eight years, and I have never seen or been asked for a bottle of Pink Dom Perignon. In fact, if I may say so, I do not believe Dom Perignon ever made a pink champagne. Perhaps you would like to speak to the owner of the restaurant, Mr Fabrizzi, who happens to be in tonight?”

“Yes I would – wheel him out”.

This embarrassing incident was now being treated as somewhat of an impromptu cabaret by some of the other diners. Personally, I wanted the ground to eat me up.

Mr Fabrizzi was not 'wheeled out' but arrived under his own steam. “What seems to be the problem Sir?”

“I’ll tell you what the problem is. I asked your wine waiter - very politely, for a bottle of pink Dom Perignon. He couldn't oblige, nor could your manager. Worse still they both made me look a laughing stock in front of my brief here tonight by telling me that Dom Perignon never made a pink champagne. So now you know what the problem is”.

‘Get me out of here’, I mumbled under my breath.

Poor Mr Fabrizzi, unctuous in the extreme, tried his best to lower the temperature.?“And I’m going to solve it Sir. I’m arranging to bring up from my cellar three of our best old bottles of Dom Perignon for you to choose from.?I’m sure you’ll find one to your liking”.

“Pink?” Was Jamie's only response.

“No Sir, I’m afraid not, but please believe me, I have owned this restaurant for eighteen years - wine is my passion, I pride myself on having one of the best cellars in London. Dom Perignon never made a pink champagne.” He whispered the last few words as if a deathbed confession.

“Let it pass Jamie – let it pass. We’ve had enough excitement for one day already”, I said in the most comforting tone I could muster. But, unhappily, Mr Fabrizzi would not let it pass and as an afterthought he added, “in fact, if you can show me that Dom Perignon made a pink champagne, it will be my pleasure for the entire meal for you and your guests tonight to be on the house.”

“Well, you’d better get that ’62 bottle ready then, nice and chilled – your favourite, isn’t it?”

“I doubt that will be necessary, Sir”, replied Mr Fabrizzi, unwisely.

That was the last straw. Jamie looked as if he was on the verge of a tantrum. I had an uncomfortable feeling that something ghastly was about to happen – and it did.

Banging the table with his right fist, which made the crockery and a good number of other diners jump, Jamie played his ace. “Don't tell me Dom Perignon never made a pink champagne – I stole a lorry load of the stuff not a year ago!”. I covered my face with my hands in shame – finally a confession.

Ten eyes gazed on as Mr Fabrizzi retreated nervously but speedily to his office, whilst calling out en route in Italian to a waiter to bring him a large grappa. Through the glass window to his office we watched on as he downed the grappa in one swig and reached for the phone. We couldn’t hear the conversation – we didn’t need to. Seeing Mr Fabrizzi’s face gradually turning a whiter shade of pale whilst he was mopping his forehead with a handkerchief said it all.

“How about that? Two acquittals in one day”, announced Jamie proudly. “Now that’s got to be a first!”.

Suffice it to say that an effusive apology - but no bill, was presented at table 17 that evening.