Champagne suffers more from its own success than any drink on earth. It gets ordered for occasions instead of for flavour, sprayed at finish lines, served in flutes designed for the look of the thing. Treated seriously — a proper glass, a considered bottle, an unhurried hour — it is one of the great wines, and London is one of the great cities in which to relearn it.
The glass matters
The narrow flute keeps bubbles and kills aroma; the coupe photographs beautifully and flattens everything. The rooms that care pour into a tulip or simply a white-wine glass — width to breathe, taper to focus. It is the quickest tell of a serious list before you have read a word of it.
Reading the list
The grandes marques are consistent and safe. The interest is in the growers — small houses bottling their own vineyards, one village at a time. A list with a grower section is a room that cares; ask for something from it and watch the sommelier come alive. It will rarely cost more than the famous label, and it will taste of somewhere.
When
Champagne is wasted at midnight and wonderful at six — the first glass of the evening, cold and precise, while the night is still all potential. It is also, quietly, one of the best partners to the beginning of a conversation: festive without weight, and it makes the hour feel chosen rather than passed.
The etiquette
Let it be poured slowly. Never fill past two-thirds. Touch glasses gently or not at all — the look over the rim carries further than the clink. And drink it while it is cold and alive; champagne rewards attention, not endurance.
The first glass of the evening deserves company worth it. I take mine at six.