I am becoming increasingly excited by the prospect of sampling the world’s oldest Merlot in Venice, but I have temporarily put my arousal on hold and have decided to stop off in Munich for the first day of Oktoberfest.

For some reason I don’t fully understand, Oktoberfest begins in September – indeed it appeared to be starting at the precise moment I clambered off the train clutching my suitcase and my Dorchester hamper.  I was immediately accosted by two English gentlemen dressed in Joseph Lederhosen, and balancing half-empty litre glasses of Weizenbock on their heads. One of them asked me if I was a “shirt lifter”, and the other screamed with laughter and proffered me his bottom. No doubt it is this kind of hilarious and entertaining behaviour that attracts so many travelers to Munich for Oktoberfest.

I dropped off my luggage at Hotel Splendid Dollmann in Thierschstrasse – a dreary lodging which claimed on its web site to be perfectly located for both business and leisure. This remains to be seen.

I jumped into a cab and headed straight for the Weinzelt, which boasted “as many as 15 different wines”. Truly a selection of bewildering scale. I simply didn’t know where to begin.

I sat listening to a brass band playing a particularly jolly Volkslieder, and sampled about six wines in quick succession. It soon became clear why Oktoberfest is primarily considered to be a beer festival. Luckily I had brought along emergency supplies of my own, and I quickly broke out my Wallace & Gromit corkscrew and a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild 2002 Pauillac 1er Cru Classé, which luckily was presented to me as a gift in Prague by my good friend Vaclav Vavrinec.

The wine was simply crammed with rich flavours and aromas – winter berries, blackcurrants and Caribbean spices, plus of course that unmistakable hint of Old Holborn rolling tobacco. Vaclav warned me that it would taste better if I laid it down until 2011, but I reasoned that I might not live that long, and that it would be better drunk at an Oktoberfest in September.

I was about to pour my fourth glass, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a large German man wearing a hat and a “Nymphenburger Sekt” T-shirt. He introduced himself as Herr Kuffler and asked if I spoke German. I told him that I did, and he launched into a noisy tirade in which he appeared to be complaining about my wine bottle. After listening to this for around six minutes, I could stand it no longer, and admitted to Herr Kuffler that I actually spoke no German at all. On receipt of this news, he seemed to become even more aggitated, and in excellent English explained that I could not sit in his Weinzelt drinking my own wine, even if it was a particularly fine Chateau Lafite Rothschild.

I offered him a glass, whereupon he called over two burly security guards who efficiently and calmly walked me out of the tent. Had the nasty little man realised that the Chateau Lafite retails for around €200 a bottle I suspect he would have joined me in a glass or two.

Becoming suddenly famished, I made a bee-line for the Sieber Wurstbraterei, who claimed to have “been there since 1876” and were offering “traditional and tasty sausages” – many of which looked as if they had been cooking for the full 133 years.  As I nibbled on a large fat Weisswurst I was once again reminded of those prostitutes hovering by the lifts at the Mövenpick, and became suddenly faint and had to sit down. An attractive German lady perched next to me and explained in broken English that the Bavarian veal sausage I was eating “should not really be eaten after noon.”  I looked at my watch. It was 4.06pm.
“Why?” I asked her.
“It is an unwritten law,” she said.

Six hours later we sat in a cosy booth at the Austernkeller Bavarian Restaurant in Stollbergstraße, eating sesame crab cakes, and foie gras with glazed apple and red-wine sauce. The woman’s name was Fabiana and she had clearly at some time during her life been a staggeringly beautiful woman. Even at the age of 52, one would have to describe her as desirable, with striking green eyes and miraculous arching eyebrows. By this time, of course, we were both very drunk, and Fabiana suggested that I abandon my room at the Splendid Dollmann and join her in her suite at the five star Mandarin Oriental.

The Mandarin turned out to be a deliciously intimate and luxurious boutique hotel. We finished the evening on the poolside roof terrace overlooking the opera house and enjoying a bottle of 1992 Fonseca Port  – a colossal vintage virtually black in colour, and exploding with dark chocolate spiciness. Its finish lasted for over a minute. Which is longer than I lasted inside Fabiana.

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