“Take time to smell the roses,” said Ferdinand the Bull, while I say “take the time to smell a summery rosé”. Mine will never be out of season, that’s for sure. What do you say, F the B?

The rosé in question, as we were totally indecisive between red and white to go with our medium-rare rib eye, was a Santa Julia Syrah. Buenos Aires has taken on its summery feel literally over the past few days (sweats, cockroaches and clear blue skies are our thorns) – even if the nights still need some kind of cardigan-age – so why not take the risk and dive into the first rosé of the “summer?” So we did.

Nice looking bottle too. Fancy modern arty splurge on the front, the blurb at the back did not suggest, in any way, we accompany it with a rib eye. Whatever. I’ve been working ri-cock-ulously hard, so if we can’t decide upon a cooling white – I ‘ate Chardonnay – then why not give the underrated rosé a bloody go with some medium rib eye rareness?

Fresh, clean, so totally downable, this Syrah was certainly a Sunday night pairing. Syrah rosé + well-stocked  ice bucket = making my Monday morning a more enjoyable way to start the second day of the week (for me, that is, I’m not a vicar, I work at the paper on the day of rest, that’s all) as it was simply a tasty little number, and not drunk making at all. It was simply a great way to spend a Sunday night, plus with the rowdy American Airlines cabin crew celebrating a birthday at the next table, we got to hear all kinds of dodgy stuff…

I demanded super chilled, I got super chilled. (We were at our regular place in San Telmo on the corner, despite the fact that service was, unusually, an utter disaster. They were definitely down a man, and it was our usual one, Florencio, AKA Mini Ricardo Darín. The drunk making began when our un-usual waiter, who starts his first-holiday-in-a-year tomorrow, cocked up all our orders then gave us Champagne to make up.

He’s only got four days off so how much relaxing he’ll get done is uncertain. He, especially, is uncertain. “I have a daughter, and a mamma. I ‘ave problems.”

Despite the label advice, (“eat with fish, pasta, white meat, anything apart from steak), it was all worked for me. Refreshing if mild and slightly strawberry, it suited the occasion. Which was a Sunday night, meaning Monday is right round the corner and no one wants to start the second or first day of their week rummaging around for paracetamol. Which neither of us shall be doing.

Added bonus. There was a power cut 30 minutes after we asked for the bill, so we have to go back and pay another day, which spells enormous luck for me as I’ve been waiting two weeks for a new debit card (Banco Macro, you know it’s your fault) so I got out of jail for free, for the time being, that is…