At 96, Albert Waffling is still on the floor at historic, “Whale of Time” in Torquay, England — is he half sommelier, half time machine?
Our very own Jake Botcher, East London’s finest sommelier, got on the train to Devon to find out.
The train pulled in slow to Torquay, and I stepped off with my best clobber and a bottle of something cheeky tucked in the armpit. The seafront was quiet in the off-season, the kind of sleepy coastal town that still smells of vinegar. But just up the road, right on the seafront, sits the Whale of Time Hotel & Restaurant and that my dear chums, is where I was heading to.
The place ain’t what it was - these days, you’ll find more creaky chairs than customers - but it still holds onto a kind of quiet grandeur. And at the heart of it all, like the last cork in the bin, stands Albert Waffling. Age 96. Sommelier. Storyteller. Possibly immortal. Definitely a nutter.
He’s served at Whale of Time for 74 years straight. Not once has he properly retired. He moves slower than the molasses flood in Boston and decants with the care of a bomb disposal expert with a dodgy bottle of Cristal. But folks don’t come here for speed. They come for Albert.
At 96 years old, his days of gliding across floors with the agility of a fox might be long past, but there he is, still donning his wine-stained apron and that ever-present twinkle in his eye, ready to serve - or at least, eventually serve - another bottle. Most sommelier leave the floor after some time but by doing that cease to be a sommelier anymore. Albert is the old guard…old school.
You see, Albert's process of retrieving a bottle of wine is something of a legend. If his understudies are off for the night, away, or under the weather, guests know they’re in for a bit of an adventure. Albert will nod sagely at the order, mutter something about a 1970 Pomerol that he “once knew quite well,” and then embark on an odyssey to the wine cellar.
And what a journey it is.
Some say it’s like watching a vintage wind-up toy soldier slowly making its way across the room. He’ll shuffle down the corridor, pausing occasionally to reminisce about a bottle of claret from 1975 or to straighten a slightly crooked painting on the wall. Then there’s the wine cellar itself, a place Albert claims is “alive with the memories of a thousand dinners.” It's not uncommon for him to emerge a good half-hour later, covered in cobwebs, cradling the bottle like it’s a long-lost friend.
Opening the bottle is another matter altogether. Albert’s hands might tremble as he carefully positions the corkscrew, muttering to himself the whole time - something about “the proper way to bring the cork out, like coaxing his cat, Chinon, down from a tree.” And if decanting is required, well, that’s when the real show begins. He might pour a little too fast, or too slow, or even forget mid-pour or even why he’s holding the bottle in the first place, only to remember suddenly, with a gleeful “Ah, yes! The nectar of the gods!”
But here’s the thing - no one really minds.
Guests at Whale of Time know that Albert is something special. They understand that behind the wiffle-waffle, the rambling and the occasional mind kerfuffle, there are absolute gems waiting to be discovered. It’s in those moments when Albert might, quite out of the blue, deliver a perfectly lucid and poetic observation about the wine in his hand, or recount a tale from decades past that’s as vivid as the day it happened.
Inside the dining room, it’s dimly lit and dust-coated, like stepping into a well-aged cellar. The chandeliers sag slightly like my brainbox on a hangover. The tablecloths have seen wars. And Albert stands by the bar, polishing glasses with a rag that looks older than most of the staff.
I sit down across from him, notebook in hand. He offers me a glass of something deep and red and says, “This one's got the nose of a regret and the finish of a memory or is it the other way around?” And so, begins our conversation.
Jake Botcher: Albert, you bloody beauty! You’ve been working this floor since 1950-something?
Albert Waffling: '55. Or maybe '54? Doris Day was still singing in color and I remember Norman Wisdom headlining the Pier. I was just a lad with legs like jelly. No menus back then. Chalkboard and hope. Wine came in jugs you see. We’d decant in fancy saucepans and serve it in whatever glass hadn’t chipped.
Jake: What’s kept you going all these years?
Albert: Habit, mostly…and gravity. But it’s the bottles, really. Each one’s a story - a chapter. Some tell fairy tales, others read like crime novels. I opened a '45 Bordeaux once that tasted like blackberry picking on the old canal. It's the rhythm of the place, isn’t it? Like a heartbeat. A sausage in the frying pan. I remember when we first started - no menus back then, just a blackboard and some chalk. Wine was raw, like life itself. But that’s what kept me, I suppose - the surprises in each bottle.
Jake: You’ve brushed elbows with wine history more than most. Any tales?
Albert: Oh, dozens! I was there when the Mondavi brothers had a barney over a fur coat. I tried to stop it. No luck. Then there was Paris, '76. I thought it was a picnic. Turned out to be Spurrier’s judgement. A fine man he was. The Yanks won. I told Spurrier he was top draw.
Jake: What about those Super Tuscans, a little birdie tweeted that you might have had something to do with that?
Albert: Ah yes - in Tuscany. They were fed up with the rules. I said, “Make good wine, call it what you like.” Next thing you know, they’re blending Sangiovese with Cabernet and changing the wine world.
Jake: So, we’ve talked before about this but what’s your philosophy on the three stages of wine?
Albert: Well, young wines are cheeky. All perfume, no trousers. Mid-aged ones have balance - still sharp as a tack, but thoughtful like a tortoise. Old ones? Soft-spoken, like your Grandma whispering bedtime stories to you. Some fall apart. But some - some - taste like time itself. You sip them and suddenly remember everything you've forgotten.
Jake: And here at Whale of Time - things have slowed down?
Albert: Not so many diners these days in the off-season but it gets usy in the summer. But the real wine lovers, they come year-round for the same reason. To see if the old boy's still breathing. Last week I spent fifteen minutes decanting a Barolo. The cork was stubborn. When it finally popped, it sounded like a mouse sneezing. The gentleman clapped. Said it was the highlight of his holiday.
Jake: You must have a cellar full of stories.
Albert: Full of dust and dreams. Found a 1931 Riesling the other day. Still bright. And once, we lost a case of Madeira for thirty years. Turned out someone had used it as a footrest in the linen closet. Tasted like figs.
Jake: You ever forget what you were doing mid-service?
Albert: Every hour. But guests are patient. They know I’ll get there eventually. And in the meantime, I might tell them something useful. Or at least, hope so.
Jake: What’s the one rule every young sommelier should live by?
Albert: Listen. To the wine. To the room. To your gut. Don’t blabber. Don’t show off. And like a person, never trust a wine that’s too eager to be opened.
Jake: It’s clear that this place means so much to you. With the restaurant quieter now than it used to be, do you ever think about retiring?
Albert Waffling: Retiring? Ha! Retirement is for the young. I’m just getting started, my dear. Why, just last week, I opened a bottle from 1961. Took me three tries, but I got it in the end. And that’s the secret, you see - never give up. Just like the wine, we all need time to breathe, to let the air in, to see what we’re made of. This place may be quieter now, but it’s still alive. Just like me. And as long as there’s wine to pour and stories to tell, I’ll be here, legs like old trees, steady as the oaks outside.
Sometimes, Albert doesn’t even know what he knows anymore. But that’s the magic of it. Each interaction with him is a blend of the expected and the unexpected, a wine-tasting of words, if you will. Guests might find themselves waiting longer than they would in a more modern establishment, but they’ll leave with stories they’ll tell for years. They’ll talk about the night they met Albert Waffling, the oldest sommelier in the world, who, despite his age and the cobwebs, still has the ability to turn a simple bottle of wine into an unforgettable experience.
And when he finally returns with that bottle in hand, after what seems like a small eternity, it’s not just wine he’s offering. It’s history, nostalgia and it’s a reminder that some things, like Albert himself, only get better with time.
As I stood to leave, Albert pressed a bottle into my hand-wrapped in a tea towel, dusty as a used sermon.
“This one’s special," he whispered. "Tastes like a broken heart on a cold morning.”
Was it? I dunno mate. I haven’t opened it yet.
Some bottles, like stories, are better left to breathe.
Interview conducted April 2025 at Whale of Time Hotel & Restaurant, Torquay, England
By Jake Botcher for the Indelible Wine Stain
