The line to enter the Johnny Walker stand literally went around the block. Well, I say block: it was a few square metres long. But still, it had the biggest waiting line by a quite a measure. There were dozens of stalls to choose from, and yet the upper crust of Johannesburg’s upwardly mobile chose to line up for shots of Johnny Walker Blue. Didn’t they miss the point?
I think we pay too little for our wine. These thoughts have clouded my brain like a Joburg smog – discussions about money always leave a dirty taste – since I heard a few different pronouncements about wine and money. The first was at the Swartland Revolution – the constitutionally testing wine event I attended this weekend, whose schedule ran daily from august conversations about fine wine to hangovers that would bring a tear to your eye and a lump to your throat.
From security guard, to dodgy taxi boss, to even dodgier mine boss – Khulubuse Zuma’s weight has exploded upwards recently. Nouveau riche, and all that. The connection isn’t very subtle – in large parts of South Africa, the way we choose to display wealth is by being overweight. Body fat is our bling.
I remember growing up with this notion that things were always better “over the seas”. Finding myself amongst winos later in life, there is still a remnant of that idea. There’s almost a measure of disbelief when a South African wine is preferred to a French wine of similar style. It feels as though there is a lack of confidence in our own wines, one that’s only bolstered briefly when a foreign critic gives us a high score. The point – which is quickly becoming a bush around which I am beating – is that South African Sauvignon Blanc is world class.
Information wants to be free, man! So says Julian Assange and his WikiLeaks geeks. Info wants to be free! The internet is free! Don’t police it! It’s a nice idea, isn’t it? The internet being the last place on earth that is unpoliced. Well, that may be about to go away.
I love tawny port. The flavours of sweet raisin, black tea and earth make we want to shout and dance around singing, “I’m Tawny, Tawny Tawny Tawny tonight.” I finished half a bottle last night in preparation for this column. It made me happy. But not as happy as I was the last time I drank it – and that’s the rub.
As the temperature warms, the days grow longer, the skirts get shorter, skinny jeans are replaced with skinny denim shorts, and all and sundry converge on Camps Bay, Llandudno and the Cliftons after work to tan, swim, and pat themselves on the back for living in such an awesome city. We know summer is here.
It was quite fortuitous how I became hooked on wine. I wish I could say it was something dramatic: being bullied into a corner by two boisterous sommeliers and forced to taste Corton, but it was all quite simple, and it came down to difference. A friend called to say that her stationary-selling buddy could not make it back from Genadendal – or wherever he was flogging staplers – in time for a wine course. Being a spontaneous chap and always happy for a chance to imbibe in good company, I agreed to this little excursion without question.
When I was handed Gareth Cliff’s book to read, I realised immediately what was going on. I’m not talking about the darkened underground chamber I was locked in, surrounded by sadistic publicists, or the hot coals that were being applied to my singed nipples. I refer to the words stuck between two sheets of stiff paperback.
Yesterday the wines that scored 5 stars in Platter – South Africa’s foremost wine reference guide – were released. At this year’s launch, 18 tasters worked their way through the 7 000 submitted wines. Every now and then they came across one that astounded and delighted, a wine that made them smile and smirk, and hopefully, finish the bottle. Here’s my take on the affair.
Now that we’ve recovered from the #MassiveFail that was the rugby and football over the weekend, I’d like to address something else that has been bothering me. I don’t want to let some stranger come into my house and ask me penetrating questions when there is absolutely no prospect of us hitting the sack later.So no, I would rather not invite Statistics SA’s census enumerators into my house. I’d rather not be counted.
My friends look at my work and the cars I get to drive and they are generally jealous. Sure, it is a privilege to drive so many cars from so many manufacturers and never have to worry about fuel or insurance or tyres or any of that bothersome nonsense that comes with car ownership. Typically, everybody remembers that time when I had the brand new Audi R8 for a week, but nobody remembers when I had to drive a bog-standard Chevy Spark for 9 days. Yeesh.
There are some fantastic wine lists out there, please don’t get me wrong, but there is a disease of boring, careless, drek as well. Wine lists composed with the imagination of a brain bathed in tepid-water, whose purpose is more to nab bucks out your wallet than make your meal memorable. Considering restaurant wine lists in South Africa reminded me immediately of a recent South Park episode where Cartman’s mom doesn’t get him an iPad. His response:
We journalists like to complain about PRs. I didn’t study journalism, so never got the opportunity to pick up some of the bad habits of the industry. It’s always cute to note how many scribes enjoy hating PRs. I think the hatred is reciprocal (an explanation for their general foul attitudes when I call?). I appreciate that they have a job to do. So, a kindly word to PR practitioners out there: I wouldn’t know how to do your job. But I know mine, and it sometimes means that we have to cooperate.
“The wines of Constantia became famous in Europe at the same time (mid 1700 s) as the red wines of Chateau Lafite. Makes you think.” Su Birch, the head of Wines of South Africa, tweeted this week. Lafite is a famous French first growth – the 2009’s are selling for around 14 000 bucks a bottle. Yes Su, it does make me think. It makes me think, “Where the fuck did we go wrong?”
Look, it’s absolutely insane that up to 14 000 people are killed on our roads per annum. Those figures are from 2009, and are apparently the last reliable statistics available. That, according to Bob Geldof logic, would mean that about 38 people are killed on the roads every day. I can’t stress enough how appalling that is. But saying that the road deaths are due to a speed limit that is too high is a bit of a silly statement for a transport minister to make. But that is what S’bu Ndebele wants to do.
Recently I was knocking back Meerlust’s new releases at a lunch. Drinking these rather scrumptious wines, we began to discuss some incredibly important issues. The things one discusses at a wine lunch – among other winos – are, of course of world importance. They solve world hunger, the middle-east issues, America’s debt, Malema, Greece, and hint toward what 42 actually means. To be honest, if it wasn’t for conversations such as these, the world would be in a worse place than it is. So on this blustery day in Stellenbosch, the question that arose was, “Can wine be art?” As I said, vital stuff.
This column is really a tribute to Durban’s Number One, East Coast Radio. Thanks to those DJs and their music selection committee, I got the joke when Jay-Z and Mr. Hudson sang Forever Young. I was belting out the tunes like all the white 30-somethings when the Wedding DJs played at Oppikoppi this year. I threw out the question of the greatest one-hit wonders of all time on Twitter yesterday afternoon, and the responses were varied and colourful. This is not a compilation of the five most chosen songs. This is not a democracy. This is my list.
I have been a bit airy-faery of late, mouthing off about elegance, the nature of language, bonhomie, and the like. Which, I must say, I prefer talking about at dinner where there is plenty room to bang my fists on the table. And as the banging of digital fists becomes slightly tiresome, I thought I would veer off in a more practical direction. So here are a few tips to making your wine drinking life more pleasurable.
Hipsters get way too much credit these days. I don’t mean that in a good way. Hipsters – especially those of a South African persuasion – deserve all the deep-seated hatred that comes their way. What I mean is that they are credited with far more social traction than they actually possess. They just aren’t that big of a deal. I’m far more forgiving of emos than I am of hipsters.
Drugs are great. Don’t listen to those naysayers who offer hugs instead. Silly. Whoever heard of a hug that produced art, ideas, conversation and discovery? Some may have led to sex, sure, but then I reckon ecstasy wins on that count. Of course, drugs kill people and ruin lives. So do guns, politicians, earthquakes, religion, airline food, ignorance, baseball-bats, well timed punches, badly timed racing drivers, and a host of animals. But none of these things gives us the sheer pleasure while hastening our demise that drugs do. Wine is my drug of choice.
There isn’t much right with South Africa’s roads. Take the Jan Smuts Avenue, for instance. It snakes through the heart of Johannesburg from Parktown on the very edge of town, to the dusty wastelands of the godforsaken and heathen Randburg in the north. Along the way, it passes through important suburban locations like Hyde Park, Craighall, and my doorstep.
Every now and again I’ll post a column on a certain word that wine people – myself included – use to describe wines that can be slightly troubling. I am going to try and make it a little bit clearer as to how the word is being used in reference to wine. Because as much fun as it is pairing wine with death, one must try to be of some use. Slight disclaimer: This is a column that imagines its readers enjoy thinking about wine a little. If you are happy with the “Ja, not battery acid I’ll drink it. Fuck that it’ll kill you” approach to drinking wine, this may annoy you.
Since the shoes go on the feet, it’s easy to ignore them. To think you can get by with a good shirt and jacket while leaving your shoes to the mercy of poor taste is not ok. I suspect this is why Gregory House said that shoes never lie.