My desire to play with the big boys started when I was in high school. It was during my teenage years when I accompanied my parents to a New Year’s dinner in the old Cape Dutch Hotel near the top of Sir Lowry’s Pass in the heart of the Elgin apple farms. It was there that I met two young navel cadets, sons of a local landowner, who decided to tolerate the little whippersnapper during the night, and probably deliberately let him have his way with the drinks.
Away from the main table and the prying eyes of my parents, I joined my newly found friends in the pub under the aged oak beams and subdued lights. I chose a vodka and lemonade because I had been told that vodka doesn’t smell on the breath and therefore my parents wouldn’t discover that I had had a drink. Or so I thought. It was quite nice and grown up so I tried another. And another. And another.
What transpired behind my back between my father and the landowner apple farmer with a double-barrelled name, and his two sons, I have no idea, but that suitable arrangements were put in place to deal with the somewhat intoxicated and very tired young fellow, is not disputed.
I do recall being gently placed into the back of a large limousine in the early hours of the next morning and taken off to an apple farm a short distance away, where I collapsed into a warm and soft king-size bed in one of the many guest en suites in the landowner’s mansion. For many of the hours until daybreak the ceiling kept spinning in circles around my head and I found it impossible to slow it down.
At daybreak, the very English gentleman with the double-barrelled name strode into my bedroom dressed a little like Sherlock Holmes and with a hearty cheer, greeted me.
Good morning. I’ve organized you a splendid mountain breakfast young man. If you wouldn’t mind coming through to the dining room.
I stared at mine host through half-closed, swollen eyes. My head was pounding. I swear I hadn’t had more than two hours sleep. But I was young and readily intimidated by seniority and I had been brought up with good manners and an inherent need not to be discourteous to my seniors, let alone a kind and thoughtful host. I stumbled out of bed, realizing that I was still fully dressed save for my shoes, which I clumsily laced up before cautiously making my way to the dining room.
The dining room was more like a banqueting hall. The traditional sash bar wooden windows stretched the length of the room and overlooked a manicured lawn that rolled gently down an incline to the edge of a large trout dam. I sat down at a place setting at the banqueting table and mine host sat next to me at the head of the table.
I didn’t want to eat anything. In fact, I really didn’t even want to smell food. I was feeling incredibly unwell, but I could hardly back down in the face of such caring kindness. Although I failed to notice it at the time, looking back I am sure he would have had a rather mischievous smile face at this point. I gathered my limited strength and got ready to step up to the task.
The doors from the kitchen swung open and the chef, adorned in a neatly ironed chef whites, stepped up to the table and placed before each of us a very large, whole, head-to-tail, steaming, and very fresh grilled trout.
Under any other circumstances, the trout would have been magnificent. Under these however, I felt last night’s dinner and liquid suddenly decide to rise up from my stomach, through my oesophagus, and towards my mouth. I rose instantly and ran for my room. I only made it as far as through the bedroom door before every last bit of my bodily content made a brutal and explosive exit.
I was allowed to clean myself up as far as that was possible and at sometime during the day, I was transferred by limousine back to our home in Somerset West. I was simply too washed out to feel embarrassed. Or in fact, to feel anything than as if I was on my deathbed.
No one said a word to me after that incident. It was imprinted into my memory, never to be erased, and established itself a point of reference that I’ve carried with me throughout my years since.
Notwithstanding that vodka crash, I went on to discover the taste of beer and for a good while thoroughly enjoyed a couple of frosties with the boys. But as I started to climb the ladder, as it were, I discovered that understanding and savouring the fruit of the vine was considered an important part of a high-flyer executive way of life. Not that I was a high-flyer, but more like a high-flyer wannabe!
On one occasion we were invited to dinner by a client of a substantial national winery to celebrate the conclusion of a national contract renewal meeting while on a visit to the Cape of Good Hope.
The venue was none other than the magnificent Lanzerac Estate, an historic vineyard that lies in the Jonkershoek Valley very near the lovely town of Stellenbosch in one of the most beautiful wine-growing regions on earth. We were not surprised to discover that our client was a wine connoisseur given that he had lived and worked in the wine industry most of his life.
A really jolly middle-aged fellow, that I shall call Leonard (Len for short), was in fine fettle and had a mischievous sense of humour. We settled down at a circular table in the main dining hall of the hotel. The ambience, décor, and presentation was old-school and elegant. The waiters and waitresses that hovered around to respond to our every wish were neat, warm, friendly, and efficient. Things were set for a super evening, and as it was one of the very first experiences in such impressive surroundings, I was all ears.
Are you a wine drinker, Richard? asked our host.
Well, yes indeed, I replied. I enjoy a glass of red but I can’t say that I know very much about wine, I explained, a tad reservedly.
Well, the thing is, the best wine for you is the one you enjoy, explained Len. You needn’t take much notice of what connoisseurs suggest should accompany various dishes or occasions. The trick is to savour the liquid and to try and relate to the taste and aroma that describes it. If you like it, it’s a good wine.
At this point, he summoned a waiter who was about to hand him a wine list and said, We are in the mood for a good quality red. I would like the maître d’ to select his recommended vintage on our behalf.
Certainly sir. Any particular variety? asked the waiter.
No. I’d rather not specify. I’m really interested in what the choice will be.
It was certainly a most unusual way to order wine, I thought. I mean, he would have no idea whether it would be any good, and more importantly I wondered how was he going to deal with whatever it would cost. I was aware that you can buy a bottle of wine from anything from 120 rand to a couple of hundred thousand rand a bottle. But I guess, he knew what he was doing!
The bottle arrived wrapped in a white serviette. The waiter corked the bottle and poured little more than a smidgin into Len’s crystal clean, red wine glass. Len raised the glass and swirled the content around looking at the tell-tale sign of the liquid left on the side of the glass. The tears on the glass are an indication of the richness and quality of the wine, he explained.
He raised the glass to his nose, then took a small sip of the contents. After a moment he declared, This my friends, is a Merlot/Cab blend, and if I’m not mistaken it comes from Jonker’s vlei, which lies in the Franschhoek region.
The maître d’ arrived at the table, and upon hearing Len’s declaration, he smiled knowingly and quietly nodded in agreement.
I was bowled over. That’s absolutely incredible, I blurted out. How can you tell with such accuracy?
Len ignored my question and raised the glass to his nose and once more took a sample in his mouth.
A nineteen ninety-one vintage I’m guessing, he announced. The maître d’ nodded again.
No way! I chirped again in utter amazement.
Len turned to the waiter and asked if he would decant a drop more for tasting purposes as he felt that There is something else unique about this particular vintage, I detect.
Again, he took a measured taste of the rich red liquid, pondered a moment, and then declared, Jonker’s vlei’s vineyards lie on the sides of the Jakkelspoort Mountain and the interesting thing about this is that some of the fields are south-facing while the others face to the west. The western vineyards enjoy longer periods of sunshine, which provide a richer sweeter tannin that it’s southern friends. I’m pretty sure this particular batch comes from the grapes harvested from the western side.
We sat in awe of the man. It was absolutely riveting to witness such incredible skill. Before anyone could say anything more, he continued with a slight puzzle on his eyebrow.
I still detect something peculiar about this wine, he said, taking yet another small sip. Our host settled back in his chair, swirling the liquid from cheek to cheek in his mouth for a long time before finally allowing it to trickle down his throat. Finally, he sat forward and gestured to the waiter to decant to each of our glasses before finally raising his glass and proposing a toast.
We all took our first taste of the exotic wine. It was good. Round, rich, sweet, with a chocolatey aftertaste. Really a quality wine indeed. What an experience I thought. The real deal. A proper wine connoisseur
So Len, were you able to detect what is peculiar about this wine? I asked. Because it tastes great to me.
One of the really unique processes at Jonker’s vlei that has been practiced since the early 1800s, is that they still press their grapes from a particularly quality harvest manually. In other words, they stamp the juice from the grapes with their feet. There is no doubt that this bottle comes from such a batch and I’m pretty convinced though, that one of the labourers must have pissed in it while pressing.
We looked at him in shock. His face remained expressionless for a moment until the maître d’ couldn’t contain himself any longer and burst into laughter. Len joined in and eventually, after a pause, we understood that we had been taken for a ride by an outstanding performance and joined in laughing ourselves.
Cheers for now!