“Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse – and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness –
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.”
Wow! The eleventh verse of Fitzgerald’s The Rubiat of Omar Khayyam embodies everything of my youthful romantic nature, as I am sure it does for many of us.
Wine is a controversial subject in that it contains alcohol and therefore is a taboo substance for certain people. I can understand and respect this point of view but, having been brought up with French parents, I was spared that puritanical rearing. I can remember my fifth birthday when my Father proffered me my first taste of wine. It was in my silver baptism goblet and was mixed with sugar and water and could not have amounted to more than a tablespoon of red ambrosia. Alleluia! Even at the age of five I knew that this was gift from the Gods, and I have never forgotten that dinner with my parents as I learned to toast and solemnly sip the precious nectar.
As the years progressed, the ratio increased by one tablespoon at a time. Throughout my school life and until I married, drawing, painting and poetry were my passions, so that by the time I reached eighteen and finished school, I had this romantic image of being an artist – painting furiously, drinking wine and living on bread and cheese, with a demure, half clad female model, posing for me.
My parents, on the other hand, had different ideas, which definitely did not encompass wine, women and song, but rather focused on my further education. My father thought I should be a lawyer, whilst my mother had visions of her son being an architect. I, on the other hand, lent towards a more libertine lifestyle which included my romantic notions interspersed with fishing, swimming, diving for rock lobsters and naturally pursuing my avid interest in girls. We settled for Bachelor of Economics which was completely contradictory to everything I espoused.
I hated the academic side of University, but really excelled in the social aspects, and greatly improved my knowledge of wine and women. To gain some freedom from my parents, I converted a small independent building away from the main house into my studio. This was my refuge, where I could pursue my art, develop my palate for wine and avoid the close scrutiny of my parents, especially while educating the occasional female partner in art appreciation. The singer Mary Hopkins had nailed it when she came out with the song, “Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end.”
Needless to say, with all these extra-curricular events, my marks were not exactly stellar. In fact, I just managed to scrape through with the minimum required marks. Even this was miraculous, and wholly due to the fact that in the last two weeks before the final exams, I would go into a marathon study phase for eighteen hours a day.
Alas, maturity starts to kick in and sooner or later you meet that significant other. That one person who has the innate knowledge of how to wean you of youthful pursuits, to the utter amazement of your parents and friends, turning you into a well-heeled dog, attentive to the commands of sit, stay, come and lie down.
Upon achieving wedded status, I thought it expedient to relinquish my artistic endeavours and pay close attention to the rules and regulations that govern the marriage relationship. Wine however, was not to be sacrificed, and it turns out the consumption of wine can lead to pregnancies, which in turn saddles you with responsibility. This changes one’s perception of wine and one’s relationship to it.
To make it a legitimate beverage to have around the house one has to metamorphose from enjoying it with abandon to becoming a serious oenophile or wine snob. Praise be to the Gods, we lived in the Western Cape of South Africa in the heart of the wine growing district, with vineyards all around us. Everyone talked and discussed wine and it pervaded the culture and language. Beer was considered as an aperitif on very hot days, to be followed by wine. South Africans in the wine districts love to entertain and pride themselves on their cuisine, paired with rare vintages they discovered in some obscure vineyard.
One of my favourite wines came from a vineyard by the name of Muratie. The winemaker who produced this superb nectar was the most unassuming person you could possibly meet. Mr. Prince wore khaki shorts and shirt, and never wore shoes, but he knew grapes and wine.
Then there was Rustenburg, with the most wonderful wines in the world, and some of the most gracious people I have ever met. Reg Nicholson, the winemaker of Rustenburg, was very knowledgeable and erudite on everything from the growing of the grape to the production of wine. He became my mentor and developed my palate for and appreciation of wine.
On one occasion I bought one hundred pounds of Cabernet Sauvignon grapes from Reg, and trod the grapes by foot in batches which I placed in a baby’s basinet. The task took me well into the late evening, and to speed things up, I used my hands to crush the grapes.
The next morning, I was horrified to find that my hands and feet were stained black and it could not be washed off. Sue hit on the notion of lemon juice, which she liberally applied to my hands. They turned a deep red and looked like the worst case of contagious dermatitis I had ever seen. To make matters worse, that morning I had to make a presentation on a new product my company was introducing. No one would shake hands with me despite my prolific protestations that the curious colouration was caused by wine juice.
As I reach that age where I take time to smell the flowers, I certainly enjoy my wine and often ponder the words of Andre Simon, who said, “Wine makes every meal an occasion, every table more elegant and every day more civilized.”
Owning a restaurant has allowed me the privilege of stocking some incredible wines that are actually quite affordable. Amongst them is the famous Peter Barlow, the most prestigious wine from Rustenburg. Of course, to have a good wine cellar, one must personally research and test each wine before buying. Even more important is the quality control, which requires regularly sampling the wines, ensuring they have not peaked and started to undergo “maderisation”. Unfortunately, there is no one to whom I can entrust this task, so it falls upon my shoulders to ensure that the cellar has great wines.
I continue to grow in years, and I remind myself that age is just a number. It is totally irrelevant unless, as Joan Collins observed, you are a bottle of wine.