Which, having a reasonably good visual memory, is what I remember most. However this is an ability that serves you absolutely no good at all in a blind tasting.
I lack the ability to taste a glass of wine and confidently say that it was a 2002 Domaine Leroy Latricieres-Chambertin Grand Cru just because that was what it tasted like. Apparently some people can do this and I think that it would be a devilishly fine party trick. I can confidently tell if a wine is red or white ……… as long as I can see it. And even then perhaps, long gone in my cups, I might have difficulty.
Whilst wine drinkers may be pretentious to a fault I reserve a degree of scorn for those who pay a fortune for bottled water in Australia. What a pointless environmental catastrophe for something where ninety-nine times out of a hundred tap water will do. People who prattle on that about the important taste differences are on the level of those who used to think that egg white omelettes were a key plank of a modern diet. Now we have energised almonds with added kryptonite to sneer at.
For the record you cannot make an omelette without using whole free-range eggs but also adding an extra yoke to the mix. Cook slowly.
I have been given books in which I am meant to make thoughtful record of the bottles that I have consumed, some books even having space for one to paste the labels. Once upon a time you could soak the labels off wine, or if your cellar flooded you could have all the wine labels floating with no connection to their point of origin, leaving one to wonder which one was the Grange and which one was the $5.00 Dan Murphy Bin End. Or in my case the $7.50 Dan Murphy Bin End or the $5.00 Dan Murphy Bin End.
This happened to a friend of ours whose cellar proved not to be waterproof. Though perhaps it was as the water came in but didn’t go out. The only answer was to drink them all so that we could identify them but, in a story reminiscent of the Walrus and the Carpenter, by the time we had identified them they had all been drunk.
Anyway the depth of my incompetence is now on intermittent public show at the Wine and Food Club that my wife and I were invited to join. To be invited to be a member of anything is always a singular honour, though in this case it might have been that they thought newish blood was needed. Most of the members are of an ancient vintage, many from the great years of the 1940s and are a tribute to the surgeons’ skill in joint replacement. Looking across the room can resemble a peaceful scene of the moon glittering in silver waves on an ancient sea when the lights are dim.
Many have been attending the monthly dinners for maybe thirty years and so it might be considered an honour to be amongst company which takes its food and wine seriously. My problem is that I don’t take many things seriously, especially when I am asked to take things seriously.
The format of the dinners is relatively simple. Three courses are served with each course paired with one or two wines. In addition there is often an aperitif to warm one up on. We should be honest here, in that the wines are carefully chosen but not expensive. If you thought that there were any Henschke Hill of Grace in their Cellar you would be sorely disappointed. A fifteen year old Konunga Hill would be more like it, though that probably would not be left field enough given that there some serious oenophiles in the club . There is even a wine maker from the Yarra Valley, though my money is usually on a venerable small bearded man who is gnomic in his taciturnity, but who somehow gives the air of possessing the divinatory powers of the Oracle of Delphi.
Two people are selected to talk about each course and its wine which, for the mathematically challenged, means that there are six speakers. Analysis is expected as to what ingredients are present in the food and you are meant to give an informed opinion on the grape variety, area and age of the wine as well. You are not alone in that you have the combined expertise of the table to guide your opinions - though consensus is often hard to come by with the wine. Basic things like whether it’s a Cabernet Sauvignon or a Shiraz often present some controversy and little consensus. As is usually the case the wisdom of the masses turns out to be wrong as everybody agrees with the person who most confidently espouses his opinion.
It was my turn at the last meeting to discuss the food and the wine and I scored the main course and wine. In the wine area I only got the age of the wine right though I suspect that this is not the reason that I might not be asked to speak again. Perhaps one excerpt from my off-the-cuff remarks is all that is needed.
As part of the nights domestic science education we were shown how the staff prepared Peking Duck. I had read about this but never seen it done. The key technical aspect is separating the skin from the flesh in order to create and air gap that makes the skin crisper. In years gone by this used to be done by getting the chef or kitchen boy blowing up the chicken’s arse which, in the 21st Century, has presented some food hygiene issues. Mind you it has meant the end of one of the more interesting apprenticeships in the kitchen. These days they have a dandy little air pump which is inserted in the same general area, turned on with a muted clatter, and the chicken plumps up like a small balloon. I merely observed that this seemed to be a good way to get a colonoscopy and a face lift at the same time and perhaps some of the club members could avail themselves of the service.