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.