French Tasting in the RSA
There was a groundswell of discontent brewing in the office this morning. Or rather not brewing. The water was off in the building, with the immediate consequence that no-one could have coffee, and the less immediate consequence that no-one could unconcernedly avail themselves of the bathroom. Not that the latter was much of a problem, as without their usual morning intake, all but the weakest bladders could probably have staved off the first trip with dromedary-like insouciance till early afternoon. I at least had had two cups to boot up. Not so all those who arrived after I drained the last mug from the Hydroboil. Already the cube farm bovids were becoming listless.
As it happened, I was a little dry this morning following the indulgences of yesterday. For last night I had occasion to attend a tasting at Caroline's Fine Wine Something in town. Like most expensive outings paid for by someone else (my parents in this case), I enjoyed it thoroughly. The theme was Semillon, which I felt quite adequately prepared for, being the only person of my generation who knew (a) that it was a white wine, and (b) how to spell and pronounce it. Rare skills in these topsy-turvy times. That I knew nothing else only meant that I had stood to gain much from the experience.
Steenberg's multi-award-winning wine-maker was on hand to talk us through the selection. I made sure to stick my baby finger in the air, draw long ponderous sniffs and then sit back wrinkling my brow as if in deep and immense thought, as befits any degustation featuring French blends that retail at a fashionable R400 to R600 a pop. I nodded knowledgeably when the esteemed assortment of winemakers, writers and owners commented about residual sugars, volatile acids, lemongrass subtleties and tangerine suggestions. I cheered patriotically when they claimed Steenberg's upstart vintage to have outdone its Gallic competitors. And I too gasped as things reached a relative frenzy of excitement when the enfant terrible (as my mother referred to him) of local wine journalism said something approaching controversial about how South Africans should place greater stock in blends over straight cultivars. I think I even caught a low background murmer of animation at one point.
Of course by sample three I had become distracted by an altogether more compelling varietal. When we raised our glasses to inspect colour and legs, the ones that most profoundly impressed me belonged to an alluring blend of long, blonde and pout. Budding with fulsomeness and undeniably piquant of character, this unexpected gem occupied my attention through the more demanding Bordeaux that had the connoisseurs all a-twitter. When the presenter pronounced one of the wines "voluptuous", I almost choked mid-sip, and could only wryly applaud, "Touche".
Sadly she escaped unlabeled into the night. But rest assured, when next I enjoy the formerly hidden complexities and rewards of a Semillon, my associations will be the richer for it.
As it happened, I was a little dry this morning following the indulgences of yesterday. For last night I had occasion to attend a tasting at Caroline's Fine Wine Something in town. Like most expensive outings paid for by someone else (my parents in this case), I enjoyed it thoroughly. The theme was Semillon, which I felt quite adequately prepared for, being the only person of my generation who knew (a) that it was a white wine, and (b) how to spell and pronounce it. Rare skills in these topsy-turvy times. That I knew nothing else only meant that I had stood to gain much from the experience.
Steenberg's multi-award-winning wine-maker was on hand to talk us through the selection. I made sure to stick my baby finger in the air, draw long ponderous sniffs and then sit back wrinkling my brow as if in deep and immense thought, as befits any degustation featuring French blends that retail at a fashionable R400 to R600 a pop. I nodded knowledgeably when the esteemed assortment of winemakers, writers and owners commented about residual sugars, volatile acids, lemongrass subtleties and tangerine suggestions. I cheered patriotically when they claimed Steenberg's upstart vintage to have outdone its Gallic competitors. And I too gasped as things reached a relative frenzy of excitement when the enfant terrible (as my mother referred to him) of local wine journalism said something approaching controversial about how South Africans should place greater stock in blends over straight cultivars. I think I even caught a low background murmer of animation at one point.
Of course by sample three I had become distracted by an altogether more compelling varietal. When we raised our glasses to inspect colour and legs, the ones that most profoundly impressed me belonged to an alluring blend of long, blonde and pout. Budding with fulsomeness and undeniably piquant of character, this unexpected gem occupied my attention through the more demanding Bordeaux that had the connoisseurs all a-twitter. When the presenter pronounced one of the wines "voluptuous", I almost choked mid-sip, and could only wryly applaud, "Touche".
Sadly she escaped unlabeled into the night. But rest assured, when next I enjoy the formerly hidden complexities and rewards of a Semillon, my associations will be the richer for it.
posted by Thor Harley at 5:13 pm
1 Comments:
Well defiled, Frisco. FLPG, I assume you initially attempted to duplicate your comment for added emphasis. I acknowledge that you are better educated in these matters than I am - as evidenced by your summary dismissal of a corked bottle recently at 0932 - very impressive. I still doubt that you can successfuly pronounce Semillon, though am sure it will sound perfectly agreeable from the lips of the "young lady" were she to whisper it dulcetly in my ear.
Post a Comment
<< Home