Pulling your hair out over wine competition results?

THE call for technology to be used at important competitions is not limited to the 2010 World Cup where a number of ludicrous refereeing decisions have led to a storm of protest. A number of wine judges have now also requested that wine competitions employ technology to avoid the heartbreak and trauma of incorrect decisions on judging panels.

Speaking on condition of anonymity, a leading South African wine judge told WineGoggle: “Just the slightest slip during the judging process can make the difference between Gold and Bronze. While we believe competition organisers do everything in their powers to ensure a fair outcome, human error does sometime lead to the wrong decisions being made on the spur of the moment. Especially when the pressure is on and the moment is heat-filled, judges can erroneously make a vinous cock-up.”

According to the wine judge, one of the most common faults is for a judge to get the order of a line-up mixed-up leading to him or her scoring a certain wine incorrectly when the wines are revisited at the end of the line-up. “This especially happens during the Shiraz tastings where most of us are so pissed at the end of tasting 100-plus wines we can’t even read our own score-sheets when going back down the line-up to do a re-taste. Video technology could assist in this by alerting the judge to the fact that the wine thought to be an 18 hum-dinger on the re-taste is actually the 12 point clanger tasted during the first trip down the flight.”

Wine-makers support the call for technology during competitions. “It would lead to greater transparency,” one wine-maker said. “Generally we just get told by the judges how good or kak we are. It would be great to actually see the judges tasting and discussing the wines that end up winning trophies or medals. The shrivel of an excited nose, the wince of disgust, a smile of joy…..witnessing this kind of reaction from judges would add a new dimension to wine judging which is at the moment a one-route exercise where judges do all the work but we wine folk don’t get to see what they are doing.”

Video technology could also eradicate possible collusion of pushy judges who try to impress their will on the rest of the panel as well as those using the Platter Wine Guide to aide them in their descriptions.

“It would be senseless not to use the technology which is available,” the wine judge said. “Who knows, it could even lead to wine judging becoming a spectator sport where we’ll all be winners.”

- Darien Morgan

Riaan Smit hanging out at some Conti vineyard in Burgundy.

That man Smit is at it again. Yes, Riaan Smit, WineGoggle’s roving correspondent, is living it up in Burgundy. Tending vines, sleeping in cars….what a life. Here’s his report.

I took my vuvuzela with to the pub in La Chapelle de Gruinchay, in Burgundy, determined not to be a lout and only blow it when Bafana Bafana scored. Two blows in the first half – the French patrons of Au Bouchon Chappelois took it in fatalistic good humour.

They were almost English – good game, old chap! Not like South Africans – winning isn’t everything, it is the only thing.

I enjoy being in France, I feel comfortable and I like the wine, and I am back here to work a five-week trainee stint in a Burgundy vineyard – Chateau du Moulin-a-Vent (Chateau of the wind mill).

Why punish my 46-year-old body in a 30-hectare vineyard, half a world away from home – without my wife and two small kids? When you stake a newly planted, untrellised, vineyard with over 1 300 wooden pegs in an afternoon and you have to drink Myprodols for your aching back, it is a pertinent question.

It is part of my mid-life make-over to be a wine maker. Besides, we shut down at Elsenburg on May 14, because of the World Cup, and only start again on July 19. May as well get some practical experience.  Although it was a bitch of a condensed semester at Elsenburg – half the third years flunked wine chemistry – I am in no need of a holiday anyway.

Incidentally, out of my 35-odd-students second year class, not enough students survived academically to fill the 20-student wine making quota for 2011. If you think they are handing out degrees at Elsenburg, think again.

For the record, Johan (the other old dude in the class) and myself, got our academic asses kicked by a girl and were demoted to numbers 2 and 3 respectively. We are looking for a boyfriend for her – muisneste – anything to distract her. It is now a serious race to get our names on the big, shiny, Best Winemaking Student Trophy next to that of Kevin Grant et al.

South Africans somehow have the image of hard workers. But I have been lucky to work for two 27-year old French wine makers (Alexandre Le Corguille at Chateau La Gordonne, and now, Guillaume Berthier) for whom I have great respect.

These guys work incredibly hard hands-on, seem to be technically very competent, and, above all, both are excellent managers. They do not have the luxury of a large work force – La Gordonne (2 million bottles) has nine workers and Moulin-a-Vent, four. At La Gordonne, the manager of 200 hectares of vineyards happily dug out the skins from massive tanks. Do not believe that the French 35-hour work week means anything in the wine industry.

The key to Ms Le Corguille and Berthier’s success seems to be their management skills. Can you aspire to be a successful winemaker if you cannot even organise the proverbial piss-up in a brewery? Can you make money for your proprietor by managing your resources properly? Can you sell the merde?

It makes me question how we train our winemakers. Are we turning out primarily chemists and technicians (although it is necessary to a limited extent)? But what about the management side of running a winery? Winemakers are not occupied 24/7 by physically making wine. At least Elsenburg is making a damn good effort of giving its students management skills by teaching Agricultural Management in all three academic years. It certainly is a more than useful subject.

My French is coming along tres bien – this morning in the vineyard – pulling wires – I had a decent conversation with Carmillo who does not speak a word of English. Unfortunately I am not proficient enough to explain to him my fit of laughter when I mentally translated our physical work – om draad te trek.

In Burgundy vines are not trellised. The fast-growing canes of the densely planted vines (+/-10 000 per hectare) are bunched up by a wire on each side to expose the developing grapes to sun light. These wires are untangled from the growth, dropped to the ground, and then pulled tight to gather the canes. Nylon twine is used for the same purpose in vineyard parcels without wires.

Call me a sucker – no pun intended – but I had such a thrill over the weekend visiting the famed vineyard of Romanée Conti. It is an utterly unassuming place – the little road, Rue du Temps Perdu (it literally – and ironically – means something like: the road of ruined times), past the church in the village is not even marked.

I sat on the stone wall next to the cross that marks this precious terroir and marveled at the price its wine sells for: Last I checked it was R54 000 a bottle. Oops, we just sold two bottles and can afford to pay the winemaker’s salary this month. It is just a bit obscene.

The wine maker’s chateau makes Abrie Beeslaar’s very nice accommodation at Kanonkop look like a humble cottage.

Unfortunately the rather eclectic Bar du Monde on Rue Faubourg Madeleine in Beaune is closed on Sundays. I will go back on a Friday or Saturday night and stuff the back of my chateau Citroën van with a mattress – rather spend around Euro 80 on good wine than on fancy accommodation.

I have never been to Burgundy before and after driving the length of it in one, long day, I am convinced that if you are a tourist and you have a more than average interest in wine you can easily spend a week here – make that two weeks – and not be able to take it all in. But please come and try. You will be seduced.

Vino Mafia in Stellenbosch.

I DON’T really want to continue harping on about the wine-in-restaurant thing, but some stupid restaurateurs make me unable to help myself. Obviously my pot-shots at money-grabbing eateries purporting an interest in wine whilst really only ripping the customer off are not appreciated by all. See, for example, the diplomatic and elegant comment from one Johan to a previous posting on this topic.

The latest stave in the rotting barrel is Decameron. Yes, the beloved Decameron in Stellenbosch. Since the 1980’s this has been one of the most popular joints in town, serving excellent food and attracting a loyal clientele of local businessmen and winemakers among the thousands who visit the place annually.

Decameron, situated in Plein Street, closed a few years back for not uncontroversial redevelopment of the building it is housed in. Now it is back and by all accounts as good as ever.

But amongst the blister-thin pizzas, velvety pasta and tasty meat dishes, I smell a rat. And it is in the wine. And now I am not talking about the ubiquitous and irritating 250% mark-ups which us patrons have to endure.

A few local wine producers have alerted me to the fact that any producer wishing to see his wine on the Decameron carte has to fork out R450 a month for the privilege. Plain and simple.

I have a problem with this.

First: When visiting a restaurant where I am obliged to pay the mark-up, I have to swallow the establishment’s excuses for such a hike. One of them is that the restaurant has invested in staff who go to great lengths to manage the shops cellar and to select a range of wines complementing the cuisine.

The R450 monthly levy shoves this, of course, to the wayside. What Decameron is saying is that they will stock Château KopKaas from Putsonderwater as long as the requisite sweetener is paid. No respect for the product itself. Pay as you flow.

This situation must really be pissing off the Stellenbosch Wine Routes, which brings me to gripe numero duo. Without the Stellenbosch winelands and the local winemakers, what reason is there to visit Stellenbosch apart from scoping out the first year students and a couple of yawn-inducing thatched buildings?

Wine makes Stellenbosch rock. Yet a place such as Decameron gives the finger to the region’s wine industry with its policy of wine selection. Stuff the local industry – pay me for being on the wine-list and I don’t care if your stuff is made in Parow-Noord or Pofadder.

This brings me to the third reason for pitying Decameron in its rudeness. The restaurant is frequented by wine makers who have introduced the establishment to associates, friends, business partners, et al. Yet, this courtesy has been thrown back in their faces with a mercenary and insensitive wine selection policy.

Some will call it business. I think it is common and greedy.

- Faizel van der Vyver

Classic interior design in Fernando's.

WE HIT Port Elizabeth at midday. All cheers. Maroon Porra soccer shirts and scarves. Driving in the Toyota we looked like chorizo stuffed in a tin-can on wheels.

Nobody knew where the hell we were. The Porra driving us almost wiped out three motor-bikes, four Mercs and an old lady pushing a trolley of toilet paper. This happens when you are hungry.

There was a technical expert in the car. Pieter BlackBerry Bubbles Ferreira. He hit the phone, surfing the Net for a place to eat. “I’ve got it,” he remarked with the kind of enthusiasm the blind monk Dom Perignon showed upon discovering Champagne. “Fernando’s Chicken House.”

Pieter typed the address into the phone. An electronic voice emerged. Told the Porra where to drive – if this was possible.

But we get there. Just – Porra driver almost decapitated a Cote D’Ivoire soccer fan showing us the finger. Fernando’s is on the shady part of Port Elizabeth, which is difficult to find as the whole town is shady. We find it. We are street smart. We have cred. We are bro’s.

The city belongs to us. And, it would appear, the whole Porra population between Cape Town and Durban. And they are all at Fernando’s.

We walk in. Faces look up. Questioning. Porra gives the owner the eye and the secret Porra thumb signal. Relieved, Fernando asks as what we want. He is behind the bar. The place is packed. Laurentina’s are ordered. We drink them from the bottle. The place is packed. Soccer supporters. Check the chicks with the olive skin. Hot!

But not hotter than Fernando’s. A waitress guides us to a table. It is a long one. We share it with about eight other ladies and gentlemen of Portuguese persuasion. We know they are the real thing: the guys wear enough jewellery to weigh-down a rap star. The chicks look at pictures of Ronaldo and smile. Dreamily.

We have to get eating. Kick-off is two hours away. The waitress writes. Chicken giblets. Grilled chicken peri-peri. Prego roll. Portuguese salad, which is like a salad only Portuguese. And a chorizo.

Wine is orderd – Casal Carcia, what else. Adam Mason checks the wine. Pieter Ferreira checks the menu to see if we’ve missed anything. Alcino, the Aussie Porra and his charming lady Emily check their cell-phones to see if they are in the right country.

I get up to check on the bar. Our waitress is multi-tasking. She is opening beer, grilling the chicken, writing another order and crapping on a non-soccer patron who is giving her the eye. They make them like the used to over here.

Back at the table, food. Giblets swimming in a glutinous garlicky sauce. Chickens perfectly grilled to crispiness. Fresh rolls. Piping hot home-made chips. A chorizo that looks eerily schlong-like.

Joaquim Sa assists Adam Mason from Constantia in getting the hang of Porra culture.

Wine is drunk and we dig in like no tomorrow. After the previous evening’s experience at Psycho Italian we are hungry as a pack of dogs on the Low GI diet.

Hey, pass The Sauce. The Sauce stands on the table, glaring at you from a one litre bottle. It is home-made peri peri. It is bright red, the colour of the heels of an ostrich in mating season. The consistency is something between oil, peanut butter and hair gel. It is frighteningly hot, spicy and exotically delicious. It is lashed over chips, chicken, chorizo and even over the Portuguese salad.

The chicken is moist on the inside and the skin crisp and spicy. The chips are perfect as only perfectly cooked chips can be. I want to take two chips to the stadium to use them as ear-plugs for keeping out the sound of the vuvuzela, but can’t resist from finishing the bowl.

Man, but it is noisy with all the Porra talk. We mop plates with bread. Wash everything down with cool Casal Garcia. This is the real deal. The main sardine. We’ll be back, but first we must head to the stadium: Forca Portugal.

Pieter, Alcino, Madeira Ambassador and Emily.

Pizza Pizza?

Headed up the Garden Route, destination Port Elizabeth and Portugal against Cote D’Ivoire, but not all soccer, also a bit of fun along the way. After all, the crowd included Pieter Ferreira, Graham Beck’s cellar master and gourmand of note, Adam Mason of Klein Constantia and Joaquim Sa who has not met a meal or a pool table he did not like. Also in tow were two Aussies: lovely Emily and her beau Alcino, like Joaquim a friendly chap originally from the Land of the Long Red Chorizo.

It’s like, freezing as we head-up on the N2 past Heidelberg and Mossel Bay and George and Knysna, and by the time we get to Plettenberg Bay we are hungry enough to eat a living hyena with a skin problem. And seeing as Plet is to be our base for the duration of our soccer venture, we jump right in and check out the local dining establishments.

Whoa! But the place is chic. All cottagey and clean and bright. Shops and bars and restaurants, walking along we smell salt and hear the sound of the ocean, and life is good as we prepare mentally for the next day’s trip to PE to watch the World Cup match. We have also had a few drinks, so amble down the empty, cold streets of Plet with joy in our hearts.

Italian food it shall be, so Ciccio it is. Set just off the road, Ciccio promises Italian hospitality at its finest as well as terrific trattoria type dining.

The place is cold and white and empty. The familiar hollering of a crazy Italian in the kitchen adds atmosphere, which is – temporarily – of the positive kind. It soon becomes clear that Flavio, or Luigi of Mario or Tontori or whoever he is, is two straws short of a strait-jacket.

He sees us and makes a jittery move towards the table, hopping and jiving and making those ridiculous stork-like arm gestures Italians are so fond of. Okay, we feel welcomed. Yes, we’ll stay. Okay, let’s watch the soccer on TV – Paraguay against Italy – so how about we move the tables together so all six of us plus the Italian psycho can check it out.

The waitress takes orders: hey, how about the wine-list? Adam Mason orders two bottles of Vergenoegd Cabernet Sauvignon 2002. Killer choice! I am feeling adventurous. Tell the waitress to bring a table full of anti-pasta because we are ready to partake in fine Italian fare.

The wine is good. Firm. Robust. More flesh than juice. More blood than nectar. The Italian fare in anti-pasta form arrives and it is not bad. Freshly purchased from Pick ‘n Pay it consists of non-descript rubbery cheese, sun-dried tomato and some commercial salami which is about as Italian as a Masai warrior.

But hey, the soccer is playing out on television. The crazy Italian is screaming at the referee, telling the Azurri defenders how to handle themselves during the set-pieces and attempting to cook lasagne. All at the same time.

It is going to be a long night.

More wine is drunk and the Italian chef-owner uses an oily middle-finger to make a lurid gesture at the television and storms into the kitchen to make our food.

Paraguay scores. Cursing and the sound of clanging kitchenware emanates from the kitchen. Somewhere in the dark cold night, a cat screeches and a baby hollers.

Then the main-courses arrive. There is pasta and a couple of pizzas. The pizza bases had been pre-baked, like in the previous millennium when Mussolini ruled the roost, and hastily smothered with items. Somebody forgot the tomato.

I have a spaghetti vongole, which is spaghetti with clam sauce. Or supposed to be. There is spaghetti. There is some tasteless overcooked tomato stuff. Either the lunatic in the kitchen forgot the clams or he made them disappear. But they sure as hell are not in the sauce.

By now Italy have equalised and our Italian host is sitting in front of the television reciting Dante, making threatening gestures with his left pinkie and doing a rapid nodding jig with his head. Unfortunately he was not having a stroke, but encouraging the Italian soccer team to do whatever they were supposed to do and urging us to stay longer.

This was one crazy situation, so we paid the giggling waitress, leaving a tip and the number of a few competent psychiatrists before speeding off into the stormy African night, where snow had begun to fall on the mountains.

Tomorrow: The crew heads to Port Elizabeth and Fernando’s!

It is anybody’s guess what impact – if any – the World Cup will have on South African wine. Probably the most useful legacy of the event may be a much stronger recognition of “brand South Africa”. Lack of this awareness is often pointed out as a major barrier in getting consumers to pick a “Product of South Africa” amid a myrriad of wine choices in the world’s supermarkets and wine shops.

 A single swallow does not a summer make, but the following story from the weekend edition of the San Francisco Cronicle is a good example of the kind of press local producers should pray for. Incidentally, the country in which the most World Cup tickets were sold outside South Africa is the United States of America. They are also the biggest consumers of wine in the world:

“Even in lean times, people don’t necessarily stop drinking wine, but they do want to be certain they’re getting a good value.

“That’s good news for South Africa, which is getting a boost in visibility from World Cup 2010 just as the country is polishing its reputation for an impressive range of wines that are long on quality and affordability.

“South African winemakers are producing notable Cabernet Sauvignon, Shiraz, Sauvignon Blanc, Chenin Blanc and Chardonnay. These South African selections are finally starting to break through onto Bay Area wine lists at such diverse spots as Eos Wine Bar and Gary Danko.

“South African wines are great wines and great values,” says Hector Osuna, wine director at Eos Wine Bar in Cole Valley. “South Africa has beautiful terroir.”

 Rest of article here.

It was like being kicked in the teeth by a French prostitute wearing Rossi boots. And this happened at one of my favourite Cape Town wine establishments.

Okay, a bit of background: I dig Caveau. Not the restaurant-wine bar next to Newlands rugby stadium, but the eatery in the city centre. Killer steak tartare. Very good sushi. Nice people, especially seeing as Caveau shares a space with Max Models and lunch-times seem to be a good time for leggy models to drop by with their portfolios.

But the best thing about Caveau is the wine. Great wine list. Diverse selection by bottle and by glass. The place makes no bones about its aspirations of wanting to be seen as a wine destination.

No problem. I enjoy it and spend good dosh buying wine there, albeit that some of the mark-ups are a bit steep.

Last week I drop in at Caveau for a late lunch with The Porra and Calculus. We order food and expensive beers. And then I haul out a bottle of Crystallum Pinot Noir 2008. It is not on the wine-list, so I thought I could pay corkage so as to allow Calculus and the Porra to experience what I perceive to be great wine. And Caveau being a wine emporium, I did not think this would be a problem.

Not. No wines from outside allowed. I explained the situation – it was not a BYO get-pissed-cheaply scenario. We merely wished to share a bottle of special wine in a special place.

No, sorry. Rules are rules.

I put the bottle away after muttering some delicate words about the waiter’s mother’s pink bits and continued drinking beer. A while later, we tried again. And this time a different waiter was more forthcoming. He opened the wine, poured three meagre tasting drops, and pushed the cork deep back into the bottle.

That was it. No it was not. Then the waiter had the nerve to come back to our table and ask us where the Crystallum can be sourced because a customer on an adjoining table wanted to know.

Two thumbs down.

-          Faizel van der Vyver

Rianie Strydom, wine-dame at Haskell.

LIKE a hard man, a good Shiraz is not all that easy to find. I think the sentiments expressed in this article by Eric Asimov apply to South African wine lovers as much as they do to the Yanks.

But taste is in the mouth of the beholder, so I am not against those consumers who like their Shiraz wines full of sweet fruit, chunks of tooth-rattling wood and enough alcohol to drop a rhino at ten yards. When it comes to Shiraz, I prefer less to more. Like other Rhône varieties, the grape has enough inherent power and concentration of flavour of its own to deliver an elegant drop of varietal character without having to be dollied-up.

Locally I have always liked the austerity of the Muratie Shiraz with its classic earthy and leathery flavours. The Jordan 2003 is still one of my favourites – lean and un-showy, but with a very sexy perfume character.

One of the new greats is, to my mind, the Aeon from the much-trumped Haskell Vineyards in Stellenbosch’s Helderberg region. Haskell gives good Shiraz. It has done so with the Pillars, which caused a simultaneous wet-dream among the three blokes involved with a navel-gazing competition called the Tri Nations where wines from New Zealand, Australia and South Africa are pitted together.

In any event, with Rianie Strydom at the helm, Haskell has proven it is not just a pretty face with just about the right amount of money to burn that is required for those wishing to embark on a vinous adventure in Stellenbosch. Besides the Shiraz there is some cute Chardonnay and vibey Sauvignon Blanc, with an agreeable Bordeaux blend on the way.

As far as the Aeon 2007 is concerned, everything about it says “Monster”. The bottle is heavy enough to fog-up the windows of the World Wildlife Fund’s South African headquarters which are located just down the road from Haskell. Mucho carbon penalties for this one. (By the way, does anyone remember the carbon footprint anymore or is it just me thinking the whole greenie thing is as passé as the Platter Guide’s excuses for judging wines sighted?)

In any event, inside this heavy bottle is a very classy example of Shiraz. In the glass the wine is the colour of a freshly henna’d Nepalese virgin. The nose is like a drowning blonde: shy and quiet, until it gets some air. Then it really whacks you with dense potpourri, quince paste and freshly crushed cloves. Man, if this is foreplay…..

Down the glug-hole, this wine goes down like a homesick mole. It is so gorgeously, awesomely delicious you want to drink the whole bottle from unfashionably fully-topped glasses.

The wooding is 65% new French which harnesses the tannins, combing out the harsh bits. Mouthfeel is complete and leaves one with a feeling of inner-sanctity. Flavours are graceful, elegant on the front palate but a rip-roaring rush as the wine gushes down the funnel.

Sage-brush. Prunes. Tapenade. Fresh bread. Cured meat. These are some of the riveting flavours I tasted. They took me to far-flung places. The flower market in Orange, Provence. Lucio’s bakery in downtown Portland. The prosciutto market in Florence. I saw and smelt and tasted colour and heard music that was too complex and exciting for an instrument to play.

Okay, so one bottle of Haskell Aeon is going to set you back around R300. But the smart, freshly laundered Russian money says this wine is going to be a keeper, and five years from now it should be a South African classic of well-deserved international status.

The terrain is right. The winemaker is right. More to say? Nothing left.

Striking a pose in League of Glory.

To anyone not knowing the South African winelands: please do not judge us on the pathetic television series League of Glory, currently being broadcast on M-Net. This piece of drivel is filmed in and around Stellenbosch, the capital of the local wine industry and only an outbreak of cholera, a bomb threat from a Moslem terrorist cell or a Kurt Darren concert can deter anyone from visiting Stellenboschas much as a viewing of an episode of League of Glory is sure to do.

Firstly, the depiction of the local people sees us as a shallow, monosyllabic community which is totally without passion, a zest for life and a commitment to and knowledge of wine. The women, led by the actresses Susan Danford and Elsabé Daneel, are ugly, have thick calves, dress poorly and are about as full of life as a nun in Lent. The men smirk and sneer, don’t like washing their hair and pretend to know something about wine and soccer, which they don’t. This is a problem: League of Glory is about, well, soccer in a wineland community.

Dig the shoddy production: vineyard pruning is done in the middle of summer when the vines are thickly foliaged and green. Glasses are filled with dyed water instead of wine. Winemakers and workers stand around not knowing what to do.

The soccer angle is also interesting, as Stellenbosch does not have a recognised soccer team and its environment has never and will never be conducive to the sport. But here we have it, a bunch of young people of all creeds and races getting behind their soccer team between the mountains of Stellenbosch?

Herein lies the rub: League of Glory is produced by Herman Binge of Waterfront Television who has a terrific knack for procuring commissions from M-Net. While other houses clamour to submit proposals, Waterfront appears to rule the roost in winning these commissions. Last year they had an equally nobbish production called Ella Blue. Other commissions going Binge’s way include Boer Soek ’n Vrou, Idols and Known Gods.

Which goes to show that Binge’s reputation as an arse-creeper with those handing out television commissions and his chumminess with Naspers big-shot Koos Bekker can go a long way.

Naspers owns M-Net, who send the commissions Binge’s way and Binge definitely seems to have a way with this crowd.

The most amazing thing about League of Glory, which makes the shopping channel look interesting, is that it is partly directed by Darrell Roodt, who once was a competent director. But not when your friend Binge is behind the production: a mediocre script gets accepted, the cheapest actors are employed, research is eschewed, the production is hastened and forced along. Because although it is art, Binge says that at the end of the day it’s only about money.

If he and his ilk were someday forced to look at television productions in the same light as the receptors of these are – i.e. the public – a different tune might be whistled.

Turn-off the TV, open a bottle of Stellenbosch Cabernet and welcome to the real world.

-          Darien Morgan