The animal is there, the question being what are you going to do about it? At a monumental Pinotage tasting held in the Braemar domain of Anthony and Olive Hamilton Russell, a gathering of wine-makers, insightful marketers and lonely scribes assessed a line-up of wines drawn from a broad spectrum. Some familiar Pinotages were allowed in among a collection dominated by offerings from cooler and far-flung regions, signed-off by wine-makers who might be termed as being non-traditionally associated with South Africa’s home-grown red grape.
If I am going to listen to one voice of authority concerning the merits of a vintage, it is going to be the soft drawl of Jan Boland Coetzee. And, says this Great Son of the Soil, 2015 is the best South African vintage of the past 50 years.
It was a real bitch of day, all windy and grey and with the morning light as dull and listless as a monk’s hand-shake in Lent. This is when the Hemel-en-Aarde shows itself as the rugged, agriculturally poor and harsh farming land it is, features far removed from the post-card pretty vinelands and vinous splendour too often associated as being requisite for the making of fine wine.
Like the rich, the French are different. In what way? Well, going into detail cannot be done before proper broadband comes to South Africa as the reasoning is bound to be expansive.
Wine, for example, is one area in which the French are different from other nations.
Still the greatest wine country on earth. Has been and always will be. Blah.Blah. Agreed.
In the spirit of Bastille Day celebrations, thus, I’d like to take a look at five South African winemakers who to my mind have ?+¦-+???+¦-ú?-¦?+¦-ú?+¦+¦ knowingly or otherwise ?+¦-+???+¦-ú?-¦?+¦-ú?+¦+¦ been infected with French genes of vinous brilliance. Doubting Thomases can taste it in their wines.
It was a light, airy space, but we were feeling dark. We looked each other in the eye. Slipped our hands to our trousers, fondling. I took mine out first. Then he was holding his in his hand. And his was bigger.
“Nice Laguiole,” Anthony said, stroking his much more deadly looking pocket-knife. “Mine’s got 22 notches on it. One for every country visited.”
I slipped my modestly-sized Laguiole knife back into my pocket, cursing. If you are going to play knifey-knifey with Anthony Hamilton Russell, make sure you don’t bring a toothpick to an axe battle.