With its centenary as a wine grape celebrated this year, a laudable focus falls on the early Pinotage pioneers. It’s well known by now that Lanzerac, the brand once owned by Stellenbosch Farmers’ Winery (SFW), was the first to release a commercial Pinotage wine – Lanzerac Pinotage 1959. The Stellenbosch estates Kanonkop and Bellevue are often credited for their early plantings of Pinotage (in fact, the grapes for that first Lanzerac came from Bellevue). But a deeper interest in this history led me to ask a different question: Which South African wine estate was the first to bottle Pinotage under its own label?
Concerning its wine activities, Lanzerac was only a brand at the time of the first bottling under the marque’s label owned by SFW. That initial 1959 Pinotage was, thus, made and bottled at SFW’s large corporate cellars. Nothing to do with the Lanzerac wine entity of today. So, who were the original, independent estates that farmed Pinotage out of personal conviction and produced the wine in their own cellars?
As it turns out, there’s an unsung hero in the history of Pinotage: Delheim estate in Stellenbosch’s Simonsberg region. Delheim made and bottled its first Pinotage in 1960 just a year after Lanzerac’s debut – possibly making it the first estate to release a Pinotage under its own name. (Copious research has not led to finding other Cape farms producing Pinotage bottled under an own label as early as 1960. But as with the record-keeping of Cape wine, you never know.)
This came as a bit of a surprise to me, as Delheim is more often associated with, firstly, the formidable personality of its late owner and winemaker, Spatz Sperling, and secondly, with its classic Grand Reserve Bordeaux-style blend and the highly acclaimed Edelspatz late-harvest sweet wine. But Pinotage, which still forms part of Delheim’s offering today, was actually one of the estate’s key varietals during Spatz’s time.
Victor Sperling, Spatz’s son, who now runs Delheim along with his sister Nora Thiel, confirms that Pinotage and Spatz were as synonymous as bratwurst and mustard.
“My father arrived from Germany at Delheim in 1951,” says Victor. “In his memoirs, written in 2005, he mentions that the farm was already experimenting with Pinotage winemaking in the 1950s. As far back as I can remember, Pinotage was always part of the Delheim story – something my father regularly discussed with friends like Frans Malan of Simonsig and Niel Joubert of Spier. When my sister and I took over, Pinotage was deeply rooted in Delheim’s DNA, both in terms of vineyard plantings and our wine portfolio.”
Reading through Spatz’s colourful memoirs, Pinotage crops up repeatedly. In fact, when he proposed to Vera Reinarz in 1965 – just two weeks after meeting her and barely five years after the first commercial Pinotage release – he did so over two glasses of Delheim Pinotage.
Those early Delheim Pinotage labels are particularly interesting in that they described the wine as a “Burgundian type,” meaning elegant, refined, and all the noble descriptors typically associated with Pinot Noir from Burgundy.
Roelof Lotriet, Delheim’s cellar master, believes that when he arrived at the estate, there was already a strong ethos around careful and respectful handling of Pinotage to avoid producing heavy or overwhelming wines.
“Tasting Delheim Pinotages from the 1970s and 1980s, I realised the approach here aligned with my own outlook on the cultivar,” says Lotriet. “It’s a complex red grape: it ripens early – long before other cultivars – and in the cellar, it ferments at a runaway pace. If you don’t handle it properly, it can get away from you, leading to high alcohol levels and harsh tannins.”
“I think Spatz Sperling understood all this from the beginning. I’d heard of him as a wine legend, mainly for his personality, but if you look at his writings and winemaking practices, he was a true pioneer in everything he did.”
Another major factor that undoubtedly helped Spatz and his successors master Pinotage was Delheim’s terroir. With Kanonkop as a neighbour, there’s clear proof that this is prime Pinotage country. Weathered granite soils 240 meters above sea level, and ideal sunlight exposure make it a natural home for the grape.
Delheim’s flagship Pinotage is Vera Cruz – named by Spatz in tribute to his wife, Vera. According to Roelof, making great Pinotage begins with meticulous grape sorting, to avoid off-putting flavors.
Victor and Vera Sperling with Nora Thiel.
“We walk through the vineyards and discard subpar bunches right there, then sort again at the cellar,” he says. “The destemmed grapes go into open fermenters, where fermentation begins rapidly – as is typical for Pinotage – and can be over in just a few days.”
Then comes the wood aging, a topic that still divides winemakers and critics. One camp believes Pinotage should be given generous new oak to help it shine and leave a lasting impression. The other argues that too much new oak masks the grape’s complex, layered character.
Roelof says Delheim has always leaned toward larger barrels for Pinotage aging and limited use of new oak. “We use 300L and 500L barrels, only about 35% new wood. The goal is to hit that sweet spot where the oak gives the wine multi-dimensional presence without overshadowing the grape’s subtle essence,” he explains.
Today, Roelof and his winemaking team are experiencing a renewed interest in Pinotage’s potential as South Africa’s signature grape, thanks to the wide range of stylistic interpretations emerging. Even Eben Sadie – arguably the country’s most famous and fashion-forward winemaker – has recently started working with Pinotage.
This revival can only yield positive results. After all, in the 8 000-year history of wine, a century is but a short tendril.
Expectations are there for the exceeding, an occurrence that is – for me – one of the greatest rewards for being embedded in the world concerned with the vineyard’s fermented offering. The daily partaking of a bottle of wine is one of life’s reliable joys: never mundane, consistent in the primal enjoyment thereof, yet startling in the diverse scope of sensorial experiences offered due to the endless array of varieties, styles and origins finding their way into your glass.
But when this experience is elevated from a passing daily pleasure to finding the magnificent and stupendous, joy and wonder being elevated to the realms of the surreal, this then when one feels this all-encompassing obsession with wine to be vindicated. A great wine makes it all make sense.
It has taken me three days and two bottles of Meerlust Cabernet Sauvignon 2021 to reach the above conclusion, complemented by brief notes to fellow wine-loving mates that, among the steady flow of fine wines from the Cape’s current releases, this is one to take note of. For it is, as they say in the classics, a keeper.
The release of this specific wine, and the fact that it is a great wine, is suitably apt here in the year of 2025. For it was 50 years back that the first Meerlust wine – a Cabernet Sauvignon – was made for bottling under the estate’s label. Before then, from the farm’s establishing in 1693, right through the reign of the Myburgh family from 1756 until seventh generation Nico Myburgh took charge, Meerlust had sold its grapes and bulk wines to willing takers.
Nico Myburgh – father of current Meerlust proprietor Hannes – changed the family farm’s trajectory. He began planting the red varieties Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc and Merlot – Chenin Blanc, Cinsault and Sémillon had for decades been the major cultivars farmed – which led to the first Meerlust estate wine being bottled from the 1975 vintage. The next step was the release of this maiden Meerlust Cabernet Sauvignon in 1978, instantaneously forging the brand’s perennial status as an integral part of South Africa’s premium wine offering.
Plainly put, the estate’s Cabernet Sauvignon 2021 is one hell of a wine with which to celebrate half a century of winemaking under the Meerlust label. And its sublime quality and sheer beauty will be of special satisfaction to the proponents underscoring Cabernet Sauvignon grown in the Stellenbosch appellation as the region’s foremost and most distinctive wine grape variety.
But further than this: when scrutinising a wine such as Meerlust Cabernet Sauvignon 2021, and scraping the memory bank for recollections of Cabernet Sauvignons from other Stellenbosch producers such as Kanonkop, Rustenberg, Alto, Le Riche, Ernie Els – to name but only a smattering – it has to be said that no other red grape cultivar grown in South Africa is capable of presenting an array of wines showing the degree of class and regal nobility that Cabernet Sauvignon does.
This 2021 vintage from Meerlust was made from grapes grown on both sides of the Eerste River cutting through the property. The one section of Cabernet Sauvignon vines is set on a slope on the river’s left bank, the plants rooted in decomposed granite soils and almost full-on north-facing, squinting into the midday and afternoon sun. On the opposite bank there’s more Cabernet Sauvignon, growing here on the sandy alluvial soils, a flatland that has for centuries been home to Meerlust vines, the roots finding generous, kind purchase in the loose soils that are for a large part of the year moist due their close proximity of the Eerste River.
As is noticeable as more wines come to market, 2021 was a great year for Stellenbosch reds. A late winter brought lashing cold fronts, with a cool growing season resulting in extended ripening periods delivering concentrated grapes of visceral territorial and varietal expression.
Back at Meerlust, the two different parcels of Cabernet Sauvignon got themselves vinified separately, the young wines underwent malolactic fermentation and were kept apart in barrel for six months before being assessed and blended to agreeable portions, then sent back to mature in oak barrels for another 12 months. Half the barrels were new.
Obviously, the prospect of opening and experiencing a new Cabernet Sauvignon vintage from a renowned a marque as Meerlust comes with a set of predetermined expectations of the positive side. But even the loftiest expectations were overridden here, buried, by the sheer splendour and magnificence of this wine which, in April, is already my wine of 2025 thus far.
It is about completeness, and about structure; balance and harmony; about a mannered, agreeable charm that holds one with both the gentle finger-clasp of flirtation and the needy grip of seduction.
The wine has an evocative maritime, oyster-shell aroma, notes often found in well-schooled Cabernet Sauvignon, but mostly on wines of greater maturity. The saline scent, however, quickly gives way to broody, shadowy notes of autumnal fruit and brittle sun-dried cedar.
Upon the first taste the immediate presence and the wine’s commanding structure leads to a comparison of this Meerlust Cabernet Sauvignon 2021 with some forms of non-consumable beauty. Evocative statuesque images that came to mind are a Michelangelo statue sculpted from Carrara marble; a leopard on its haunches, the golden spotted hide glowing in the late-afternoon sun as its coiled muscles await signals from the mind to unleash the body onto hapless prey; tennis goddess Aryna Sabalenka pummelling a cross-court forehand past a frozen opponent.
In this wine, the muscled tannins have been sculpted into forms of grace and beauty that bear the whole body from the beginning of the sip to the final sappy throes of its finish. The experience is all encompassing, riveting dense beams of classic wine-flavoured elegance covered with plush, broad layers of dark-fruited tapestries where plum, mulberry and blackcurrant are – at this stage of its development – discernible.
But the lasting impression of Meerlust Cabernet Sauvignon 2021 is the way the wine appears polished to a state of clarity and purity, placing it a long way down on the road to the unachievable destination of perfection. No wine will ever get there, but the distance Meerlust has reached is one only attainable by a remarkable few.
The sense of smell is well-known as the one that evokes the most emotion, and there are a few scents that never fail to affect me. The salty breeze from the cold Cape ocean, with its hints of mussel shells and seagrass. A dusty Karoo dirt road just receiving the first few drops of a downpour. A dachshund puppy with its moist breath of sweet coffee. Sight may lead to belief, but smell draws forth a complete awareness of the beauty of life.
And with the harvest season now in full swing in the Cape winelands, as I write this, the air in this Boland region, with its unearthly blue hue, is filled with the distinct aroma of dying grapes. The fruit, born in September with the vines’ green shoots, has drawn sap, sugar, and ripeness from the warmth of summer and the earth, and is now harvested. The berries are severed from their stems, and with the death of one, the path to another life begins.
It is here that the birth of wine starts, the sugary sweet juice that flows into tanks and barrels – nowadays, clay and cement as well. Where nature’s wondrous magic devours the sugar to replace it with alcohol, the innocence of cultivated, pampered vines transformed into wine.
The perfume is lovely and magnetic – when my car window is open on the road between Stellenbosch and Wellington, and the wafts of fermenting grape juice flow through the open space, you not only see the enchanting Cape vineyard landscape but also experience it from deep within. As a wine lover, you become aware of a shared soul, between yours and that of the wine.
People who make wine are among my favourites on earth. Not only for the camaraderie and the ever-hospitable nature they share, but because they are, for me, wizards. Wizards with the intuition, ability, and understanding of wine to transform the gifts from the vineyards and the earth into the bottles and glasses of liquid that millions consider one of life’s great blessings.
Now, for winemakers, it may seem routine and straightforward, but there are certain aspects of their work that I as a wine enthusiast find endlessly fascinating. It must always be so, for wine and the work of winemakers should never be regarded as a mere everyday commodity.
There is the matter of skin contact and cap management which is so critical in making red wine. I can sit for days by the open concrete tanks at Kanonkop, watching the mass of dark purplish Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinotage skins lying there, dark and mysterious and brooding, with tiny bubbles of fermenting juice piercing through the crust. Then, every two hours, staff members come with poles attached to a flat plank and push the skins down, replacing the pressed layers with ink-dark juice, and when the skins rise back up, they are glistening wet and sparkle like black stars.
Needless to say, the smell is deep and overwhelming, that sweet fruit and sourly pungent aroma that suddenly rises and hangs in broad, heavy pools in the cellar air. And then you realise this is the process during which red wines come into being. The skins that impart colour to the fermentation, along with tannins, which will let the final wine linger further on the palate. Together with the unfathomable complexities of mouthfeel, palate weight, and structure. That this seemingly simple process of pressing skins through juice can have such a decisive effect on something, this remains a wonder.
Then there is the mystery of the wine barrel. The oak tree that is felled at 180 years of age in the forests of France. Staves are cut from the wood, and the staves lie in the open air for two years, baking in the warm summers and shivering in the icy winter months. The green scents of the wood disappear, and then the staves are crafted by skilled artisans into barrels – beautiful objects with flat tops and pleasing curves.
In the Cape, the barrels are filled with Chardonnay juice, and fermentation occurs behind closed doors in the dark, invisible spaces of French oak. Then, for a year, the young, restless, and eager wine rests in its wooden home. The product of the vineyard and the French oak may initially feel somewhat restless in one another’s company, somewhat rigid. Yet they find each other.
The wood jealously preserves the fresh elegant aromas of citrus, nut, and flower from the Chardonnay – those elements of the terroir that the grapes and the wine convey. And together with this protection, the oak barrel graciously imparts texture to the wine, a depth along with nature’s secrets.
All of this occurs under the watchful eye of the winemaker, and their sensory beings. To appreciate this is nothing less than a privilege, and it is enduring. And we thank you.
Despite my immersive involvement in the wine industry, which features almost daily tastings of an expansive variety of wines, my palate was utterly unprepared for the sensorial onslaught from a mighty array of South African cheeses. This observation hit home when I stepped in as one of over 100 judges at this year’s South African Dairy Championships, tasked with feeling, sniffing and tasting some of the country’s best cheesy offerings.
The first observation made upon arriving at the Eensgezind venue in Durbanville where the judging took place in February this year was the immense variety and number of cheeses available in South Africa. A typical cheese lover exposed to the shelves of Woolworths, Checkers, Pick n Pay, and Spar, would have no idea of the multitude of cheeses being produced throughout the entire country. Rows upon rows of cheeses in every conceivable colour, size, and shape stood waiting for the judges, and the visual assault was only surpassed by the familiar headily pungent, earthy aroma of cheese that hung in the room like a fragrant cloud. Here, I thought, things could only get deliciously delightful.
As an avid cheese lover, my stomach immediately growled at the prospect of so much tastiness in such abundance before me: snow-white balls of Mozzarella, pale yellow wheels of Brie, chunks of golden Cheddar, creamy blue cheeses streaked with green-blue veins, wheels of Gouda and Boerenkaas, bowls brimming with fragrant cream cheeses, and so on.
But with about 80 cheeses to taste, even a greedy gourmand like me knew that the focus would have to be on tasting, not indulging. Every sport or hobby has its injuries, and excessive cheese tasting is guaranteed to lead to some kind of painful gallbladder attack or another internal ailment with unpleasant symptoms of a possible projectile nature.
Like wine tasting, cheese is judged by looking at and smelling it, then placing the stuff in one’s mouth. I also gave each piece a firm squish between thumb and forefinger, which, besides making me look like a true cheese boffin, gave me an idea of the cheese’s texture. Camembert should – as my neighbour’s willing spouse always says – neither be too hard nor too soft, and Cheddar should preferably not leave a greasy film when handled, as such a trait could be considered consumer-unfriendly.
Smell and texture are important, but much like wine, the majority of the assessment of cheese occurs in the mouth. To do this, I cut a wedge from the cheese in question -Camembert kicked-off proceedings – and placed it between my tongue and palate. Once the natural heat of the mouth began to soften the cheese, I pressed the stuff with my tongue against the roof, after which the Camembert melted and spread throughout my tasting orifice – which is important. The palate has certain areas where specific flavours are more strongly detected than others, so the cheese must cover as large a portion of the mouth as possible.
With wine, this is all very easy since the liquid fills the entire mouth. But with cheese, you need to work it around the mouth to unlock all the flavours, after which those flavour nuances must be analysed by the sensorial-detecting parts of the brain. It is challenging oral work, trust me.
The judge’s duty is then to assign a score out of 30 to the specific cheese and prepare to scrutinise the next cheese. But what to do with the already tasted cheese lingering in your mouth? As mentioned, swallowing this portion of cheese and the following 79 clods of dairy could lead to despair, physical discomfort and intense projective vomiting.
For this, the cheese tasting room has tables bearing paper cups, the kind in which one buys takeaway Ricoffy from the corner store. The purpose of the cup is to catch the chewed, pulpy cheese that you as a judge have tasted so that the rich, creamy food does not have to be swallowed.
Compared to wine tasting, this is an unflattering affair. With wine, you simply spit it into the container in a neat stream. However, the chewed, slimy ball of cheese in your cheeks makes for a messy situation, as the slimy dairy lump must be regurgitated into the paper cup. This action is devoid of dignity, especially when a few wet strands of Brie stick to your upper lip while a fellow judge tries to strike up a conversation with a strip of regurgitated full-cream Cottage cheese attached to her chin.
Another challenge is keeping your palate refreshed between tasting the various cheeses, especially the strongly flavoured ones such as Cheddar, washed-rind and blue cheese. During a wine tasting, a sip of water after every four or five tastings is enough to cleanse the tasting tools. This is not the case with a strong 18-month-old Cheddar or a hard sheep’s milk cheese. Those flavours cling stubbornly inside your mouth, the very reason those cheeses are such delightful things to eat.
So, the Granny Smith apple is, in my opinion, the cheese judge’s best friend. The green apples are spread throughout the room, and each tasting of a strong cheese is followed by a thin slice of apple, the cool tart flavour swiftly removing the lingering cheese taste and sharpening the judge’s tools for the next batch.
Despite the cool professional obligations associated with tasting cheeses for the SA Dairy Awards, there was more than enough space to make a few subjective observations.
As mentioned, the South African cheese scene is vast, diverse, and includes many truly delicious cheeses. I certainly have no idea which producer’s cheese I was tasting, but the mature Cheddar cheese category was outstanding, the blues were subtly creamy with the right salty-mould flavour characteristic of blue cheeses, and there were sheep’s milk cheeses that could hold their own against those from Spain and France. There were also some great Goudas, especially the more aged ones with their bright orange sheen.
With such cheeses to complement the offerings of the local wine industry, South Africa’s reputation as a true gourmet country is stronger than ever, and it is only going to get better. This country can do many things, and it particularly knows what good taste is.
Sometimes, the wish is for it to be forever autumn in the Western Cape of South Africa. Yes, spring is a damn fine time of the year, too, as the bright blue days envelop the earth with a glowing warmth, this so welcome to the soul and the body after a raw, grey Cape winter. But I love the easy season that is autumn, which passes like one long relaxing, satisfying sigh after a hot summer. The days are, currently, still warm to the point of discomfort and the sun’s summery harshness is still evident at mid-day.
But as the days close, the light softens, spreading a broad, deep glow over the Cape, with the air cooling to a pleasing freshness as the sun sets and the brisk air draws aroma from the ocean, descending upon the city with scents of oyster-shell and salt; brine and seaweed.
In this season sandwiched between summer and winter, my wine preferences change along with the days’ atmospheric presentations. Over the past few months, buckets of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc and sparkling wine have been consumed, much of it due to deep-drawing wanton summer thirst. Now here in autumn, my drinking is less frenetic in action, with the need for the offering from the vineyard still being as keen as ever. I will probably drink slightly less, but will be drinking with greater gusto in search of flavours that be seductive, alluring and selfishly satisfying.
This autumn I have noticed empty bottles of Pinot Noir piling-up at the recycling bin, leading me to the logic that this variety is currently being entertained by my vinous desires. Looking at the empties, most are well-known suspects: Newton Johnson, Hamilton Russell, Paul Clüver, Iona… heavens, even a bottle of Two Oceans Pinot Noir 2015 slipped into the realm.
A newish Cape Pinot Noir that found its way into the selection, and due to its tastiness is being reassessed as I here type forth on an autumn Sunday, is the wine from Fryer’s Cove at Doringbaai on the West Coast some 300km north of Cape Town.
It is a good time to be talking about this wine, as that part of the West Coast from whence it originates is particularly splendid during this time of the year. It is God’s Country up there next to the Atlantic Ocean at Doringbaai where Fryer’s Cove winery commands the former crayfish factory that was built in 1925. The ocean roars and broods and spits, sunlight paints the town and the surrounding dune-veld in ever-changing vivid hues, and the local atmosphere is akin to John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, only here the local parlance being in strikingly colourful Afrikaans, where a kindred admiration for one’s mother – and the mother of others – receives especial attention.
Liza Goodwin, Fryer’s Cove winemaker out West.
As far as wine is concerned, Fryers’ Cove is especially known for its tremendous Sauvignon Blanc wines made from grapes growing just outside Doringbaai a few hundred metres from the ocean. But with the extreme physical conditions up there, it is no surprise that the frigid soul of the Pinot Noir grape has found a home, resulting in a charming and very delicious red wine.
Grapes for Fryer’s Cove Pinot Noir grow just north from Doringbaai in the region of Lutouw. If this address is confusing, be assured it is just there by the well-known place of Koekenaap. You know, that town just east of Papendorp, mos.
The Pinot Noir is planted some 15kms inland from the Atlantic Ocean, soils being sandy. Rainfall is only 150mm a year and even at the height of summer, midday temperatures are known to barely pass 25°C. Even with irrigation, the growth cycles are prolonged due to the real cool conditions, resulting in small berries with immense fruit concentration.
In its making, Pinot Noir grapes are harvested in the early morning hours and trucked to the Fryer’s Cove winery at Doringbaai, some 35km south from Lutouw. After destemming, the berries are cold-soaked for three days. Fermentation takes place in stainless steel tanks with gentle pump-overs twice daily to extract colour and tannins from the skins, all the time taking care to not disrupt the balance Pinot Noir requires for ensuring elegance and finesse in the resulting wines.
“Pinot Noir is a thin-skinned grape – literally and figuratively,” says Liza Goodwin, Fryer’s Cove winemaker. “As soon as you begin to work harshly in the critical fermentation stage, the equilibrium can falter, resulting in harsh tannins taking over,” she says. “But again, if you go too gentle, the wine becomes thin and diluted. No wonder they call Pinot Noir the heart-break grape – it has a will of its own and requires utmost diligence from the winemaker, each step of the way.”
Once fermented, the wine is matured in 3rd and 4th fill 500L French Oak barrels for eight months before being bottled.
In the mouth, Fryer’s Cove Pinot Noir 2023 cracks, whistles and rips. It is a busy wine, despite Pinot Noir’s reputation for being one of broody elegance. Here, there is fruit, and lots of it, namely sour cherry, mulberry picked green and a run of Ribena. The fruit splatters and moves, crunches, but at the same time a lasso of grippy tannins corral the brightly flavoured medley into a wine of interesting structure.
It explodes in its attack on the mouth with Ukrainian drone-like accuracy, warming on the mid-palate to caress with further layers of fruit, a twang of salt-lick and a just-discernible secondary note of autumnal forest-floor. The latter will be furthered as this delectable Pinot Noir ages, and if it is forever autumn, then it is all right by me.
Beyond its sheer drinking delight, rosé wines’ most attractive feature is it being a style free from the burdensome baggage of expectation. The pink stuff comes to the table with the sole purpose of providing enjoyment, zingy taste and refreshing pleasure. Unlike Cabernet Sauvignon, Chardonnay, and Pinot Noir, the appearance of a glass of rosé before of a group of wine connoisseurs does not lead to intense conversation and fervent debate on aromatic nuance, palate-presence or lingering aftertaste.
With rosé, it’s simply a case of “cheers, down-the-hatch,” a wine to be knocked-back without pretence, the reason humankind began making wine 8 000 years ago. The only noticeable distinction in the range of rosé wines is between sweet and dry. Four or five decades back, when global wine tastes leaned towards sweeter wines, semi-sweet rosé was the in-thing. The market, including here in South Africa, was led by demand for massive brands like Portugal’s Mateus rosé, which annually sold nearly as many bottles worldwide as what the Portuguese footballer Cristiano Ronaldo currently earns in dollars per month.
However, dry rosé began to dominate over time, not only due to the public’s overall shift away from sweet wines, but also because of rosé’s association with its place of origin, namely Provence in southern France. Wine has always been associated with the tasteful, cultivated French lifestyle. And with the international marketing of Provence since the 1980s as a place of lavender fields, olive trees, sea, and sun where beautiful people devour bowls of bouillabaisse on yachts while swigging rosé wine, that country’s style of dry rosé started to dominate the market for the pink wine.
Provence’s penchant for rosé is, like most French things, tied to a colourful history. Marseille, the capital of Provence and the oldest city in France, was established about 2 600 years ago by adventurous explorers from the west of Greece who reportedly planted their own vineyards in the area. The all-conquering Romans invaded Marseille in 200 BC and began taking over the place, discovering that, indeed, the early settlers’ wines had a distinctive light, pinkish hue, far removed from the purplish-black-red wines or yellow white wines the Romans were accustomed to.
Even them Romans knew not to tamper with a winning recipe, and Provence remains to this day the home of rosé wine as well as being the region that inspires makers of this wine style around the world. Although rosé’s greatest virtues are its unpretentious accessibility, it is the only wine type judged by its cloak, literally. And that is colour. Neither red nor white, what is important in the rosé diaspora is the shading of that colour boundary in between.
In France, the lighter the colour, the more desirable the rosé. Garish inner-thigh pink and sunset orange are considered inelegant; a good rosé should have just the slightest hint of onion skin or light shade of salmon flesh. And since it’s usually sold in clear translucent bottles, the relevant producer’s rosé colour is there for all to see.
To make Provençal – or authentic – rosé, red grapes are used. Since the juice of most red grapes is white, and the skins are, well, red-purple, the key to achieving the ideal final wine colour lies in the contact the juice has with the skins during the pressing process. Too long and the colour is a slutty shade of pink; too short and it’s insipidly non-descript. And a correct touch of skin contact with the red grapes is needed to give the rosé that hint of red, berry fruit that makes the final wine’s flavour profile so attractive.
However, it involves more than just the correct period of skin contact, says Heinrich van der Watt, winemaker at Pink Valley Wines in the Helderberg, Stellenbosch. As the winemaker of South Africa’s only winery exclusively focused on making rosé, he had to learn from the French and, specifically from the cellar Domaine Vallon des Glauges located in the rosé sanctuary of Provence.
“The French’s concern with colour in the making of rosé is understandable because in Provence, rosé is by far the most popular wine, and consumers consider colour just as important as taste and mouthfeel,” says Heinrich, who this year completed his first harvest as Pink Valley’s official winemaker.
Heinrich van der Watt from Pink Valley.
“The rosé should just show a shade of the red grapes it’s made from. As South African winemakers, we are always taught that balance is crucial to a wine’s flavour profile, but when it comes to French-style rosé, you have to engage the other senses to perfect the balance of colour.”
Colour is more about the contact between white juice and red skins. “We use the red cultivars Grenache, Syrah, and Sangiovese for Pink Valley rosé, and even when you press the grapes almost immediately after they are harvested, further steps must be taken to achieve the ideal colour we desire for the wine.”
The step that follows is the same as that at Vallon des Glauges in Provence, and it’s called cold. The pressed juice is kept at 2°C for two weeks before the fermentation process begins. Besides the fact that this cold period enriches the wine’s flavour profile, the overly dark colours effectively settle out of the juice, which – after the processes of fermentation and stabilisation – results in the desired super-light pink and onion skin hue in the final wine.
The role of lower temperature in rosé production is significant, as this is one wine that truly cannot be served too cold. In fact, no wine is more refreshing or soul-uplifting than a glass of ice-cold rosé, and it is also a wine with which one can comfortably add a cube or two of ice without receiving sideways glances from those still trapped in wine conventions.
The brisk walk in the bracing Florence spring air from the Ponte Vecchio to the Duomo had sharpened the appetite, which had already emerged three hours earlier after a night drinking Italian Chardonnay and Dry Martinis spruced-up with mists of extra virgin olive oil. Appetite does this. Especially after a night of graceful decadence in Florence’s new Collegio alla Querce Hotel.
This morning in Florence the need to eat came before that of a Renaissance cultural immersion, as the queue outside the Duomo was longer than a line of West-Virginian rednecks waiting to take-out their hunting-licences ahead of deer season. I was going to have to worship elsewhere, I thought, looking to see if I could not perhaps partake in a bit of queue-jumping. To no avail.
I trundled to the cacophony of rumbling tunes from my stomach, and found the Lorenzo market, Florence’s major public food arena where fresh produce and all those glorious Italian delicacies of cheese and mortadella and prosciutto and lardo and olives and anchovies are sold on the ground-floor. Up the stairs, there one finds the Lorenzo eating arena. It was still only 12.00, but the place was heaving as locals and a few tourists sat at tables bearing culinary delights procured from the vendors. There were blistery, wafer-thin pizzas with aromatic tomatoey toppings, pastas of all shapes covered in every sauce imaginable and golden tubes of squid served with a lemony green sauce.
But I had come for the lampredotto.
Lampredotto is the true – and most authentic – street-food of Florence, and comprises the two most basic edible ingredients known to humankind. Namely animal stomach and bread. Nope, does not get more real than that. For it is all real and all true, and it is good.
At the Lorenzo market, the lampredotto vendor-stand was half hidden in a quiet corner and the tables next to it were inhabited by elderly, modestly dressed folk which I presumed to be local Fiorintinas. No talking, gesticulating or scrolling on phones. They were there to eat the lampredotto, drink their glasses of white or red wine, and get back to life outside the market. It was lunch on the go, Florence style.
A delightful array of cow innards in Florence.
There were no options at this stand. Lampredotto. Six euros. Hot-sauce, if desired. That is that.
The lampredotto begins with a huge pot of cow stomach sliced into slivers the size and girth of silk-worms. Why the name lampredotto? Because the bristly texture of the lining of dead cow stomach reminds one of the mouth of the lamprey eel with that circular mouth holding a ring of small sharp teeth. The lamprey uses these tiny dental shards to attach itself to unwitting prey, whereafter the eel gently sucks the blood from the unlucky – and involuntary – host.
In any event, at the stand I asked for one lampredotto in my best Italian, as well as a glass of white wine being poured from an unlabelled bottle, this another sign that lunch was going to be as authentically a Florentine experience as a selfie taken next to the crotch of Michelanglo’s David statue.
The wine was poured, and the vendor made my lunch, this not a complicated affair.
He opened the lid of a pot where the elongated morsels of cow stomach lay, glistening in a lightly coloured tomato sauce. They were beautiful pieces of tripe, marble white and trembling expectantly as their owner stirred the mass of innards, ensuring thorough exposure to the sauce, which had been thickened by the gelatinous tripe enzymes during a six-hour process of slow-cooking.
The next step in creating the lampredotto was for the server to from a basket pluck a round bread roll encased in a russet crust and to cut the baked gem it in half to reveal an angelic white, fluffy interior. Deftly and with acumen and concentration, the roll was brought towards the pot of heaving, simmering tripe. Then a slotted spoon was employed to lift a mound of steaming cow stomach and carefully place it onto the lower half of the bread-roll. Using a conventional soup-ladle, the lampredotto maestro scooped a portion of that life-affirming rich tripe sauce from the pot with which to anoint the other part of the roll, this instantaneously drawing-in the unctuous, fatty sauce with a desperate wanton thirst.
The lampredotto.
Once both parts of the bread had been assembled into one harmonious, fragrant unit this was placed on a square of waxed-paper and handed over to my hands, which were trembling with expectation.
I sat down at one of the tables with my tripe roll and glass of wine and gazed at the wonder before me. The bread-roll was soaked with sauce, and the dense ribbons of cow-stomach protruded from the edges like dead witch fingers daring one to bite. And bite I did, using both hands to bring the lampredotto to my mouth, hungrily ripping into the first mouthful like a stranded sailor just rescued from a desert island after three months’ subsistence on coconut water.
The sandwich was fantastic. Earthy flavours of cow tripe had been mildly tempered – but not obliterated – by aromatic tomato sauce. Textures were enticing, totally incredible as slimy-soft strands of well-cooked tripe met the cleansing crusts of fresh bread, creating the kind of harmony that would motivate a Renaissance sculptor to spend two years turning a block of Carrara marble into a streamlined muscular and godlike figure.
I ate hungrily, the dry white wine cooling the palate after each greedy, savage bite of tripe sandwich. Pausing to look up at Florence, I pondered on the wonders of civilization and wiped a rivulet of fatty moisture from my chin. We are blessed.
The humble hamburger remains a ubiquitous occurrence on many a diner’s menu, the modern offering tending to vary from luxurious hand-shaped wagyu beef patties held between sourdough buns raised on nurtured mother-yeasts, to bog-standard burgers dished up at commercial fast-food chains. Even flesh-eschewing vegans can apply for a burger fix, chomping on a wannabe patty made from lentils, kale and bird-seed, the innocuous, uninspired taste having them question certain life choices, whilst at least satisfying that primal patty-and-bun lust lurking in most human souls.
In the eternal quest for journalistic enlightenment and the values of culinary integrity, this writer embarked on a voyage to ascertain the burgers on offer, these from readily available commercial fast-food chains.
Wimpy
No amount of verdant lettuce, scarlet tomato slices or cheese processed to a nuclear yellow can hide the blandness of what should be a hamburger’s starring role, namely the beef patty. The Wimpy burger-patty is deserved of its own trademarked pantone, being a bewilderingly uninspiring shade of wet cement grey, flecked with a crusty, greasy brown hue the colour of baboon ear-wax. In an attempt to elevate the dull appearance with some sensorial clout, the patty is further salted to death, the salt being combined with a mysterious spiciness reminiscent of the contents of an Aromat container that had been opened after going unnoticed since 1987. The horrendous patty is held between a bread-roll which is totally tasteless as it is – understandably – too petrified to soak up any of the beef-patty juices in case it suffers from premature moulding or spontaneous combustion, or both. What saves the day and makes the Wimpy burger edible to the hungry traveller is the bright sweet mustard offered at the table, squirted from a yellow plastic container and quite astonishingly giving the dish some much necessary perking-up to the extent of non-regurgitative consumption.
McDonald’s Big Mac
You know you shouldn’t but then you do, and despite McDonald’s suffering from its image as a global, imperial fast-food behemoth, and all that talk of the Big Mac having a longer shelf-life than an argumentative world-leader at a Donald Trump press-meeting, it remains a passable burger. The three-layered bun is seeded and fresh, while the two lean patties have a flavour of meaty subtleness, despite their looking like discoloured brake-pads. Of course, the distinctive Big Mac dressing of a gherkin-infused mayonnaise is on hand to infuse any potential flavour debilities with a zesty kick, although the way it does a fine interplay with the patty, offering a feeling of savoury junk-food goodness.
Steer’s
Over-delivering on the patty, the burger’s meat is coarsely grained and bears an honest meatiness that is sigh-inducing, especially when bitten into at 03.30 a.m. at an all-night Steer’s branch. The bun is warm, attractively soaked in the artery-clogging fatty juices, and the lettuce, tomato and cheese are generously piled atop and beneath the patty, further creating a satisfying harmony. This provides a burger of balance, from the palate-awakening entry to the palate, right down to the saucy, crumbled meat finish. A slight transgression is the sweetness of the barbecue sauce with which the patty is dressed, as less saccharine would, methinks, show the charred meatiness in its fuller glory.
Spur
The cheeseburger is a thing of beauty, primarily due to the flame-grilled patty and the fluffy freshness of the bun which draws in the liquid oozing from the dead cow just perfectly. Cheese is generous, its gum-cloying greasiness combining perfectly with the tasty beef and allowing one to get two different tastes of bovine origin in one generous bite. Cool tomato and crisp lettuce refresh the palate between bites, allowing the Spur cheeseburger to present a long, persistent finish. For maximum pleasure, douse the burger with that faithfully satisfying Spurt barbeque sauce found at the table, the vinegary savouriness of which is truly the topping jewel in this joint’s burger crown. The taste of life, although more than one a week could have the undertaker hymn a different tune.
Burger King
Great care has been taken to season the burger patty to a state where both pure beef and mysterious spicy flavours come to the fore. Although, the patties do tend to be fragile, the tremble of the first bite causing the rest of the burger’s meat centre to fall apart. Besides causing unbalance on the mid-palate, this patty brittleness makes it a terrible burger to eat while driving or working out on the elliptical machine at Virgin Active. Fortunately, the generously sized and firmly textured bun tend to hold things together, while the cheese-slice is warm and deeply flavoured. It might not be king, but mutton dressed as lamb it ain’t either.
It was a crisp autumn afternoon in Beaune, the capital of Burgundy, France and the world’s most revered wine appellation, and strolling the ancient cobble-stone streets I came upon a smart shop named Fromagerie Hess. A dense, acrid aroma hit me as I entered, gazing at the rows of cheeses of various shapes, sizes and colours, the variety of which can only be found in France.
At the back of the long narrow space was a section dedicated to wine, together with cheese the other consumable most vividly associated with all good things from the Gallic nation. This area beckoned, and upon browsing the bottles of wines from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Italy and Spain, a familiar label came into sight. It was a bottle of Kanonkop Pinotage.
I had scarcely noticed it when a tall lean man in a white jacket asked whether he could be of assistance. Upon telling him that, like the Kanonkop wine I too was from South Africa, the man looked at the bottle and nodded, in broken English stating that this was a good wine.
“I am surprised,” I said, “that here, in the heart of this famous French wine region, you keep a bottle from South Africa.”
He shrugged his shoulders, as if the statement was foolish and he was bordering on emitting a reprimand.
“We keep the great wines from the world in my shop,” he replied, “and from South Africa, a good Pinotage is a great wine.”
Had my French and his English allowed for a better level of communication, I would have added another aspect of Pinotage. Namely that the wine is also something of a miracle.
For here in 2025, a year marking 100 years since the Pinotage grape variety began after that famous experiment where Abraham Izak Perold crossed two red cultivars – Pinot Noir and Hermitage (Cinsaut) – to set the Pinotage ball rolling, it is apt to note that the journey the grape and the wine has taken from then until now has been nothing short of remarkable.
Looking at the legacy of wine in the world, which began some 8 000 years ago in Georgia in Eastern Europe, most of the known and recognisable grape varieties have histories going back centuries. Such as Chardonnay and Pinot Noir in Burgundy, Bordeaux’s Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, Riesling in Germany and Spain’s ubiquitous Tempranillo, to name a few. Yet, in South Africa, Pinotage was only first thought of a century back, with commercial vineyard plantings taking root in the 1950s. As a commercial wine, Pinotage came to being for the first time in 1959. And now, some 66 years later it is an established and recognised part of the global wine conversation, not only being talked and written about as a wine synonymous with South Africa, but also for the distinctive flavour-profile it offers, as well as the proven and internationally acclaimed quality thereof.
Yes, for a grape variety and its wine to be born and to go on to achieve all this in what is but a blink of the eye in terms of the world’s wine culture, is surely miraculous.
But even miracles are not immune to critique and controversy, and here I’d say that South Africans, especially, have been too hard on Pinotage in terms of its merits as a noble grape variety. Local wine writers and winemakers still like to quote those British wine “experts” who visited the country three decades ago and turned-up their noses at Pinotage, stating the wine reminded them of “rusty nails” and “nail-polish”.
Fact is, that the Brits’ self-appointed wine expertise have always had it in for wine varieties made in the so-called New World of America, Australia, New Zealand, South America and South Africa. Australian Shiraz was termed “hot and alcoholic” and smelling of “burnt caramel”. Californian Chardonnay, again, was “big, blousy and tasted like bread-and-butter pudding”. And if you wanted heartburn, a glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc was a sure way of bringing it on.
Fortunately, Pinotage has dropped those initial naysayers, going on to prove itself on the world stage as a variety that when grown under the right conditions and in suitable soils, and in the hands of the right winemaker, is capable of making world-class wines. This Beyers Truter already proved back in 1991 when as Kanonkop winemaker he won the Robert Mondavi Trophy for Winemaker of the Year at the International Wine and Spirits Competition in London. With a Kanonkop Pinotage 1989 – a vintage that came only 30 years after the very first bottled Pinotage, namely a Lanzerac 1959.
Leading critics from around the world have subsequently handed-out trophies, golden accolades and sensational 95pt-plus ratings to various South African Pinotage wines, ensuring that Pinotage’s time has, truly, arrived.
Abraham Izak Perold, Pinotage creator.
This is good for South Africa as a wine-producing country, too. Pinotage might have found its way to the winelands of California and New Zealand – even Israel – but no other grape variety is as associated with the Cape and to South Africa as is the variety than Perold gave birth to a century ago. It is unique, and those who drink and follow wine, well, they like unique and they like different in a world where they are spoilt for choice.
Today, more countries produce more wine than ever before. From Denmark to Canada, China to Lebanon, bottles are being added to the marketplace from every corner of the globe. Consequently, consumers have never been able to so many different wines, from so many different countries, as they are now. With such an abundance, wine-buyers the world over look to a wine-producing country they might not be familiar with, and the first thing they ask is: “What makes the wines from your land unique?”
South Africa has a simple answer: Pinotage. It is here at the Cape, from the mountains of Stellenbosch to the valleys of Paarl and Franschhoek; from the cool maritime climates of Durbanville and Constantia, to the sprawling vineyards of the Breedekloof and Robertson, and between the renosterveld-clad koppies of the Swartland, here Pinotage was born and here it shows it belongs. This is where generations of winemakers have harmonized the grape with its natural environment, making Pinotage wines, the unique flavours and characteristics of which prove that its place is here.
But the minds, hands and the souls of the men and women turning the grapes into wine have as profound a role to play in the legacy and the advent of Pinotage as the individual parcels of Cape geography to which the vineyards are rooted. The traditional saying is that wine is made in the vineyard, but as the late great winemaker Duimpie Bayly used to retort: “When I am told wine is made in the vineyard, I have to remind the audience that one must remember that no horse has ever won the Durban July without a jockey.” And of course, this is true. It takes skill, intuition and understanding of the vineyard and its fruit to transform Pinotage grapes into wine exuding the traits of its place of origin, whilst at the same time offering that evocative red wine complexity in the glass for which it is known.
Each wine is, obviously, a unique individual. But what Pinotage has done over the decades is to inspire winemakers to each make their wines to a style, to a distinctive signature of taste and structure harnessing the grape’s red-blooded individualistic character. And this is the delight, that under the banner of one cultivar, Pinotage, one finds an astounding diversity, a spectrum of enticing red wine variation that, whilst diverse and of multitude, each speak of a discernible Pinotage DNA.
So, Pinotage can be a big wine. Of which Beyerskloof Diesel Pinotage is a statuesque example. This wine, from the home of aforementioned Beyers Truter can be termed a show-stopper as in its making all steps are taken to optimise the variety’s penchant for showcasing a full-bodied depth and unapologetic decadence in its power and unrestrained opulence.
To bring these features to the fore, these grapes of Stellenbosch origin are picked at a stage of complete ripeness. The berries are transformed to open-top fermenters where the magical process of fermentation begins, with sugar transformed into alcohol. To extract tannin, taste and colour from the purple-black Pinotage skins, the intoxicating batch of grapes and juice is punched-down every two hours during the five-day fermentation period, the regular mingling of the skins and juice drawing the essence of the fruit into the fermenting wine, ensuring concentrated completeness.
Once fermented, the wine is removed from the skins and placed in casks of new French oak barrels for a period of 21 months, allowing the wine to be exposed to the tightly-grained wood surface for almost two years, during which tannins are sculpted, flavour enhanced and the wine obtains a polished succulence.
This, Beyerskloof Diesel, is Pinotage at its most Pinotage. Showing that despite its parents – the Pinot Noir and Cinsaut grapes – having relatively light and ethereal personalities, Pinotage itself is capable of presenting itself in a wine of grand scale with a commanding presence.
It is all gorgeous, of the unmissable kind. Aromas of autumnal dark fruit waft from the glass, filling the space around it with fragrance and wilderness. Once tasted, it is unforgettable. Not only for the sheer weight of its presence, the density complemented by a silkiness on the mouth, but for the way it carries tastes of prune and blackberries together with that characteristic brush of fynbos and slight savoury edge of charcuterie.
That a Pinotage style deemed as “classic” comes from Stellenbosch’s Lanzerac winery is no coincidence. After all, the first bottled Pinotage in the world was under the Lanzerac label (1959), although in those days of yore Lanzerac was merely a wine brand belonging to erstwhile Stellenbosch Farmers Winery. Today Lanzerac, situated at the foot of the Jonkershoek Valley, is a commended and functioning winery in its own right, one still committed to the grape variety that ensured its name in the annals of South African wine history.
Lanzerac Pinotage is made from grapes grown in the same Jonkershoek Valley, the beautiful part of mountainous pastoral winelands through which Stellenbosch’s famed Eerste River runs. In the cellar the grape-berries are not manually punched down as is the case with Beyerskloof Diesel, the exposing of juice to those ripe grape-skins instead being done with pump-overs, committed every four hours of the fermentation period. This refined approach to winemaking is furthered by winemaker Wynand Lategan’s choice of barrel fermentation. Here a diverse selection of barrels is chosen in which the wine is to embark on a 15-month slumber, namely barrels of virgin new oak, as well as casks previously used for one or two seasons to age wine. These used barrels have a lighter grip on the wine’s structure, allowing the opening of the doors to emit brightness and fruit-purity.
Lanzerac Pinotage is one of those Pinotages proving that elegance is one of the variety’s features, a mannered nobility that must have been at the forefront of Perold’s mind when he toyed with the idea of creating a new South African grape variety for the world.
This wine has a clarity and focussed fruit-core, with red-currants and damson allowing a lift, a perkiness to prod through the sensual cloak of coiled muscular tannins. Balance and poise are discernible as tannin, acidity and sugar combine with presence and structure in a wine which one not only drinks, but experiences.
An unbridled delight of the Pinotage industry is seeing the younger generation of winemakers showing an infatuation with this variety, and it is in their hands that the future of the grape lies. True, the foundations were laid by the pioneers who aimed to bring the deeper weight and gravitas of the grape to the fore with intense extractions and aging in – or a component of – new wood.
But there is, as with all wines, space for a renewed focus to complement and to build on the deep paths trodden by the more mature school of approach, and this is opening-up a whole new field of appreciation for the Cape’s beloved home-grown variety.
One of these younger gunners is Jolandie Fouché, owner of the wine brand named Wolf & Woman which includes a Pinotage wearing a new cloak of understatement allowing the spectacular tapestry of fruit elements to display themselves in a superlative wine.
Wolf & Woman Pinotage is made from old vines, 50 years and more, grown in the Swartland region and the winemaking is of the subtle less-is-more kind. Instead of fermenting her Pinotage for five to six days with extracting taking place regularly, Wolf & Woman’s wine is kept on the skins for two weeks, with only one extraction daily. For maturation, large 500 litre and 300 litre barrels are deployed – all old, used wood – the wine spending eight months in their casks. Then, before bottling the wine is placed in concrete tank for a month to gain further refinement.
The result is a Pinotage that has grabbed the imagination of wine critics and commentators as one of the new-wave wines underscoring the fact that the future of Pinotage is in good hands. At only 12.5% alcohol, Wolf & Woman has a delicious crunchy succulence with tastes of juice-laden cherries and plump plum, a wine that caresses the palate with a riveting, racy freshness, yet presenting enough deftness on the palate to ensure its presence is never fleeting, never forgotten.
As Pinotage heads into its next century, its future looks as illustrious and brilliant as the wine’s miraculous past. In fact, it has only just begun.
Cool is good, and in the wine industry it is now more relevant than ever. Why? People like to drink cool and cold stuff, thus omitting a large segment of the industry, namely red wine.
According to the rule-book, red wine is meant to be drunk at a moderate temperature. Perhaps not the room-temperature found in a busy restaurant kitchen next to the pizza oven, but a slightly more toned Celsius-reading of, say 16°C to 18°C. Not blood-warm, but also far warmer that the alcohol drinks most people favour today.
In fact, of all the alcoholic beverages available world-wide, only red and fortified wines are suggested for drinking at temperatures that are not deemed cold. Beer, cocktails, ice-accompanied whisky and brandy…the world likes their drinks to be well-chilled, if not icily frigid.
So if this is liked, why not do more to encourage the drinking of red wine chilled to the same degree as a Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc? Or state that a wine-lover will not be keel-hauled, lashed or publicly shamed if he or she wishes to add a cube of ice to a glass of red?
This unconventional, yet precisely pertinent, approach to drinking red wine was again brought to my attention by Niepoort wines from Portugal, who are currently running an Instagram campaign encouraging red wine to be chilled in an ice-bucket. And if not, why not?
In the 1970s Guinness – the venerable Irish stout – ran a television campaign in Britain encouraging the drinking of the black stuff at a temperature deemed cold, instead of the piss-warm room temperature at which pubs preferred it served back then. This had a major impact on Guinness’s image, as well as broadening its consumer base, the majority of which had until the advent of “cold Guiness” associated the stuff with a heady black beer made for callous-handed dockworkers and old male farts in mothball-scented tweed jackets.
Guinness suddenly appealed to a younger audience, women included, and the rest is history.
Red wine has the potential of following a similar trajectory if the enjoyment of a chilled glass of red wine is encouraged, as well as the acceptability of adding an ice-cube or two.
I can personally vouch that an ice-cold Shiraz still tastes marvellous after it has been in the fridge for a few hours, and yes, during a warm summer lunch I’ll drop an ice-cube into a glass of Kanonkop Cabernet Sauvignon. This horrifies the old wine guard, but to the new generation of wine drinkers, I think it looks as cool as it tastes.
And in today’s world where every liquor producer is seeking for a share or throat, can anyone afford not to buck outdated trends?
