An article from Die Burger newspaper, translated from Afrikaans.

One of the Cape Winelands’ greatest attractions is its magnetic pull on people from across the globe. This enchanting region not only draws tourists who return year after year for the stunning landscapes, diverse wine offerings, and Cape hospitality but also captivates individuals to such a profound extent that it places them on a new life trajectory.

Take, for example, Analjit Singh, the enigmatic Indian businessman originally from New Delhi. Singh embodies the transformative charm of the Cape, having put down new roots in Franschhoek. An international traveller in pursuit of business dealings and intriguing destinations, Singh had never set foot in South Africa until 2010. That all changed with a trip to Johannesburg at his daughter’s request to attend the World Cup football final, which incidentally included a visit to Cape Town and the surrounding wine regions.

Fast forward 14 years, and Singh’s Leeu Estates now features a luxurious, stylish rural hotel on the slopes of Franschhoek’s Dassenberg mountains. Complete with its own winery, Leeu Passant Wines caters to the more prestigious segment of the Cape wine offering.

The name “Leeu,” Afrikaans for “lion,” resonates deeply in this context, considering Singh’s surname translates to “Lion” in the Sanskrit language. It serves as a nod to the roots he has established in South Africa, despite his ongoing business interests spread across India and Europe.

“Yes, Franschhoek and the country have truly captivated me, transplanting my roots here,” says Singh. “Before visiting, I had a passing interest in wine, though I’ve always been a keen whisky enthusiast. Yet, since my first visit 14 years ago, the Cape’s wine culture, its history, and the remarkable quality of its wines have made a profound impact on me. The estates I acquired to establish Leeu Estates – complete with restored heritage buildings – are steeped in the country’s wine culture. Naturally, I felt compelled to engage with the industry, marking one of the most rewarding chapters of my time in South Africa thus far.”

Culture, heritage, tradition – these are themes reappearing regularly during any conversation with Singh. His approach is not about replacement and transformation but rather graceful development that preserves heritage while propelling it forward in harmony with established values.

This perspective also explains Singh’s interest in the Afrikaans language. During a discussion involving several South African colleagues, Singh eagerly probes for translations whenever the conversation lapses into Afrikaans.

At one point, I refer to someone as being “sout van die aarde” (salt of the earth). Singh promptly notes the phrase in his phone, along with its meaning. Similarly, the word “gees” (spirit) – used to describe the warmth, amiability and resilience of South Africans – caught his attention.

One such spirited individual is Rosa Kruger, the renowned viticulturist who guided Singh on his path into the Cape wine world. Globally acclaimed for her dedicated efforts to preserve South Africa’s old, historic vineyards, Kruger emphasises their unique quality and character. She introduced Singh to another expatriate with a passion for South African wines: Andrea Mullineux, the celebrated Californian winemaker who, with her husband Chris, heads Mullineux Wines in the Swartland.

Together Singh and the Mullineuxs founded Leeu Passant Wines in 2013. The winery, situated on Leeu Estates, crafts wines from select vineyards around Franschhoek, as well as from fine parcels in other regions, including Stellenbosch and Wellington.

“Leeu Passant aims to produce wines of exceptional quality,” Singh remarks, “but Chris and Andrea have, too, ignited in me a fascination with the Cape’s winemaking heritage, its culture, and the uniqueness of certain old vineyards. These elements resonate with my ethos and philosophy – a connection to this heritage and culture unique to the Cape wine region and its rich history. It’s one of the main reasons I am here today.”

Notably, two wines in the Leeu Passant line-up pay homage to the storied history of the Cape’s established wine industry: a Franschhoek Sémillon from vines over 60 years old, and a Wellington Cinsault from a vineyard nearing 124 years in age. Yes, these venerable vines near Wellington still thrive, annually growing grapes to a plush ripeness.

“I am passionate about nature, gardens, trees, and plants, and just the notion that these vines have stood the test of time, enduring the elements over generations and providing grapes to make wine…” Singh reflects. “It is a tremendous privilege for us as a winemaking team, and if the wine critics are to be believed, the distinctive character of these vineyards is reflected in the wines’ quality.”

Andrea Mullineux, esteemed as one of the New World’s finest winemakers, describes wines from old vines thus: “Coming from a big family, including Italians, I know of hearty, boisterous meals at the table. Wine from an old vineyard is like the elderly aunt at the table’s end – quiet, observant, watching everyone. But when she speaks, it demands attention, for she speaks with authority.”

The Leeu Passant range also includes wines that, while not from such venerable old vineyards, are still among the best in the country: a sublime Chardonnay and a distinguished Cabernet Sauvignon, both sourced from Stellenbosch vineyards. The Chardonnay is truly exceptional, while the Cabernet Sauvignon underscores the fact that this variety is undoubtedly South Africa’s leading red grape.

As a member of the Napa Valley Reserve wine club in California, Singh has a deep appreciation for Cabernet Sauvignon, which he often enjoys blending himself upon visits to Napa.

“So far, my journey into and involvement in the world of wine has been a delightful, enriching, and soul-nourishing part of my life,” he says. “It has reaffirmed for me that one is never too old to learn and that life is an endless journey of discoveries. For this experience, I owe my gratitude to the Cape and to South Africa.”

And thus, he fits the description of being truly “sout van die aarde”.

We hit Quinta de Napoles, home of Dirk Niepoort’s Douro Valley wine operation, with crates of old Cape wine, chunks of freshly butchered meat and a bobbing truckful of warm-hearted South African spirit. All ready for the most recent addition to the Douro Valley’s embedded centuries-old traditions, namely the perennial visit by South Africans to treat local Portuguese winemakers to a real braai, as performed in our home of Africa South.

Thing was, it had begun raining on the road through the valley, sheets of northern Portuguese precipitation dropping from the dark heavens like paralysed scuba-diving moths, dripping and soaking and splashing. Driver Joaquim Sá pulled over at the Quinta, we opened the doors and spilled into the parking area, the world behind and beyond us unlit and mysterious on this ink-black Douro night.

“Sorry about the weather guys,” said Luís da Silva, Niepoort’s winemaker at De Napoles, as he welcomed us, “not really conditions for a braai.” Like his fellow local winos, Luís had been anticipating this visit for some time and had for the past three days been fasting on two sheep-milk yoghurts, half a grilled sardine and three kale-leaves in expectation of our arrival.

Besides for Joaquim, our van was filled with seven Afrikaners. And in case Luís had not gotten the memo, Afrikaners don’t let some trifle matter such as rain get between us, our hosts and a braai. Not even if that rain is a Douro downpour.

Moving into the Quinta’s dining area, fellow South Africans Bertho van der Westhuizen from Alto Estate, Anri Truter of Beyerskloof fame and KWV’s James Ochse got right down to the task, proceeding to check-out the fireplace, a huge space flanked by gargantuan stumps of wood lumbered from various Douro trees. Logistical lordess Carina Gous of Kleine Zalze commandeered the hauling of provisions into the kitchen adjoining the dining digs, and journalist Daléne Fourie of News 24 and winemaker André Roux (Rupert&Rothschild) did as ordered, while I monitored proceedings.  

New Zealand lamb-chops and boerewors and sirloin steaks had been procured from a South African-Portuguese butcher outside Porto, and on the insistence of Carina and Daléne bread, tomatoes, cheese and onions were sourced for the making of braaibroodjies. To those who do not know, take to google as these fire-charred toasties are an essential part of South African braai DNA.

The fire roared, courtesy of the three pyromaniacs, but before any braaiing could be thought of, Luís led us to the Niepoort cellar for a look, taste and see. Wines were sampled from tanks and concrete and wood. There was sherry-like oxidative stuff, pure reds of garnet hues and savoury taste and fine crisp white wines, of which a blend called Coche was absolutely magnificent, this being Niepoort’s most prized white.

Luís is eloquent and soft-spoken, yet with a determined focus. It’s about vineyards, the Douro Valley soils of slate and granite, driving a sparse pureness in the winemaking approach. The Niepoort set-up for sure won a new set of fans that night, of which I am one.

Back in the dining-room, the fire was blazing. A long table laid out. A vivid painting of men stomping grapes in a traditional lagarge fermenter covered an entire wall.

Daniel Niepoort, the amiable son of Dirk, handed around frosty Portuguese craft-beers as a cute dog with a wiry camel-coloured coat sat at his feet. And then the games started.

Joaquim unveiled out some older South African wines he had lugged from the Cape to Portugal, beginning with Klein Constantia Sauvignon Blanc 1986. Then an 80’s Riesling from the same cellar. Daniel kept getting up and returning with bottles of local white wines of various grapes called Alvarinho and Arinto and Encruzado.

But the boys Bertho and Anri were commanding most of the attention, the crowd getting bigger as Susete Melo and her gang from Douro-winery Kranemann arrived, as did Tiago Mendes from Anselmo Mendes with his Porto restaurateur amigo. Everyone was watching Bertho and Anri as they spread the burned red-hot coals over the floor of the fire-place, set a grid atop the heat and got onto doing what we Afrikaners do best, and that be braaiing.

First-up was the boerewors, as it should be, hastily sizzled over red-hot coals, sealing the casing and allowing the meat to cook in its own fatty juices. The boerewors was removed, cut in stubs and served with fresh Portuguese rolls – daily delivered by the sack to Niepoort. My personal contribution, one that turned out to be rather successful, had been to procure a large jug of Mrs Ball’s Chutney from the butcher in Porto.

The Portuguese hosts gave the glistening dark mixture, interspersed with fine chunks of fruit, a suspicious glance, before apprehensively dipping their pieces of sausage into the stuff. One bite, and they were hooked, slathering the Mrs Ball’s over sausage and bread, eating it with hunger followed by satisfied grunts of pleasure, the kind Portuguese people make when Cristiano Ronaldo swings past two defenders.

Wine side, Joaquim was upping the ante. Opening Rustenberg Cabernet Sauvignon 1982. Then Daniel trumped with a 1955 St Émilion, Clos Jean-Voisin. It was a magnificent wine, uncanny in its expressive oyster-shell profile, memorable with that feather-light palate-weight packed with prunes and herbs. Scintillating.

Back in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of Carina, Daléne and André putting together twenty-some braaibroodjies with the kind of deft skill only found in a group of experts working in perfect, harmonious unison.

Now the lamb-chops were on the fire, Anri and Bertho haunched beside the grill managing the heat of the coals and ensuring the meat cooks true en good. The guys were getting glances of respect and admiration from our hosts, and every turning of a chop was met with a slight gasp of awe and amazement. By the time the final two chops were turned, I was expecting the Mexican wave to break out, or a combined singing of “Sarie Marie” in Portuguese.

Soon it was time to hit the table. The toasted braaibroodjies placed on separate platters and scattered about the hungry guests. Chops and steaks were waiting in hot-dishes by the fire for self-serving.

The Mrs Balls Chutney kept flowing, our hosts piling it over their meat and braaibroodjies, washing the time-proven South African culinary combination down with more-and-more profound wines which Daniel was bringing-up from the cellar. These were becoming impressive, but Joaquim still had a trump to play in his offerings. Namely a KWV Port from 1929.

Now, even if this was a 1929, bearing a South African Port to the Douro is like taking a can of Lucky Star Pilchards to a Portuguese fishing village. But the locals were amazed, stunned at the deeply fruited intensity of the Cape Port, its layers of glowing, iridescent flavours an honour to the wines for which the Douro is most famous and which had, all those years ago, inspired the folks at the KWV to make this wine. It was an emotional moment, as tributes and honours to the legacy of one’s forebears are.

Daniel was, however, not going to be outdone. He opened a Niepoort Port compiled on a slug of base-wine that had been made in 1863. This, too, called for regal admiration and much inspiration, as much as the gratitude for an evening that, like the two Ports, will go down as immortal in the minds of those fortunate enough to have been there.

For the first time since I do not know when, two weeks went by without my imbibing one drop of my beloved Chardonnay wine. The reason being a trip to the Netherlands and Portugal where the former destination saw a laddish immersion in beer, and the second based on the fact that the Land of the Long Sardine does not do much Chardonnay, and it is deemed unmannered not to partake in the joys of the more abundant local wine varieties.

Yet, despite this non-appearance of my favourite white grape of Burgundy, this European jolly saw me having two of the finest white wines I have ever had.

The first was on a chilly autumn evening in The Hague, the frigid temperature elevated by the unexpected warm hospitality of the local Dutch people. They can be a weird bunch, portraying a unique combination of being both anally boring and loafishly brash. But on this night the streets were filled with smiling, friendly Dutch folk, chirping and greeting and giving quaint comments about my attempts to speak to them in my mother tongue of Afrikaans, which is related to Dutch.

“Your language sounds so cute!” the lady-owner of Bouzy wine bar in The Hague enthused. “It sounds like you are talking like a drunk baby who has just crapped in his nappy!” Charming, I know, but perhaps that’s what they teach you at sommelier class in the Netherlands.

However, she – like many Dutch girls easy on the eye – took my order of a white wine from Condrieu with pleasure, as well as the order of 12 Dutch oysters. In Holland, raw oysters are a safe bet foodwise as all the cooked stuff consists of overdone meat battered into croquettes and balls of some kind, limp soggy cabbage and some thing of greyish white sauce resembling the mother’s milk of an oil-clad, dying North Sea whale.  

In any event, I had decided on the Condrieu as the bite in the night air called for a warm-fruited wine and, besides, this northern Rhône wine is a bit of rarity in my homeland down south.

The wine was one from Pierre Gaillard, vintage 2021 and as my hostess poured a sample and I swirled and nosed it, I had that rare feeling of having made the right decision at just the right time.

It was a glorious perfume, warm hay basking under a low late afternoon sun, fried curry leaves and dried mango. Not a mineral, stone or crisp edge in sight. This evocative tropical nose tempted me to assume the Condrieu would be on the sweetish side, as many of these and other wines made from the Viognier grape are. But no, it was all dry, but one that achieves that extraordinary balance between being invigoratingly fresh and sap-laden as well as skirting on the side of an idle and glowing fruit plushness.

In the mouth the wine was extremely forward and precocious, choosing to seduce from the attack on the palate. It slipped and slid and probed, like a fine silk neckerchief that had been soaked in scented palm oil. This sexy presence on the palate elevated the flavours to groin-clinching heights, making this definitely the most exciting experience I had in the Netherlands.

Peach and apricots rode on that glistening coating of Condrieu texture, but the simplicity of these tastes was quickly compounded by other more intriguingly exotic offerings. Fired chestnut smoke lay there, interspersed with nuances of mace and burnt saffron, an edge of wild honey and some golden sultana paste. To close it off, a more refined layer of wild heather and potpourri. It was mesmerising, and dreamlike, so much that I can’t remember getting to the oysters.

Rave wine number two, and this in a cramped noisy restaurant in Porto, Portugal. The place was heaving, aromas of codfish, olive oil and hair-cream hanging in the Douro River air. Tiago Mendes was in town, son of the legendary Anselmo who is one of Portugal’s most famous winemakers, especially of white cultivars.

Tiago got my attention with a Vinho Verde – not hard as I am a sucker for the stuff – but this a single variety made from the Loureiro grape. Loureiro and Alvarinho usually command the blended Vinho Verdes, with Loureiro known for offering broad white fruit to the blend as opposed to Alvarinho’s stone-edged mineral hit.

But here was a Vinho Verde from Anselmo Mendes, 100% Loureiro and only the fourth or fifth time I had ventured into this territory. But by far the best.

Everything the Gaillard Condrieu was, the Mendes Loureiro 2020 ain’t.

Take a Cru Chablis, filter it through an Alpine mountain glacier, and you’ll end-up with something to the tune of the Anselmo Mendes Loureiro. It is icy, frigid, lean…makes an anorexic Franciscan nun seem like a loud plump slut strolling the streets of Lisbon.

On the nose, Mendes Loureiro, bears jagged edges of pine-cone, frost-covered alfalfa and green quince. The smelling of it alone is a rush, clears the head, focusses the mind. It is an in-the-zone wine.

Christ, but the taste is gorgeous. Alive and exhilarating and clean, leading one to wonder at how something like a ripe juicy grape growing in northern Portugal can be honed into such a precise, exact and pure, pure glass of white wine. This is where the wonderous life-cycle of nature is captured by the vineyard, bled into the grape and masterfully reborn by the hands and mind of a blessedly skilled winemaker. It is a miracle.

As far as flavours go, there were green almond and salt-lick running a line, with patches of yellow plum and lime, stardust brought from the heavens and rained upon by wet sheets of pure mountain water. The pulse raced as this wine was consumed in eager draughts, setting one on edge, on the edge of greatness.

I had been having dreams of vast shoals of squid, iridescent bulgy-eyed creatures gliding through the deep blue sea. Then they are herded by fishing-boats, lovingly caught by skilled men, the dream ending with the piles of squid, creamy white and glistening, lying in plastic crates, ready for the next phase of their cyclic existence on this planet earth.

Then I would wake from the dream, sweating in a hungry restless state.

Yesterday the final phase of the void that dream held was realised. In the Portuguese village of Furadouro, 40km south of Porto, where the community appears to be one obsessed with the taste of the squid. For good reason.

We queued, 40 minutes, outside Tasco restaurant. Patient locals were waiting for a table to open up where their weekly need for lulas (squid) could be sated and life could return back to normal.

Once inside, Tasco was alive with Portuguese life and atmosphere: parents with infants being doted upon by grandparents. Well-dressed, good-looking middle-aged couples with good hair and classy sunglasses. Barrel-chested blokes, five, six in number, discussing football and comparing their latest tattoos. Amazing service staff, efficient and dutifully polite.

And the squid kept coming.

The creatures are whole, head and tentacles attached to the familiar 10cm-long conical body. Eyes are intact and stare from the platter in a silvery-blue state of mortality. The only accompaniment is a shallow pool of olive oil, parsley and chopped onion and a few boiled potatoes, yellow to the eye, creamy and delicious in the mouth.

As per the best of Portuguese cooking, the preparation of the squid is one of simplicity and experience and understanding of what is being cooked. In the case of the lulas, they are slit open to remove the cartilage and most of the gutty interior.

Then the creatures are taken to a hot fire – the kind on which a steak will be grilled in South Africa – and placed on a griddle an inch or two above the fiery coals. Just that. No salt or lemon juice. No marinades or incessant pampering. The taste of the ocean is the only accompaniment, and the only one needed.

Five minutes on the fire, constant turning. Off the coals, on the plate. Olive onion, parsley and garlic. That is it. And so it comes to the table.

The skin has a slight crackle to the bite. This gives way to succulent white squid flesh, pure and clean and tender as the night. The onion and parsley give the meat a verdant lift, one of greenness and country air, and earth.

But the overall experience is one of ocean running through the various textural nuances held-up in the squid. The curly tentacles, brittle and crunchy. The head, tasty as one sucks the gelatinous eyes. And that beautiful long body, eaten in one bite where the flame-grilled exterior, with that slight smokiness, is off-set by the luxuriously creaminess of the animal’s interior.

Over the course of the platter’s emptying, two bottles of Vinho Verde were consumed, the wine’s slight effervescence perky-ing up the white fruit and citrus flavour, sending the squid to the ocean of human appetite where it will assist to complete dreams, although for some of these, this can take a very long time.

There is a special kind of generosity only certain people understand, namely those who share a love of the sea and the pursuit of the fish swimming beneath its mysterious glimmering surface. If someone agrees to lend you his or her fishing tackle for the pursuing of these creatures, it depicts a unique broad-hearted kindness, as there are few things more sacred to an angler than rods and reels, lures and leaders.

Philip Kriel is such a generous man.

I was once stuck with an invitation to fish a private stretch of beach on the Cape south-coast, but my own tackle was in disrepair. Philip heard of my quandary and offered me the use of one of his cherished Daiwa surf-casting reels, saying that my opportunity to fish that special stretch of water was not allowed to be hampered. “I won’t let you miss the chance of going there,” he said. “Just have a glass of wine on me when you braai that first galjoen.”

The reel casted true and it casted far into the thundering surf, and if I had one glass of wine for each fish braaied during that long week-end, the hang-over would still be here to this day.

When I saw that Philip had made his first wines, recently bottled under the Kriel Family Vineyards label, generosity immediately sprang to mind. He is a viticulturist and farmer running an expansive spread of vineyards in Stellenbosch’s Polkadraai. A son of the soil, with camaraderie and hospitality magnanimity being as far ingrained into his DNA as his Afrikaans-Italian heritage. Philip’s Italian grandfather, a prisoner-of-war who had stayed behind marrying a lady from his home country, worked vines in Simondium. Philip’s father Gabriel –  “Grapes” as he is known – was viticulturist at Blaauwklippen, grafting side-by-side with the legendary winemaker Walter Finlayson.

The blooded rootstock for making wine is thus there, and the release of the maiden Kriel wines had been written in the stars, long time.

The two Kriel wines on the market represent the pastoral pedigree: a Barbera, the sensual grape of Piedmont in north-west Italy, and an oaked Chenin Blanc, a variety with which Philip has worked in the Stellenbosch vineyards for most of his professional life.

Like many wine-farmers, putting these two wines in the bottle is the culmination of many seasons spent in the vineyards, the result of that personal, quiet and infallible relationship the grape-grower has formed with his vineyards and the soils in which they live. It is, sort of, the same relationship a fisherman has with the sea, pondering its mysteries and wondering at the glorious bounties they hold for those who love and respect it.

Of the Kriel wines, the Barbera 2022 cloaks a soul of immense generosity, as well as fronds of vivacious conviviality. And, it must be said, deliciousness. Kriel is from a family where hospitality demands an open-hearted gathering around things of flavour, abundance and taste. This is in the Kriel Barbera 2022: delicious, luscious taste.

Often referred to as the less-noble, more rumbunctious cousin of Italy’s famed Nebbiolo, what Barbera lacks in the rapier, cool acidic thrust of Nebbiolo it gains in the way it spreads its broad-fruited comfort around the palate.

Kriel Barbera 2022 is from Stellenbosch, the vineyard on the Bonniemile slopes between the town and Polkadraai. Juice is free-run, fermented and then aged for 14 months in 2^nd and 3^rd fill French oak, further softening the wine and making it instantly drinkable on release.

There is an intoxicating aroma, almost heady in its feral perfume of dried thyme, sun-shrivelled black grapes and bramble, features which characterise some Amarone wines. But unlike the wrecking-ball, alcoholic whack of Amarone, this wine tempts the palate with a beautiful suppleness, almost velvety yet with enough freshness allowing the showy fruit offerings to glide, prod and coax.

Prunes, blackcurrant and damson provide an alluring density, warmed with notes of dried fig, tar and cigar-box (Havana, please). Tannins are enmeshed in the pillowed, bountiful flavours, yet rise as a gentle dark-moon tide to ensure a structured presence which is complete, from the attack on the palate, the mid-way stopover and right through to the long finish, almost desperate in its persistence.

If the Kriel Barbera is the robust ying, then its Chenin Blanc 2023 is the delicate yang. Philip knows this variety so well, I am sure he could have made it with closed-eyes, but then the brightness of the wine would have forced him to take a look.

Grapes are from the Stellenbosch Kloof region, single vineyard. Fermented and matured – 12 months – in new and 2^nd fill barrels. And where the Kriel Barbera boldly goes where few men have gone before, the Chenin Blanc is coy, yet beautifully present in its austerity.

The nose is one of jasmine, the scent of spring and growth and white nectar. Wooding could only have been judicious, and barrels selected with eagle eyes as this Chenin Blanc is uncluttered and pure, not a hint of overtly pithy bitterness that results from boisterous wood or clumsy lees management. This is Chenin Blanc in all its clarity, unworked and over-delivering.

Tastes drift on a brisk breeze, the just-so sweetness of apricot grappling a more direct tangy note of kumquat. Winter melon is present, as well as a sliver of lusty Kiwi fruit, subdued by the wine’s overall balletic grace. It is fresh, without being overeager or having any tense, bracing shudder. Sun glows, more than shines, there are ripples rather than waves.

The generosity of it all only being surpassed by extreme gratitude.

I never would have imagined that it would be my duty to defend Eben Etzebeth, the giant among giants of Springbok rugby. Yet, I see it as my responsibility to stand up for this gargantuan hero, as well as for another of South Africa’s fortified phenomena – namely brandy – and to bravely come to the defence of both.

It all started when Eben was quoted in the newspaper Rapport. The occasion was after last month’s match against the All Blacks, the one in which he became the first player to wear the Springbok jersey 128 times. In the news report, Eben spoke about his late father, Harry: “I thought of my Dad looking down from above. I think he poured a few brandies with the angels.” As per quoted, and in print.

Several commentators then claimed that these words showed a grave level of religious disrespect, arguing that brandy, supposedly, has no place in heaven.

The correction that must be made in the face of such ignorant accusations is that of all the blessed beverages known to man, it’s precisely brandy that commands a special place in heaven. And this is thanks to the very angels that were mentioned, the ones who, according to Eben, would have shared a few sips of brandy with his dad, Harry.

Because, as everyone with a true love for brandy knows, it’s the one type of drink for which the angels descend down from heaven, coming to fetch it from us here on earth. In the drinks industry, it’s even officially called “the angels’ share.”

You see, brandy is made by distilling wine twice. After this process, there’s a strong, clear liquid, which is only the beginning stage of the brandy-making process. This distillate is placed in oak barrels for years, where the wood gives the liquid its characteristic golden-brown colour. The barrels also soften the brandy, removing the harsh, sharp flavours and transforming it into a smooth spirit with the generous, fragrant, and warm heart that everyone loves.

But nothing great comes without a cost: brandy makers must be willing to sacrifice something in the process of blessing humanity with the miracle they conjure from the grape. And that’s the part that belongs to the angels.

While the brandy ages in the barrels, evaporation occurs. Around 3% of the barrel’s contents are lost annually, and this – according to tradition – is the portion of the brandy given up to the angels. Their longing for a little brandy is respected, lovingly offered.

Therefore, Eben’s comment about what happens in heaven, with the gathering of angels and his dad around a few snifters of brandy, is far from disrespectful. It shows Eben’s lucid, heartfelt religious understanding, along with above-average knowledge of all that takes place in the making of brandy.

My co-author of this column, the recently deceased Martie Retief Meiring, would surely be sitting alongside Harry and the angels, though with a glass of Stellenbosch red wine. How that made its way to heaven, only Martie would know. What a pity we won’t get to hear her version of this story.

Quentin Tarantino’s seminal film Pulp Fiction is 30 years old this year. The original screenplay – written by Tarantino – actually had a scene where the two hitmen Vincent Vega (John Travolta) and Jules Winnfield (Samuel L Jackson) discussed the merits of wine and beer before going out to take-down some mean hombres. We tracked it down, and this is it.

Jules: (taking a swig from his can)
Man, I don’t get you. Here we are, about to bust in on some bad-ass motherfuckers, and you’re reading about wine. How the hell you think that helps? Me? I’m gettin’ ready the right way – with a cold, refreshing beer. Gets my head in the game. Makes me feel… solid.

Vincent: (glancing up from the magazine)
Budweiser? Man, that’s what you’re using to get ready? You need something that sharpens the mind, not dulls it. Beer’s just liquid bread. A good glass of wine? That’s focus, Jules. Puts you in the right headspace, sophisticated yet lethal. You drink wine before a hit, you’re not just some thug – you’re a connoisseur of violence.

Jules: (laughing)
A connoisseur of violence? Man, what the hell are you talkin’ about? Ain’t nobody sippin’ on no damn Chardonnay before kicking down doors and blasting fools. You don’t see the Navy SEALs swirling Merlot in their glasses before a mission. Beer, man. Beer gets you loose, gets you ready to do some real shit.

Vincent:
Nah, see, that’s where you’re wrong. Beer might loosen you up, but wine? Wine’s got depth. It’s like strategy in a bottle. When I take that first sip of a good Bordeaux, it’s like unlocking my senses. It’s rich, it’s layered – like me. Each glass is a reminder that life has complexity, and so does what we’re about to do. A hit isn’t just about pulling the trigger, man. It’s about the execution. Elegance in chaos. That’s wine.

Jules: (shaking his head)
Man, you’re out of your damn mind. Ain’t no elegance in what we do. You go in, you take care of business, and you get the hell out. Simple. I ain’t trying to savour the “notes of black cherry” while some dude’s spraying bullets at me. Gimme a beer, a loaded gun, and I’m ready. Beer’s honest. Beer’s working class. Ain’t no bullshit about it.

Vincent:
Exactly! That’s your problem right there. You’re thinking too small. Beer’s basic, man. It’s a blunt instrument. Wine? Wine’s for the man who knows he’s in control. Who can savour the moment, even if it’s a moment of violence. You ever have a Pinot Noir before a hit? It’s light, but it’s got finesse. Keeps you steady, keeps you calm. You need that balance. Beer? It makes you sloppy, Jules. Puts you in this “get it over with” mindset.

Jules:
Sloppy? You talkin’ to me about sloppy? I’m always cool, motherfucker, no matter what I drink. I’m surgical with this shit. And beer, my man, it ain’t just for the “get it over with” mindset. It’s about being grounded, knowing your roots. Beer’s for the people, man. Wine? Wine’s for those tight-ass suits who sit around talkin’ like they run the world when all they do is sip and sniff. I ain’t about that. I’m about action.

Vincent: (grinning)
Nah, see, wine drinkers do run the world. You don’t think the guys in charge, the ones pulling the real strings, are knocking back cold ones, do you? They’re popping bottles of Dom Pérignon, making decisions with a calm head. Wine is power, Jules. It’s a slow burn, like chess. Beer’s checkers.

Jules:
Fuck chess, man. We ain’t out here playing games. We’re about to go in and blow some motherfuckers away. That ain’t no chess match. And I don’t need no Cabernet telling me how to handle business. Budweiser is straight to the point. Like me. No layers, no complexity. Just bang, it’s done.

Vincent: (mocking)
Bang, it’s done? That’s exactly the problem. You think too linear. I’m telling you, when you sip wine before a hit, you start thinking about the moves. The angles. You’re anticipating what’s gonna happen three steps ahead. You don’t just see the guy in front of you, you see the whole room. A glass of Chianti before we walk in there? You’re gliding, man. It’s like… I dunno, it makes you an artist with a gun.

Jules: (laughing hard)
An artist? You gotta be kidding me, Vince. You can keep your “artist” shit. I ain’t trying to paint a damn picture. You think Picasso was downin’ Merlot before he threw paint on canvas? Nah, man. And neither am I. When I take that first swig of beer, I know I’m in the zone. My focus is sharp. My aim is true. I don’t need no fancy shit clouding up the moment.

Vincent:
Clouding the moment? Jules, wine clarifies the moment. It hones your instincts. You ever drink a Sangiovese? That shit cuts right through the noise. You’re tasting history, man. Centuries of passion and precision. It’s like… battle armour for your mind.

Jules: (mocking, imitating Vincent)
“Battle armour for your mind.” Man, get outta here with that. You sound like a damn commercial. Look, I don’t need to taste no centuries of passion. I need a clean head, a steady hand, and a cold beer to wash down the taste of whatever bullshit we’re walking into. Beer’s honest. It’s like, ‘Hey, we’re about to do some dirt, but let’s keep it real while we’re at it.’

Vincent: (playfully frustrated)
You’re missing out, man. I swear, one glass of the right wine, and you’d be seeing things differently. You’d walk in there like a goddamn samurai – precise, calm, untouchable. Beer? Beer just makes you think you’re untouchable, but that shit wears off fast. Wine? Wine carries you through, from start to finish.

Jules:
Ain’t nothing gonna carry me through except my skill and this here Budweiser. That’s all I need. You can sip your wine and quote Shakespeare all you want, but when the bullets start flyin’, it’s all about what’s real. And beer is real.

Vincent: (grinning, holding up the wine magazine)
Alright, alright. I get it. You’re beer, I’m wine. But one day, Jules, you’re gonna come over to my side. I’m telling you, after one sip of a good Burgundy, you’ll be like, ‘Damn, this is what I’ve been missing.’

Jules: (smiling, shaking his head)
Don’t hold your breath, Vince. I ain’t trading my Budweiser for no “battle armour” anytime soon. But hey, you do you, man. You go in there with your wine brain. I’ll stick with what’s tried and true. Let’s just make sure these motherfuckers don’t get the drop on us, alright?

Vincent:
Deal.