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.

A litany of youthful indiscretions resulted in my decade-long aversion to brandy which, fortunately, over time rose gently like the mists from a broad, cool river and dissipated until all was clear again. The memories of nights filled with debauchery fuelled by many a tall glass of Klipdrift brandy mixed with Coke in a one-to-three ratio, and the gut-strumming nausea of those painfully hung-over mornings, are buried in the past, like scribbly teenage love-letters and the questionable fashion tastes of a forgotten youth.

Today I adore brandy, albeit the poetic refined spirits of Cognac, the robust, earthy yearnings from Armagnac or the treacly dense Gran Soleras distilled in Jerez. It is, all, the pure spirit from wine, bearing the essence, the heart of the grape held in an angelically handed cusp.

The history of South African brandy is as rich and colourful as the country’s wine legacy, beginning with the raw offerings first distilled in the Cape in 1672 for numbing the minds of locals, disinfecting flesh wounds caused by disharmonious daggers and curing evil rashes accrued during wonton sexual activity. From the 19^th century the brandy became smoother, barrel-aged and soul elevating and tasty, distilled from the Chenin Blanc and Sémillon vineyards the pioneering farmers patched around the winelands, like verdant throws of freshly dyed silk rugs.

Brandy distillation and aging became the work of craftsmen blessed with fastidious sensorial faculties, and just like the Cape grew into a realm of good and great and distinctive wines, so too it developed into a part of the world where fine, excellent brandy is made.

Sydney Back from the Backsberg Estate in Simondium was one of the early pioneers of South African estate brandies, a sector that came into being in 1990 after the dropping of legislative restrictions allowed him, and his pursuers of further refinement in the country’s brandy offering, to do so. Produce the spirit from grapes growing on an estate. To milder alcohol levels, down to 38%.

Back imported a glorious russet alembic still from Cognac, using the sharp, low-alcohol base wine made from his mountainous Chenin Blanc vines for distilling a brandy of character, heart and singular beauty.

Although Back has passed and the original Backsberg wines and brandies are no longer in their original place, having been transposed to Franschhoek under the guidance of liquor company DGB, the song of Sydney Back brandy remains the same, as elegant and heart-felt, as charming and engaging as ever.

I was recently gifted a bottle of Sydney Back 10 yr old Potstill Brandy by local brandy expert and lover Winnie Bowman CWM, and although the bottle’s level is falling, I am partaking of a snort each and every night. And when the bottle dies, it will be replaced, oh yes it shall.

The colour is of old gold and a long, slow sunset upon a land where desert meets the ocean, the thick sea air causing the rays to bleed as the sun’s light sighs in its ending the day, and meeting the night. On the nose, the spirit offers a scent that is both fierce and seductive, alerting the senses in a manner that is precocious and vivid, lined with nuts, marzipan and a whiff of saddle-leather freshly coated with dubbin. It is the perfume of anticipation, prelude to an encounter that only promises pleasure.

And this comes with the taste, where the liquid rolls through the keenly awaiting lips, tumbling into the mouth and dancing on the senses with flavours both vigorous in their prying and gloriously satisfying in their offering of a broad, all-encompassing decadent warmth.

Dried Turkish apricot with a touch of cut sultana raisin lead the fruit symphony, a charmingly bright aspect, one elevating the deeper, mysterious allure of mocha, black chocolate and burnt orange-rind. There is, too, a whisper of dry hay laying on stripped wheat-field baking in the sun, as well as a slight hotness of smouldering fynbos edged on by the warm tug from a dry, coarse north-easterly berg wine.

The senses open to these flavours and tastes, seduced into doing so by the strike of the spirit that is, as ever, the backbone of the liquor that is brandy. For it is power and presence, force and might that anchor a fine brandy to the heart and body, now ensuring the memories are nothing but an endless delight.

Any organisation purporting to be a successful collective striving towards a shared objective should surely be as open and inclusive as possible in order to ensure a successful path to said objective. So, to put it bluntly, why is the Stellenbosch Cabernet Collective so short-sighted?

The goal of this organisation is important and warrants its existence. Cabernet Sauvignon is the world’s best-known red wine variety, the premium offerings from Bordeaux, Napa, Australia and Chile, commanding attention and excellent price-points, as well as helping bolster these nations’ respective images as top-tier wine countries. South Africa, and specifically the Stellenbosch appellation, has proven itself more then worthy of inclusion on this list of countries with a plethora of Cabernet Sauvignon producers committed to excellence with the variety, and having the track-record to back it all up.

Thus the formation of the Stellenbosch Cabernet Collective, introducing itself as “a collective of Stellenbosch producers, curating the expression of Stellenbosch through Cabernet Sauvignon, joined together in sharing passion, discovery and knowledge. Together we are Stellenbosch Cabernet.”

And the list of 36 members is impressive, as can be found here.

Perusing the list, however, followers of Cabernet Sauvignon wines will note a few famous marques not being present. Tokara, surely one of the New World’s best Cabernet Sauvignon crafters, did not make the cut, nor is it on the bench. Likewise, Rustenberg, which deserves a spot purely on grounds of what this estate has historically done for the reputation of Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon as a whole.

Boekenhoutskloof has performed major things with it its Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon label, and as one of the country’s leading brands would bolster the current Collective line-up. And let’s not forget about Leeu Passant.

I mean, what wine organisation would not like to see Andrea Mullineux, Leeu Passant partner and winemaker, on its membership list? DGB,’s Boschendal has done a smart turn with Stellenbosch Cabernet Sauvignon, too, yet does crack the nod – despite the international gravitas and support somebody of the stature of DGB chairman Tim Hutchinson would bring to the party.

The reason for these and other Cabernet Sauvignon stalwarts – let’s not forget about David Finlayson – not being included in Stellenbosch Cabernet, is that they are not members of the Stellenbosch Wine Routes. Just that.

Now, I have a tremendous tender spot for Stellenbosch Wine Routes. In fact, it got me into the wine game as I assisted then-chairman Johann Krige draft the constitution for a new Stellenbosch Wine Routes 24 years back.

And guess why a new constitution was needed? Because the wards and members of Stellenbosch Wine Routes had become too disparate and independent, and it was deemed necessary to restructure the organisation. So as to be more inclusive and welcoming and open to all wineries making Wine of Origin Stellenbosch product. Because the more united the membership of WO Stellenbosch, the better for brand Stellenbosch.

This is hugely ironic. Stellenbosch Cabernet Collective was started by a team of able wine minds, a blend of old and new showing innovation and vision in providing a platform for the showcasing of the great Cabernet Sauvignon wines made from vineyards set in South Africa’s best-known wine region. Yet, by forgetting the very reason for the existence of Stellenbosch Wine Routes – namely inclusivity among producers making WO Stellenbosch – the organisation has cut of its stem to spite its berries.

It is all so very logical that the pedantic reasoning for excluding certain producers, namely because they are not members of a wine routes organisation, makes me wonder if the South African wine industry will ever get out of its divide-and-rule mindset and obsession with structural limitations.  The logic is: if you make fine Cabernet Sauvignon from grapes originating from Stellenbosch and bottle it as such, one is eligible to be a part of an organisation calling itself a Stellenbosch Collective themed around Cabernet.

As we say in my mother-tongue: Finis en klaar, en hou op om so donners kleinlik te wees.

During a recent visit to Cape Town from some grape farmers from the Northern Cape, I was treated to this story involving the power of Muscadel wine. Names and places have been changed to protect those involved.

Malan Dreyer was at his wits’ end – more so than any other farmer in the Northern Cape district of Onseepkans. But this time, it wasn’t because of land reform, shortened credit terms from the co-op, or his wife’s insistence on a pricey 35th-anniversary trip to Thailand.

No, Malan’s trouble came down to a jackal. Or as it is called in these parts of the world, a “jakkals”.

Since Easter, the jackal had developed a taste for the sheep on Kiewietlaagte, although fiercely religious as he was, Malan could not be convinced that the jackal’s fondness for the lambs of Onseepkans had a link to Christianity. For it had been a massacre: Over thirty ewes and three times as many lambs had been killed from April to June, so much so that Malan’s only farm-related insight for 2024 thus far was how many lamb carcasses could fit onto the back of a Toyota Hi-Lux bakkie. And there’s nothing like desperation to make a man believe in strange ideas, and Malan had tried everything to catch that jackal.

He hired the professional hunter from Springbok with his camo gear and oversized ears. This over-talkative burly young man had set up a stainless-steel trap baited with smoked mutton. He would spend nights in the veld hoping to entice the jackal with shrill haunting jackal calls played from a CD player. Nothing worked. The jackal wouldn’t show.

Then Briek Stegmann mentioned the muscadel.

Malan had been at the winery in Upington, buying his wife’s sweet rosé – profoundly cheaper than a holiday in Thailand – when Briek overheard him mention the jackal problem to a fellow-customer, a saddle-horse breeder from Kanoneiland.

“A jackal’s love for muscadel is enough to turn it into a vegetarian,” Briek, the wine salesman, said. “A male jackal would take a glass of sweet muscadel over the tenderest lamb any day.” Malan looked at the wine salesman who had an honest and stern and knowing look in his eyes, the kind of look a man like Malan had learnt as that of someone who drank deep from the pools of concern and honesty and brotherhood. The look that evoked trust.

Lifting the box of rosé, Malan asked for two bottles of red muscadel. This was on a whim – if the jackal plan did not work out, he could always make good use of the sweet wine while sitting on the stoep and staring across the veld, trying to figure out what might really lure that jackal, while his wife paged across her phone looking at pictures of Thailand.

The morning Malan found 12 dead lambs on the far side of the concrete dam, he wasn’t even shocked anymore. The jackal’s trail of destruction had not just worn him down – it had now left him numb.

How long before he realised that numbness was far worse than despair; despair was at least a reaction towards something one cared about. Numbness was the evil of not-caring anymore. It was the worst. He had to get out of it.

That’s how Malan found himself in the veld that night, on the flat hill overlooking the pasture, a spread of land of the remaining winter dry grass growing between the sharp rocks. The moon was full, and fifty paces ahead sat an enamel soup bowl, filled with a generous splash of red muscadel Malan had poured.

Malan stroked the stock of his .243 rifle and lifted it, sighting the bowl through the scope. There was just enough light to make out the bowl clearly. If that jackal – or any creature – came near the bowl, there’d be one shot, and it’d be the death shot.

Everyone from Onseepkans to Grootdrink knew: Malan Dreyer never missed. He felt a swell of pride as he sat there, thinking about this reputation he had earned. But what would people say if they knew Malan the Sharpshooter was sitting in the middle of the night, waiting for a jackal to drink wine? There would surely be strange looks, some of the taunt, and some of the concern, and both of the humour.

He was still thinking that, gazing up at the stars, when… well, a cold gust of wind raked his back and woke him.

How long had he slept?

An hour, his watch showed. He wiped his eyes, switched on the big hunting torch pointed in the direction of the enamel bowl and looked through the scope.

No way.

Malan stood, stretched his stiff back, and walked over to the bowl. It was lying flipped over and obviously empty.

“Must’ve been one of the ewes,” Malan thought, muttering under his breath – cursing the jackal, the dead sheep, Briek’s nonsense about the vermin-attracting powers of muscadel, and his wife’s obsession with Bangkok.

But a desperate man’s mind turns stubborn. The next night, Malan was back on the hill. The bowl, fifty paces out again, was this time three-quarters full of the fragrant sweet wine.

So fragrant with the scent of sweet grapes that Malan took a deep swig from the bottle before sitting against a flat rock, rifle at his side. The moon was brighter, fuller than last night and there were no clouds, and he could clearly make out the bowl. Anything that came near it would be within his sights. He’d raise the rifle, line up the target, and – well, he was Malan the Sharpshooter.

When he woke this time, the wind was strangely warm. The moon had crossed the sky, and the night was dark and real and true, and held no lies. Getting to his feet, Malan didn’t even stretch, just quickly walked over to the bowl. It was flipped over again. Probably one of the springboks this time – he could see them grazing by the windpomp.

He sighed and packed up and ticked off another fruitless attempt at getting the jackal, not even wanting to consider what other crazy methods of vermin eradication were left for him, but knowing – at the back of his mind – that he was going to be having to consider another one soon. The sheep were disappearing, and they were disappearing fast.

The next night, Malan slept in his own bed, luxuriating in the comforting embrace of the soft mattress which he had missed so much in those two nights spent in the veld. It was all so warm and soft that he fell asleep before he could say goodnight to his wife in the guest room.

He woke rested, even though it was still pitch dark outside. The clock read 4:12.

As he climbed out of bed, reaching for his robe, he heard it: a faint clinking sound from the back porch. Something tapping, something scraping. The grating of metal against concrete.

Malan pulled his robe over his shoulders and felt his way toward the back door, the scrapping metallic sound growing sharper in his ears.

Just as he neared the door, the noise stopped. He flung the unlocked door open, greeted by moonlight and a warm wind from the east.

And to this day, no one knows who was more shocked – Malan Dreyer, or the male jackal standing there, enamel bowl in its mouth, waiting for the sweet taste of muscadel it had come to love over the past two nights.

The Cape Winemakers Guild (CWG) were in town to pour members’ wines selected for this year’s Auction in October. It was all magnificence, but the following wines left fond memories.

Bartho Eksteen Wine Estate Vloekskoot Sauvignon Blanc – Wooded 2020

If fynbos could grow beneath the icy waves of the Atlantic Ocean there would be an earthly reference for this wine. For it is alive, a rush, wet and wild and awash with just about each and every Sauvignon Blanc flavour that has been noted in the annals of wine writing. Gooseberry gasps, before a lush run of grenadilla goops across the page, the thiol-notes hitting brittle clips of freshly cut Buffalo grass. On the mid-palate the wine flows and here comes winter fynbos on soaked soils, the earth drying out under an unseasonal sun to reveal stony, salty notes. A totally awesome Sauvignon Blanc, and truly South African in the assured, confident ease it displays a side of this variety most mortals and vineyard sites can only aspire to.

David Finlayson Wines “Naja Nivea” Chardonnay 2023

The regal, cultured chimes of the Chardonnay tune ring calm and true in a thoroughbred wine made by a jockey who knows a thing or two about the white beast of Burgundy. A delicate, fragile and waif-like entrance on the palate, more a peak than an attack, opens to whispers and the delighted chuckling of children that have found something wonderous. Fragrant white flowers buckle in an unseasonal warm breeze as touches of densely skinned Cape lemon move forward to lead one onto a path of taste and sensation. Heated oatmeal laced with heather honey coats the palate without hindering the purity and freshness of citrus and cut pear, with a slow, ponderous finish creating dreams that best be put inside a pocket for cherishing at another time.

Delaire Graff Estate Banghoek Cabernet Sauvignon 2021

Spilt blood lies on a warm spread of shale, and the smell of fresh tar adds to the intoxicating aroma of this brilliant Cabernet Sauvignon. A miniscule sip commands the entire palate with a swashbuckling, randy presence requiring another mouthful to ascertain the generous abundance of this wine’s gifts. Black-currants the size of golf-balls find their way onto the flavour profile, as does Turkish dried fig and a generous sprinkle of Provençal herbs dried under a sexy Mediterranean sun. On the finish the wine kisses a last goodbye with that delectable string of liquorice before disappearing in a splash of salt-like, rose-petal and raspberry cordial. Tannins are rippling with toned muscles to ensure that structure matches flavour in perfect Cabernet Sauvignon harmony.

Kershaw Wines Ziggurat Chardonnay 2023

Like the fist-fighting abilities of Steve McQueen, this Chardonnay is a model of aggressive refinement, its potential for creating violence only suppressed by an overpowering femininity. The bracing grip of citrus, sea-spray and crushed coral is brought to more land-bound environs by slithers, chunks and rips of Edenesque fruit. Green melon, iced and perked with lime-juice. Sappy kumquat and the peel of an underripe fig. Finely grated mace has immersed itself in the fruit, and there is a golden mound of dry hay rustling in an easy breeze coming in from a glacier lake. But the wine does not find easy resting in the mouth, the flavours cut and run, boundless and free, making every mouthful an event, the timeless combination of nature and he who corrals the vineyard.   

Lismore Estate Vineyards The Sheltering Sky Syrah 2022

Its perfume is of the kind that makes a bishop want to kick a hole in a stained-glass window, the texture in the mouth luxurious and as svelte as a room-temperature oyster fed to you by a geisha girl on the first day of the Tokyo cherry blossoms. Once the lavender and musk and Zanzibar cardamom which the nose offers calms down, the wine teases the mouth with long runs of Yangshao silk flavoured by the juices of paradise and the sweat of heavenly, but tainted, mortals. Honied cranberry offers a semblance of a crunch to this whole-clustered wine, but is assertively covered by layers of fruit of the blue, dark and purple kind. Perfectly dried prune and just-plucked mulberry come to mind, wallowing on a bed of lilacs cooling down under a setting pastoral sun. Emotions of fun and a child-like deliciousness are stirred-up by clods of pounded raw cocoa, while an aged Havana cigar box offers pleasure of a more adult kind.

Leeu Passant Franschhoek Hillside Cabernet Franc 2022

In the low-light of the tasting hall, the wine runs dark and inky, and true into the glass. The nose is attracted by aromas of classic gorgeousness, focussed on showing the heritage of the Cabernet Franc grape that has played such a profound role in creating great Bordeaux wines – for longer than its Cabernet Sauvignon off-spring. You smell graphite and pine-needle, a meaty splinter of spliced pine-tree. Also, a vivid succulent note of liquid and juice, rustled. On the attack, the wine gives a dramatic and showy display, challenging the alertness of the oral senses. There is something steely and shiny in the precise linearity of it all, with flavours presented in sculpted tones of perfected ease. Dark fruit lurks in the forms of blue-berry and black-currant, with an alerting umami slide of cherry. Lingering, as this wine does with its patient presence, further layers are unveiled with anise and fynbos coming to the fore, giving the classic, cultured presence a thrilling feral touch.  

Paul Clüver Wines The Wagon Trail Chardonnay 2023

Upon the first scent of lime-peel and honey-comb you want to bite it. This Chardonnay, a Cape classic perennially presenting the rocky green cold heart of Elgin in one glass. Citrus notes lean towards bright yellow grapefruit, the irresistible bitter edge of which perks-up the palate, evokes juice and crunch. On the mid-palate pecan and walnuts, crushed and grilled, combine with splashes of sea-spray, pillowy butter-cup flowers and grated Packham pear, just on the edge or ripening. The delight of it all is strung together tightly with cords of rock and maritime coast reflecting the work of a true master of his craft who has an intimate knowledge of what Chardonnay is capable of.

Savage Wines Auction Syrah 2022

Sometimes I come across a wine that makes me dab its surface with my finger just to make sure this is real. Then I sip, and no, you are not dreaming. It is the kind of red wine that does everything to the senses you’d ask it to do. Caress the palate tenderly with flirtatious, seeking finger-strokes of playful permissiveness inviting you to taste, to drink, to roll-over without a care in the world. Flavours are opulent, lusty and joyous but without any a hint of the unmannered boisterous . Sappy mulberry and damson gathers depth from nuances found in prunes and dates, and on the back-break I detect a slight savoury edge of wafer-thin Jamón, with a rivulet of olive-brine. No grip to speak of, this wine rolls along with unbridled ease and delight, and it can keep right on coming.

It loves skies, and it loves to fly, and the sight of a sole Bateleur eagle soaring in an open pale-blue sky inspired Danie de Wet to name his icon De Wetshof Chardonnay after this majestic raptor. Thus, the Bateleur Chardonnay was born in 1991.

My love for the Bateleur, as well as many other Chardonnays, also has a relationship with flying and the open skies, although not as calm as an eagle gliding through the air with graceful, careless ease.

Back in 1986, an airplane trip to America meant an enforced detour via Europe. South Africa was well and truly in the throes of apartheid and therefore being sanctioned, with the Americans disallowing direct commercial flights from South Africa to the Land of the Free. For South Africans, this meant jetting to Europe and from there connecting to the States. A long haul in those days when airline passenger services were more tedious than today.

My parents were living in Washington DC then, and thought a Christmas visit from their Stellenbosch-based student son was called for. Of course, I jumped at the chance and in the second week of December 1986 I began the long-haul: Cape Town to Johannesburg. Johannesburg to Frankfurt. Frankfurt-New York. Then onto DC.

Getting-off at Frankfurt, hazy-eyed after a night of on-plane beer-drinking with two wannabe actresses from East-London setting off to seek fame and fortune in LA, I stumbled to the TWA departure zone, ready for the nine-or-so hour flight to the Big Apple. One pick-me-up Bloody Mary, and we boarded, the adrenaline beginning to flow through my veins along with the vodka and tomato juice: Now, for the first time, I was really getting pumped-up about the prospect of seeing America for the first time.

The interior of the TWA Jumbo smelled of burnt coffee and looked a bit worn, but the air-hostesses were sunny and blonde with brilliant smiles. Had my first American beer – Miller High-Life – just after take-off, and settled down as myself and 300-or-so passengers headed west. The whole aisle-row next to me was open, but I was too excited to sleep.

Now, all of us who have flown have heard the pilot’s voice coming across the speakers announcing a bit of rough air, a possible bumpiness, a calm request to take your seats and fasten seat-belts. And this flight was no different. About five hours in, after a lunch of hash-browns, sausage, gravy and a surprisingly bright and perky tomato salad, the Captain called. “Return so seats”, “belts fastened”…the obligatory signs to buckle-up lit-up.

Thing is, the plane continued flying smooth and straight, and no bumps or shakes from unexpected air-pockets.

I just got the sense that something was not right. The purser walked down the aisles with a sombre face, motioning the stewardesses to the back of the plane. One stewardess bent over an older passenger to tighten the lady’s seat-belt and tapped her on the forearm, some sort of reassurance, the reason for which made me wonder.

After a while the crew returned to the cabin, making their way to the open seats. A TWA stewardess took an one in the row next to me. I wanted to ask, but when I saw her trying to hide the fact that she was crying, I refrained.

The Captain’s voice over the speaker, a broad Midwest drawl. The plane was going to make an unexpected landing in an hour or so. Keep calm. You’ll be updated.

First thought, of course, was a hijack. How much longer before the Arabic-accented voice boomed through the cabin informing us that we infidels were heading to Bagdad or Islamabad?

I had enrolled to study journalism the next year, so was sitting with a story before I even knew how to write it.

The mood among the passengers was, strangely, calm. And I don’t know what is more foreboding: a communal unknowing silence or mass hysteria. Minutes crawled by like slugs on Valium. I just stared out the window, and all I could see was cloud.

The Captain spoke. Due to an unforeseen incident, the plane was having to land at Goose Bay. Canada. And that was all. I knew that this was north, very north. From Europe, the shortest distance to America is to not fly in a straight line, but in a northerly, latitude-broaching curve. So, any place between Frankfurt and New York was going to be north from our destination. Hopefully, not somewhere in the Atlantic.

Then the descent began. Quick and steep. And the Captain told us this was the emergency landing we had, on boarding the plane, been briefed about as a possible occurrence, and that “it is happening now”.

And there it was. A lot of engine noise. A few cries and yelps from passengers and crew. We dropped. Oxygen masks fell from the space above our seats, bobbing on their cords as we set them on our faces. It smelt clean and pure, and fresh. I took a few deep breaths of oxygen in the hope of finding some inner calm.

I mean, what does an emergency landing entail? Slamming into an arctic forest and bursting into flames? Plunging into the icy ocean? Or having the plane skate over a desolate winter wilderness before, eventually, coming to a halt. Us traumatised survivors wondering if we’d ever be found – and how long it would be before we were forced to make steak tartare from each other’s shoulder-flesh.

But it all happened very quickly. Oxygen-mask on, I took one last peak out of the window and saw we were in the middle of dense white clouds. Then there was blue sky, and we were ordered to take the brace position, heads on knees, hand behind necks. I heard myself breathing into the mask, and it sounded like gasps.

The engines roared, like really roared, before we hit the runway. Wheels bounced a few times, and then there was this metallic screech as the brakes were slammed on, full-tilt. The plane was on the ground now, but still thundering ahead, on and on, my face on my Levi’s, hearing the brakes on wheels, the engine wailing.  And then it stopped.

The hostess next to me threw her mask aside, jumped up and joined her colleagues in opening the emergency doors. Tossed the doors outside, onto the snow. The yellow chutes dropped from the plane, falling slowly on the snow-decked runway, and row-by-row we were ordered to get up from the seats and then, one-by-one, we slid down the chutes like kids at a playground into the icy chill of Arctic air.

We stood in circles, watching the others descend, catching them as they reached the ground. The plane was quiet now, its red tail vivid, real against that what was all around us, namely unreal blue sky and endless unfathomable fields of snow, pure and very white.

Military ambulances and fire-trucks had lined-up next to the runway and uniformed men stood and walked and talked, and looked at the plane. A guy next to me from Dakota said Goose Bay is a Canadian military base, and if there was one area you’d want to make an emergency landing, an air-force centre was it.

The TWA air-crew, pilots and stewardesses, were the last to slide down. I saw a man and a few lady passengers being helped to an ambulance. The rest of us were gathering our senses, trying to take it all in, talking as tufts of warm air from our mouths were clouded by the ice-cold air.

I had always wanted to see Canada, although this first experience was not how I expected it to be.

Medical personnel came around, asking us if bodies were in any way harmed. Then some trucks stopped and here I was, three years after my military service once again riding in the back of an olive-green army lorry.

Us 300-or-so passengers were taken to a mighty huge air-force hangar where coffee and bread rolls and slices of dense dark cake had been laid out on long trestle-tables, but few were thinking about food, yet. At that time, reality still had to sink in. What the fuck had just happened?

An airman in a green Canadian military overall handed me a mug of black coffee. “Welcome to Goose Bay,” he said, “you guys sure picked a bum place to stop.”

From there we were driven to some kind of military base, and I looked out of the truck. Snow and military vehicles; jet-fighters in hangars; troops marching through the snow; guard-towers and anti-aircraft guns aimed at the sky. And snow, all that snow. Everywhere.

In the mess-hall I saw a map. Found Goose Bay, some 2 400km north-east of New York. Latitude 53.3N. Greenland lying just north across the sea.

A military voice asked us to sit-down in the mess-hall, and I saw a tall, lean guy in camouflage fatigues and sparkling insignia on his epaulettes. He told us burning material had been detected in the TWA plane while we were flying over the ocean, the cause of this unplanned landing up here in Newfoundland-Labrador Canada. We were to stay at the base and await further instructions, but TWA was sending a plane from New York to collect us, and this should arrive during the night, and we’d leave at daybreak.

In the meantime, “make yourselves at home”.

I found a pool-room and played some racks with three trainee pilots from British Columbia. Some other passengers joined in, our civilian clothing mingling with the olive-green jump-suits and crew-cuts of the air-force guys. There were girls among us, and the recruits strutted before them, throwing low-browed glances.

After a supper of chicken and mash potato and some salads, I headed to the bar with some fellow passengers from Australia. We didn’t discuss the flight. We didn’t mention the fire onboard. No-one talked of being lucky.

’80s pop-music was playing in the officers’ bar, I think I heard Spandau Ballet and Depeche Mode. The officers stood-up and welcomed us, and told us to order drinks, it’s all on them.

The Australians asked for beer and were given perspiring bottles of Molson. I took a long shot and requested some white wine. Wine is sun, it is warmth and it is comfort. This, I needed.

A bottle, half-full, was put on the bar-top alongside a surprisingly fancy-looking glass. I read the label, and saw Paul Masson, and the other word was “Chardonnay”. It was from California, this wine.

This was 1986, Chardonnay had barely arrived in South Africa. And here I was, sub-arctic, getting a glass of it in an air-force bar in northern Canada. I poured the glass half-full, and the pale gold colour made me let out a sigh. The colour in the glass was like a sun, rising on a new day of more life. At the first mouthful I didn’t want it to stop. Sweet and buttery, lying full and dense, almost oily in its heaviness, the weight of which I had never experienced in any white wine before.

So, this is Chardonnay, I thought. And knew that this was going to be a long, lasting love-affair.

And tomorrow, I was going home.

• A brief report of the incident was reported in the American media here.

Besides the scenes of nature in its wintry finest, the Cape winelands’ chilly season is an apt time to test the culinary splendours of the hot pies on offer at various farm-stalls and roadside coffee-shops. This I do a lot of during my travels between the wineries of Stellenbosch, Elgin, Robertson and Franschhoek, as a pause in the journey to sample the pastry-clad culinary offerings presents an apt time for reflection, eyeing the winter Boland wonderland and enjoying the sustenance of a baked and meaty culinary masterpiece.

But sharing is caring, thus I present the Cape’s Top 5 rural roadside pies of the year thus far.

Ou Meul (Botrivier) Pepper Steak Pie: A perfect flaky, butter-infused crust yields to unleash the seductive aroma of sauce-coated cow flesh, brioche and a spicy lift of pepper. The tender sheath of pastry offers warm, doughy flavour as it prepares the palate for the savoury wave to follow. This comes in a surge of silky gravy accompanied by tender morsels of cubed beef that upon the bite fall into tasty shreds of meaty joy. The symphony of sauce-coated and accurately cooked steak has one eating with hunger – wolf-like – and is an emotional moment as such glorious sustenance reminds one that mortality is at stake were it not for this food from the gods. 98/100

Peregrine Farm Stall (Elgin) Venison Pie: The pastry might be a tad thin, virginal and fragile, but this is only to enhance the generosity of the filling. And this is shredded, lovingly shot antelope, the primal gamy tang elevated by a rich sauce, well-spiced with an exotic hit of ground clove, a perky prod of vinegar and some rock-salt, all aiding in giving the pie that samurai umami character. The meat-to-crust ratio comprehensively favours the filling, making this the most carnivore-friendly pie on the road. The finish is long and lasting on account of the extraordinary gravy that brings meat and pastry together in one harmonious offering of taste and comfort. 96/100

Klein Joostenberg Deli (Koelenhof, Stellenbosch) Springbok Pie: The reassurance and relief begins with the weight of the pie in the hand, a significant presence suiting the greedy travelling eater. The pastry is a combination of golden-crusted crunch and a warm, tender inner-layer of dough baked with skill and attention. Filling-wise, the springbok shows an Old World note with more herbs than spice, the saffron-hued flecks of carrot offering brightness to the eye as well as a rich vegetative presence in the mouth. The slivers of Karoo springbok have drawn-in the gravy, making for joyous meaty-eating, the high-protein flesh perfectly complemented by the life-affirming layer of gluten-packed crust. 94/100

Houwhoek Farm Stall (Elgin) Steak-and-Kidney Pie: The lid of dense pastry yields to a dark, mysterious gravy showing a welcoming fatty sheen reflecting from morsels of beef and rounded mounds of kidney. Sauce-to-flesh ratio is absolutely perfect, allowing the steak to show its tender, meaty charm in tandem with the feral sensuality lurking in the dense organic folds of the kidney. The pie offers tidy, splatter-free eating as the density of the pastry serves as a mop, soaking-up the sauced morsels before they can launch stain-causing and hand-burning droplets. 94/100

Potbelly (Klapmuts, Stellenbosch) Lamb Curry Pie: A squared pillow of golden pastry breaks, foreign and exotic scents of spices and sub-continental cookery waft to the nose. The sauce is curried with fruity notes of peach, dry apple and sultana. Fatless cubes of well-cooked lamb are somewhat overpowered by the sauce, which is gelatinous and plenty yet envelopes crust and flesh to create a culinary accord of utmost satisfaction. It is a big pie, cooked with minimum intervention and with the sustaining presence to make one last another 175kms. 93/100