One Person's Poussin Is Another Person's Meat

Remember when red meat was a no no?. There you were, ready to tuck into a mouthfull of medium rare when the local do-gooder appeared, gumming a carrot stick into submission.

"You know that will kill you, all that red meat. You should eat more greens. You should have more respect for your body. All that fat. All that cholesterol. Try some black-strap mollasses and bran next time you feel like some carbohydrate...I find nuts a really really good source of essential proteins and oils. Yoghurt milkshakes really really help you through the day and think of the poor cow and the greenhouse gasses and global warming and land degradation caused by you meat eaters. And, the worst of it is that they all become so bloody aggressive when they eat meat.... Just look at yourself."

And they were right you know. They could see it in your eyes...the feint tremor in your flexor tendon as your meat eating diet almost took over..So close, so close. And what did you do? Did you defend the humble and time honoured rite of eating the occasional cow.  No, you disguised your steak sandwiches between slices of wholemeal-rye-enhanced-full-kibble-sour-dough bread, the blood, incognito beetroot.

"May I have a salad sandwich, no onion, brown bread, yes beetroot, tomato, no salt, no cheese and cut the butter."
(....and an enormous slab of slightly singed fillet still quivering from the knife...)

So what happened? There came to pass an iron and protein  deficiency that struck throughout the land. Tests were conducted that proved (sic) that red meat in moderation was good for you. We were encouraged to incorporate regular, moderate meals of flesh, including that found under the hide of your humble bovine.

At last count, cheese (along with other milk products) has yet to be entirely rehabilitated. There even seems to be a developing school of thought that
cholesterol may actually be good for you..it's inflammation that is the problem. That's one more reason to steer (sic) clear of the salad brigade. In fact,  as
more late middle aged people encounter osteo perosis, at least the females amongst us will be encouraged to re-examine the role products from the underside of the cow may play in the calcium balance of the body.  

The point I'm making here is that if you live long enough, there's a fair chance science will contradict its own findings. Remember the natural anti-coagulant found in blood which until its recent resurrection was known (sic)  to cause blood clots during major surgery? (Or was it the other way round?..ahh.give it a few years and we'll probably be using its synthetic derivatives to seal our driveways!) And it may not take as long as that.  Mr Eliot was probably right .. "In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse."

Well what's all this to do with wine. Yes it's on again folks, the born again cocoa and blue nylon fur slipper brigade is on the march. For the next generation of dinner parties and social events, brown paper bags will be essential accessories. The neo-prohibitionists will be making you sickenly aware, that, should you be so misguided as to actually drink the stuff, you run the risk of ruining life on your own personal planet, and upsetting a million brain cells per sip. And binge drinking amongst the young is all your fault.

Binge drinking and its consequences is a very serious issue, but in my opinion it is as much to do with excessive consumptive consumerism as it is alcohol itself. Put the price up on rubbish alcohols by all means, but recognise that good wine, in moderation is not, and has never been a part of that awful, destructive scene.

Don't overlook that the moderate consumption of beverage alcohol ( ie. wine) has been shown to be beneficial to the human physical and emotional condition. Recognise that the American Journal of Medicine has published results of a ten year study of 8,000 people showing that moderate drinkers lived longer, and were 27% less likely to die from all causes than either heavy drinkers or total abstainers.

Remember to mention that this 'reduction in overall mortality corresponds largely to an enormous improvement in cardiovascular mortality, which is still the leading cause of death in (Western inflamed obese) countries.'  After all your tormentors will not be aware of the work of Professor David Whitten, and the overwhelming findings of researchers as to the health benefits of moderate wine consumption.

What's the point. As Her Majesty's Demented Opposition leadership would scream, when the last flagon of four-penny dark is empty, it's only science and everybody could be wrong as least as often as they are right..probably more..or maybe less..Maybe we should all try a little more tolerance towards those less fortified than ourselves..whatever that all means.

After all, one person's poison is another person's meat

Dodge Trout and Tomatoes

   


'Look, you can rack ya flamin' tomatoes in the Ford, but you've got Buckleys with the Dodge. It's full a cement. It's chocka, and I, for one, won't be movin'it. ' 

And so began another foray into the cultural and highly suspect world of tomato drying.  'And what's more, it's the only  place where I can keep me cement dry, so you'll have to find some place else. What's wrong with the Mitsubishi, or the bloody Fiat.  Or aren't they foreign enough for you flamin' gormays?' 

Lately, it seems everyone who is anyone is in the process of being overtaken by a mad quest to dry tomatoes. There seems to be no limit to the ingenuity the impassioned tomato drier will employ in pursuit of this current culinary holy grail. Look around you in the better parts of town, and you'll see what I mean. There's hardly a northern window ledge with space enough for an additional piece of fruit, and the pressure for quality drying space has peeled off into rural areas. Old fridges, abandoned chook houses, washed-up  washing machines,..all these have their devotees, but the true aristocrat, the creme de la creme of tomato driers, the upwardly mobile gourmet will always go for the derelict Dodge over the  failed Ford.   

Now I'll admit your Dodge full of cement is a difficult prospect  to overcome in pursuit of the production of perfectly desiccated tom, but there are limits. I mean, there are stories circulating concerning certain soulless individuals, bereft of all horticultural and culinary integrity, using the odd abandoned Ford in yet another pathetic and nefarious attempt to dupe  the hapless consumer. How can we maintain quality in this business if we lower our standards!

 And are they true, these reports? Do they hold water? You bet they do.! I've seen the advertising campaign. Huge signs suspended from Zeplins, billboards positively lining the highways into even minor tomato drying  townships, dubious competitions designed to entice the gullible to abandon the dear old  Dodge and take on the 'fabulous' Ford.  You know the lines. More space in the boot; totally stain-proofed upholstery, spare racks on the roof,  full climate control, blah, blah blah. And that catchy jingle 'If you can't afford a Ford, dodge a Dodge'. .....But, and here's the thing: they leak don't they. Totally useless in the dry tomato trade. I ask you to please consider.. 'have you dried in a Ford lately?!'

Nevertheless, the problem remains. How can you use your copious amounts of superior Dodge dried tomatoes? Well , it's the trout season again, and our local waters are beginning to fish well. I have it on impeccable authority that the best anglers are currently using a small dry nymph fished wet, late in the day, preferably from the roof of the Bentley. If you can ever trust the word of a fisher, there are prodigious numbers of quite extraordinary trout being taken in this manner, and as we have established that there is no shortage of tomatoes in the aware kitchens of the Orange area, allow me to present an innovative approach to dealing with both these happy circumstances.
You too can appreciate just how well   trout goes with garlic enriched  dried tomatoes as a seasoning for  steamed rice, Italian parsley , crushed almonds and finely chopped ham accompanied by a bone dry Riesling or well made young Mugdee Semillon.  Simply skin the whole trout, add lemon juice to the body cavity, and turn the beast in a couple of beaten eggs and a little seasoned flour. Next, pan fry a fist-full of well chopped mushrooms adding the garlic tomatoes, ham and a generous  cup of finely crushed almonds, a splash of your selected wine and the fish. Cook quickly, and serve with the finest of hand cut potato chips and a crisp mixed green salad.  Yes folks,  Dodge trout and tomatoes, it's the only way to travel!

                        

It's FOR SALE!!

A wine auction is as good a place as any to observe democracy in action.

To me it represents the very pinnacle of the western market economy, and therefore demands certain forms of behaviour which I usually reserve for  socio-political debates and visits by insurance salespersons. First of all there's a good deal of lying amongst the parties.  The vendor lies about the description of the goods, the auctioneer always initially over-estimates the value of the lot, and the seasoned  bidder spends most of their time in the auction room sitting firmly on his or her hands,  pretending for all the world that they have very little money to contribute to the preacher's plate should it ever come their way. It's a grown-ups game of liar's bluff.

 There are the usual large sweaty persons in expensive silver suits and calculating hair pieces circumnavigating each lot as it comes up, giving the impression, unlike we poor suckers,  that the place doesn't own them. They seem to barely move when nodding a wink the auctioneers way, and have the impressive ability to conduct an intensive bidding session against Joe Public without Joseph ever really being aware as to who his opposition actually is. It's only after your average Joe has lost his nerve, that he realizes  the successful bidder for the '58 Grange was Flash Jim, the well dressed,  moderately obese cove with the plastic smile and the slim line mobile phone tattooed into his ear.  The horror of it all is that the parsimonious purchaser is usually  standing right next to him.  By then of course it's too late, and the next bargain is up for examination so Joe reconciles himself to an all out attack on the very rare '48 Grange in lot 61.

The auctioneer is usually  a fairly straightforward style of a chap with little to distinguish him, (and it's always a him) from the tentative congregation except the growth in his throat which moves with impressive speed at ever increasing pitch as each anointed lot reaches its crescendo.

A  note here for the uninitiated. You can always tell when a parcel of booze is having difficulty reaching its undeclared no-reserve price. The auctioneer will stop in full flight, pause, and in collusion with his flanking spotters, carry out a manoeuver designed to ease the extra dollar from the desperate pockets of you and me. The spotter on his left with the loud iridescent pink  baseball cap will throw both hands into the air, and in passable harmony with the boss, aria the following magic phrase.  In an underlined and boldfaced tribal chant they will demonstratively recite   'It's FOR SALE!!!"   Now this may seem a pretty clumsy statement of the bleedin' obvious, but it never fails to get the case of Chateau ordinare 1973 Marsanne (perfectly cellared in an air-conditioned brick veneer room in Dubbo since 1979) across the line.

And what of the token  public servants (haven't you noticed they always travel in pairs) who represent The Department of Fair Trading during the liquidation of the former Prime Ministers collection of  Japanese Cabernet and Californian Chardonnay. At the commencement of the auction they are reverentially introduced to the assembled congregation, and make quite a picture in their striped pink shirts, grey ties and matching Departmental suit coats. They remove and clean their designer glasses and after the mandatory tug of the designer stubble on their shallow chins , they're away, shouting 'yo' and flailing sweaty armpits just like real spotters. The fact that they are usually slightly out to lunch at the business end of each bidding frenzy, and invariably point to Joe, when everyone else knows it's the suited gentleman with the mobile tattooed to his ear who really won the bidding, is of little consequence.

They are both on a mission from god and provide a colourful addition to the auction pageant, spending as they do, enormous sums on 'refreshments' during the course of the day. This necessary intake of fluids  over the course of  the humid  and stressful stretch of overtime,  usually results in them performing the   Departmentally approved striptease, reaching as they do by afternoons end, the rolled up shirt sleeves and open necked casual collar look so indicative of the real working classes.

And so it goes. There's the odd bargain which slips through, and the intensity of bidding on the very very rare '48 Grange undoes the whole front pew of Joes, but on the whole, everyone gets what they deserve. The suited gentleman hangs up his ear phone, collects his '58 Grange and changes banks. The auctioneer  collects his 5% from the owner of the Dubbo Marsanne, Joe and flash Jim alike, and everybody believes the lie that they each leave with their own personal bargain.

Now isn't that what I think true democracy is all about!.   

Darlinghurst Drag

I suppose none of us really appreciates the everyday experience. I had occasion last week to spend a few precious moments re-creating in the tranquility and transparent peace of beautiful downtown Darlinghurst.

Now your Darlo' has a number of characteristics which get fair up my nose, and I expend an inordinate portion of every waking hour conspiring to avoid its harrowing byways and toll-ways. And yet, far too often lately, I find myself enduring the early morning warble of the lesser bearded twit and its fellow traveller, the aptly named lunatic drongo. (Genus: Jackhammerus; family: greatnusianceia). It's a continuing disappointment to my fellow ornithologists that old Jackhammerus is so regular in his habits. He has long since ceased to be any sort of observational challenge in the often demanding world of trench renovation, and because of his characteristically harsh mating call, is infinitely more identifiable than the rarer, yet closely related, Supervisor bird, (Engineersareus bellyacheai).

In fact, because of his boring regularity, the metropolitan branch of the Australasian Ornithologists Union has done away with Greenwich Mean, and now takes its cue from the 7 am call of old, infuriating Jackhammerus. You see, it doesn't seem to matter to him that your normally tranquil country nights' sleep has been continually interrupted by the hauntingly threatening wail of the Ambulance falcon, or the bone-shaking rumbling nocturnal dance of diesel Booby. Come 7am, it's their turn, and not a second short of a 9am tea break is going to stop them. At times like this, there may be mitigation in genuscide.

This observation apart, there are more pressing concerns for the residents of the central west;, re-Darlo. As an unintended consequence of some poorly targeted, bottom-up funding of inaction research at the Burdekin Hotel in Oxford Street, the resident committee for the Trans-geographical Placement of Pub Foundation Stones (CTPPFS) has stumbled across a curious and worrying anomaly. Apparently, the Burdekin Hotel is on the move. West. Yes folks, it's heading our way!.

And that's not the all of it. To date, the CTPPFS has established a worryingly positive correlation between movements by the local Blood-House and the rest of Darlinghurst. What this means, and I don't want to cause any panic locally, is that there is mounting evidence that Darlinghurst (and its manifest ornithological irritations) is heading west. Of course, we will all be relying on the sturdy Cornish stock of Lithgow to form the first line of defence, but there could well come a time when even Lucknow will be called upon to justify its name. Heaven help them if they ever squeeze past Orange. Cumnock awaits!

Luckily, courtesy of the Californians, there has recently been a breakthrough in the advance detection of such unnatural seismic social disasters. No more do we have to be awake to the unexplained nervousness of horses or the erratic baking performances of normally calm flocks of CWA matrons. No more the skittish behaviour of winery dogs and their owners or the unexpected observation of an irregular wobble in the trajectories of the Planets. No, no more. It's all become much more straightforward.

What west coast research seems to have identified is what's called, in twitching circles, the advance scout phenomenon. Much like the well documented interplanetary visitations during the late 50's and early 60's, the pattern seems to be to send an advance party to the selected area in order to prepare a report for the exploratory organisation. However, unlike  politicians and persons from Mars to which we observational types west of the Great Divide have now become daily accustomed, your Darlo interloper has a much more devious approach to infiltration. What he does is adopt the image of a local. The attempt is to remain hidden in full sight. You know the sort of thing; Drizabone, big black hat, moleskins,  RM boots, Landcruiser Ute. He also likes to display his affinity with animals, and will often single out the meanest lamb in the mob for his special roping skills.

But don't be fooled friends there is one surefire, dead giveaway, partners. The shades, folks, the shades. You see the sunnies and you knows the truth. All may appear normal, but, be warned. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, so look behind the shades and you'll see what years of attacks by Jackhammerus greatnusianceia can do to the human body. If a void can be described as full of shattered pain, that's what you'll see. It's an everyday experience in Darlo, and it ain't pretty.

All social restraint is abandoned, said Steve, as he toppled into the barrel of Pinot Noir

It is my wont, in these balmy days of leisure and lunacy between the late terror of vintage and the approaching monotony of pruning, to take in the odd consumer (sic) wine tasting. Now those of you who have been party to such rituals will understand that my use of the word "odd" is a pejorative of the mildest kind and any observations here are certainly not necessarily directed at you. After all, you do know there is a difference between a spittoon and a water jug and after the final swig, what IS normal about a wine tasting?

When you think about it, the very concept is a slight-of-hand given that your fellow tasters spend not a little time judging you on your ability to spit the stuff out. And what meets their judgmental eyes? Not for you the pathetic open-mouthed forward arching dribble over the impossibly narrow antique silver goblet (improbably imitating a real spittoon), no, not for you. Yours is a purposeful venerated jet which fires cleanly and precisely from your delicately pursed lips into the very middle of that narrow impossibility every, single, time.

The ease with which this is accomplished says more about you as a worthwhile human being than it could ever possibly say about the quality of the wine under examination. Not that there is any sort of public acclamation with each successful execution of such a feat. No, all you're likely to sense from your fellow tasters, is a slight elevation in the angle of an occasional dandruff dusted eyebrow, or, if you are really lucky, the ever so slight flash of a gold tooth as their unforgiving lips reluctantly part.

However, to every down side there is an upside, or as they say in the classics, you can lead a journalist to a cliche, but you can't make it think.  The upside is that, with each splash free spit, you will feel a palpable sigh of relief amongst the anxious kitchen staff arranged white and black in battalions along the linen encrusted walls of the executive room of the Nobs- Rest Motel B.Y.O. Brasserie.

But to the tasting proper. If it's a mass event with a discrete number of wines in a specified order of tasting within a pre-determined time, the early progress will be genteel and ordered; a studied glimpse at the tasting guide, a measured swirl of each wine, a short sharp inhalation of the bouquet on offer followed by a gargle of the stuff itself. A cryptic annotation to the "official" notes is the final ritual step. You know the sort of thing. Scratch out "complex" and insert "oxidised"; substitute "honeydew" for "smoked oysters"...ignore "finesse" and pass the bottle.

Actually, the Riesling type styles appearing as they do early in the proceedings, often receive an inordinate amount of time and consideration. Is there the whiff of apricot betraying a battle with Botrytis; do the aromatics lean more or less toward the lime or the citrus realm of things; is there enough weight and zing in the palate to balance the complex aromas which greet your first sniff?  Yes, early on each taster gives their all and, with the exception of the badly suited gent upstage right of the fortified section, the Irish linen embroidered table cloth beneath each spittoon remains, for a time at least, pristine. (Apparently, St Vincent de Tokay somehow has no need for a spittoon).

And yet, as Ethyl begins her magic, things are about to change. There's still some control come Chardonnay time, even enough leeway in the light reds to excuse the occasional accidental splash leaping out of the rapidly filling silverware, but by the turn of the full-bodied Cabernet based reds, all pretence is out the window. Time is running out, the well-dressed jostle for position, and the effects of earlier indiscretions are now in full view.

The Irish linen is developing indigestion, while the remaining bread sticks and chunks of cheese lose identity in a sea of random red wine. The tipping point in such social occasions is when St. Vincent de Tokay is discourteously forced downstage left where he contents himself with the contents of the remnants of the Riesling table. A full scale attack on the fortifieds is about to begin. By now, not one taster knows the whereabouts of, or has even the vaguest need for the spittoon. It, like the previously starched-white linen supporting it may as well be in Ireland.

As the tasting enters the straight, all social restraint is abandoned. As Muscat after Tokay after botrytised Semillon barely touches the palate on the way down to a fate worse than dearth, the minutes flash by. Yes friends, it's value for money time. The Plimsoll line, lately representing the absolute maximum poured into each glass is subject to permanent inundation. The tasting guide mutates into a latter day shopping trolley used as it is to swat competitors aside while maintaining a bee-line to the next sticky. All pretence of order and sobriety is well and truly down the proverbial. That's what St Vincent and the Irish in me really likes about choreographed wine tastings. In the end they are great social levellers which teach us all to be more tolerant of those more fortified than ourselves.    

The Original Organic Gentleman: Gil Wahlquist Remembered

A weed between two roses; Gil and Vincie 23/3/2012

Everybody knows somebody called Gilchrist. It's the sort of name that attaches itself to the family chemist, or local barber. It may even be the maiden name of the captain of the best team of net-ballers you've ever seen clout the canvas. It's a name of some conservative style!... a name which invites plimsolls to be firmly tied at ten paces!

As for your 'Wally', well there's at least one in every pub. I would go so far as to state, at some small personal danger, that a pub without a Wal is not a real pub. It's more an hotel. What's more, uninvited "Wals" have a habit of turning up at dry red home bottling sessions, demanding control of the siphon and complaining endlessly the next day about how that bloody awful port, bloody near killed them. Mind you, some  Wallys'ill have a go at anything. A source close to the inaction, informs me of one prominent N.S.W. political Wal taking to the 245 T in an effort to convince a cynical public of its benign nature. And he's still about. Trouble is, said my informant, he didn't drink enough of the stuff.              

What's all this to do with wine? Well, as often as not, Gil Walquist, lately  of Botobolar Vineyard in Mudgee still makes an appearance in casual conversation, and the occasional wine related publication, as Wal Gilchrist. This must be of some little concern to his bankers, albeit a source of joy to his accountant. "Gilchrist" in spirit he may well be, but a "Wal" he very definitely is not.

He and his partner Vincie are remarkably singular and generous individuals.

Many years ago, I had the very good fortune to spend a hazy Sunday with the Walquists in their vineyard at Botobolar above Mudgee enjoying the hospitality and accumulated wisdom of over 20 years of 'real' grapegrowing and winemaking. The Walquists established themselves as leaders in organic viticultural practice in Australia, and developed an international reputation for natural wines made from "real" grapes with  no synthetic interference. Botobolar was for many years,  the only Australian vineyard accredited by NASA (National Association of Sustainable Agriculture) and, as such, enjoyed an enviable and hard-earned reputation for quality wines from its clean environment. And all this, thirty years before the "natural" wine movement became so much a part of the harbour-side harbinger restaurants of today.

This didn't just happen. Both Gil and Vincie, through dogged hard work and enduring belief in what they were doing, managed to survive their own doubts and the cynicism of an ever decreasing group of industry Wallys. And, what's very endearing to me at least, is that they did it all with very good humour. I didn't find a couple of rabid evangelists perched atop some ecologically sound yellow box stump berating the assembled prospective guilt ridden converts. What I found was firm observation and quiet, informed certainty, presented in a positive and human atmosphere of concern for what we're all doing to our environment, and therefore, ourselves. "You spit on this earth and you spit on yourself" they seemed to be saying.

And was everything always rosy in the Walquist's garden? At the time of my visit, Gil showed me a possible infection of his newly set Cabernet with botrytis. Now while noble rot in late harvested Riesling can be magic in the wine, reds and this particular fungus are a real problem. Apricot flavoured Cabernet just doesn't excite the harbour-side harbingers, or, I must confess..me.There was some mechanical damage from a light hailstorm and a gentle invasion of light-brown apple moth larvae attacking some of the recently set berries. There was also a fairly complete grassing of the vineyard floor which tended to moderate growth along the vine rows themselves in what had been a dry-ish growing season.

So, what did the Walquists do about all these "problems"?. Well, they kept a low profile. They were waiting for and more importantly interested in, nature's response. Hail is a fact of life for all agriculture, and anyway, that years crop looked to be pretty heavy in what seemed to be making up into a dry finish to a dry year. The grasses in the vineyard encouraged all manner of insects which, in their turn, were a ready food source for more than the odd predatory bird.

These birds, when they realised how tasty a fat and lazy light-brown apple moth larvae is, would go quite some way in controlling the presently expanding population. And as for the botrytis infection?; an elemental dusting of sulphur, generously applied at the early bud swell and across the recent flowering period would, Gil believed,  prevent problems at vintage. "Easy, isn't it?" he calmly offered.

Mind you, there's nothing absolute about this approach to growing healthy vines and succulent grapes. I got the impression that Gil and Vincie's footprints in the vineyard were the best manure of all. I also came away with the life long gift that successful organic growing of quality grapes is often result of knowing exactly when to do absolutely nothing.

That being true, all we "Wals"  are already half way there.

A Genuine Gentleman: Bill Chambers of Rosewood Remembered

The Sunday morning dogs aren't barking at Rosewood Winery but their catholic pastor hasn't lost his vocation. 

Bill Chambers leaves the cellar door visitor with the distinct impression that he is one of the genuine gentle men of the Australian wine scene. There is a quiet grace about the man which is in no need of promotional airs. The winery itself is a rambling organic assemblage of rusting tin sheds which hasn't changed much over the last twenty years. There's been the entirely pragmatic addition of a "new tastin' and despatchin' shed", however the current generation of underfed and undefended feral cats seem to be about as paranoid as their continuing survival demands. 

One of the more enduring themes of a visit to Rosewood Winery is the relationship between Bill and his feral cats. You see he doesn't have much time for cats of any description but after twenty years he's beginning to recognise that the D.O.G. manifesto for their control is not really working. 

"Bloody cats, can't get close enough to shoot 'em, and there's no use starvin' 'em out. Run rings around them dopey dogs. Might as well bark at 'em me-self"

In a tradition as romantically rustic as the best of them, Rosewood seems to be more nooks and crannies than regimented industrial production space and as a consequence there is no shortage of sanctuary for the hasty retreat and, no doubt, subsequent lazy reproduction of cats under its comforting eaves.

The introduction of a couple of highly fed and underbred guard dogs to the scene hasn't resurrected the situation any. Oh they bark all right! In fact on the early autumn morning I visited there were three of them attempting to fulfil their part of the workplace bargain by half-heartedly barking and snarling at everything and nothing in particular. The rostered two would rush about the place in parallel abandon occasionally giving each other a casual nip on the flanks while a palely loitering old arthritic grey beard whined encouragement from the comfortable shade of a nearby shambolic three rail fence.

As part of the tourist routine, an extraordinarily ginger feral tom would provocatively strut out from the relative safety of the winery into the luxurious sunshine of the courtyard only to be harried back into the darkness through the parallel persecutions of the demented duo.

This went on more or less unabated as the great, washed, God-fearing residents of Rutherglen passed by in newly polished church-bound automobiles and the early Sunday morning winery walkabout crowd, gave up on Bill's tardy appearance and headed off to more commercially viable devotions at Mick Morris's parish up the track.

"Yeah I know I'm s'pose to be here by 10 but the missus wanted some straw carted for her vege patch, so's I was a bit late."

"Still Bill, it's too good a day to spend in bed, isn't it"

"I wouldn't go that far," says Bill, "there's no day too good for that"

You couldn't say there is no mischief in those aging sky blue eyes, but you would be hard pressed to find any meanness. Bill Chamber's wine tastings are legendary and have always been on the generous side. I counted thirty five wines on offer at the last visit, from $6.00 1987 Rieslings to $50.00 half bottles of very old, world class Tokay. All were open for tasting, and it was simply a matter of helping yourself. Bill retired to assemble a few boxes in the background while fielding questions with a laconic honesty which is truly disarming.

"Those little bottles are too bloody expensive. Most people don't like the idea of spending $50.00 on their tummies. Still, (waving a directional arm at an increasingly less agnostic assemblage of imbibers) youse can wipe yourselves out on that lot"

And then there is the famous "true" story of the "Floor Muscat" which ended up with the gold medal at the Melbourne Show.

Apparently Bill had to attend a local grape grower's meeting during vintage, when the unspeakable happened. His best cask of vigorously fermenting muscat sprung a stave and spilled on to the floor of the winery. In true Chambers style, the wayward brew was sponged up into another cask and forgotten until it ended up winning a gold medal at the Melbourne show. Oh, yea of little faith, that's what legends are made of and legend is what Bill Chambers and Rosewood is all about. The feint probability that Bill was Chairman of Judges that particular year is but a happy co-incidence.

As for the dogs, well they kept barking and snarling and spitting and rushing about the place until they heard Bill's car approaching, whereupon they completely clammed up and wandered off to lay down grinning in their appointed dog-holes against the warm tin of the winery walls.

"Call 'em watch dogs" says Bill.."it'd be a bloody miracle if they knew which end of a cat to chase!!"

A Fair Share of Lunatics

Our industry has its fair share of lunatics. Mind you, having a few bottles loose in the top pallet isn't a pre-requisite, but it is helpful in coping with the sometimes inhuman demands of production and marketing in a modern winery.

Such a flash establishment will have its usual rally of stainless steel fermenters, the sanitised laboratory with its crisp glassware, and a tightly arranged tasting room, tastelessly clinging to the pseudo-gothic walls of the winery proper.

It will also present an air of ordered calm and sophistication to the casual visitor, fairly aimed at appealing to long dormant senses, every pore of the comalco castle manoeuvring you into the mood to buy. The zealot behind the bar will concentrate its hypnotic gaze somewhere behind your eye balls. "Buy this and I'll make you someone special" music will waft innocently amongst the pristine rows of Special Reserve Winemaker's Private Bin Limited Edition Oak Cask Vintage Cabernet Chardonnay.

You'll reach into your wallet. The currency moths, blind as pit ponies, will flutter dumbly into the over-sexed commercial gloom as another $100.00 bill bites the dust.

"Or would Sir/Madam/Special Other like to avail themselves of the discount applicable to the purchase of two bottles?"

This, of course is called business.

Meanwhile, in the other world raging out the back, disparate personalities which inhabit the darker corners of the cellar are at play. Known cautiously as "cellar rats", their nether world is where the real business is taking place. Miles of pre-metric reinforced plastic hose booby-trap each tank and guard the entrance to the holiest of holy, the cask room.

Here you'll find, placed firmly between last years triumphs and this years potential disasters, the only cog in this complicated wheel which is irreplaceable, the winemaker. It is the lot of the winemaker to stay so wedged throughout vintage, preserving the quality of the grapes as they begin their long and dangerous journey from fresh fruit to fantastic frascati.

If the winemaker has a bad day, the winery has a bad year.

Expert winemakers, like flamboyant chefs, are not normal employees. They have a special relationship with their creations which both reflects and maintains the currency of their quite individual existence.

And a good vintage doesn't just happen. While it is quite true that a winemaker worth his or her tartaric acid, can haul a poor year up to a standard acceptable to even the most pretentious metallic skillion out the front, in every human sense, it's a thankless task. The endless days merge unnoticed into frantic nights as vintage gathers pace. The truck loads arrive, the crusher breaks down, the refrigeration system is running on empty and every tank is full and still the fruit arrives. All that is needed now is rain. Romantic business this wine making caper and in the end does it all really matter? The job is done as best it can be with the materials at hand, and that's as it is in business these days. Still, name me one chef with references from MacDonalds.