Diary of a Wine Writer

Monday 16^th November

Spend all day trying to re-install the website on its new platform, which I was informed was a “a simple task” by my website host…three traumatic weeks ago. Since then it has been one calamity after another, an allegedly five-minute exercise that has rendered my website nul and void over the weekend, which inevitably led to mental meltdown and acute discombobulation. It’s a stressful day, although Justerini’s Loire tasting makes amends with some awesome Chenin Blancs.

Tuesday 17^th November

Wake up at 4.20am, sleepwalk to the station, snooze on the train, sleepwalk through customs, snooze on my Easyjet flight (I forget my shades…that lurid orange can foment migraines) and catch up on some more lost sleep as best I can. By 9.10 I am in Zurich, the centre of Europe! Hoorah! Swiss efficiency as it is, Zurich airport is spick and span, the trains run like a Breitling and I meet my cohorts in platform 15 of the central station for tonight’s Chateau Climens Barsacathon.

But first we are off to the town of Rheinfelden for lunch with the organizer, Juerg, who shows us his breathtaking cellar in the basement, replete with early 19^th century Tokaji and just about every Sauternes you can imagine back to 1830. Dopameine goes through the roof: it is hardcore noble rot porn and we are soon imbibing a smorgasbord of wines over lunch (1934 Haut Brion, a 1917 Chateau Raymond Lafon that is utterly sublime) although the star is undoubtedly the most succulent, mouth-drooling fillet of porky pig that I have ever devoured. Our host’s wife informs us that it is sourced from her brother’s “happy pigs” and during the afternoon, she takes us out to shake their trotters. As they stampede across the paddock to greet us, snorting with glee, I witness their unbridled contentment and after our impromptu visit, I feel that they are even more flavoursome.

Mmmm....Climens

In the evening, Climens, Climens, Climens…over 25 vintages from an impossibly rare 1912 to 2001, including an almost complete flight from the 1920s. I have a headache by the end; all that residual sugar accumulating in my saccharine-overloaded metabolism. Report on eRP coming up. Afterwards, we go for quick post-Climens beer in a bar where the musical accompaniment seems to 1970s rock reinterpreted as lounge music, which is as saccharine as the Climens ’29. I walk back to my hotel with Linden and Dominic along the river, our accommodation apparently located in Zurich’s red-light district. All I can say is: it is no Amsterdam.

Wednesday 18^th November

Awake in the Rutli hotel, afford myself a rare lie-in since my flight is later than I thought. I walk to the Zurich’s central station, absorb how quintessentially European it is: the cathedral towers, the chiming clocks, the trams, the river and the jagged Alpine skyline. I inhale its pure European air, fill my lungs…and…exhale. After procuring a box of white truffle chocolates for the wife, I catch the train to the airport, edit some of the tasting nights from the previous night, mooch around the duty free to the point where I realise that I may miss my flight. Briskly strolling/running to the gate, I suffer a ridiculously severe body search, as if I am wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with “I love terrorism”. The bleeper alerts the curmudgeonly old Swiss pensioner who chaperones me to a cubicle and pulls a curtain across. I pray that he does not don a pair of latex gloves. Fortunately, it does not come to that. He simply x-rays my entire body and then allows me to fetch my possessions that are languishing on the conveyer, begging to be stolen.

The flight back is a little bumpy and then I have the joy that is Luton Airport to deal with. The train back from Luton to Guildford costs approximately the same as my return Easyjet flight to Zurich and is rather slower (and less orange.) After I reach home, I re-bond with the children, feed them their nigiri and fish fingers (Tomoko’s rudimentary version of fusion cuisine) and in the evening catch up on messages, life etc.

Watch “I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here” in the evening.

Thursday 19^th November

There is no rest for wicked, which means that I have been particularly evil this week since today, this afternoon to be exact, I am off on another long-haul schlep to Margaret River in Western Australia. I take Lily to school in the morning, give her a big sloppy kiss as I won’t see here for a few days, just to embarrass her in front of her infant harridan friends who respond with a collective: “Uuuurrrrgh!” The rest of the morning is spend tying up loose ends, dispatching a few articles to be posted in my absence and then in the early afternoon, I set off on the 9,000 mile journey, via a Singaporean off-line.

The flight goes smoothly. I watch the new Pixar animation Up, which is the molten genius as we have come to expect. Indeed, the opening wordless montage of a couple’s passage through life leaves a lump in my throat. I must be a sensitive artiste.

I manage to sleep for much of the journey and awake somewhere over the coast of Burma, whereupon I watch a couple of episodes of Flight of the Conchords and dally about with the in-house i-Pod (Led Zepellin, James Brown and one of my favourite Beatles songs, Hey Bulldog.)

Of course, Singapore’s Changi Airport is a five-star luxury affair and makes Heathrow look like a Mumbai slum. I catch a taxi to my uber-funky hotel, The New Majestic, its open-fronted, minimalist white reception furnished with random art deco furniture and a manning the desk, an effete young man who I am certain must be Gok Wan’s younger brother. My junior suite is…different. The walls are covered with a child-like mural of a gaudy-coloured tree, home to a flock of white birds that flutter up the walls. My bed is on a mezzanine and accessible via a vertiginous ladder that I will ultimately spend most of the night climbing up and down, trying not to break my neck, when needing to go to the loo. It is comfortable and too cool for school.

I rest for an hour, shower, don a shirt and wait for my fellow scribe, Lisa Perotti-Brown, who has organized this evening’s soiree. We have a quick drink over the road for a chat, then catch a taxi to Jade Palace Chinese which apparently has a very agreeable corkage policy. Unfortunately the taxi driver seems oblivious to its existence, in fact, his geographic ineptitude means that the most of the journey is spent explaining where it is. I am not sure if he realizes that this in Singapore? Maybe he is a Tokyo taxi driver who got lost and has not noticed the change in scenery?

The dinner is splendid and it is a pleasure to meet so many faces of wine-lovers. After a poor start, my palate hits a purple patch and I seem to be nailing two or three blind, such as a La Mission 1994 and Pichon-Lalande 1995. The cuisine is delicious, all except the sea cucumber/sea slug that lies untouched and unloved. But that is nothing compared to the wretchedness of a sweet called “domen”, which tastes like rancid, rotten garlic and cheese…only worse. Everyone laughs as I grimace and spit it out…but you gotta try these things. Towards the end, we are unexpectedly joined by Christophe Frey whose family own Paul Jaboulet and Chateau La Lagune and he seems to be either in good spirits or a bit drunk. Or both. An old friend, Boon and his wife, drive me back to The New Majestic, but with sleep elsewhere, I order a quick beer at the bar opposite before making my way back to my funky room where I sleep for about 3 minutes.

Saturday 21^st November

Fly down to Perth from Singapore, a tidy four and a half hour flight.  I don’t know why, but there seems to be a large contingent of Russians including one who is either a member of the KGB or the Mafia (or both.) As usual, Australia’s quarantine regulations means it takes aeons to pass, but nobody bothers to check that my suitcase is not packed full of phylloxera. I am picked up outside, given a brief tour of the city and its botanical gardens overlooking the Swan River and we enjoy a couple of Belgian beers and discuss the forthcoming week of judging.

I am exhausted from all my travelling exertions and so spend the evening in my hotel, writing and watching Liverpool vs. Manchester City live on TV.

Sunday 22^th November

Poor night’s sleep thanks to the cursed jetlag. I pack my suitcase, eat a rather stolid breakfast in the hotel and then Nick chauffeurs me down to Margaret River, which takes about three hours in his yute. The highway is about as interesting as the M25 and I doze off, my head lolling from side to side as if it has become disconnected from the rest of my body, which mentally it has. I awake from my slumber as we approach the small town of Margaret River and I check in at my chalet, that to be truthful has a rather shabby stain on the carpet and is bereft of a cupboard in which to hang my tuxedo and shirts. It does not concern me too much: a bed is a bed, although the lack of channels is rather disappointing.

Nick drives me down to have a look at the beach and the surf dudes who are making the most of a good swell. Of course, it is a stunning vista: the turquoise Indian Ocean, the white sand of the beaches and the wild bush that stretches up the coastline. We do not dwell for too long, for I have an appointment with Woodlands winery, one of Margaret Rivers oldest and most respected producers. Proprietor Stuart Watson is mad for Bordeaux and we end up discussing various vintages before retiring for a quick beer down at the local club.

In the evening I wander around the town but without any hunger pangs, elect to miss dinner and return to my chalet to watch the Australian final of X-Factor, before turning off the bedside lamp and…bugger…not getting any sleep. Aaaarrrrgggh!

Monday 23^rd November

Take breakfast at “Wild Thyme” organic coffee bar (Austalia throngs with organic coffee bars, something we in England do so poorly and/or hideously expensively.) Breakfast is delicious. We then spend the day visiting wineries for tastings: Vasse Felix, Moss Wood and Leeuwin (reports due to be written up on eRP folks) and in the evening, opt for dinner at the Settler’s Inn. It looks like one of those out of town bars where drunken hicks start brawling in the streets, but looks are deceiving. It has a brilliant wine list and the food is delectable. My wagyu burger is sumptuous, even if I do have to eat it while some misguided neanderthal slaughters Pearl Jam on the karaoke stage but I refuse to move until I have finished my pint of Kirin (from tap.) I quite enjoy eating on my own, well, just me and a copy of Gourmet Traveller Wine magazine. I retire to the chalet, watch a rather absorbing but gory episode of Bones and then I am afforded four hours sleep…which is better than two.

Tuesday 24^th November

Take breakfast at the Australian coffee chain Dome as show judges’ breakfasts are gratis. I am wearing my best shirt that Tomoko bought me for todays Cabernet Sauvignon Masterclass that I am tutoring at Xanadu Winery.

What follows is traumatic…

With a fairly respectable poached egg on toast, I face the mental challenge of opening a small sachet of tomato sauce. There seems to be no tab for me to peel back the film, indeed, it would appear that I have to squeeze the two ends together for the sauce to be ejected, but nothing seems to happen. It try it every which way until the sauce squirts out from a slit and covers me from forehead down to waist. I look like a victim of the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.

My shirt is ruined.

I am a bit peeved.

Thank God the coffee bar is relatively empty. Should I make a complaint? No…I gulf down my poached egg, mop up the sauce and head straight back to the chalet to change my shirt, vowing to protest tomorrow.

And all I wanted was a splodge of sauce.

Vanya Cullen with her biodynamic broad beans

In the morning I visit Cullen Winery, although Vanya mistook the time of my appointment, which gives me half an hour to read a fascinating binder of letters that document the first vineyards in the region during the mid-1960s. After tasting on the terrace, I am driven down to Xanadu (the winery) for the tutorial although I am disappointed that there is no Olivia Newton-John or ELO. As is customary, the forty-odd winemakers treat me with trepidation, as if I have to prove my worthiness (which I guess I do.) They sit there with muddy boots and hairy legs, crossed arms and one or two with barely disguised scowls on their faces.

I respond by tutoring the Masterclass as I used to teach Japanese kids English. I make it fun and demand audience participation, particularly since I mischievously manipulated the order of the wines so as to test the keenest palates i.e. commencing with a biggie from the off (Ornellaia 2004) and placing the big name clarets in the middle rather than the end (Chateau Margaux, Montrose and Leoville Barton 2004) that are interleaved with Margaret River wines from the same alumni. I warm up the crowd with some witty repartee and actually, they are a responsive audience, even though it was inevitable that they would detest the two South African wines (Rust en Verde and Meerlust.) Good tasting though.

In the evening I meet my fellow judges: Chairman Huon Hooke, Phillip Rich et al at a barbecue just a ten minute walk away. More wagyu beef, some delicious wines and then a few late night beers at the Settlers Inn, beers that send me sound to sleep and save me from eternal jetlag. Bless you beer.

Wednesday 25^th November

Judging today! Hoorah! After a quick but ordinary breakfast at Dome, where my fellow judges rebuje the coffee, we stroll up to the agricultural college for judging around 150 wines.

I do enjoy this…much of the year is spent on my own with my thoughts and it can get a bit lonely. You miss the interaction. Judging wine shows is not only satisfying from a social point-of-view, but you learn a lot from how others perceive a wine, especially Australian winemakers who approach it from a very technical, winemaking perspective. It is fairly exhausting and afterwards I head back to the chalet, catch an hour’s kip and then head over to “Must” restaurant for a BYO dinner. I proffer a Pichon Baron 2005 that performs brilliantly, as does an exquisite Moss Wood 1979, Chambertin 2000 from Rousseau, Chevalier-Montrachet 2001 from Anne-Claude Leflaive and a Dalwinnie Shiraz 2001. Afterwards: more beers with the natives.

Thursday 26^th November

Hard at work, blind tasting 100 wines

Final day’s judging: just 80 wines today. People say wine is subjective. True. But it is amazing who much consistency there is within today’s panel, the gold medal winners instantly recognized by the four members who all come from different backgrounds.

After the tasting is finished, I hunt around for some pressies to give to the family, take a little rest and then catch the bus (organized by “Wine For Dudes”) to take us to Xanadu for the Margaret River Gala Dinner where the trophies will be handed out, hence the reason for my tux. I am a little nervous as I have to make a speech and I have to follow the late Bill Baker, who had a scabrous sense of humour. I take to the microphone and jibe the audience about losing the Ashes to a third-rate English cricket team, thanking them for being so magnanimous. They want to throttle me, but they are laughing and I ad lib my way through a five-minute speech with a few self-deprecating jokes on the way. I am told that my speech was funny.

The MC for the evening, who has thus far done a reasonable job, then tells a gag involving a penguin, a seal and a reference to fellatio that leaves the audience dumbfounded with its inappropriateness. Time to leave. Huon drives us back to Margaret River, I join my fellow judges for a late night cocktail and then head home to bed.

Friday 27^th November

I check out of the hotel, join my judges at the Urban Bean cafe for a full breakfast which is utterly orgasmic, and then attend the exhibitors tasting where winemakers can confront me and ask why the hell I awarded them a desultory score and whether I want to walk out alive (well, that is what I heard, but they all seem friendly.) Huon then drives me back to Perth and we chat about wine during the journey back. The wine community is pan-global and with my flight not until 01.55, David Wainwright has put me in touch of a fellow oenophile who is willing to spend an evening with me, which is better than spending 10 hours in Perth’s airport lounge. In fact, we have a splendid evening at Ecco pizza parlour around the corner with a sensational couple of Margaret River wines – the blind date seems to have passed off successfully and I am kindly driven to the airport. It is time to go home.

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