Adventures in artistic Addle Aid
Winehack dodges vintage heat
Wrong clothes for right party
by PHILIP WHITE
In the spirit of the officially-sanctified yarts drink-up
the correspondent fled the in-your-face cruelty of the record heat record wet
vintage and found himself carriage to the Big Smoke.
It was a cowardly act. The writer casts off to escape the
intrusion of the internet. His $15 Nokia has a clock with hands on it. It can't
take photographs or connect to anything other than people's voices or SMS texts.
When people send advertisements or photographs to it, it comforts its human
with the polite advice: "Message cannot be displayed." Perfect. At
Casa Blanco, the internet, its e-mail thing, and all those alluring avatars live
in a cranky octopus/tarantula cross that lives on the work desk, and stays
there. Like the severed twin in BasketCase, its loving wrangler throws it titbits and watches it burp and slurp.
The escape was driven partly by the feeling that crazy hatred
had invaded that critter on the desk. When the rain came to drive the heat
away, the writer took a simple photograph of the stationary vehicles in the
farmyard. They looked kind of neat, all lined up, smug in the drizzle; the utes
and tractors and four-wheel bikes. You could hear the famished vineyard
drinking. The men were in the winery and sheds, looking out, waiting. Happy
about it. So as a reflection on the industry he is paid to observe, it seemed a
fairly inoffensive item to post.
The White Party: Toby and Albert Bensimon, jewellers
"And I bet you
write this vintage off like you did for the 2011," some anonymous berk
barfed immediately into the comments box, "...
even though there were many fantastic wines produced. Unfortunately you and
other idiot wine writers spoilt the sales of 2011 for many small winemakers who
DID produce terrific wines. Do us all a favour and say nothing more about 2014
vintage."
That aside, securing transport from the Kangarilla vineyard in which
said correspondent resides is tricky. He
wisely let his driver's licence expire in 1989, removed himself from the risk
of steering a motor vehicle while differently abled, and became an expert at
public transport and Punjabi. Although a quarter of a century back the cab ling
was Greek: in those days the Hon. Tom Koutsantonis steered the writer
to-and-fro The Exeter in his perfumed Independent taxi. They were the days when
the correspondent bought his shoes from Anthony LaPaglia in the Regent Arcade, and was
served at table by Geoffrey Rush at Possum's.
The White Party: Elsie, very important woman, and Tom Gleghorne OAM, painter
Enough nostalgia. Casa Blanco's on the main road
connecting the wine regions of the Adelaide Hills and McLaren Vale, yet the
nearest bus terminals are twelve kilometres in one direction (McLaren Flat),
and nine kays in the other (Chandler's Hill); there's no connector. Not that they're much use if one can get to
them: the Flat bus takes one to Seaford Rise; the Hill bus to a windy roadside
at the top of Flagstaff.
No wine there.
Engaging the assistance of a hot attourney who likes to
drive and chat, the thirsty Whitey hit the East End. He set himself up there at
a table with a Highland Park and a Cooper's chaser, asked a tattooed bloke at
the next table to watch his carpetbag while he attended the gentlemen's room and
returned to find the cartooned one had vomited all over it. Like the bag. With the spare clothes in it.
This fad for body art is fascinating. It makes men fake
yawns so they can stretch back and in a display that would offend a Mandrill, hold
their horrible steroid arms behind their heads to expose the grotesque tatts in their armpits.
During this confected ritual, they'll often click all their knuckles backwards. Which the vomiter did as he pushed the bag back with his foot.
"No worries mate," he said, wiping his mouf
with the back of his huge illustrated paw.
The White Party: Jay (Qinjie) Yang and Professor Ghil'ad Zuckermann, D.Phil. (Oxon.), Ph.D. (Cantab.) (titular), Chair of Linguistics and Endangered Languages, School of Humanities at The University of Adelaide
In a forgiving respect of this artistic lead-up to that
ill-attended cabaret called the election, the writer removed himself to the
Arab Steed, where illustrated bodies are rare, nobody talks much about dancing
or poetry, and there are few instances of people vomiting on luggage. That Hutt
Street Paris Quarter - a cruel piss-take of an appellation - is a place where
you talk about the bean or barley yield; there are more RM Williams than Nikes
or precipitous strappy Manolo's, Ferragamo's or even Jimmy Choo's. Feels safer.
There was the retired grazier, benefactor and rugbyist, Charles Hawker, with a
quiet group of red men. Folks who will never fall off their heels.
Vintage was not mentioned.
The White Party: Maggie Gu and Greg Saundry, internationalists
Across the road is Louca's, a fish temple little Whitey
had not previously attended. There he
struck the former Minister of Transport, to whom there was no point in
complaining about the Kangarilla bus crisis.
Apologies were lodged in the matter of the bouquet of the carpetbag; large
drinks were well had and Louca's rose quickly to the top of the list of local
fish fare. Ring Peter (8232
6792) a few days in advance and beg him to select you a big snapper.
Having forgotten to attend the wine thing at the
Convention Centre, the traveller crashed at the home of a friendly headmistress
who kindly scrubbed the bag. This was in the more aptly nick-named Beirut
Quarter, aka the South West Corner. With its quiet mosque, Twangcentral guitar
emporium and estimable Juker, aka the Duke of Brunswick, it is very very
different to the East End and the Paris Quarter, and instilled the writer with such
a frisson of risk he got his thumb out and essemmessed an avatar he'd flirted
with through that octopus/spider thing back on the desk. Like to share a brekky
omelette in the morning haze? "That would be fabulous," she shot
back, "but I'm all checked in."
Checked in? Checking out: fleeing the country.
Another reason to leave even the ancient Nokia at the
depot.
The White Party: Chris Sykes, lifestyle co-ordinator, and Maurice Scrour, pharmacist (ret)
So. Host headmistress was taking her photographer off to
the annual White Party given by the prominent jeweller, Albert Bensimon, who is
not running for election this year. One had to wear white. This seemed a
pleasant wedge to avoid mentioning vintage at the big wine thing at the
Convention Centre. It also seemed a good opportunity to recover from the bitter
breakfast disappointment, despite the matter of the writer having only black
clothes.
It was brilliant. There were many beautiful women in pure
shimmering white, men disguised as lawn bowl aficionados or Gatsbys; some synagogue
regulars dressed as Arabs, and the great lawyer Michael Abbott, who reminded
the black White that he hadn't sued him. Yet.
As the Moët rose above the ankle straps of all those
shoes absent from the Arab Steed, the driving attourney must have sniffed the
whiff of litigation from afar: she made a perfectly-timed mercy dash and ran
the writer back to the safety of the Kangarilla bus-free zone.
Where vintage progresses with deep calm. In fact, none of
the hardcore Yangarra fruit has even been picked. There's no noticeable splitting
of the berries, as has happened in many vineyards. The vines are relishing this
cool wave, and the whole joint smells as fresh as a farmer's market. The
vineyard blokes are mowing the lawns while they wait.
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