That Petrus took the early thrashing. A lot of people were photographed caressing it; teasing the sommelier to give them more; mentioning their favourite years.
01 September 2015
TO FICOFI, FOLLOWING BUKOWSKI
Incredible drinks at Kaesler:
the very best of everything and
a wee dram or two before bideys
by PHILIP WHITE
One of the pinnacles of
Gonzo vainglory appeared in CREEM in October 1975. Some bright spark at the punk
fanzine hired the poet Charles Bukowski to review a Rolling Stones concert.
Bukowski first took
himself to the horse races. The track was opposite The Forum, where the concert
was to be. He cased the joint. He wrote of the fear and anxiety and the amount
of leg on show; the hollerin drunks and cigar smokers, the banks, the cost of
eggs. He covers tax and bullfights and Hemingway and the difference between
good money and sucker money, borrowed money, stolen money and desperate stinking diminishing money.
Then he goes home for a hot bath, a few joints, a
bottle of Blue Nun and seven or eight bottles of Heineken and "wondered
about the best way to approach a subject that was holy to a lot of people, the
still young people anyhow."
He explains driving back to the Forum so late the carpark's full and how
far he had to drive to find a spot. He writes of the funeral homes and the iron
bars on people's doorways and the comforting bar he finds at a golf course. He
mentions he has a girl with him half his age and what she drinks and the size
of the pours in the golf course bar. They make a deal to stay there and get
drunk instead of going to the Stones but whenever a woman agrees with him he
does the opposite thing so he pays up and they walk on down the long track to
the show.
He writes of the amount of pot the kids are smoking, what they're
drinking in the car park, the hydrogen bomb and public health. He writes about
how far apart their seats are and the fair prices at the bar, stolen wallets
and vomit and the joy of a cigarette before he mentions "Mick was down
there in some kind of pajamas with little strings tied around his ankles."
About as close as the wine business gets to a Rolling Stones concert is
the show a big international wine outfit called Ficofi puts on every four or
five years at Kaesler Wines in the Barossa. I mention this because every time I
attend one I think of Bukowski's outing and just how I can possibly cover this
subject that's outright holy to a lot of people.
One or two hundred invited guests and some highly notable break-ins rock
up to the Kaesler barrel cellar where one or two hundred bottles of the world's
most expensive wines are lined up, open. Many of them are what winos call
"large format" bottles, by which they mean double magnums,
methuselahs, imperials and whatnot. Bottles that hold a whole case of wine.
Thinking person's stubbies.
While Bukowski did eventually manage to devote some space to what was
happening onstage, he concentrated on what Mick was trying to do with the
seventy-foot inflatable phallus that rose up. As I'd been invited to arrive an
hour early to get the gist of the show I was in a good position to observe the
stroking of the vinous phallus of the night, the magnum of 1999 Petrus.
The people who looked overtly rich were the first to rush the Petrus. I
got the feeling they'd come early to get it. The really rich people were much
harder to spot and didn't rush anywhere. They came later, after the buses full
of bright hipster wine waiters and serious old merchants.
That Petrus took the early thrashing. A lot of people were photographed caressing it; teasing the sommelier to give them more; mentioning their favourite years.
That Petrus took the early thrashing. A lot of people were photographed caressing it; teasing the sommelier to give them more; mentioning their favourite years.
If it was Right Bank Bordeaux they really liked, these early birds could
have considered the double magnums of Angelus '95, Figeac '03, the l'Evangile '89
or the '86 Conseillante or Certan.
They could have nudged the opposite table for Left Bank Bordeaux, with
its row of giant Mouton Rothschild, Pichon Longueville, Ducru, Margaux,
Haut-brion and whatnot. They could have tackled the red Burgundy bar, or the white one. They
could have drunk the best of the Rhône, Germany or Italy. Or they could have
hit the row of venerables up the end: the string of Pichon-Longeville ('37, '59,
'88); all those 'seventies glories; the 1919 Beaune "Les Avaux"
Premier Cru Burgundy, or the '70 Blandy's Madiera. 1870, that was.
The best thing about this Ficofi Le
Palais des Grands Crus event is the organiser usually makes it clear that
this more your actual drinking than a tasting. There are no spittoons;
transport is carefully arranged so there's no excuse to drive. There are always far too many incredible
wines for anybody to properly report or even drink before the giant flagons expire: I feel
sorry for the young scribes who heroically start out scribbling notes at the
beginning of that long march.
Better, thinks the older hack, to plunge in for awhile, find a glass of
something exceptional and take it outside for slow examination with a smoke. If
you get it right, you can come away with a sort of impressionistic glow on the
inside, driven by the power of all that stuff you could never possibly afford
to drink. This time, the full moon washed her silver down on the outside. It
was a beaut night.
The Ficofi people fly in master sommeliers from Hong Kong and Singapore
to manage this show. As my arrangement was to get in early, take some photographs
before the whole mob arrived and have an exploratory sniff of this or that, I
left the Petrus worshippers to themselves and wandered off for a dribble of the
oldies up the end.
"Er, excuse me," the sommelier said, carefully taking a bottle
from me. "Tasting has not commenced yet. Very sorry. Very sorry. We must
have some control."
"I'm not gonna cause much trouble," I growled in my best basso
gurgle, taking my glass outside. To the peace and quiet.
Apart from the sheer glow of bathing in such generosity - and it is
generous in the extreme - I brought one important message away with me. Since the first of these
tastings, years ago, the gap between those magnificent wines poured and the
best Australia has to offer has narrowed markedly.
We have yet to make a Pinot noir that will last like that incredible
1919, but we are learning to make those Bordeaux blends and Rhône blends at a
very competitive level, and our oaked whites have edged closer to the
Chardonnays of Burgundy. It's a very close race now: we're down to measuring by
noses and hairs.
Once that Madiera had settled into my sensories, glugging them up with
syrupy awe, there was little point in returning to the lighter wines. So I was
delighted when a big friendly Scot invited me out for a dram of the excellent
malt whisky he'd just brought back from the Highlands.
"But you know," he purred in wonder, "the Tasmanians are
giving us a real run for our money. Lark; Hellyer's Road ... they're beautiful
whiskies!"
Back in my hotel, over a few cans of cold Asahi, I took out my tattered
copy of Bukowski's CREEM piece, Juggernaut - Wild Horse on a Plastic Phallus.
"I
drove north on Crenshaw," he concluded, "looking for a nice place
where you could get a drink and where there wasn't any music of any kind. It
was O.K. if the waitress was crazy as long as she didn't whistle."
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3 comments:
Only you could get away with Whitey!
If you mean "get away with that Whitey" I'm concurring.
you prefer to be an outsider you grumpy old prick
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