Michael Bratovich MW, my dear friend and mentor Kit Stevens MW and Sarah Mayhew MW, a long time ago. I presume Kit's sitting down here: he was a very tall and imposing man ... photo New Zealand Herald ... does anybody have good snaps of Kit?
Beyond the Masters: units leave the dataset en route to the centre of the Earth on free gravity quota
by PHILIP WHITE
Being the sort of fellow
who's too well versed in the dangers of falling over and hitting one's head on
the concrete or whatever turns out to be at the end of the descent, your
correspondent has learned to look out for other vertiginous souls, especially
when they're committed ethanologists in bigger frames than his own and they're
close.
We can hurt each other. Ask the giant Burgundy importer and decorated SAS warrior Gary Steele. Out of sheer affection, he picked me up, hugged me, stumbled and fell on me. My lumbar spine has never been the same. But my head missed the deck for once. Whew.
Falling from the
height of one fathom is risky. That's six feet in the old money; it sounds
neater than 1.8542 metres, which is the accurate and actual length of the body
the author still inhabits. Even without the extra mass of the body, the five or
six kilogram head alone can exert some serious stress on its brittle ball of bone containing the mushy brain,
once gravity has had its way and there's concrete or bricks or tiles or
whatever at the end of this brief journey.
Towards the centre of the
Earth.
It's like a basketball bouncing from the bitumen. It'll snap your neck.
Take Kit Stevens MW. Kit
was an ethanologist of the highest order, and the first Master of Wine this
author encountered. By high, I mean at least six-foot-six.
There are none like him
amongst today's 322 members of the Institute of Masters of Wine. These are spread across many
countries: 75 are from outside the UK; there are 23 in Australia. The gruelling
course takes three years; many fail; many try again at the final examination,
year after year.
Upon graduation, many of them are rarely seen drinking again.
They spit.
Born in Singapore of
British parents, the young Kit was evacuated to England in 1941, leaving his
father to die on the Burma railway and his mother, a nurse, to catch the very
last ship out during the Japanese invasion, only to have them bomb the rivets
out of it. Pen somehow managed to reach shore after a lonely swim of many
hours, and eventually made it back to England, where she settled with Kit in Heathfield,
Sussex, in a place called Church Gate House.
Which has a precipitous
staircase.
As well as being
ponderously large of height and rather awkward of movement, except when at the
cricket crease, Kit was rather proud of the considerable size of his pomposity.
He felt that a proper Englishman had every right to be pompous. A Marlborough
House and Charterhouse boy, he was amongst the first of the Masters of Wine,
joining their rank of 33 in 1972. There indeed is enough excuse for a great
deal of pomposity.
What helped Kit get away
with it was his brilliant wit, razor-sharp wine intelligence, and uncommon
worldly wisdom. He was a fine practitioner of mischief. He was fussy, wise and avuncular speaking of wine and very thirsty.
Always generous in his amazing wine knowledge, he taught the young White a great deal about the wines of the Old World. Kit was a blood-reliable shotgun rider whenever we encountered unsolved vinous mysteries.
In my magazine-editing
days in the early 'eighties, he was my mysterious European correspondent. To
save postage, he'd send his witty, pithy 1200 words per month on tiny pieces of
A5 or A6 rice paper or an aerogramme
jammed with elegant but tiny fountain-pen cursive.
When he eventually
lumbered up the stairs to my office I was immediately impressed by his capacity
to make the finest bespoke Savile Row suit and impeccably tailored shirt look
rather lived in, and he carried a bulging leather briefcase in each large paw.
He was for a while the
agent for Tim Knappstein's Enterprise Wines, and in 1982 spent a night fighting
a bushfire to help save one of Tim's Clare vineyards. That next morning he
lumbered up my creaky stairs with his leather briefcases, impeccably dressed
but with ash all over him and firehose mud caked about his enormous
Church's brogues.
"Whitey," he
hissed with great pride, adjusting his sooty hair, "we saved the vineyard.
My God I feel like real Aussie now."
The wine regions of Australia
have just entertained a touring group of Masters of Wine - over forty of them, mainly
from England, led by one of their number, the wine tour guide Tim Wildman MW.
From my distance, the hospitality offered them appeared appropriately lavish - one
morning I noticed an extravagant dismountable pavilion had appeared
miraculously across the hill in the Grenache. It seemed more likely that I'd
knocked my head again than somebody'd built a vast white house there overnight;
it vanished as quickly as it came.
But no, as I soon saw on
Twitter, it was the Masters of Wine. Rather than post their news on tiny sheets
of airmail rice paper, these latter-day Masters use their telephones to report
their excited, rather breathless progress across Australia in 140 characters max.
The first such mass
invasion was fifteen years after Stevens began his work bringing the wines of
France to Australia and spreading the Australian wine word across the world. In
the early 'nineties Hazel Murphy (left, with export bloke Mat Lewis) boss of the Australian Wine Bureau in London
for a decade, brought a jumbo half full of British merchants and MWs here for a
week of imbibition and appraisal. These folks too went home confounded and
deeply impressed.
Under Hazel's stern determination our wine exports to the UK
increased from 765,000
litres per year in 1986 to 73 million litres at the end of 1996.
These
things work.
However
to this staunch antipodean, many of these latter-day merchants came with the air of old
regional officers of the British Empire, here in their colony to show the convicts
a thing or two about pricing. While some Australian wineries did very well
exporting proper premium wines at a good profit, the vast majority of what
we've sent since has been aimed straight at the supermarket discount bins where
it must compete with basement level slurps from France, Italy, Spain, Chile,
Argentina, Moldova et cetera: often places with much more water than Australia
and a labor force that costs a pittance compared to ours.
I won't mention the
Murray-Darling Basin nor dare suggest we export our precious water in bulk,
disguised as wine but priced more like bottled water.
This bulk wine business
has yet to grasp the notion of value adding.
Nor dare I suggest that
with the now-normal drought, el NiƱio and global warming, our bulk wine
business may end up covered in worse than dust and ash once the firetank's
empty and the whole thing falls over again and knocks its head.
Which is what happened to
dear Kit, who in August 2004 was found dead with a broken neck at the foot of
that staircase in Church Gate House. I shiver to think of that fearsome tumble.
I prefer to recall my
favourite farewell. We'd just conducted a pre-Christmas champagne tasting,
which left our little crew with several hundred restoppered bottles of the very
best, just a few glasses missing from each. We took these to a cool beach
bungalow on Brighton, invited our mates and lovers, and drank.
I swam out beyond the
breakers to look back at this bonnie vista: the crowded summer beach, the neat
housing, the blue hills ... it was just so friggin' cute and Aussie. Then I
noticed a kerfuffle: the throng parting: parents pulling their kiddies away
from something.
The towering Stevens had
removed his tailored garments. All of them. He strode down that beach calling
me. I swam to shore and we stood there in knee-high surf and shook hands.
"Whitey," he
said, "I'm off to England. Thankyou so much for such a brilliant day ...
oh, and watch out for Spain. They'll soon be killing your reds."
As he strode back through the
gawking sunbathers, majestic, mighty, pompous, I noticed his tanned arse. In
ultra-bold headline capitals, one cheek bore the word BON. The other, VIVANT.
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