Frank and Andrew Margan in their Margan Hunter Valley vineyards at Broke, with the Brokenback Range in the background ... Frank loved his Hunter ... photo©Chris Elfes
It wasn't them it was us! How one wild colonial gourmand helped slaughter the sweet sherry mob
by PHILIP WHITE
"Most Australians when they hear the word 'wine'
think of sweet sherry. Most people still have a bit of a shudder to themselves,
too. We have come a long way in a decade from the mid-1950s when the wine boom
got going, but there is still, in spite of our progress, a hell of a long way
to go."
While we're talking
personal beauty hints, you might be surprised that one of my secrets is the
distillate of witch-hazel. After a hot shower, a splash of this seems to
tighten those crinkly bruised bits that fester like wet toilet paper beneath
the eyeholes.
Also, it's refreshing. And
it smells good.
I never perform this daily
ritual without thinking of Barbra Cole. One of the things I remember about the
'eighties was taking my new girlfriend Kay Hannaford to Sydney for Tony
Bilson's outrageous wedding to Amanda, a Paul Hamlyn book editor.
Because the Bilsons were, well, busy, Kay had
arranged for us to stay in her buddy Barbra's flat beside David Marr's joint in
Surry Hills. I found my first witch-hazel in the bathroom. When I asked who and where
Barbra was, Kay told me I'd get on well with her boyfriend, Frank, who had "something
to do with wine" and that they'd gone "up the Hunter."
Being advised by a woman
like Kay that a bloke like me would "get on well" with another usually
meant that together, our collective wickedness would far outweigh the sum of
our individual inputs. Kay's advice was
seamless. The bloke turned out to be Frank Margan.
Frank at the sink: my notepad sketch upon re-reading The Grape And I in 2007
Although I'd only met him
through various shades of claret or golden Semillon in the Hunter Valley, or
hanging out with Len Evans, Frank was already an important part of my life, or an
excuse for the way I lived it.
In the earliest bit of the
'seventies, two items made me vaguely aware of the possibility of writing about
wine. The first was Michael Dransfield's ANZAC day poem, Wine-tasting.
The second was Frank's 1969
book, The Grape And I.
This was a very modern work.
Like unabashedly, confrontingly, out there. Not only did the damn thing look
modern, but it felt modern, and it brimmed with dangerously modern content,
like the paragraph I quoted at the top.
Paul Hamlyn, the
publisher, was famous for the seminal modernity of his work. One comadre of that
age, sweet Gretel Penninger, professionally known as the very stern Madame
Lash, warned me that Paul was admirably modern on the outside, but carried
ancient guilt deep within.
Those were the days.
Gret was the new Mrs. Bilson's
bridesmaid, just to show that everything is connected. She'd sewn the dresses
of the bridal party from the finest leather: white for the bride; scarlet for
her herself, the maid. These accentuated both lasses' admirable decolletage on
one side, the cleavage of the bum cheeks on the other. The backs were bare but
for a criss-crossing of perfectly-stitched leather thonging, between which the
flesh bulged just enough.
For the wedding gift, I presented a hand-made ten foot R. M.Williams'
bull whip and a bottle of Goanna Oil.
Mrs. Bilson, a bowl of berries in kirsch and the author ... photographer? Peter Powditch?
When he got back from the
Hunter to cook us a bisque in his restaurant, Frank thought these gifts
pertinent, given Lash's relationship with his publisher and the new groom.
Without its dust cover, The Grape And I was radically white
hardbound, clad in a plasticised form of bookbinder's linen. The illustrator, who
is not credited, used that amazing new invention, the felt-tipped pen. The font
is far-out sans serif, and there are no indents or line breaks separating
paragraphs. In its day, this was as dramatic a leap from what went before as
the jump from the gramophone to the i-Phone.
The dust cover shows a
Frank not much remembered: posh, suave, french-cuffed, coiffed, immaculately
suit-and-tied. He's sitting with a suite of old wines in somebody else's
cellar. We remember that bit.
Even today, I don't have
to get far into this work to realise what hot stuff it was.
In his opening chapter,
Frank denied the "official fictions" of the day: the notion that
Australia's waves of post-war immigrants changed Australia's deadly boring
cuisine and drinking habits. He wrote of how each year, 25,000 young
Australians returned from jaunts abroad, where they'd discovered European table
habits.
"We were quite a bit
pretentious and often crashing bores about our Trip," he dared to declare. "We spent our time looking
for the cheap joints that had a touch of the European atmosphere and scorning
the steak and eggs eaters and the tiled pubs swilling out beer. We wanted
decent food and we wanted to have wine with it and that created a demand that started
today's jet climb in the wine consumption charts.
"It wasn't the
migrants - if you care to keep your eyes open you'll find they have switched to
beer, or flagon red wine mixed with lemonade or soda. No, it wasn't them, it
was us."
Frank wrote excitedly
about the wine revolutionaries of the day, contrasting the age-old styles of the
winemaking of the Seppelts and the Germanic nature of the Barossa's cottage
life and its bakers and butchers to the ingress of stainless steel winemaking
equipment and the radical cool-ferment techniques being developed by
far-sighted geniuses like John Vickery at the Orange Grove winery now called
Richmond Grove.
Frank wallowed in his
beloved Hunter, the closest wine region to his hometown Sydney, marvelling at
the stainless steel tanks and centrifuge the young Karl Stockhausen was
installing to make revolutionary new white wines - clean and stable - at Ben
Ean.
He lauded the red heritage
left to the Hunter by that high priest of Australian red, Maurice O'Shea, and gave
a loving and colourful description of helping plant the late Dr Max Lake's now
legendary Cabernet vineyard, Lake's Folly.
of Lake's Folly
"We slept in sleeping
bags on the hard floor of the winery loft," he wrote. "We worked like
dogs and not all the wine in the Hunter would slake our gargantuan
thirsts."
I've not seen Frank since
those days. Not since Barbra and him came to stay for a while with me in Esther's Cottage in Greenock, where I lived in the Barossa. If we'd repeated that performance, we would probably have destroyed each other clearing strings of
laden tables.
The last I heard from him was a message saying that unsigned
copies of The Grape And I were worth more than ones he'd autographed and that
he wasn't too well. It was still a sudden shock to hear from his winemaking son
Andrew that he'd died of long life in a hospital in the Hunter.
That news brought a wave
of contemplation of his amazing effort, and its profound influence on the young
Whitey.
Born of a poor Irish family
in Sydney's south west, Frank lasted a day and a half at his first job as a
Water Board clerk. He went instead to work in a pawn shop, where he learned more
about the hard end of life. The worth of things. But he really wanted to play
jazz trombone and become a journalist.
By the rakish age of
twenty he was running the United Press International bureau in London. He came
home to become news editor of the Daily Telegraph and then the Sunday Telegraph. He edited People, Australia's attempt at a pictorial
like LIFE, which he bravely purged of
the cheesecake girly stuff, and then Gourmet
Magazine.
Frank went into
advertising where his buddy John Singleton made him creative director at his
SPASM agency, where he came up with stuff like Lolly Gobble Bliss Bombs, a blistering commercial
success.
For a
while he ran the Australian Wine Bureau.
With
his brother Don, Frank bought the DeBeyers Semillon vineyard and vintage shed
in the Hunter, famously dubbed it Chateau Lysaght after the galvo manufacturer and promptly won a special
recommendation at the Royal Sydney Wine Show.
The Margan Winery today
He
loved his vineyards. "I was just thrilled
by it," he wrote. "Like this: four o’clock in the afternoon, not a
soul around, I’d strip off all my clothes and jump on the tractor and go and
yodel down the vine rows, just for no other reason than to feel the freedom of
this wonderful life."
After rebuilding and
running Bali's famous Hotel Tjampuan in Ubud, with his second wife, Jenny,
daughter of the revered wine man Doug Lamb, Frank taught himself to cook, annually doing a six-week stint
at La Rive Gauche in
Nice. After opening the first continental delicatessen in the Hunter, which was
too far ahead of its time, he turned it into The Cottage restaurant, where I
first met him. He then opened Le Cabanon restaurant in Angel Place, Sydney, where he perfected his deadly lobster
bisque.
Frank wrote six other
books, from My Baby Was Blasted to A Pictorial History Of Surfing, and The Hunter
Valley: Its Wines, People and History.
This breathless progress eventually took him back to the Hunter with his
partner Barbra. Until his final illness he worked at the grand Margan
winery/restaurant complex established by his brilliant son Andrew.
No average wine has ever born that Margan brand.
As his family said in
Frank's obituary notes, "Like all good print journalists there was a love
and reverence for words and the disciplined pattern of their use. He lamented
the death of journalism way before its analogue cremation ... unlike sport we
don’t honour our past journalistic greats: they just slip off into anecdotes
over drinks amid an implacable fading of the light of relevance as the great
media band wagon moves on. It hurt him, hurt him a lot."
So my morning witch-hazel
application has become more of a respectful Buddhist ritual, after the philosophy
dear Frank learned to love all those well-lived years ago in Bali.
It may not be keeping me
beautiful, but it's refreshing, renewing and it smells good. It still amazes me,
the evocative power of aroma.
I shall never forget this hungry,
thirsty, bright mate that Andrew best described at his funeral as "belligerent,
obstinate, proud, compassionate, understanding and self-effacing."
Thanks eternally, dear Frank,
for helping Australia's literary gourmands and gluttons come such a long way in
those fast decades since the wine boom got going in the sherry-sodden 'fifties.
Don't worry about the
trombone. You were a beauty.
Ka-chink!
pages 76 and 77 of The Grape And I, by Frank Margan (Paul Hamlyn, London, New York, Sydney, Toronto, 1969)
Frank Margan
(November 26, 1931 - March 5, 2016)
is survived by partner Barbra; wives Lois, Jenny and Simone; children Anthony,
Sally, Andrew and Mimi; eight grandchildren; sisters Shirley and Adrienne and
brothers Victor and David.
2 comments:
Aw bugger.
Geez I love that book. I have had the benefit of an eternally opp-shopping brother-in-law who has laden my shelves with gems like Margan, like Benwell, like Andre Simon. And they have invited me into a world that has become truly incredible. Had no idea Frank was still kicking on, and just hope to hell that he didn't suffer too much.
Must get some Margan wines in tribute, but the distribution lines between the Hunna and Melbourne are cruel.
Thanks for the tip Whitey. Ker-chink indeed.
If Frank Margan, as a 20 year old, walked in here now, ha. He'd be disgusted and go a back to the pwnshop and buy his trombone. Then he would launch something and change evevything.
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