“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”

DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)





07 April 2017


Paracombe Holland Creek Adelaide Hills Riesling 2016 
($20; 13% alcohol; screw cap) 

Lobbing right in time for lazy autumn afternoons watching the leaves fall from the patio, this fine Riesling is a sultry, moody sort of thing, offering just a little more creamy flesh than the Rieslings of the harder country of Eden and Clare. 

It reminds me of the new Ashton Hills release from just a ridge or two to the south. It smells as much like white ham fat as the usual lemons and limes. In keeping with that comfy bouquet, the palate's cosy too. 

It does have that trademark deep gully acidity, but the nature of that plush magnolia petal flesh growing there wraps it up so it has none of the smashed windscreen jangle of some of those more austere wines from drier climes and older rocks. Of course I love those too, but I prefer them when it's hot as shit and you need to be reminded of the sound of ice. 

It's not desultory wine, but it's one that I reckon would fill a fair few of the cracks in desultory people. Like it'd stop 'em clicking their nails on the laminex. Smooth as. Chill, Blossom. 

Paracombe Adelaide Hills Sauvignon Blanc 2016 
($21; 13% alcohol; screw cap) 

This Drogemuller family classic has always given a proud pointy bit to the white Sauvignon of the Hills. It was one of the very first and has just confidently stood its ground for decades in that treacherous market full of grassy, pecky-peck Kiwis. It's always been a beauty. 

Once she'd pegged her claim with it in the hearts and fridges of Adelaide, Cath Drogemuller, that dimpled fire-haired Dragon Lady with the smile, was never about to let it go. Watching her burn shoe leather to establish, secure and service that market was a lesson to all. Man she steamed it! 

They grew it, Paul made it, she sold it. 

And here we go again: a fresh upland breeze of a thing, with a mix of drier seaside dunal herbage as much as juicy, ripe gooseberry. But then the flavour fills with that magnolia petal flesh like we loved in the Riesling and right down in there that yellow pollen puts a dainty dot of honey smack dab in the middle. 

It is a lucky town that has gastronomic glories like these grown and made in its environs, and offered at such modest prices. 

And now we see the next gen of Droggies rockin' in to run the show it looks like there's even less chance of these deliveries wavering in quality, honesty or determination to please. Not that there ever was such possibility. Brilliant.

1 comment:

paleo mule said...

that's not a loaf of bread behind the apples is it whitey c'mon come clean