Vintage posing
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
I have been doing a great deal of research into wine of late.
The
reason for this is that I am amply suited to the task, being
exceedingly allergic to the stuff and hence ideally positioned
to
drive all my friends, visiting relatives and any strangers who
ask
nicely to Barossa wineries.
Being a self-appointed expert on the vino means first getting a
handle on the lingo. It means being able to say such things as
“has a
pleasing hint of wood amidst the tinge of faint peppermint and
toast” with a straight face.
I have observed - because I have little else to do as designated
driver on Barossa treks but watch my kinsfolk getting more and
more rosy of cheek - that acting is a skill best utilised sober.
So, here - from years of listening, bored, from wine cellar
corners -
comes my prized knowledge on how to do the Trust Me I Am An
Expert
expression for wannabe amateur wine gurus.
To perfect it, imagine in your mind’s eye TV journalist Ray Martin looking at a very, very sick child. Really sick. So sick there’s probably a 1-800
donations phone number about to flash up on a screen which shows
just how much this little tacker needs us to open our hearts and
wallets
to him. That look.
That’s the earnestness you must have on your face when you refer
to
wood and marmalade and aniseed in one breath when, let’s face
it,
all you’re really doing is gargling wet stuff.
Sometimes you may wish to pass yourself off as not merely
earnest
but also as knowing. This I understand because ‘knowing’ people
are never
questioned; they are deferred to like mini-celebrities.
People always turn to the Knowing One at a tasting and ask
timorously: “What do you think?”
They hang on the answer as though awaiting an utterance from the
Dalai Lama.
All a Knowing One has to do is incline their head a millimetre, hinting that this drop is passingly
pleasing to them, and collectively more nodding than in a chook pen
transpires as everyone gushes in
agreement.
If you think this should be you at the centre of this
little cult group, then it’s easy. Picture in your mind Hypothetical
host Geoffrey Robertson. That’s a sort of pained intelligentsia. Be careful
when you do this. If you get it wrong you will be hastily frogmarched to the
toilets by staff anticipating
your needs.
I am told this pseudo-intelligentsia look is particularly the
expression to adopt when sampling the bouquet. (For those not in
the
know, the bouquet is what they throw at you at weddings.)
At times you will be expected to engage in contests with a
stranger
to see who has the best expressions and the most outlandishly
ridiculous verbal descriptions while downing the wine.
Be warned that unless you have been practising your Ray Martin
in
front of the mirror or you can sense your rival is full of
bovine
byproducts, try to avoid such encounters. It will only end in
shattered egos and someone cruelly declaring you don’t know your
’93
from your ’82 and asking whether your grandma’s homemade cider
has
honed your tastes. (No offence to any grandmas in the cider
business
out there.)
Frankly, such a battle is destined for tears but if you must,
Whatever you do, try and work the words “raspberry”, “fructose”,
“toxins”, “acidic”, “marshmallow”, “axle grease” and “lemon
sorbet” into your rebuttal. Not because it will help your case
but
it will sure as heck amuse that designated driver giggling in
the
corner.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr &
The Advertiser, 22 Sep 1998.