Wine Douchery

I had a magical weekend with Julie and the kids. We went away with another family, had perfect weather, and got to see some Australian wildlife. The cabins we stayed in were absolutely first class in the heart of the Yarra River wine country. The kangaroos would come within twenty feet of people and they were everywhere.

We got in sort of late on Friday night, so we let the kids run around the cabin, play with their friend, and explore a little bit. We did see some wild kangaroos, but I planned to spend the entire evening looking for them on Saturday. It turns out, kangaroos are nocturnal. In my imagination, just before dusk, the kangaroos get together in a huddle. The lead kangaroo tells them to bring it in and proceeds with his pre-evening pep talk.

“Joe, yesterday you really brought it! Great work. Your hopping was perfect.”

The leader’s eyes move to the next kangaroo. “Frank, I know the divorce is tough, but come on... You just mailed it in yesterday. The tourists demand better. C’mon, this is our reputation on the line.”

And so on. Eventually, the kangaroos put their paws in and put on the show as the sun starts to go beneath the horizon. And what a show they put on! I saw three kangaroos with joeys in their pouches. I saw big kangaroos. Little kangaroos. The kids went around picking up grass to “feed” them. Even the Aussies who are quite used to seeing kangaroos had a good time.

The sun went down completely and we went back to the cabins. I had an adult beverage or three by the time I was manning the barbeque. As I sat there grilling chicken and sausage, drinking a beverage, and watching a kangaroo hop by; I realized just how unique this continent is. Evolution created a completely different and successful model of life. Maybe it was the alcohol fueling this line of thought, but I couldn’t help but think that there has to be life on other planets if life can evolve this differently with a few thousand miles of geographic separation.

But I digress. I didn’t mean to blab about kangaroos and the possibility of extraterrestrial life. I meant to talk about wine douchery. Saturday, we took the kids to a winery. I know, not the most child friendly thing to do, but the scenery was spectacular, we sat outside, and the kids had plenty of room to run around and play.

I worry sometimes that I will offend my Aussie friends when I say that Melbourne reminds me of Chicago or I make comparisons to other places I have been. This country is unique and I treasure it. I have spent some time in the wine country of Nappa and Santa Barbara. The Yarra River wineries are somewhat similar. After all, good grapes are going to grow in similar climates. The Yarra River wineries are surrounded by rolling hills and neatly organized vineyards as one might expect. Except the vegetation is different. It turns out, most Australian trees are some variation of the Eucalyptes. Having not spent much time in the country, I was excited to know that out my front door is the beach and a mere forty-five minutes away is wine country in a completely different climate. Amazing!

With the kids playing noisily by a fountain, we excused ourselves to do a little tasting. I had a tasting several weeks ago and it was similar to the United States. We walked in, we talked a little, we drank some wines, we had a laugh, and we left. The bartender didn’t talk too much about the wines and it was very casual.

This experience couldn’t have been more different. The owner (she let us know it was HER winery right away) asked if we wanted reds or whites. Julie said white and my mate and I said red.

Side note... One thing I love about Australian English is the word “mate”. I would always laugh when Julie would say, “My girlfriend and I...” I would always say what would you think if I said, “My boyfriend and I...” It sounds stupid in American English. Aussies have it right. They say, “This is my mate, Paul” or “Some of my mates and I went out drinking.” It’s great. We should import this word into our language.

Another side note. I don’t drink a whole lot. I’m not against it and it’s not something I do often. Since coming of age, I have always been intimidated by wine because I am ignorant. In college, it was no problem. I drank beer. I did shots. I ordered Long Island Ice Teas. Now, right in the middle of middle age, I feel like I should know something about wine and I can go on in great detail about cheap wines, but I still don’t even know what I like. I don’t like Ripple, or Mad Dog, or Cold Duck. Aside from the price, I hate two buck chuck. I love Boone’s Strawberry hill. I barely know the distinction between a Cabranet, Merlot, or Pinot Noir. In my mind, they are all red and belong in the classification of “red wine”.

What really bothers me is that the quality of wine doesn’t necessarily reflect the price. There are some good lesser priced wines and some over priced mediocre ones. My only hope is to taste and go with what I like.

Also, I usually would deny this, but I like Chardonnay. I don’t know what is about saying this that makes me feel so unmanly. Maybe it’s the memories of Alanys Morriset’s “Ironic” and how awful that song really was, but somehow I felt like I should say I wanted to taste reds...

I tasted a pinot and it was good. Not great, but good. I felt like I wanted to buy a bottle as I had a vision of sitting on the deck of the cabin with the kids snug in their beds dreaming of kangaroos as the adults shared a bottle of wine and looked at the southern skies. The price was moderate and I wanted the task of finding a bottle of adequate wine checked off of my to-do list.

Meanwhile, Julie was praising the Chardonnay she had just tried. Ah ha - here was my chance. Julie doesn’t drink reds. All I had to do was try the Chardonnay and casually suggest that we should get it for Julie and I could save face in front of my mate. Brilliant!

So I asked the proprietor if I could try the Chardonnay. She visibly rolled her eyes at me.

“You can’t go from reds to whites. You can go the opposite way, but you can’t step down the ladder.”

“I have a very unsophisticated pallet. I assure you. Let’s give it a go, shall we?”

“The tenons in the reds are still in your mouth and it won’t taste right.”

“Try me.”

We stared at each other. It was her winery and I was some annoying, unsophisticated American challenging her knowledge and insulting her wines. I wasn’t about to budge. She made a big show of thoroughly rinsing my wine glass and poured me the tiniest of pours of the Chardonnay. It was quite good. I went on to try a Cab and a Merlot, but nothing was as good as the original Pinot.

Julie moved on to a Rose. She complimented it and my mate perked up.

“I would like to try the Rose, please,” he said.

Here I was trying to save face and keep my secret love of Chardonnay hidden and my mate drinks Rose! I snickered inside.

The proprietor was now doubly annoyed. “You can’t go from reds to whites!”

I had to step in. “I just did and it was delicious!”

Eventually, she caved and let my mate try it, but the whole experience was far too stuffy for me. Whenever I feel like I should know more about wines, I think about people like the owner of the establishment and realize I don’t want to be that person. I may be a first class coffee snob, but I vow I will never be a wine douche.