Michael Fridjhon: April 2007
Author:
Michael Fridjhon
Published: 07 May 07
Pleasure can be taken in the imagined, albeit second-hand, enjoyment of great wine.While the national consumption of premium wine defies the downward trend which
is compromising the industry's revenues
, the sale of wine literature is frighteningly
stagnant. There are more fine wine producers than at any time in this country's
history, and more expensive wine for sale than even Tim Hamilton-Russell might
optimistically have predicted when he launched his Walker Bay venture in the
1970s. This means that either wine drinkers don't really need to read about
their favourite tipple, or that the current offering falls short of their expectations.
Both these explanations may be linked in the debate which takes place between those who determine content for wine publications, and those who write it. At its heart, it is about wine writing as an exercise in factual communication (the vital statistics) or wine writing as a description of vicarious pleasures. The hard fact camp argues that very few people seriously invest time in reading about the experiences of others. It has been something of a guideline since the launch of this magazine that very limited column space should be given to the great - and unattainable - bottles that a few privileged punters are lucky enough to taste.
While I firmly believe that wine writing has a duty to communicate information, I am equally certain that there is room for more evocative prose. When I was a student I bought a book by Andre Simon entitled Tables of Content. (By the way, would the person who borrowed it about six years ago - if you are reading this - please bring it back.) It was an account of the meals he had eaten and the wines he had drunk from about 1928 to 1933. All the entries gave the venue, date, guest list and the food and wine pairings, followed by Simon's beautifully written comments - rather than tasting notes.
Some were of historical interest - two dinners in South Africa (one I remember was at the Rand Club). Often the guests included fellow members of the wine trade. There were also chateau owners like Edouard Cruse and French notables like the Cointreau family - probably the grandparents of Anne Cointreau who now owns Morgenhof.
The wines were usually extraordinary - even by the standards of the day. "Lunch at the Office" opened with an 1899 Chateau Margaux (from the magnum and served with an omelette - as I recall). It was followed by an 1870 and 1864 Lafite and an 1858 Latour. Of one Lafite he said: "It was over the hill, but not tumbling down. No sir, it was marching down with head up and chest out."
I spent hours reading his notes. I suppose it was my youthful equivalent of Hello magazine, a window into the lives of the stars, a chance to savour - if only vicariously and through the lens of history - how they lived, and what they ate and drank. This is not as unusual as it seems: it is certainly the basis for the booming trade in foodie magazines and recipe books (since it is clear that many who buy these publications do so to read about the food, rather than make it).
Vicarious pleasure - the second-hand experience of other people's indulgences - lies at the centre of most modern food writing. It is certainly at the heart of erotic literature as Colin Davis observes in The Outsider - which is why this article might have been entitled "Wine and Sex". I think we need to acknowledge that there is merit in recounting this shared experience, in the passion for wine which unites all those who drink it for more than its beverage and alcohol value.
The publishers of WINE don't always agree with me about this, preferring the so-called "hard facts" to the more lascivious suggestion. I think that too much wine writing is about body measurements, rather than sensations, the tangible not the evocation. There is a place for both - but right now, the warm part is left too often to fend for itself in the cold.
Both these explanations may be linked in the debate which takes place between those who determine content for wine publications, and those who write it. At its heart, it is about wine writing as an exercise in factual communication (the vital statistics) or wine writing as a description of vicarious pleasures. The hard fact camp argues that very few people seriously invest time in reading about the experiences of others. It has been something of a guideline since the launch of this magazine that very limited column space should be given to the great - and unattainable - bottles that a few privileged punters are lucky enough to taste.
While I firmly believe that wine writing has a duty to communicate information, I am equally certain that there is room for more evocative prose. When I was a student I bought a book by Andre Simon entitled Tables of Content. (By the way, would the person who borrowed it about six years ago - if you are reading this - please bring it back.) It was an account of the meals he had eaten and the wines he had drunk from about 1928 to 1933. All the entries gave the venue, date, guest list and the food and wine pairings, followed by Simon's beautifully written comments - rather than tasting notes.
Some were of historical interest - two dinners in South Africa (one I remember was at the Rand Club). Often the guests included fellow members of the wine trade. There were also chateau owners like Edouard Cruse and French notables like the Cointreau family - probably the grandparents of Anne Cointreau who now owns Morgenhof.
The wines were usually extraordinary - even by the standards of the day. "Lunch at the Office" opened with an 1899 Chateau Margaux (from the magnum and served with an omelette - as I recall). It was followed by an 1870 and 1864 Lafite and an 1858 Latour. Of one Lafite he said: "It was over the hill, but not tumbling down. No sir, it was marching down with head up and chest out."
I spent hours reading his notes. I suppose it was my youthful equivalent of Hello magazine, a window into the lives of the stars, a chance to savour - if only vicariously and through the lens of history - how they lived, and what they ate and drank. This is not as unusual as it seems: it is certainly the basis for the booming trade in foodie magazines and recipe books (since it is clear that many who buy these publications do so to read about the food, rather than make it).
Vicarious pleasure - the second-hand experience of other people's indulgences - lies at the centre of most modern food writing. It is certainly at the heart of erotic literature as Colin Davis observes in The Outsider - which is why this article might have been entitled "Wine and Sex". I think we need to acknowledge that there is merit in recounting this shared experience, in the passion for wine which unites all those who drink it for more than its beverage and alcohol value.
The publishers of WINE don't always agree with me about this, preferring the so-called "hard facts" to the more lascivious suggestion. I think that too much wine writing is about body measurements, rather than sensations, the tangible not the evocation. There is a place for both - but right now, the warm part is left too often to fend for itself in the cold.
