Tom King writes Tom King is Fine Wine Manager at The Great Wine Company. He studied Biology at Oxford, and, after marrying a US citizen, first worked in the wine business in St. Louis, Missouri. The couple returned to the UK to investigate ordination in the Church of England, but it seems that God had other plans, and an interim job turned into a career of more than a quarter-century. Mr and Mrs King home-educate their five children, who take a keen interest in their father’s work and the anecdotes arising from it, of which this is one.
Sparkling Shiraz
For two decades, my company imported the Barossa wines of father and son, Colin and Ben Glaetzer. As he prepared to hand over the reins in the early 2000s, Colin allowed his heir to try out new ideas. Reflecting Ben’s fascination with Egyptology, these would culminate in his distinctive Amon-Ra Shiraz, emblazoned with the Eye of Horus.
An earlier experiment, presumably permitted by an indulgent father unwilling to stymie the eagerness of his progeny, was a sparkling Shiraz. You might expect this to have been a brisk, early-harvested iteration, perhaps the fruit of younger vines: lighter in alcohol, with bright berry character and lip-smacking acidity. Perhaps it would be the sort of thing to occasionally tempt one away from the requisite beer at the end of a day’s slaving in the winery, a summery deviation from Barossa's usual hearty fare. But no, this was a brooding behemoth—with bubbles. A potent syrup from centenarian vines, it was lavishly dosed with sugar in an attempt to conceal sharkskin tannins, tipping the scales at around 15%. This beast did not sparkle, it foamed. The effect was of a blackcurrant-flavoured gentleman’s shaving product.
Said Ben, “It goes great with chocolate.”
The recommendation was convenient, since the business had significantly over-ordered Marc de Champagne truffles for corporate gift sets the previous Christmas, and by February, my colleagues and I were fed up to the back teeth with them, literally. Ben was a committed promoter of his family's wines, and several times a year would travel to the UK to help sell his wares. He often dragged along his hapless father, who scarcely said a word, and gave every impression that he belonged back in Oz tending the vat room or keeping tabs on the vine growers. At a tasting soirée in our shop next to the railway line in Bath, we presented to the great and the good of the city the Glaetzer line-up. Including the sparkling Shiraz. Served with boozy chocolate truffles.
Assuming low demand for the sickly combination, I had cooled just a couple of bottles of the monstrosity. But I underestimated our guests’ appetite for novelty. Within minutes, the truffle surplus was no more, the bottles had emptied and people were demanding refills. I have faith in the gentility of the citizens of Bath, but, wary of the unpredictable effects of imbibing this potion, I took the course of appeasement. In a desperate attempt to satiate the baying throng, there was nothing for it but to evade the shop manager’s gimlet eye and desecrate his carefully-composed display, pinching the last bottle we had to hand. The thundering past of the 20:42 to Bristol—in those days, an InterCity 125 with the deafening roar of a jet plane—bought me a few seconds to execute the manoeuvre, as the building shook, glasses rattled and tasters momentarily forgot their thirst and cowered in the crescendo.
When Ben resumed his spiel, I set about discreetly opening my prize. Peel off foil. Unwind wire cage. Twist bottle, not cork. Control it. Control it! I always was a skinny kid. As the cork began to move, had I met my match in this Barossan brute (Demi Sec, technically)? Untamed by a sojourn in the ice bucket, the internal pressure was incredible.
Doubtless, when reading other entries to this competition, I will be moved by accounts of wine moments of sincere profundity: how wine led one to discover love, another to appreciate God's goodness. Wine has the ability to inspire lyricism, to make one catch one's breath in awe at its myriad nuances and evocative potential. It can speak eloquently of its origins and the craftsmanship that honed it. Wine has provided me with a living and many, many special moments. But this moment, this moment, this is the wine moment I will never forget.
The explosion drowned out Ben’s patter, riveting every eye on me as a fountain of frothing arterial blood erupted from between my hands. My puny attempts to restrain it merely resulted in jets of the stuff being directed over my shirt, my glasses, my trousers and my hair. After my uncomplimentary assessment of it, this bottled vengeance was out to punish, dousing every inch of my person. The cork’s trajectory described a graceful parabola, acquiring a skirt of cobwebs from the rafters before splashdown in a spittoon. Ancient vines, buds per spur, tiny yields, basket presses, French oak hogsheads—utterly forgotten in the face of my public ignominy. Far more entertaining than a refill!
Taciturn Colin was moved by the spectacle to uncharacteristic eloquence. “Streuth, son,” he exclaimed, “maybe that Egyptian wine idea of yours isn’t so bad after all.”
Image by Constantine Johnny via Getty Images.
