By NAGA R. AMPALAM
An outsider finds out that it takes more than a knowledge of wine to get into the inner circle of the select.
AT three score and 10 years, I finally fulfilled my daydream of going on a cruise in the northern latitudes, with the sole aim of filling a gap in my education – primarily in the areas of food and beverage.
I was most fortunate to be in the company of the well-heeled and knowledgeable, from whom I expected to reap that which money could not buy. My jacket from the pasar malam and the borrowed tie were not quite in keeping with the standards of the dress code; however, everybody was fully supportive of my grit and determination.
The choice of wine at dinner especially fascinated me; there was talk of a good year and a bad year, which I thought were matters best left to astrologers. Opinions were exchanged across the table and references were made to vineyards the world over with the same familiarity I would have of the football field in the next village.
Some could even distinguish the various fruit flavours in the wine; all this while, I was under the impression that wine was made from grapes only. Even the wood of the wine cellars was identified with the same ease, and the casual display of such uncanny talent was truly awe-inspiring.
After the waiter had been summoned and the bottle of wine he presented inspected, the ensuing dialogue and gestures – sniffing the cork, holding the glass high against the light, swirling the wine, inhaling its vapours, and sipping the offering and throwing back the head with eyes closed – were more bewildering to me than the mysteries behind prayer beads.
Notwithstanding, I put on a “to the manner born” front and joined in the revelry until, through the corner of my eye, I saw the wine waiter heading in my direction.
“I recommend the red wine, Sir.”
“Make that a full-bodied one”, I said, offhandedly.
“Very good, Sir.”
He came back in a flash and with a flourish honed by years of experience, presented a bottle for my scrutiny. As I polished my spectacles, I whispered a fervent prayer and desperately tried to recall all the motions I was now supposed to display.
To my horror the bottle was labelled in French. Nonchalantly, I continued my inspection, looking for familiar words. Alas, there were none. I then gestured the waiter for his opinion and he favoured me with a litany of the virtues of the vintage – in French, of course.
I nodded approvingly but felt uncomfortable with his constant reference to something that sounded like “bodoh”; I was not sure if he was referring to the origins of the wine or the mentality of the diners he was serving.
Flaunting a nifty device in equally nifty hands, he brandished the cork for me to inspect. I held it to my nose (in the way the learned did) and declared that it was somewhat musty.
“And rightly so, Sir. You have just sniffed the wrong end.”
I managed to overlook this remark and indicated that he should pour. In the subdued lighting of the dining room, I picked up the glass by the stem, held it against the light, noted its paleness, its lack of bouquet and the absence of any flavour.
“This wine tastes like water,” I declared disapprovingly.
“Sir, you may wish to put down the glass of mineral water and try the wine instead.”
And with that, I made a mental note not to tip him at the end of the cruise.
Emboldened by my learning curve on the Baltic cruise I wasted no time putting into practice, back home, my newly-acquired insights into the fine art of wine drinking.
Knowledge, much like manure on the village vegetable plots, must be spread around for good effect. Adopting this maxim, I gathered some neighbours and we scouted around for fine dining outlets where I could preach, with missionary zeal, to the uninitiated. The local mamak shop, Curry House and the Red Table Cloth were where I put into effect my wine pairing skills.
First, we would summarily dismiss the scantily-clad sommeliers before getting down to the business of choosing a wine. For starters, it was invariably a vin ordinaire served in tumblers, which we gulped down with many a yam seng chorus.
By then my group would have imbibed a sufficient amount to display rosy cheeks and unrestrained behaviour. The scantily-clad sommeliers would now have given our table a wide berth, beyond the reach of wandering hands.
This was the signal for me to proceed to the wine for the main course. After long and careful consideration of the menu, I would wisely settle for a Rose to go with Chinese cuisine, or the heavy-bodied all-time favourite – the venerable Careles Rossi 2008 (from select vineyards of California) – for the Indian dishes.
The group would now be ecstatically thumping my back in recognition of the unparalleled service I was providing.
For dessert I would offer a round of Win Fortified Wine, much to the delight of the neighbourhood matriarchs, who’d start reminiscing about their post-natal care. Coffee would invariably be followed by fine cognac, from the house of Sahib.
Unaccustomed as I am to public affirmation, I was pleasantly surprised when the weekly neighbourhood meeting nominated me for the honorary role of Wine Consultant for all organised dinners in our village. This is a heavy responsibility, but one which I will strive to fulfil in all humility.
But I digress.
The time had come for me to venture into social adaptation, with its bewildering array of behavioural norms. And how better to do so than to go on a Mediterranean cruise and visit the lands of ancient culture and civilisation and, to boot, with the same select group to which I was already beholden for launching me into the stratosphere of wine connoisseurs.
We gathered for pre-dinner cocktails and the conversation flowed fast and furious, on topics ranging from politics, economics and security to fine foods, apparel and books.
While someone was expounding an issue, all the others would be wringing out the last vestiges of their memory, searching for words of wisdom for the next topic, which they could introduce.
“Read any good books lately?”
On hearing this, my heart leapt for joy. This area was my forte, for I am widely read on Enid Blyton, Mills and Boon, not to mention the more heavy Aesop and the mother of them all – Harry Potter. Did I mention it before? Truly, good looks, youth and modesty run in my family; however, in a moment of exuberance, I abandoned the last attribute (momentarily) and launched into an exposition of the latest Harry Potter title.
In this season, the Mediterranean is legendary for balmy weather, but no sooner had the words left my mouth, a sudden chill prevailed. Shawls were gathered close, eyebrows were raised and there was an unexplained shift of interest to the hors d’oeuvres and the paintings on the wall, amidst ear-shattering silence.
“Paul Krugman has put forth a very forthright view on managing world globalisation, don’t you think?”
The group sprang back into life; I shrank and slid into an abyss of anonymity.
