The last post

For the second time in a few months, my email account has been blocked (from my access) and hacked. It cost me time and money (too much on both counts) to get it fixed.
It got me to thinking, enough is enough. A few years ago, I canned the internet at home and went without for six months … and I didn’t miss it.
This time, I’m not getting rid of the internet (OK I do have to check the lottery numbers), but I am putting a few things on ice (preferably Scotch, bourbon or some such), starting with Twitter (I gave up Facebook years ago and don’t miss it a jot) and this blog.
It’s been a bit of fun along the way, but I’m at that stage in life where I should be doing shit that’s less like work and more like the things I’ve been writing about.
It’s been a tough gig sometimes … I get very few comments or reactions (thanks to those who did take the time) and not so much as one offering of a contribution, maybe all tell-tale signs that what I’m writing isn’t of that much interest other than to me … and support from just a few friends in promoting it … thanks.
Thanks for reading the ramblings of a sometimes grumpy man … maybe down the track we’ll meet again on this site. Who knows?
Anyway, that’s it. I’m going for a drink. See ya.

Italy wins the wine-off at my place

What a good week for good wine and the promise of good things to come.
I wandered in to my local bottleshop to grab something for dinner (yeah, there was food involved too) and I was grabbed by Cameron, the manager. “Mate, I’ve got a couple you should try. I know you love chardonnay. I’ve got this fantastic French chardy coming in next week,” he said as he poured me a taster.
“That’s pretty bloody good,” I said. And it was.
“You interested in some?”
“Done.”
Then he poured me some Spanish red (the week involved more than its fair share of tempranillo anyway).
“This is a cracker,” he said. And it was.
“I’ll get me some of that when it comes in, meanwhile I think I’ll have pinot with dinner. What’s good?”
Cameron suggested a 2010 Roland Masse pinot from the Yarra Valley at about 20 bucks.
Dinner was a plate of nibbly things … toasted onion and caraway sourdough, spinach dip, beetroot dip, prosciutto, artichoke hearts, Spanish anchovies, cheese-stuffed chillis, smoked ocean trout … whatever, there was a bit of it … and the pinot (well I had to cover all the food groups) was the perfect foil.
It’s drinking beautifully. There’s a bit of cherry up front (yeah, it is cherry season and I picked that … the smell that is, not the cherries). It has just enough oak and hangs around in the mouth … I reckon that’s called length (it’s 13%, the alcohol, not the length). I know that it’s selling well at Vintage Cellars and stocks are dwindling, so if you fancy it … and you will ... be quick.
The following night, I revisited the Florian Mollet Sancerre (about 24 bucks), which I’d first had on the weekend.
The second time was better than the first.
It really is intense and quite flowery on the nose and, for me, a hint of sweetness (just enough). After it’s been open for a while, there’s a bit of vanilla happening and lots of fruit (take your pick … smoking rollies doesn’t help my palate) and the taste lingers well in the mouth.
Simply, it’s a bloody great drink and was destined to be my drinking highlight of the week … not so.
I was at home at lunchtime on Wednesday and wondering what sort of wine I’d have with dinner. Then I thought, I have a box of Italian wines under the dining room sideboard. They’ve been there for about three years (it’s a well-sealed pine box, so the storage is OK), so I grabbed one for the fridge.
I opted for a simple pasta dish for dinner … garlic, fresh diced tomatoes, some yellow capsicum sliced finely, Spanish anchovies, rocket leaves and some fresh basil, plenty of olive oil and a splash of the pasta water ... served with some freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.
If the pasta was good … and it was bloody good … then the wine – a 2007 Bollini Pinot Grigio Trentino – was an absolute bloody cracker.
I’ve seen it described as the “ultimate aperitif wine” … or how about “the fresh, refined style is ideal for frequent, casual consumption”? Frequent? That’s my kind of wine.
It’s fragrant, lively, crisp, fruity, flinty and oh so clean in the mouth. And there’s just enough acid. I reckon it would go well with any sort of food. Without question, for me it was the wine highlight of the week in a week where there were some highlight-worthy beauties on the table.

BACK TO BASICS

I had catch-up lunch the other day with a friend. We chose a local café, one that has recently changed hands.
After Alex and John sold the operation, business fell off, as it does when things change.
I thought, bugger it, I haven’t eaten there since the new owners moved in … so get it on.
I ordered a pot of English breakfast tea and a dish called the charcuterie board. My friend, who has an appetite like six people, ordered a garlic prawn entrée, the rabbit pie and a glass of orange juice. Yeah, right, no alcohol.
The drinks (it’s funny saying that when it’s not a reference to wine) arrived, closely followed by the waiter. “Sorry, but we are out of rabbit pie. Can I get you something else?”
“Yeah, a menu thanks.” Pretty basic, I would have thought.
After ordering a steak sandwich, we settled for a chat … which was interrupted this time by a waitress. “Sorry, but the prawns are just part of the entrée. It’s three parts from a choice of five.” I can’t remember the other parts, but the order went through.
Again we settled for a chat.
My pot of tea came without a strainer, so it was a less-then-pleasant dusty cup of tea. Pretty basic, that.
Then the charcuterie board arrived … a pleasant enough collection of cold cuts, warmed black pudding, a small tub of cornichons, some pretty ordinary cocktail pickled onions, a couple of bits of artichoke heart and some toast.
I did the polite thing and waited until my friend had something to gnaw on … it was a good five minutes before the waiter arrived with the steak sandwich.
We looked at each other. Wasn’t there an entrée?
Sure was. The waiter reappeared five minutes later with it. “Sorry, it’s a bit late,” he said as he made room for it on the table. Excuse me. Pretty basic, that.
“I’m pretty sure something is gonna get cold before I eat it,” said my friend.
“Sorry about that” was the best the waiter could do.
“Look, forget the entrée … take it back to the kitchen.”
“So you don’t want it now.”
“Right. It’s an entrée. I would have liked it before the main course,” said my friend who was struggling to be nice about it.
“So I should take it back to the kitchen.”
Finally.
Oh, and apparently the steak was full of gristle.
“I think I’ll have dessert,” said my friend. We finally got the attention of the waiter and got a menu. Off he went to get the dessert, the remnants of lunch still sitting on the table a good 15 minutes after we’d finished.
Back came the waiter. They’d run out of whatever my friend had ordered. “Look, I’ll come in and have a look at what you have in the glass case.”
Then the waiter said: “Is it OK for me to take the dishes. Are you finished?”
Sweet mother of Jesus, mate, we finished quarter of an hour ago. Please, take the bloody dishes.
I took a phone call while my friend chowed down on his mud cake and ice-cream (like I said, it’s some appetite).
I don’t know how much lunch cost. I was still on the phone when my friend went in to pay the bill. Reckon I’m pretty sure though that he didn’t leave a tip, other than perhaps a verbal tip, such as “why don’t you lift your bloody game”.

IT HAS A RING TO IT

I received in the mail my official invitation to my friend, Andrew McUtchen’s wedding at the end of March.
To say that he and Fiona are well organised is an understatement (their website proves that). They’ve nailed it.
The envelope had the invitation, a map (it’s at Howqua), accommodation tips and a CD with a note: “It’s a long drive, so we thought we’d make you a mixtape of our favourite ‘driving to the mountains’ songs to help it pass a little quicker. Don’t rush, the scenery is beautiful.”
I listened to it on the way to lunch yesterday at Mordialloc … yes, Mordi-bloody-alloc. It’s great listening.
And speaking of great listening, Andrew is playing at the Albert Park Festival next Thursday (February 23). He’s a majorly talented singer-songwriter and apparently he’ll set up somewhere near the Albert Park Hotel. Get along and have a listen. It’ll be worth it.

IT’S THE MAKE-UP THAT COUNTS

Travelling home from work at lunch time on Monday, I watched the people sitting on the tram. Four seats across from each other included a guy tapping away at his phone, a girl reading something on an iPad, another bloke tapping at his phone and the girl next to him was using a mirror to do her make-up … perhaps a bit late in the day or maybe she’d had a big night. Dunno.
I people looked the other direction and it was much the same thing although there was a girl actually reading a book.
I turned back to the original four and there was make-up girl diligently doing the eyebrows (with a pencil) of the bloke next to her … he was right into it.
It reminded me of the last time I had some eye make-up applied. It was at a sometimes rowdy, very wine-oriented Greek Easter party at a friend’s house.
For some reason I ended up in the bathroom with a friend as she applied eye liner to my less-than-pretty face.
When we got back to the party action, my make-up girl’s husband must have thought it was an improvement because he spent the rest of the party grabbing my arse, something he continued every time I saw him at the local bar.
He’s on a strict warning that I’ll belt him if it happens again … and I’m a peace-loving bloke.
By the way, there was to my knowledge, no arse grabbing on the tram.

To the fore ... well the hippie in me ... and a fabulous wine ... Sancerre Florian Mollet

It’s kinda nice to get the odd complimentary comment on this thing … I don’t get too many … so thanks to Lottie J. Vera for the kind words.
Words (on the blog) have been hard to come by lately, a courtesy of just doing too much and being too buggered to find the time to post.
Work’s pretty much back into full swing, the weekends have been packed with trips away, lots of good food, wine and friends, hence the blog laziness.
My dear friend, Julia, celebrated her 50th a couple of weeks ago at a fantastic old house in Balnarring. And true to her method of doing things, she did it in style.
One of the great things about the drive down there was the chance to blow away the cobwebs … on me and mainly the ute. A bit of dirt (OK a lot) notwithstanding, it looked a whole lot better by the time I’d arrived.
It was like tent city in her front garden, cars everywhere, and every couch, mattress, bed and whatever was in full use. I’m not sure just how many people stayed over, although there were probably 10 for breakfast in the morning.
The party was a ‘60s-‘70s fancy-dress thing and just about everyone got into the swing. There were beads, kaftans, wigs, long white patent boots … all the usual suspects. I reckon I may have been the only one there who went in normal clothes i.e. no real effort required … a Thai-dyed T-shirt with a matching headband, torn, tattered and patched jeans and of course a pair of kangaroo fur cowboy boots. And I drew plenty of comments about how I looked the part. Guess the hippie in me is alive and well.
There were about 100 people there and the weather was kind enough to allow us the entire night on the expansive front lawn. Lots of tables and chairs made it easy, the band was fantastic (they had lots of lights happening) and in true Julia style, the food and wine were just great.
She had four hogs of beef on the barbecue, lots of salads, breads and bits and pieces, even desserts, all lovingly put together by the well named Sarah Vaughan. She’s a cracker in the kitchen.
And there was beer, wine of all sorts and plenty of it to ensure that everyone had a great time.
Even the walk home in the dark was a piece of cake.
Life in the swag that night was a pretty easy sleep, the snoring of the woman in the tent next to me notwithstanding (OK, reckon I may have done my share too).
Waking at 5.30 wasn’t the ideal preparation for the day, but it gave me a chance to have a smoke, relax and enjoy the fresh air … yeah I know that’s a contradiction, you know, the fresh air and smoking thing.
People amassed at the huge garden table … they seemed to come from everywhere … and Julia produced some sensational sourdough bread, pots of tea, pots of coffee, eggs, whatever.
She’s the consummate professional when it comes to catering … for one or 100.
Breakfast was done, the swag thrown back onto the ute and it was time for all to head to the venue to clean up the excesses.
Thank God for the ute. We managed to fill it, and then some, but an hour or so later, the place looked like a new pin. Cars were loaded with the leftover drinks (and there were lots), boxes and boxes of glasses (there were just two broken on the night) and it was a convoy back to Julia’s place to unload.
And unload she did. She insisted (OK I didn’t take too much convincing) that I take a box of wine and some beer with me (not for the trip home, I hasten to add).
The wines were a mix of T’Gallant viognier and Balnarring Vineyards single barrel point noir … the beers were Peroni.
The pinot (I had a bottle that night) was as good as it gets … really enjoyable and moreish, which is always a good thing in a wine and it was the perfect way to see out what had been a memorable weekend.
I tried the viognier the next night … it’s just about my favourite grape … didn’t disappoint and turned out to be the perfect quaffer for the week.
It was a good week at the offices … the work was interesting and the people were on song … perhaps it’s a summer thing.
On the Monday I was waiting at the traffic light to cross when a bloke wandered over and said: “G’day mate, I’m not from around here and I’m lookin’ for a good old-fashioned pub.”
Reckon he may have figured that, because I was wearing a blue singlet, I may have been an old-fashioned pub type.
The best I could come up with was the Exford on Russell Street. The last time I was there the carpet still had a reassuring stickiness and it was predominantly a beer-drinkers’ pub.
I gave him directions and sent him on his way and walked to catch a tram.
When I reached my stop, there was a woman in a leopard-skin coat and matching boots, sitting there and smoking a huge spliff. She, like me, was obviously enjoying her day.
The week involved rose, shiraz, viognier and pinot, the perfect preparation for a weekend that effectively was to start on the Friday with a reunion of former Fairfax employees and The Rising Sun Hotel in South Melbourne.
It turned out that mostly the people were from an era long before my time there. Of the 50 or so there, I knew about half a dozen people. Mostly the blokes were in suits, so my black singlet and black jeans stood out like a sore thumb. I actually felt like one of the young people there (OK I was). Suffice to say, I didn’t realise it was also a sit-down dinner, so after bidding farewell to those I know I beat a hasty retreat to the tram and headed for Lina’s for a quiet glass or two of rose before heading home for an early night, which was essential given that I had a two-hour drive to get to a party at Tooleen to celebrate my friend Jodie’s 40th birthday (it’s the year for milestones).
Early night did I say?
I called a friend for a chat and ended up in a cab, bound for her place for a drink and a catch-up, which was good. I finally climbed into bed at 4.45 … normally I only recognise one 4.45 a day and it’s not the first one ... so it wasn’t ideal.
My phone went just after nine. “I’m awake, so you’re awake,” explained my friend who was none too thrilled at the late hour of my departure, but it was a fair call.
I faced the day by assembling the tipples for the party … a few beers, a Bowen Estate shiraz, a Balnarring pinot, a couple of bottles of chenin blanc and a bottle of Moet for Jodie … throwing some clothes and a toothbrush into a bag and drinking lots of tea.
It took me until one o’clock to summon the courage to face the drive. It was all plain sailing until I reached the Kalkallo pub, where I was confronted with traffic from arsehole to breakfast. There had obviously been a prang or something. It took half an hour to drive about the next two kilometres where there was a burnt-out car and four very desolate people being comforted by police and firies. At least they got out with their lives.
I was pretty pissed off that Tooleen is not on my GPS. Fortunately I’d been there quite a few time when I was young, so I was never gonna get lost.
The driveway to Jodie’s house (what a view) is as rough as guts (OK not quite that bad) and almost a kilometre long, but it was worth it.
There were lots of familiar faces.
I threw up the swag and joined in the festivities, which were highlighted by the food prepared by Jodie’s siste-in-law.
There were chicken curry pies, plates of prawns, roasted (Chinese-style) pork, pastries with scallops, pastries with smoked salmon and cheese, a huge bowl of steamed mussels and probably a dozen other things that have faded from the memory.
The spooky part of the afternoon involved a graceful (aren’t they all?) wedge-tail eagle soaring on the thermals above the house¬¬. It hovered above us for ages, coming down to not a long way above us and obviously eyeing off one of the many dogs that, like us, were enjoying the party in the sunshine. Of particular interest would have been the smallest … a Jack Russell … but the flighty one was perhaps deterred by all the other dogs … oh, and the people. But Jesus, it looked like it was ready to swoop. It didn’t.
It was about this time that I realised the chenin blanc wasn’t doing its thing. I still had a hangover big enough to photograph, so I did the honourable and tried for an hour or so tucked up in the swag. No sleep was forthcoming. There were dogs, kids, singing, cars coming and going, not ideal for getting some zeds under the belt.
What to do? Get up, of course, and get some pinot under the belt. It worked a treat and was helped along by the presence of my great friend, Cookie and his girlfriend Belinda. I hadn’t seen then in yonks and it was great to see them.
As darkness descended, out came the guitar and there was lots of singing. Darkness also descended in the form of the 2008 Bowen Estate shiraz, accompanied by an endless supply of little Frank’s (he’s not really short, we just give him shit) fantastic pizzas. He’s a truly great pizza cook.
The swag provided welcome respite despite the stragglers still being in full voice.
There’s something about sleeping in a swag in the bush. It must be the air because, despite the excesses, there was little sign of a hangover (what little there was, alleviated by a coffee). It was just tiredness but not enough to hinder the long drive home.
The troops who had stayed were planning another night there and were planning to ease into the day with lunch at a local winery. I’d loved to have done it, but the thought of getting up at 5.30 the next morning and driving to Melbourne for work … nah it was never gonna happen.
The drive back to Melbourne was as easy as it gets and was over leaving me plenty of time to get to the market to stock up on some fresh food for the week.
No trip to the market is ever complete without a chat to David, in the Sword’s wine shop. He helped sorting me out with some cider (OK I have a hankering for one or three). He’d sold out of Bramley’s Seedling cider (damn) so I bought a four-pack of Cloudy Lobo Cider from the Adelaide Hills. The label boasts that it is “unfiltered, untamed, full flavour”. Tick, tick, tick.
The week that followed again was great, especially work. I’m at the age when I’m supposed to be slowing, but shit it’s good. I also resurrected the Crikey word of the day on Twitter, a bit of fun.
Chats with the kids, Joel and Liam, were a bonus and helped make it a better week, which flew by.
Lunch on Saturday with a friend loomed large. I hit the market and grabbed plenty of nibbly bits … aka stuffed chillis, olives, prosciutto, smoked ocean trout, a couple of dips, some stuffed artichokes, some fantastic Spanish anchovies, some peppery rocket and an onion-and-caraway sourdough loaf. Oh, and five bunches of flowers to brighten up the house.
For starters, though, it was a couple of dozen South Australian oysters (so, so creamy with just lemon juice) washed down with some bubbles … Blue Pyrenees Midnight Cuvee Chardonnay, a snip at 30-odd bucks a bottle. It was a great start.
But there was better to come … in the form of Sancerre Florian Mollet, one of the better tasting things to come out of a bottle lately for me.
It’s intense and quite flowery on the nose and, for me, a hint of sweetness (just enough). There was also lots of fruit (take your pick … smoking doesn’t help my palate) and the taste lingers well in the mouth.
Reckon when I’m finished this post, I’m heading back to Vintage Cellars to grab another (about $24 from memory) for dinner tonight. Dinner will, incidentally involve food as well).
Other wines to cross my path recently included 2009 Brokenwood Chardonnay (quite oaky), some Balnarring Single Barrel pinot, Hennings 2011 Viognier, T’Gallant (I just love straight viognier) and Kilikanoon Clare Valley rose, a fruit little number that’s just the thing on a hot day.
It’s looking to be a quiet week if for no other reason than my planned trip next Friday to Warrnambool for a catch-up with a truckie mate, Perrie, who I met on the road at various places around the country. I haven’t seen him for a few months, so I’m looking forward to it. We’ll probably drink up a storm.
Roll on Friday.