Carol’s Column

Wine is good for chilblains

HIS nostrils twitched gently, his cheeks puffed and wriggled in unison with his nostrils, he took a large gulp of the delicate liquid in the glass and shut his eyes. Then took a deep breath and turned pale.

He looked distinctly ill. Good heavens, he's having a coronary, I thought to myself and looked around for help.

His eyes opened as did his mouth and he spat out the wine.

What a tragic waste of a fine wine.

Around me I could see and hear the sound of 1 799 people, gulping, swilling and spitting wine — the happy hum of the seventh Nederberg auction of rare Cape wines.

"Brilliant, absolutely brilliant don't you think?" murmured the scraggy, horse-faced man on my right, his Adam's apple dancing in the sunlight. "Impeccably clear as all good wines should be."

"Like water," I nodded approvingly.

"Now, take this wine — it's too astringent. It puckers the mouth."

"It does?" I was fascinated.

"Too much tannin," he shook his head gravely. I followed suit.

There was another silence, then: "Frightfully dull, don't you think?" he asked.

"No, no, I think it's super, such fun. I've never, ever seen so many people swilling so much wine together before."

He glared. "I'm talking about this wine," he said, holding up yet another glass. "A dull wine is like a dull person — not very interesting."

Ah well — it takes all kinds to make the world happen.

They say invitations to the auction were limited — only selected guests were invited this year.

My husband was suitably impressed when I flashed the invitation under his flu-struck nose.

"What on earth are they inviting you for?" he said. And laughed.

"What do you know about wine? If I poured you a glass of vinegar and placed a slice of lemon on the rim — you wouldn't know the difference."

I thought of my husband now, as I tasted along with the best of them.

Cabernets, Sauvignons, Edelkeurs and Pinotages — I enjoyed them all.

My late grandmother on my father's side of the family, and indeed, a great imbiber in her day, always taught me two important things in life.

The first was that wine cures chilblains — at the age of 82 she used to drink a bottle of wine a day. She never ever had chilblains — of course, the state of her liver was another matter.

Secondly, she believed that waste, any waste, was sinful.

Which is why I swallowed every drop and after the wine tasting, they had to carry me to the fashion show taking place outside.

It was a magnificent scene with the bright blue and white tents, gay umbrellas and rolling lawns of the gracious Nederburg Estate not to mention the hordes of rolling people.

Sylph-like models strode across the ramp, thighs flashing in the hot sun. The gentleman on my right, choked into his dry white as a particularly nubile young wench gave him a wicked wink.

That was when the champers was introduced to liven up an already sparkling occasion.

Iced and delicious — it slid down 1 800 throats with gay abandon.

After that — a brief sojourn in the sun while 600 women retreated to the cloakroom to revamp their wilting faces.

And then came the auction. Serious business this as 3 600 feet marched into the large auction hall.

Although nothing can be more merry-making than the sipping and tippling of a good — or even not so good — wine, wine-selling itself, is a grave affair.

Move unexpectedly in your seat and you can find yourself the owner of 100 crates of wine for which you will have bid R20 000.

Lunch was a jolly affair.

While wading through the mounds of crayfish, oysters, Cape salmon and mussels — not to mention the sides of beef nestling in various corners throughout the Estate and other delectable goodies, I got lost among the desserts.

At our table of 10, six members of the scintillating group were seen slipping lower and lower in their seats until they disappeared under the table, where they were found the following morning by the cleaners.

And wine flowed everywhere.

Eventually, we staggered back into the auction hall where bidding was fast and furious.

Later, as we made our way slowly to Cape Town, discussing the merits of our wonderful South African wines — someone was heard begging for a beer.

Ignorant peasant.

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