Thin Skins: Why the French Hate Australian Wine

The French

Hate Us…

and They’re

Not the Only

Ones

IT’S NOT MY PARENTS’ FAULT THAT THE FRENCH HATE us—though they played a part in it mattering to me. For starters, they never got me used to wine. Never let the black-purple wines with the rattle and shake of flavor pass my lips until I was way too old to be sensible about them. If they had, I might have been able to let all this Gallic, Eurocentric, snob-injected claptrap slide. Instead, I got worked up about it. I let it get into my heart and wound it—and the pains of my heart have always been irresistible to me. Like a drought-scorched snake in need of a feed, then, I made finding the real story my life’s work.

Back to my parents: they didn’t get me accustomed to wine because wine was not part of our life—in the way that wine in the life of most lower middle-class Australian families in the 1970s and ’80s, and before, was mostly as foreign as methodical good sense on the Gallipoli battlefield. It was there, but chaotically and infrequently applied. We had Rutherglen tokays and muscats on ice cream; Brown Brothers Crouchen Riesling on summer special occasions; something, in the 1980s, we referred to as Chablis when we had visitors whom we thought it might impress. We lived in the western suburbs of Melbourne and the emphasis in lower middle class was most definitely on the lower. My brother and I went to the local state primary school and the local state high school, both places where the teachers seemed to throw as many punches as the students. If you’d asked us our religion we’d have said Methodist: though we were nothing. Methodist was just an easy way of saying void of glamour.

Through all my childhood the best bottle of wine my family almost had was a Christmas gift from my mom’s boss. It was so good that we never drank it—it’s still in the bottom of a cupboard somewhere, alongside stale bottles of Madeira and Baileys Irish Cream and Club Port. I haven’t looked in that cupboard for some time, but I’ll bet that if I did I’d find one of the oldest bottles of Great Western Champagne known to humankind. After all these years, it’s probably now realized the value it never had.

Of course, there was no such thing as food–wine matching in this upbringing, though, realistically, it’s not easy matching wine to the dish we ate the most—a dish made of mincemeat, curry powder, cabbage, soy sauce, a packet of chicken noodle soup, and lots and lots of celery—called, depending on the night of the week, kai see ming or, perhaps less exotically, chow mein.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this background means that I’ll never fit into some circles of wine—but also, more importantly, that I’m unusually sensitive to the faux warmth of those who loathe me or, more particularly, those who loathe the Australian wine that I’ve somehow come, in a small way, to represent. Faux warmth? Congenial disdain? Whatever you want to call it: in my own mind I refer to it as snobby bullshit. I had an English teacher once who noticed my competitive spirit with my classmates. She took me aside after class one day and said: "Your classmates aren’t your competition. The thousands of rich kids who hate the fact that a kid from the bad side of town, from a bad kind of school, actually has a talent with English—they are the ones you have to compete with. Your classmates are your band of brothers—you have real enemies out there."

The chip on her shoulder was a different flavor to mine—but it was just as big. I digress—but there is a point here.

Australian wine is the kid from the bad side of town, who went to all the wrong schools. The rich, traditional, old-school wine nations hate it—and increasingly so.

I knew none of this when wine first hit me—and it did hit me. I liked wine before I liked beer, but I drank and enjoyed all kinds of funny, sweet, tropical wines for many years before the night when it all ramped up into a kind of obsession. Truth is, wine hit me like a ton of bricks and damaged me forever. Ask my wife, who has sat through thousands of the most boring wine discussions imaginable, and she’d perhaps describe it like this: it hit me like a magnum to the back of the head (whether my common sense, or the magnum, shattered is still up for contention).

The roll of life’s dice. Of all places, the night when wine hit me happened at the newly made casino in Melbourne. I was at a work function—one of the first times in my life that it wasn’t me picking up the bill. It was a night when the alcohol flowed like stupidity at a football club and something in me changed, forever, at the sip and the taste and the sensation of one particular wine. I drank it, and as I did so it was like I was being bitten by Dracula or a werewolf or, more appropriately, by a malaria-carrying mosquito. Something went funny in me. My heart got an erection. From that moment, I may have looked the same, but I was changed. I had become a mad wine hunter. I suddenly wanted to be on intimate, personal, intense terms with all the most beautiful wines that I could afford—or could wangle to drink. Looking at what that journey has cost me—God, I wish I was a lawyer. That employer has cost me a fortune. I should sue the bastard.

But—that fateful wine.

I drank it. I drank some more. It was dark in the restaurant and the wine was dark, too, and I’d been drinking casually until this wine was served—nonchalant raise of the glass, hardly even look at it, sip, stop, drink more—and BOOM!

Kapow.

I held the glass (it would’ve taken a crowbar to wrench it from my grip) and looked out the big glass window, out toward the Yarra River. I swear it: I took those first couple of sips, and then saw a mass of fire. I was in a restaurant in Melbourne’s glitteringly ugly, palace-like casino—a place where money floated like confidence and great blazing fuel-fed fireballs exploded outside the windows. Booze, good booze, really good booze came and came like the bar was a wave machine of wine. Swig. Swallow. Another kaboom. Fire and fine wine.

I’d been a journalist, that night, for ten years, and a wine, wine cooler, or scotch-and-cola drinker for the lot of them. But that night something switched over, turning me from a wine drinker to wine crazed. It was my fresh-oyster-plucked-and-shucked-in-a-French-bay moment. My white-truffles-in-a-Florence-trattoria revelation. I sipped, I swigged, and I was hooked. It was like losing my innocence, and starting a war, at once.

I fell in love that night. With wine. Australian wine. Ten years later, I am more in love with it than ever, and it is because of this love that I had to write this book. The love came first, the idea for the book a long time after, and when the love and the idea came together, I had to get to work and get it off my chest.

This is the thing: Australian wine today is a remarkable, hell-raising, beautiful story that has not been pieced together and told in one hit. It’s precisely because the story of modern Australian wine has not been pieced together that it is in trouble, and is drawing all kinds of snobby potshots.

Australians like to think that our wine is great, and very probably the best in the world, and whether we drink much of it or not, we are proud of it. When we hear that Australia now outsells (the dastardly) French wine in the beloved UK market, or that a bottle of Penfolds Grange has sold for $70,000 to a manic U.S. rock star, our pride puffs fuller than a baloney-filled pastry. Yeah baby, we can make wine as well as our golden girls can swim! We can do anything!

But that is the tip of a much uglier—and, also, a far more beautiful—iceberg. Many international fine-wine experts, and casual commentators, can now be heard laughing at this ridiculous thing known as Fine Australian Wine. They think Australian wine is not much better than the wine equivalent of a Big Mac. They think that Australian wine is popular, and sells a helluva huge number of liters per year, but almost none of it is what you’d call high quality—or anything to be proud of. To be blunt, these influential folk see Australian wine largely as bargain beginner wine: to drink before you graduate, or mature, or grow up to French or Italian or German wine. Or, if you fancy yourself as a particularly trendy snob, Spanish wine.

UK wine guru Jancis Robinson (who is not one of the above folks; she is a beacon of international light) summed this opinion up well when she wrote, way back in 2003, that The British fell so resoundingly in love with Australian wine in the early 1990s that there is now the inevitable backlash … accusing Australians of making boring wines to a formula for faceless corporations. UK wine writer Tim Atkin went further, saying that Australian wine has become bland and unexciting. Giles MacDonough in the legendary UK magazine Punch wrote that Australia enjoys almost the perfect conditions for producing large quantities of industrial wine. There is lots of sun to ripen grapes, almost all of which are planted on flatlands which are easy to cultivate. The vast majority of vineyards are owned by a handful of super rich companies. Worse, the big fella himself—the world’s most influential critic, Mr. Robert Parker Jr.—went so far as to say, in 2004, that Australia has perfected industrial farming. No other country appears capable of producing an $8 wine as well as it does. However, too many of these wines are simple, fruity, and somewhat soulless. Australia will need to improve its game and create accessible wines with more character and interest to compete in the world market 10 years from now.

And Mr. Parker—as we shall soon see—is a great promoter, and fan, of Australian wine. If these are the words of a great Aussie wine supporter, you want to hear what our enemies say—indeed, you want to hear what a lot of champions of Australian wine say of Australian wine behind the closed doors of their living rooms (and many of them almost never drink Australian wine at home). Even Australian wine scribe Ben Canaider (who admittedly has likely never described himself as a champion of Australian wine) wrote in 2006 that Australian wine is becoming more and more awful.

Scratch the surface of just about any fine-wine dealer anywhere in the world, and the words industrial and factory and manufactured are never too far away once the subject turns to Australian wine. Scratch harder and you’re likely to also find an extreme ignorance of Australian geography—the vastness of this country rubbed out. As a result of this, outspoken Australian wine man Brian Croser (a former Decanter magazine Man of the Year and a celebrated Australian winemaker) noted in 2004 that you won’t find Australian wine on any of the best (restaurant) wine lists of the world. Cram your supermarket cart full of the stuff, help yourself to a bottlo bargain, and drink it in the privacy of your own home.

But good Lord, don’t even think about drinking it on a special night out. Crikey, what are ya, uncouth? Some kind of animale?

This attitude is a long way from the popular Australian belief that Australian wine is tops, and could show the stuck-up French a thing or two. Truth is, there are an increasing number of world wine opinion-makers forming the view that Australian wine is the Lego of wine, and that when the wine drinking world grows up, we’ll be left with a lake of swill that will only be good enough for … well, for uncouth Australians, really. Aussie Ben Canaider again: "If you accept that wine is a beverage and is something that should refresh, stimulate, and aid digestion, then more and more of this Australian product [my italics] doesn’t even qualify as wine. It is a kind of anti-wine…. Of course, Australian reds have always been bold and big and full of that oft-quoted sunshine-in-a-bottle, but now it seems to have taken a rather drunken step off in a frightening and grotesque direction."

Truth also is that all this contrary, newfangled, bandwagon-jumping, blossoming world wine opinion is a load of bullcrap—and one of the main reasons why I’m firing away at my keyboard right now. Australian wine today is a great big wine wonderland, becoming more interesting by the day. In terms of Australian wine quality—and my heart sings as I say it—we’ve been through the worst of wine times, now for the best of times.

Of course, I didn’t know any of this that night at the casino restaurant with the great balls of fire exploding out the window. I just kept looking at that superior glass of Yarra Valley red wine in front of me—a cabernet, if truth be told, grown on the steep side of a hill (not a flatland) in the summer of 1994—and kept dragging it to my mouth a lot more frequently than was polite (or than my Quality Assured work procedures document would decree). The wine leapt like perfume from the glass. It slunk through my mouth with the opulent, satin-covered, thigh-like loveliness that it feels rude to enjoy in public. It had a great body, but a great personality too. It had fingers of flavor, and I wanted to keep copping a feel of it on my tongue. It had something else otherly, and I was spiraling down into it, a magic red carpet ride into a world that would fire my imagination as well as my belly. It was Australian wine, modern style, more diverse and interesting than ever. It was the start of a ride full of names I’d not then heard of, mostly because they hardly exist on the shelves of the supermarkets—arresting, peculiar, intriguing names like Giaconda, Clonakilla, Torbreck, Rockford, Jasper, Grosset, Noon, Meerea Park, Castagna, Burge, Leeuwin, Bindi, Savaterre, Pizzini, Bannockburn, Ringland, Glaetzer, Wild Duck, Majella, and a whole raft of others. It was a ride toward the wine names I did know, but which I didn’t know at all properly—old family names like Tyrrell’s, Tahbilk, Penfolds, Evans, Yalumba, De Bortoli, Hardys, and Mount Pleasant.

I say it because I mean it: it was the start of a ride that was, and is, completely and utterly thrilling, my own kind of personal wine epic. That night at the casino, as much as now, I couldn’t wait to dive into it.

Nor, of course, did I know of the fight that was looming over and around it all. The international fight over Australia’s wine credibility—a fight I’ve been calling, over the past few years, the ugly fight over this most beautiful of drinks.

The Wine

Cults

FIRE. SOUTH AUSTRALIA’S MOST FAMOUS WINE VALLEY, the Barossa, in a haze of wood smoke. The smoke comes from the burning canes of a government-sponsored rip-the-grapevines-from-the-ground scheme—thick old vines, shiraz vines, yanked from the soil and burnt, a government bounty paid on the rip. This was the mid-1980s, the end of a time when for every seven bottles of wine sold in Australia, six were white. This was the time when the big, tall, curly-haired Rick Burge, who’d been making wine at Rutherglen in northeast Victoria but whose roots were in the Barossa, came home. To buy, after a financial battle with cousin winemaker Grant Burge, the Burge Family Winemakers winery. To make Barossan red wines to the level he thought they could, and should, be made. To entwine himself in a great mound of strangling debt—sitting at half a million dollars by mid-1989, and racing at 21.75 percent interest—the kind of debt that would not only take a gigantic boom-cycle to control, but would also make him feel like he’d placed the head of his family beneath a guillotine. This was the time when Rick Burge rode in a car through the Barossa Valley one evening as the light turned low and looked at all the fire and the burning and the smoke and the rubble and the dreams shattered, and wondered what the hell he was doing burying himself and his wife and his daughters in all this debt, when everything around him burned its scorching eyes into him and said, No. Don’t do it. The valley is going up in flames.

Desperate, battling depression, compelled to make wine from the soil he’d grown up on—Rick Burge faces up to all the Barossan red wines he can, of all his new competitors, sets out dozens of glasses and tastes them all, comparing, trying to find the hook. The thing he wants to make. The inspiration.

Where’s the Barossa? he says. And his words float above those half-empty glasses and in his mind it’s like an echo that sinks into the glasses and into the wine and into his spirit too.

And then Rick’s moving faster, going back over the bottles, studying their labels, looking at the words and the brands and the marketing hoo-ha—looking for the word. The Barossa. The Barossa Valley. The land is the brand. It must be written there somewhere. Surely. The Barossa: the beautiful red heart of Australian wine.

But it’s not. Or it is—but you have to look hard for it. He has forty-nine Barossan reds on the table and no matter how hard he looks he can only find the words Barossa Valley on the label of six of them. The Barossa, he then realizes, has sunk so low that it is a dirty word in the marketplace. Instead the labels mention Barossan town names like Krondorf or Tanunda or Marananga. And everywhere he looks he sees dancing: companies dancing around the great proud Barossa Valley name, ashamed of the Barossa and the bear-hug of its big brawny masculine embrace.

This was a time—and this is the thing—immediately before it all started to take off, before Australian wine flexed its two-hundred-year history and really started to be something, and someone, in the world of wine. This is the time immediately before Australian wine stopped kowtowing and, instead, took the wider world of wine and shook a great whack of cobwebs from it. This was the time when an era of exciting wine was about to be made possible—an era when tradition, in some ways, went out the window, and new money and new people and new ways and ideas and lands flooded in, and busted the whole industry apart.

Indeed, this was the Humpty Dumpty time, at the start and through the stretch of the 1990s, when it seemed like the Australian wine industry was not only busted apart, but was also put back together differently.

Because once the boom started, there was money to be made. Lots of it, by producers, grapegrowers, and—unusually—for a short time by consumers too. It was like all the dials in the Australian wine industry’s control room (if there was such a thing) were spinning maniacally; like the magnetic forces had suddenly changed.

And once that started happening—and once the whispers started that there was easy money to be made—more people came, and then more, more than could ever be accommodated, all eager to make more and more of this ever-so-easy money—people seduced not only by the joy-filled idea of wine but also by the stories reaching the media of a boom time, of fast bucks, of tax incentives on new vineyards and on top of that a whole new raft of people who—well, people who were like me. People who had grown up on Nutri-Grain for breakfast and Southern Comfort as an initiation to adulthood. People who bought yogurt with Shrek on the lid and who knew, all too well, the flavor of Midori and lemonade—or of Bacardi Breezers, Lemon Ruskis, or, going back, Island Coolers. People, in short, who knew what it was like to be seduced by sugar—or who were prepared to jump from brand to brand, from cereal to cereal, from drink to drink.

People who could be marketed at.

People, in short, who your average French winemaker—or upper-class grouse-hunting English dandy—would hate.

A new world order of wine.

A Fax in the Night

A fax. It’s June and it’s cold and it’s 1998, and on a windy hillside just over the top of the Barossa Ranges there’s a house beside a vineyard. The vines growing on the vineyard are over a hundred years old, so old that they’re hardly vines, they’re bushes—there’s no trellising, no training, the vines grow as stumps and the arms grow as claws, and from the claws will grow small bunches of the most profound wine grapes; grapes that will make the most profound, concentrated, glutinous wine. This wine will be rare and this wine will be loved, and the man who lives in the house will know exactly what to do with it—it’s why he’s on the vineyard, why he owns it, why he’s living on the quiet, lonely side of a quietly depressed valley—though things are changing.

The man’s name is Chris Ringland and he’s a giant—a gentle one. The sound of the fax has woken him. It’s after 3 a.m. and he hates being woken up at this time because he’s terrible at getting back to sleep—there’s always something to worry about on the vineyard, always pruning to be done or diseases to be sprayed, oak barrels with wine resting in them to be tasted and sorted and tended. He lies in bed. His bearded face is cold, and in the black night of the hillside he opens his eyes and can see nothing but the intense, smelly, pulpy purple of an imagined fermentation, a vintage of the past that he might have done differently—and then there’s another fax. It’s only been minutes from the last and, usually, he barely gets a handful of faxes a week—and then the fax beeps and tears off a sheet of paper and it’s quiet. As he lies there Chris Ringland thinks of getting up. If it wasn’t for the cold he’d have been up already. Then, after a bit, the fax goes again. Hey? This is crazy. He’s out of his bed and the hair on his face is standing on end, and as he fumbles across the rug he has the thought.

Or two thoughts—bumping against each other. Each year he makes many wines from many vineyards because that’s his life and that’s what a Barossan winemaker does. But he only makes one wine each year from his own land, his own ancient vineyard, and it’s that wine that he thinks of now. He thinks of it because he knows that bottles of that wine have gone to the United States. He sent them in the luggage of an American wine importer who came to this hillside and tasted the wine and heard the scarcity of it and wanted it—wanted it bad—wanted to buy the whole lot of it. Ringland thought of that wine and how it was now in the United States and he wondered about the fact that it would not be night in the United States, it would be daytime, business hours, and before he’d let that thought flurry he had the other: All these faxes were probably from the same person, it wasn’t really a faxing frenzy, it was nothing to do with America, it was a phantom or a clumsy-fingered person or a junk-fax or hang on, A DRUNK PERSON who’d had a magnum too many and wanted to order more wine at an ungodly hour. That would be it. This is 1998 and the about-to-be craziness of Australian wine has just tipped the balance but Chris Ringland and everyone else in Australia don’t know it yet.

Then another fax hits. Beep. B-shhhhhhhuuuuuu. Chris hits the lights and squints and wants to shield his eyes but he has to start reading. He notices straight away: not all the faxes are the same. It’s not junk or a prank but it is a bunch of letters from a bunch of different folks. One of them is a review. Many of the faxes are orders. Wine orders. From different people. Wanting to buy his wine.

Americans.

Faxes, orders, letters: from America. Suddenly.

The page with the review reads like this—it’s a review that will not only change the life of Chris Ringland, but will also change the course of Australian wine. It and a very few others like it will launch a thousand promises and a wine investment industry that will rip the guts out of so many folks that, when the run ends, one company alone will have stockpiled 1.3 million bottles of grossly overpriced, overhyped top end Australian wine—all of the bottles sold on a promise, on the hope of a night like this.

But that’s nothing to do with Chris Ringland—it’s just part of the effect his wine has.

The review is from an American wine reviewer named Robert Parker Jr., an ex-lawyer turned wine reviewer who writes and distributes his own newsletter; a reviewer who has been called the most influential critic—wine or otherwise—in the history of written reviews. In 1998, Robert Parker Jr. had been reviewing wine for more than twenty years but his peak was upon him and his influence colossal: he’d not long been covering Australian wine but when he did he changed it. He wrote this in 1998 about the wine Chris Ringland made in minuscule quantities from the vines that had been reaching up out of the hillside soil without any great fuss at all for a hundred seasons.

This review is historic: it changed an industry.

I kept wondering if the only reason I was not giving this wine a perfect score was because there were only 50 cases (dozen) produced. Made from yields of under one ton of fruit per acre, from 100+-year-old vines, my first impression on tasting this Shiraz was, My God, this smells like a pristine example of 1947 Cheval Blanc. It possesses a similar unctuosity, thickness, over ripeness, and dry vintage port-like character. Moreover, I could not believe how complex the wine’s aromatics were for its age. In addition to the tell-tale bacon fat, there were aromas of toast, smoke, cassis, cedar, and black berry jam. Viscous, full-bodied, extremely thick and heavy (no finesse to be found in this monster), this wine represents the maximum, or some would say the extreme expression of its terroir and varietal composition. Yet the wine is focused, and not heavy to drink. After keeping the wine open four days without any trace of oxidation, but rather, further development and evolution, I decided there was no further reason to delay its destiny, and drank it up. The wine achieved 15% alcohol naturally, and spent 3 years in 100% new French oak. While it is lamentable that only 50 cases were produced, I feel readers should know about wines such as this. Moreover, they stand as a beacon for other winemakers who want to achieve something as special as what winemaker Chris Ringland has accomplished.

Robert Parker then gave the wine a score of ninety-nine points out of a possible 100, the kind of score normally reserved for the best vintages of the greatest French wines—a score usually reserved for wines that sell for over $700 per bottle, on a good day.

I said $700. Per bottle.

But now the world’s most influential reviewer had spoken. About an Australian wine. And the instant his American subscribers read his words, the frenzy began: they were on the internet, on the phone, typing up orders and locating the fax number (the first flush of the internet’s global power), and shooting orders through to the house on the hillside on the quiet side of the Barossa Ranges. There were only fifty dozen bottles of the wine for the whole world—no wonder there was a stampede. Six hundred bottles—and that’s it. Most of the top Bordeaux wines—even those which cost $700 per bottle—are made in the tens and the hundreds of thousands. In Australia, they make over 800,000 bottles of Wynns Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon each year. And millions of bottles of Jacob’s Creek. Yet all Chris Ringland had was 600 bottles.

That wine, that Chris Ringland wine, was released at the not insignificant price of sixty Australian dollars per bottle. But within six months it was selling in American wine auction houses for over one thousand dollars per bottle—U.S. dollars, that is. Do the math: that’s an effective twenty-fold increase in six months. Imagine. If you had shot a fax through that first night with an order for all 600 bottles, and Chris Ringland had accepted your order (and what winemaker doesn’t like the thought of a quick, easy, hassle-free sale?), you’d have then been able to make over $700,000 profit at auction, all within less than a year—maybe even in less than six months.

And to make that money? All you’d have had to do was buy the wine, sit on it for six months, then roll it into auction.

In other words, all you had to do was nothing.

It took a blink for people to cotton on to this. And then it was game on.

That time in the late 1980s when the vines were getting yanked and there was smoke and people were throwing shiraz grapes into shiraz muffins and shiraz ice-cream and shiraz-and-rum chocolate and Rick Burge was wondering why he was there, why the Barossan soil meant so much to him, why he was risking so much? That time was over.

It was a new era. The likes of which no one had ever seen.

Where There’s a Quack,

There’s a Duck

The thing was, it wasn’t just happening to Chris Ringland. The Barossa was the hot spot but cross the border into Victoria and travel to the warm, dry, tomato-growing center of it, and just out of the Heathcote township 130 kilometers north of Melbourne you find a vineyard farmed at the hand of a wild man named David Anderson, a man who calls his winery Wild Duck Creek. Anderson’s nickname is Duck. He was a painter and a fencer and a drinker and a loudmouth, and like all loudmouths he liked to throw his opinions in your face. When he was in his drinking prime, he would drink through 100 dozen bottles of wine per year, or roughly two dozen bottles per week, or a smidge over three bottles per day—himself. His drinking mates did much the same—and the vast bulk of that drinking wine was high-octane, murderously rich red wine. There’s a breed of winemaker who goes to a lot of trouble in setting up a vineyard and a winery and a brand not so much in the pursuit of great wine, or great business, but to simply supply their habit. Duck Anderson is not one of them, but he sure could fool you. When I drink, he’s quick to admit, I drink to get pissed. On the matter of professional wine tasters: If you spit, you’re not serious. One thing was certain: if you drank his most famous wine, you certainly were serious.

Or so you’d hope—because Anderson’s most famous wine was so intense in its color and flavor it was like winter soup, or like mud, or like boiled-down jam. Its official name was Duck Muck. It sounded like a joke and probably was, but when the run started on Australian wine it was the joke wines, or the wines so concentrated they could easily be called ridiculous, that suddenly became red-hot property. The morning after Chris Ringland was rudely awakened by a fax machine spewing orders, David Anderson of Wild Duck Creek, in the dry, tin-pot town of Heathcote, got a phone call. The caller was an American named Dan Phillips—a man who had just hit the jackpot too; he was the American importer of both Chris Ringland’s wine and of Duck Muck.

His business was called The Grateful Palate.

Are you sitting down? Phillips said, as Duck Anderson recalls it. And it was a good question, because there wasn’t really anywhere for David Anderson to sit—he was standing in his front living room, or what would one day be his front living room, except that he’d been trying to build his own house for years and wasn’t finishing it in a hurry (I operate on the pain principle. If Diana [David’s wife] is beating me up over it, I get working on it. If she’s not, I’m doing other things). The floor was still dirt. The phone worked, but it was nailed direct to an exposed wooden beam.

Why? Duck Anderson says.

You better be sitting down. You’ve just been reviewed by Robert Parker.

Who’s that? Duck says.

Dan Phillips laughs. You’ve never heard of Robert Parker?

Fuck a duck, I haven’t! And as he talks, Duck Anderson looks out the window at the collection of old beat-up Volkswagen Beetles that he’s got scattered about the place—some of them with wine boxes piled up in them.

I’ll remind you of that one day, Phillips says. Then he adds, He’s the most important man in wine.

What did he say? And although Anderson has no regard for the Australian wine press, he’s about to develop