02Sep2004
Eighty eight hopefuls put their names up for a wine judging evaluation session at the Bragato Wine Conference in Blenheim last Saturday. Like the great English comedian Peter Cooke who tragically was born an only twin, I had long aspired to be a judge. Cooke records that he could have been a judge but he missed out because he never had the Latin for judging. He never had sufficient to get through the judging exams. As he recalls judging exams are “noted for their rigour. People come staggering out of the exam saying “My God, what a rigorous exam.” So he decided to become a miner. Fortunately for me I had the Latin. Fifteen years of it. So I knew I could deal with this judging. Full of confidence I arrived at the venue. I was greeted by Brent Marris of Wither Hills wine fame. “Quo Vadis” I saluted him. He gave me a quizzical look. “I’m here for the wine judging. I thought a little Latin would help me.” “We dropped Latin for wine judges about the same time you lawyers did over forty years ago. All we’re looking for here is the perfect palate. What’s happened is that there are so many wine competitions now that the palates of the small pool of judges we have are starting to wear out. A palate’s a bit like an engine gasket. It doesn’t last for ever. You could say we’re looking for people with fresh gaskets. Do you mind if we first have a look at your palate. Put on this smock and just pop over there behind the screen.”
Behind the screen a Wine New Zealand Medical Officer, white coat, stethoscope and all was standing there. “Hullo” as he cheerily welcomed me. “So you want to be a wine judge? First we’ll need to examine your palate.” He pulled out an iceblock stick from the pocket of his coat. “Open wide. Don’t worry my pocket’s sterilized.” He laid the stick on my tongue. “Say Pinot Noir”. Now this is an exercise I don’t suggest you try at home. It’s very difficult trying to pronounce Pinot Noir with your tongue depressed by an iceblock stick. But I managed it. Probably the Latin helped. “Amazing” the medical officer responded after his examination. “I’ve seen some old palates in my time but yours would have to be one of the best preserved I’ve come across. For a man of your age I’d have to say it’s exceptional. We’d normally expect to see a palate as old as yours dried and whizzened up looking very like a Bedouin’s saddle bag. But yours is – well fresh as a new born babe. What would you put this down to?” Humbly I replied that it came about from regular mouthwashing with good quality Cabernet Merlot topped up with Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. “Go on through. I shed my smock and went on through. There they were forty three other aspiring judges. They’d dealt with the other forty four at a morning session. Lovely young ladies in the bloom of womanhood. Bearded wine buffs from Auckland, hoping for a brief mention in Cuisine magazine. Leather jacketed wine makers with qualifications from Lincoln, Roseworthy, Burgundy and Bordeaux. It was like no other examination I’ve ever faced. On the table in front of me were nineteen glasses of Chardonnay. Nineteen. Brent Marris, the man from Wither Hills, explained the rules. It was just like I was back sitting Constitutional Law but with wine. “There’s to be no talking. No textbooks and no cheating. Just one hour to evaluate the nineteen glasses of Chardonnay. Go for it. Oh, and by the way when you’ve finished the Chardonnay we’re going to go on to the Pinot Noir.” I picked up the first glass. Good golden colour. Sniff. Nice bouquet. Taste a bit of malolatic there. Soft finish. That scores 17 out of 20. This was a great start. Only eighteen glasses to go. I think I now know how Hamish Carter felt as he came out of the water after the first stage of the Triathlon. Round the course I go. Palate’s feeling good. I take a break at a water station. I’m finding the wines are becoming more friendly. Gotta watch that. Gotta keep my wits about me. I’m glad I’ve done all that training over the last 20 years. The bell goes for the end of the first round. Thirty minute break and then we’re back and into the Pinot Noir. Pete, my very knowledgeable mate next to me, is on to Pinot No. 11. Worrying. He knocks over his spittoon. He’s a lot younger than me. The pace is obviously starting to tell. Pinot No. 16. Hints of vegative stalky material. Probably over-cropped and machine harvested. Score of 10. We’re now in the home straight. The bell goes for the final Pinot. I’m right there at the finish. I look back. There’s not an Aussie in sight. I hand in my evaluation paper. Brent Marris looks at me and some of my remarks. “There’s a strong possibility that your entry could be alcohol assisted. Are you prepared to undergo a test? “Yeah, but I’d like a long cold Speights first.”
Behind the screen a Wine New Zealand Medical Officer, white coat, stethoscope and all was standing there. “Hullo” as he cheerily welcomed me. “So you want to be a wine judge? First we’ll need to examine your palate.” He pulled out an iceblock stick from the pocket of his coat. “Open wide. Don’t worry my pocket’s sterilized.” He laid the stick on my tongue. “Say Pinot Noir”. Now this is an exercise I don’t suggest you try at home. It’s very difficult trying to pronounce Pinot Noir with your tongue depressed by an iceblock stick. But I managed it. Probably the Latin helped. “Amazing” the medical officer responded after his examination. “I’ve seen some old palates in my time but yours would have to be one of the best preserved I’ve come across. For a man of your age I’d have to say it’s exceptional. We’d normally expect to see a palate as old as yours dried and whizzened up looking very like a Bedouin’s saddle bag. But yours is – well fresh as a new born babe. What would you put this down to?” Humbly I replied that it came about from regular mouthwashing with good quality Cabernet Merlot topped up with Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. “Go on through. I shed my smock and went on through. There they were forty three other aspiring judges. They’d dealt with the other forty four at a morning session. Lovely young ladies in the bloom of womanhood. Bearded wine buffs from Auckland, hoping for a brief mention in Cuisine magazine. Leather jacketed wine makers with qualifications from Lincoln, Roseworthy, Burgundy and Bordeaux. It was like no other examination I’ve ever faced. On the table in front of me were nineteen glasses of Chardonnay. Nineteen. Brent Marris, the man from Wither Hills, explained the rules. It was just like I was back sitting Constitutional Law but with wine. “There’s to be no talking. No textbooks and no cheating. Just one hour to evaluate the nineteen glasses of Chardonnay. Go for it. Oh, and by the way when you’ve finished the Chardonnay we’re going to go on to the Pinot Noir.” I picked up the first glass. Good golden colour. Sniff. Nice bouquet. Taste a bit of malolatic there. Soft finish. That scores 17 out of 20. This was a great start. Only eighteen glasses to go. I think I now know how Hamish Carter felt as he came out of the water after the first stage of the Triathlon. Round the course I go. Palate’s feeling good. I take a break at a water station. I’m finding the wines are becoming more friendly. Gotta watch that. Gotta keep my wits about me. I’m glad I’ve done all that training over the last 20 years. The bell goes for the end of the first round. Thirty minute break and then we’re back and into the Pinot Noir. Pete, my very knowledgeable mate next to me, is on to Pinot No. 11. Worrying. He knocks over his spittoon. He’s a lot younger than me. The pace is obviously starting to tell. Pinot No. 16. Hints of vegative stalky material. Probably over-cropped and machine harvested. Score of 10. We’re now in the home straight. The bell goes for the final Pinot. I’m right there at the finish. I look back. There’s not an Aussie in sight. I hand in my evaluation paper. Brent Marris looks at me and some of my remarks. “There’s a strong possibility that your entry could be alcohol assisted. Are you prepared to undergo a test? “Yeah, but I’d like a long cold Speights first.”
posted by Lundon at 2:00 PM
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