THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY FOR HIS STORY

(With further apologies to the rotating ghost of John Bunyan)

When at the first I took my glass in hand
Thus for to drink, I did not understand
That I at all should take a little drink
At such a point I stood on the brink
To take another; which, when almost done,
Before I was aware, the bottle was gone.

I am living proof that wine lovers are made, not born. If I can find a space in my life to learn about and enjoy wine, literally anybody can.

You see I didn’t grow up drinking wine. Indeed, the only wine available in our family was a screw-topped, vaguely soda-poppish beverage (‘Lonesome Charlie’ for those with long memories) heavy on the sugar and bubbles, but light on actual wine content. If this was wine, include me out, I thought.

Another influence was my family’s ethnic and religious background: I come from a long line of Russian-Germans, observant of the Mennonite faith. While long on community, family and church, they disapproved of beverage alcohol on general principles. It was felt that alcohol was not drunk to appreciate the subtlety of its flavours and aromas: it was drunk stealthily, behind the barn, for the purposes of sneaking into the pool hall to lose the grocery money among loose women. While we were less observant than some (well, okay, most), these attitudes still coloured how I felt about drinking as a lad. I wanted to be like my old man, I thought, and drink beer from cans and Rye whisky mixed with cola.

And so it went, until I met the woman who would be my future wife. She came from a robustly mixed family, including French Canadian influences. They would no more sit down to dinner without wine on the table than they would sit down without cutlery or plates.

On about our fourth or fifth date, she made me a home cooked meal, a nice juicy steak. When we sat down at the table, she handed me a bottle of wine, and a corkscrew. The corkscrew I looked at with the blank stare of a cave man confronted with the controls of a nuclear reactor: I had never held one in my hand before.

As for the wine, I knew all about that. In my most suave and debonair way, I declared, “Wine? Wine’s for sissies and women!” After all, who wanted sugary pop with steak?

My wife, bless her, glided to a stop in front of me, meditating on me for a moment. I suddenly realised I might be operating out of my depth here, as she appeared to be considering an important decision.

“Well big guy, you’d better go get a dress. You’re with me, and that means you drink wine.”

Sensing that the only correct reply was to shut up (this ability is a great blessing in a marriage) I managed to work out the intricate mysteries of the corkscrew.

I’ll never forget that wine. It was a 1982 Louis Martini Cabernet Sauvignon, good solid wine, not to cellar for the ages, but perfect to enjoy with a meal. Not that I knew that at the time. At the time I was dumbfounded, and, very rare for me, speechless. Here was wine that tasted . . . not just good, but better than good. It tasted rich, but not cloying, smooth, but not boring, sharp, but not bitter, fruity, but not poppy . . . and the way it made the steak taste! Ambrosia!

I babbled as much, unable to contain my delight and surprise at such a fabulous, unknown beverage. O brave new world that had such drinks in it! As I wound down, my wife had that look again. Vulcan philosopher’s give away more in their expressions. I sensed that I may have passed an important test at that moment, and the next step was to shut up and pay attention to my dinner.

It’s been nearly 20 years since that meal, and in that time I’ve gone from a wine idiot to a wine drinker, seller, maker and eventually a wine pusher (I don’t know how else to describe my job). Not a day goes by that I don’t have some involvement with wine, either through my job or simply pulling corks for dinner.

My wife and I celebrated a wedding anniversary recently. As is our custom, we had a quiet dinner at home (there are some really, really great things about being married to a chef). And, as is our custom, we opened a bottle of Louis Martini Cabernet Sauvignon.

Even slow starters like me can learn about wine.