Passing Clouds

by Graeme Leith

  My lunches were almost invariably bread rolls thawed from the freezer, with salad, cheese or Italian smallgoods that I buy from our friends at ‘Istra’ at Musk. Before long Miwako was leaving the winery before me at lunchtimes and the cuisine smartened up considerably. She was going shopping with me by then, so that when we went to Daylesford to stay with my family we stopped at Newstead where there is a little supermarket and also Central Victoria’s leading butcher, Ross Barker—or so he seemed to me. Whenever I cooked steak for visitors, especially overseas ones, they always commented on the superb quality of the meat, which was invariably Ross’s porterhouses, but when I asked him why they were so good he professed not to know. Ageing, I suppose.

  Slowly Miwako took over the evening meal as well, and I was left with no cooking to do except that of the steak, at which I fancy myself a dab hand. One night I went into the other room to speak on the telephone and overcooked it. Miwako knew the meat was overcooking of course, because she was in the kitchen at the time, but she was letting me cook my own goose, as it were—she wanted that job! When we sat down to eat she cut into her steak, looked at it ominously, then said seriously: ‘I think now, I cook the steak.’ And from then on she did. To perfection.

  Miwako liked her food, and her wine, but I don’t think I ever saw her noticeably affected by alcohol—she could easily enjoy a bottle of full-bodied red wine with dinner.

  When vintage was almost finished and we were able to take a day or two off at Daylesford, I took her fly-fishing at my neighbour’s dam at Musk, which I had stocked with trout a few years previously. Normally I scarcely had time to fish it but was often rewarded when I did. Miwako showed great interest when I told her about fly-fishing and how it was done. Like most Japanese she was very respectful of fresh fish, although she had never caught one, nor seen one caught. Her father was a chef and she speculated on the pleasure she would gain from telling him about fishing in Australia.

  So an unlikely alliance was formed, with me as the angler and Miwako as the spotter. One of the banks of the dam is very high, and if you stand quite still on the bank, it is usually not long, particularly with the aid of polaroid glasses, before you see a trout cruise by, say, 10 to 15 metres out from the waterline below. The problem is that you can’t cast a fly to it from the high bank because one movement makes it disappear like, well, like a startled trout. The solution is to have the spotter high up on the bank who, when the trout appears, gives instructions to the angler below who can cast to, but not see, the fish; the fish can’t see him for he is low to the water and the trout’s field of vision is cone-shaped. Provided the spotter does not move, he or she can transmit verbal instructions, for the trout, like the kangaroo, does not notice a new object within its field of vision provided the object doesn’t move. In these circumstances the fish will take most floating artificial flies, provided it sees them land on the water.

  So we set our first trap, and as the trout approached, Miwako, unmoving as per instructions, said: ‘Trout coming, free o’crock’, then ‘two o’crock’, at which stage I would cast the fly to twelve o’clock. If we were in the right place relative to the sun and no shadow of the fly-line fell across the surface of the water, then the trout might take it. Our first one did, and was duly landed after a lengthy struggle, Miwako as excited as a Japanese gets, I suspect (although Kumi, a Japanese lady with whom I now play table tennis, gets pretty excited, too, over a good shot at a critical point in the game). I tapped our fish on the head with the ‘priest’ to kill it while Miwako discreetly averted her eyes, then I picked up the fishing gear and packed it in the car. (For non-fisher-folk, a priest is a small baton-like tool used for humanely delivering ‘last rites’ to a fish, usually a trout—for trout anglers are generally of a more sensitive and gentlemanly inclination than those who fish for coarser species, and would not leave a fish to gasp to death. They either kill them quickly or release them back into the water!)

  On the drive home Miwako sat in the passenger seat of the car and held the trout as reverently as if she were holding the crown jewels. I cleaned the fish, which had beautifully coloured flesh; in that dam their diet is largely mayfly nymphs, water snails and yabbies, and the water that feeds it is from a pristine spring-fed creek. When Julien and the boys came home later in the afternoon, they were treated to the sight of sushimi and nori roles in the middle of preparation. Boy, it was good, we all loved it, and it was the first of several three-pounders from the dam.

  The morning after the Japanese banquet Miwako and I were up early to pick wild pine mushrooms from the forest at Daylesford to take to Mildura, on the Murray River in northwestern Victoria. It was towards the end of Miwako’s time here in 2003, after vintage, and we had organised a Passing Clouds dinner for the faithful at the Grand Hotel in Mildura. Old friend and previous Passing Clouds voluntary winery worker and cook, now (reluctant) celebrity chef extraordinaire, Stefano de Pieri, was going to add the mushrooms to a dish based on Murray River carp he was preparing.

  We were having breakfast on the deck of the family house overlooking Lake Daylesford when Miwako spotted giant white flowers on the cypress trees on the opposite bank above Kerry and Ann Bolton’s Book Barn, which had not been there the night before. She pointed excitedly, ‘Rook, beautiful frowers on trees!’ I stood up and clapped loudly and the flowers all flew away screeching, for they were, of course, white cockatoos.

  Speaking of Kerry, he and I would sometimes hurl good-natured abuse at each other across the lake if I saw them having a barbecue in his back garden near the water’s edge. Once, after Julien had bought me a three-burner barbecue on behalf of the family, Kerry bought himself a four-burner one, and terminated an exchange by yelling across the water, ‘You’re a three-burner person, Leith, and you always will be!’

  So with a couple of boxes of mixed fungi in the car, Miwako and I went back to Passing Clouds to do a couple of winery jobs before heading off for the four-and-a-half-hour trip to Mildura. We arrived there, got our rooms organised and went downstairs to open up the wines: they were under natural cork so we had to check for cork taint. Then we relaxed and had a beer before dinner.

  Dinner followed the usual winemakers’ dinner format: introduction of the wines to go with the food; winemaker speaking between courses; then eat that course and so on. We had four wines with the meal then the sparkling Ondine 1988 Shiraz Cabernet with the cheese. It was a triumph—the food was superb and the wine by no means disgraced it. But it had been a big day, and we were ready for bed.

  But Stefano wasn’t. He’d been cooking all day and was looking forward to a drink or two and a bit of a chat. So down we went to the cantina to taste the wine he had been saving to drink with me, a 1985 Domaine Romanee Conti La Tache. I will never ever forget that wine! It was glorious and everything that a pinot noir should be, but I’ve forgotten quite a bit of what happened afterwards. We drank a bottle of Rhone shiraz that Stefano wanted to try. I know that. And I know that I tripped on the stairs from the cellar. On Japanese television there had been a mini-series about two lovers who eventually committed suicide after sharing a bottle of ’85 La Tache, a circumstance that drove the price of any La Tache to stratospheric heights in Japan for a time. I remember Miwako had the empty bottle, almost the casket that would have held the holy grail—I hope she’s got it set up now as a bed lamp at home in Japan.

  We had breakfast with Stefano, said goodbye to Donata, his wife, and drove back to Kingower. Sue couldn’t wait to interrogate Miwako about the night and when told that we had continued into the cellar, Sue asked how we’d handled all that wine so late at night. Miwako replied, ‘First time I have seen Graeme a little bit dwunk!’ Which was nice of her.

  Sue and I had great memories of Miwako’s requests for interpretations of some of my Australian utterances. Once she went over to Sue’s house and asked her what ‘Bearmybumenburkestreet’ meant. Sue asked her in what context that statement had been made and was told that, after tasting a pinot noir, I had said that if
it did not win a gold medal I would do just that. So Sue was able to enlighten her. And on the return journey from Mildura, Miwako had asked me why we drove to Mildura at 100 kilometres per hour on Friday but were returning on Saturday at 125 kilometres per hour. My response had been ‘Orlacopsareaddafoody’ which was probably a little harder to explain, embracing as it did some analysis of Australia’s legal, cultural and sporting traditions.

  It was a sad parting at Tullamarine Airport one cold late autumnal morning. If love is based on respect and admiration, then I loved that tough, inscrutable and incredibly loyal Japanese girl just then. We embraced for the first time, and both unexpectedly shed large tears, with the roaring of the jets in the background.

  Postscript: A couple of years after Miwako’s departure I caught a magnificent six-and-a-quarter-pound rainbow trout in that dam at Musk where Team Graeme and Miwako had taken that lovely trout. This time I cooked it the way suggested by Stefano de Pieri—making up a meringue of egg whites and salt, smothering the trout all over with it, and cooking it in the oven until the meringue just starts to brown. Then it’s cooked and you take it from the oven and let it stand for fifteen minutes. This is a superb way to cook trout or Atlantic salmon and is a stunning presentation, for the meringue is cracked and folded away, taking the skin with it, revealing the steaming orange or pink flesh beneath.

  Good times, hard times

  In 1992 my mate Ben Vaughan from Tasmania, who wasn’t doing much at the time due to legal complications associated with employment, used to come over and help me sometimes. We would taste all the shiraz and cabernets to rank them in order in terms of quality and suitability for the Graeme’s Blend or Angel Blend. I had previously done this job by myself, so doing it with Ben was a good experience, though challenging and time-consuming, with decisions having to be made and compromises effected. I welcomed company and a second opinion, particularly as Ben had a fine and well-trained palate.

  While rating the ’92s with Ben from the barrel, we came across two beauties, cabernet and shiraz, that Ben said he’d love to see combined. Always keen to experiment, I performed the ‘marriage ceremony’ and told Sue that she had to get yet another label organised which, of course, she efficiently and uncomplainingly did. It was to be called Ben’s Blend, and Ben was not to know about it. There would not be enough quantity to take it to the Victorian Wines Show, but I could enter it in the Wine Wise magazine small-winemaker competition, where lesser quantities were acceptable. I did this, and it gained a much coveted ‘highly recommended’ rating. It was, and still is, a great wine.

  I didn’t make a ’93 Ben’s Blend, the ’94 was excellent, but I ruined the ’95 by adding a small barrel of wine that I’d made from grapes from a local vineyard. They had obviously been grown under the drip zone of eucalyptus trees, and the eucalypt mint was strong enough to effectively ruin the good wine with which it was blended. I decided that was the end of that blend.

  By that time the 1995–96 season was approaching and I had secured fruit from several good local sources—the Burdetts from Bridgewater, for whom I had been making some wine; Beau and Joy Foster from Wedderburn; and the Humphreys from Kingower, who also asked me to make some wine from their grapes for them, to be labelled ‘Hallmark’ in recognition of their modest dealings in antiques, particularly silver objects and claret jugs. The Burdetts had merlot and cab franc, as did the Humphreys. With pinot and cab franc from the Grahams up the road, and some cabernet and shiraz from the Fosters at Wedderburn, we looked like having a bumper crop of everything we’d need.

  We had planned on employing a young couple, Greg and Paige Bennett. Greg had worked in the winery at Charles Sturt University (after it changed its name from Riverina College), and for Portavin bottling services, so he was pretty savvy with wine handling. But how he wanted to get his hands on some winemaking tools! Paige had worked on the Mornington Peninsula vineyard as a wine sales rep, so she was very familiar with the wine trade. My idea was to increase volume so the winery could produce enough money to pay us all a wage and maybe take the pressure off me.

  We were committed to a particular price bracket and there didn’t seem to be much chance of changing that, it being in line with our contemporaries after all, so an increase in volume seemed to be the only answer. We invested fairly heavily in new oak, Greg was set to start pre-vintage so that we could do the winemaking in shifts, and all looked ready to go. Then Greg dropped his motorbike at high speed and wrapped himself around a tree backwards and quite hard, doing himself serious injury and sidelining him for the vintage.

  So once more into the breach! Once more to look at what had to be done that day, every day, and think, ‘What I’m about to attempt is impossible, but it’s impossible to do anything else, so here goes!’ As a sign in one of our old workshops said: ‘Difficult jobs done immediately—the impossible takes a little longer.’

  My family would often come up from Daylesford during vintage. Some of Julien’s friends, who had become mutual friends, were now part of our eclectic group and the tradition continued of great meals, good wine and fun after work. The wine press usually had to be tended during our feasting. But being just across the creek, that was easily done. And if it had to be unloaded and refilled that could be done, too, but in that case it might need tending until the early hours of morning.

  My second son Cameron was about ten by then and increasingly keen on working in the winery. He’d been working with me since he was very young, and once, a couple of years previously, had said tearfully to his mother when she came to get him from the winery for dinner, ‘But, Mum, we haven’t finished yet!’ He and our younger son Jesse loved pushing the huge, heavy and unwieldy dry cake of skins off the press and helping to get it onto the trailer. Later when they visited, Cam would go to the winery to see what was happening, and Jesse would go to the tasting room and print out the takings from the previous week. Horses for courses!

  Somehow, in 1996, we processed 100 tons, as much as a large winery might swallow in a single hour. But for us it was hard work over a period of six weeks. From pinot noir to cabernet, thirty or so batches of wine, all kept separate from ferment to settling-in tanks and then into barrel, the barrels stacked higher than I’d ever had them before, within inches of the roof. We were going to need a new winery if we kept going like this! Greg, healed after his accident and raring to go, arrived after vintage, and he and Paige were installed in the house so we could think about the new winery.

  The idea developed that I’d build the winery with Bill Ricardo, using Greg’s help when we needed three people, and Greg would perform vineyard duties and share winemaking with me, or solo if the job didn’t require two. Bill had recently come to work with us, having first met Sue when he knocked on her door to try to sell her some ducks that he used to raise before the drought. He came not as assistant winemaker but as a general handyman and assistant, who soon became fairly autonomous and indispensable. Or as indispensable as anybody ever becomes, for as my friend Jim Sloan used to say, ‘The graveyards of the world are filled with people who thought they were indispensable.’ Greg and Paige later bought some ducks from Bill for fattening, but after two months they all flew away. I mischievously encouraged somebody else to inform Greg that Bill had trained his ducks to fly home after two months, when someone else had fattened them!

  However, Bill did distinguish himself as a wine blender in the following manner. We were pumping shiraz from the barrels into the big tank, T1. There was a line of barrels, mostly shiraz but with a few of cabernet franc among them, with their contents written on the top of the barrel. The phone rang and I took it outside to answer it. It turned out to be a long call and when I returned I saw to my horror that Bill was working his way down the line and was pumping his second barrel of cab franc. I hadn’t realised until then that he was functionally illiterate. I shrieked and frightened the hell out of Susie McDonald, Julien’s niece (and therefore mine by marriage), and Bill but then contained myself and rationalised: ‘W
ell, the Laughtons at Jasper Hill make a shiraz cab franc and it sells for a lot more than our wines do, so we’ll see what happens.’ It was labelled Bill’s Blend and got a medal and a better score at the Melbourne Show than the Graeme’s Blend of the same vintage, but we never did try to charge more money for it.

  The winery project began. The building had to be quite high to accommodate our new variable capacity tanks, and a new catwalk would have to be built to work them from the top, higher than the forklift could reach. So it was necessary to mount a couple of wooden half-ton fruit boxes onto the forklift so that the trusses could be raised into place, quite hair-raising and definitely illegal, in contravention of workplace health and safety regulations. However, I figured that as I wasn’t employed, then the rules would not apply to me anyway, so I got the ‘top job’. It was finally finished and at last we had enough space to work in, although we still needed more tanks. It was a nightmare trying to shuffle different batches around with insufficient containers, so sometimes we used the milk vats under cover of C02 gas (as we did in 1980) or 1000-litre plastic food-grade containers.

  Impatient to start work after his convalescence, Greg was sharing the winemaking with me, and we proceeded through 1996 to 1997, which was to be the last pinot noir made from Kingower fruit. Greg was very keen to make pinot so I more or less let him have his head with the ’97 pinot and he did a great job of it, winning a high bronze medal—not bad for a pinot grown north of Bendigo! From then I was planning to make pinot from superior Coldstream fruit, and rosé from Kingower fruit.

  At the time the future of the wine industry for people like us was uncertain at best. We had hoped at one stage to be exempted from the GST, as promised, but then we found that it was to be replaced with the dreaded WET (Wine Equalisation Tax). For producers under a certain size this was modified, in that you’d pay the tax to the state government and the federal government would give it back. This could, and can, change at any time, but meanwhile it doubtless employs a lot of clerical staff and saves them the embarrassment of seeking more challenging work. The 2009 federal budget threatened to include an added wine tax but that didn’t eventuate, due largely to the work of our industry body.