A Case for Sparkling Wine

By Lafras Huguenet

“Sparkling,” said Dolf Hershowitz as he leaned back to take in the bright rays of glorious winter sunshine, “that is what a day like today makes me feel like after all the rain and gloom of the past few weeks.” Colonel Zaccharias Snodgrass and I looked over at Dolf as his face basked in the midday sun, his eyes closed and the slight smile on his mouth betraying the lascivious thoughts he was surely having of the Widow Klitana Nothnagel.

We were sitting on the stoep of The Coop, our local tavern in Vermaaklikheid on the banks of the Duiwenhoks River in the Southern Cape, just sitting and feeling lazy in the sun. While the Colonel and I surveyed Dolf’s out of body experience, Tielman Kempen and Stienie Greyling were reading bits of newspaper.

Stienie cleared his throat and put down his newspaper. “The way you are dozing cannot exactly be called sparkling, meneer. It’s a bit like calling a corpse a rock and roll dancer.” Dolf opened one eye and closed it when he saw a lazy black fly zooming around his nose, the fly deciding on just how much danger it would be in of falling to death were it to land on the monstrous piece of breathing apparatus belonging to Dolf.

“Diamonds are sparkling,” said the Colonel with a glint in his eye. “My fourth wife’s wedding ring had a tremendous sparkle in it.” I also remember that ring, and also remember Mrs Snodgrass Number Four, and also remember that it was only her ring that sparkled.

“Champagne,” offered Tielman. “Bubbles. Wine. Now that’s sparkling.”

Dolf sat up as if the Widow Klitana has appeared before him in beach-volleyball attire. “Now there’s an idea,” he said, getting up and disappearing into the cool, dark interior of The Coop.

When he re-appeared, Dolf was holding a bottle and five slender glasses. It was not any bottle: the neck was adorned with foil and the round beaded exterior of the green glass was the unmistaken elegance of a sparkling wine bottle.

“Not Champagne,” said the Major, “but a Méthode Cap Classique, made like real Champagne but here in South Africa.”

“And not any Cap Classique,” said Stienie, jumping up to help Dolf, “but this is Simonsig Kaapse Vonkel, the first Cap Classique, made by Frans Malan on Simonsig in Stellenbosch in 1971.”

kaapse_vonkel

Dolf removed the foil and popped the cork while Stienie handed out the glasses which were filled. The wine was golden and alive with bubbles and a slight head of foam rested on the surface of each glass.

We toasted each other, the sun, life in Vermaaklikheid and the winter sun, with Dolf once again reminding us how “sparkling” everything was.

“A man who is tired of Simonsig Kaapse Vonkel, is tired of life,” said the Major licking foam from his moustache.

Tielman lifted his glass. “The one wine I can drink at any time of day,” he said. “Bracing, alive, a dexterous offering of fruit flavours with a comforting underlying foundation of brioche due to the wine’s lees contact.”

Stienie rolled his eyes. “I see that Wineland magazine has been delivered on time again this month.”

Our glasses were refilled and emptied almost as quickly. “Fact is,” said Dolf, “we might not be allowed to refer to Cap Classique as Champagne, but the grapes used – Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and Pinot Meunier – are Champagne varieties. And bottle fermentation is natural and provides the bubble.”

The Major laughed. “In Champagne we believe. But in Cap Classique we trust.”

The sun baked and Dolf’s face was taking on a crimson colour, a shade similar to that shown by Boris Becker sitting in coach’s box during the Wimbledon final.

“How is the Widow Klitana doing, Dolf?” asked Tielman.

Dolf sat back, shutting his eyes and taking one last sip of Kaapse Vonkel.

“Remember what Napoleon said about Champagne?” he asked. “In victory you deserve it, and in defeat you need it.”

Glancing at Dolf and the empty bottle of Simonsig Kaapse Vonkel, I could not help but wonder if he was not deservedly needy.