I recently caught up with some friends at a bar too trendy for its own good. A place filled with gin junkies and the type of girls who hit the town with a To Do list and no panties. The blokes were no better - an exhibition of waxed chests and looking deeply into each other's mirrored aviators as they re-adjusted their GHD-scorched fringes and man-bags.
The waiter was an offensively short man who sported a set of ears that ought to have made him very good at listening. But, since he was also French, they did not. Between his innate insouciance and the loud whistling noise generated by his enormous nose, it was like sitting in the middle of a Monty Python sketch.
When Frère Jacques had finally finished insulting the people at the table next to us, we called him over and ordered a bottle of Paringa Pinot Noir. "Oiu, oiu", he sneered, before stamping a foot, spitting at the ground and disappearing for a good ten minutes.
It was worth the wait though.
The Paringa shows its ambition from the start. It’s a very deep purple for a pinot, and smells unctuously like a wonderfully ripe bowl of cherries.
The drinking is achingly good. I’m almost embarrassed to say it, but it really does dance on your tongue. Good (or in this case, great) pinot is a cut above any other wine when it comes to that special layered flavouring.
It’s spicy, fruity, and soft. Smooth as Alicia Keys' tonsils. Gargling baby oil. Swaddled in silk.
A taste bud's whet dream.
Drink with: A good tapas plate
Price: $60 (and worth every cent)