Doug Frost - wine consultant and writer

So I judged at the Sydney International Wine Competition in late 2007, and aside from the beauty of the Blue Mountains, it wasn't the most fun I've had at a tasting. Let me explain...

The Methodology
First there is the methodology. Each wine is tasted several times. After an initial culling process, each of the promoted wines is placed in a particular weight class (light medium, heavy) and then each wine is tasted again to set its position within its weight class (is it very light bodied, or only somewhat light-bodied?). Next, within their weight categories, the wines are first judged on their own, and then the wines are re-tasted alongside a particular food pairing. This reflects the organisers’ belief that wines are judged in an unnatural setting if they are tasted by themselves and not with food. While many of the world’s wines seem intended for consumption in the cocktail hour, wine’s traditional place is at the dining table and judging wine alongside food should be obvious. Instead, it’s virtually unknown in any other wine competition.

The Judging Panel
While the tasting methodology offers enough differentiation from other competitions to make it unique, there is another critical difference the Sydney International Wine Competition has to offer: the caliber of the judges is top notch. While there were only fourteen judges, each judge was an experienced and skilled professional with demonstrable expertise in the business of wine judging. And the fourteen judges represented seven different countries, so there was far less opportunity for the “regional palate” problem to influence the outcome. Depending on which stage of the elimination process to select the Award winners it represented, each flight involved a different group of judges; in the earliest stages there were only two judges on a flight. But for the Finals judging there were six or more judges assessing each wine in the Category.

Conclusions
As I write this, I still don’t know the results of all our efforts. But I am clear enough in my reactions to the wines I judged to draw a few conclusions.

Conclusion One.
Flawed wines were far less prevalent than in other shows I have judged. Within the groups of wines we tasted, as well as many from well-known New World wine regions, there were wines from Bordeaux and other traditional regions of France. In general, Bordeaux, though it likes to claim otherwise, has a problem with Brettanomyces. While I have heard numerous Bordelais winemakers claim that those band-aid, leather and animal notes represent terroir, I disagree. These aromas derive from barrels that are laden with Brettanomyces. Some New World wines share this problem. And some New World wines (often in California and Washington) exhibit high amounts of volatile acidity. It’s a problem that shows no sign of abatement in many such regions. Many South African wines suffer from issues with both Brettanomyces and volatile acidity. Yet the overwhelming proportion of wines (including wines from those countries) represented in this Competition showed clean winemaking. But it should also be strongly noted that the entire New World is struggling to control alcohol levels; some of the wines we tasted had alcohol levels that were bordering on the absurd.

Conclusion Two.
The move towards cooler New World sites has not resulted in wines of better balance than those from the better known areas in general. Instead, we experienced an array of wines with green and bitter tannins. California has traditionally struggled with this issue. Its hot climate results in rapid ripening of the grapes, so the grapes become sweet and mature before the tannins can soften and ripen. In California, the tradeoff is that the best of these wines have tremendous richness, and the green and sandpapery tannins are offset by rich flavors. With some of the Australian Cabernets and Merlots I tasted, the tannins were green, but the sweet and jammy ripeness so typical of great Australian reds was missing.

Conclusion Three.
Australian and New Zealand Chardonnays have become better balanced, cleaner and less oak dominant than their Californian counterparts. Unfortunately, that doesn’t necessarily mean that they are more interesting wines.

Conclusion Four
Finally, I would draw one more conclusion from my participation in the Sydney International Wine Competition: the methodology of the SIWC offers great benefits. I say this because:
•   It is appropriate to taste and assess wine with food.
•   It is appropriate to taste the same wine several times before reaching a final conclusion.
•   It is appropriate for a wine judge to consider, “should I offer this wine greater merit when it demonstrates that it can skillfully handle a plate of delicious food?”.

Postscript: so why was this a grueling tasting? Imagine tasting the same wines four times in four days. And imagine being in Australia but not really able to cut loose and see your friends and see new places and, well, I'm just whining now, aren't I? I am a Master of Whine, after all.

One more note: while I wrote above that other competitions don't include food, one of the competitions I help run, the Mid-American Wine Competition is doing that this year - it's been in the works for a year. But I knew that judging at the Sydney Competition would assist me in my understanding of the process, so for that as well as many other reasons (cool judges, etc.), I'm glad I was there.

An unnamed Boston hotel: a long and sleepless night. It begins with a late arrival; I know that I have to get up early but though it’s nearly midnight, I could use a few minutes of ESPN.

But the TV controls are smarter than me. That sort of thing happens sometimes but this time I have little patience. I hammer on buttons in the manner that people talk louder when they think someone doesn’t understand English. No response.

So I call downstairs. “How do I get the TV to work?” I ask. “Have you read the instruction booklet”, says the voice at the other end. “No,” I explain, “I don’t really think I need to read a book to turn on a TV.” I can tell that the voice at the other end is thinking about saying, “well, how’s that working for you?” He doesn’t. Instead, it’s a loooooonnng sigh. “Do you need me to come upstairs and show you how?” he says. “I wasn’t really looking for that,” I respond, “I just need to know how to turn on the TV.”

Another long sigh. “”Is the TV power light on?”

“Yes, that part I got done.”

“Did you turn on the receiver?”

That slows me a down a bit, but I look and yes, I’ve got the receiver on. His voice is getting edgy. “You have to turn the receiver on first, before you turn on the TV.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” I note, “ but I did that”. I really did, after about three previous tries.

Sigh. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

About ten minutes later Steve shows up. He looks at the TV, the receiver and the three different remotes helpfully included with my tiny Boston hotel room.

After about two minutes, he turns to me and points to the third receiver, “I told you to turn on the satellite remote. You didn’t turn it on.”

“You told me to turn that on…really…uh…okay.” It’s not really time to pick a fight, since ESPN is now within reach. I turn the channels; Steve leaves.

I’m ready to hop in bed, but I’m still in my suit. Undress. Unpack. Toothbrush. As I pull it out of the side pouch, it catches a tux stud, which bounces down the sink. Of course, there’s no trap. Just a piece of soap wedged down about three inches prevents it from disappearing altogether.

Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve grabbed everything I can find to grasp the stud before it drops into the dark waste, it’s gone. Crap.

Back to ESPN, which is focused upon a game I don’t care about and Chris You-know-who is twisting names into ham-fisted puns with all the dexterity of Arnold Schwarznegger in a tutu. Yeech. I turn off the TV and try to sleep.

About five minutes goes by when the smoke alarm over my bed begins whooping. Whoop. Whoop. Whoop. It’s not loud enough to bring the cops, but it’s loud. It’s like a stab every thirty seconds or so. I chuckle. Steve hates me apparently. So I call him again and I say, “uh, my smoke alarm is making loud noises.”

Sigh. Loooonnng sigh. “I’ll be right there.”

Of course, it stops whooping before he gets to my room.

“Hi, Steve!” I’m now trying to have some fun with this, at least for a second. He says nothing. Comes into my room, looks up, stares at the smoke alarm. “so it stopped.”

“Yeah, it stopped a couple of seconds ago.”

“Okay.” He leaves. You know what happens next. I turn out the lights, tuck into bed, it starts whooping. I cover my head with the extra pillow. That’s not working.

I call Steve. He shows up about five minutes later and now, strangely, it’s only whooping about every forty-five seconds. He comes in and looks at it. Then he turns to me, accusatory, and says, “Did you change the thermostat?”

“What…the thermostat? Yes.”

“That’s why, “he explains.

Now my sarcasm drips out of my mouth and pools onto the floor where it begins swirling like a flushed toilet. “Ohhhh, the thermostat.”

“Yes,” he explicates, “if you change the thermostat, the alarm will go off.”

“Okay, okay, you’re bullshitting me now.”

He’s visibly angry. “No, this detector will go off if the temperature goes up by more than five degrees.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” [Full disclosure: apparently Steve was not completely informed but close to correct. This was indeed a heat detector and it was only slightly malfunctioning in its response to a changed thermostat. But I gotta say, this was weird.]

“Well,” I argue, “ I can’t sleep like this. Either you put me in another room or let’s take the batteries out this damn thing.”

“Sir! That is extremely illegal in Boston!”

“Apparently, sleeping in your hotel room is illegal too.”

It stops whooping. Steve gives me a fifth grade teacher look (I had trouble that grade) and leaves.

I go back to bed. About five minutes goes by when it starts whooping again. I call Steve and ask if he’s had any luck finding another room. They’re sold out. Then move me to another hotel, I demand. He mumbles something and hangs up.

It’s like my own Gitmo Boston. At that moment, I leap up on the bed and yank the sonofabitch right out of the ceiling (it was bolted there) and pull the batteries out of it. It’s quiet.

I laid it down and thought of all the horror movies in which it would lie glowering until, in the dark, just as I drifted into sleep, it would begin chirping, only louder and faster, louder and faster, louder and faster, screeeeeeeccch!!

It’s 2:45am. It’s finally quiet in my room. All I need to do now is get up in a few hours. The phone rings. It’s Steve. He’s found me another hotel. “No, I’m good.”

Doug Frost, wine consultant and writer, is one of only three people in the world to hold both Master Sommelier and Master of Wine titles.

Before we leave 2007 behind...

the last part of 2007