I met Vicki at the Good Wine and Food Show with my evil ex in 2009. She was blogging on her iPad, which was novel then. Neither of us even use my ex's name now or have talked to him in years, but she and I have managed to stay good friends.
We trekked across Burma together in Christmas 2012, and are planning a drinking trip to Barossa in September, after a failed plan two years ago, to see my trust in nearby Adelaide on my way to Thai.
We make an effort to continue our tradition every year and head for the casual Friday at the Wine Show before the weekend crowds mob it. This year the show moved from Darling Harbour, under rennos, to a new spot in the inconvenient, unnatural-feeling 2000 Olympic Park in Homebush. We were both surprised we liked the venue out there, maybe better than Darling Harbour, though Vicki had enough of the train ride.
That's Cynthia waving, my Rolf Binder wine manager, who got me cheap cases of outrageously good Canadian-export-fiasco shiraz. I think Rolf is a god of wine- Dionysius. Vicki has less naive view; she says he inherited beautiful old vines. Either way, we love his wines.
This year, we skipped the always dumb cooking demos, and only we ate food at 550p with the lights going off, so it was 90% wine for 3 hours, a vino-ultra-marathon of Sumptuous wines from South Australia, the undisputed top Aussie wine regions.
Vicki and I had to stop at Bruny Island Cheese to get our fill, mine a Brie, hers a hard wedge of cheddar, with no knife or fork, so we were forced to gnaw on it with gaping mouths on the train home, hungry drunken rats.
We've experimented with start times that force us to limit our alcohol, late morning works best, but morning is a disaster! This year we started very late since stressed-CFO vicki is doing a big project at work for EOY. No need to stress her out more, so we started at 3p. No matter, we just headed right to South Australia and drank unbridled for three hours, full reidel always in hand.
My trustee Mark would be a bit freaked seeing my credit card being pulled out combined with lots of alcohol intake, but I see little risk here. Vicki won't let me buy crap wine. These are fine commodities that last a decade, and actually improve over that decade. So I go overboard a bit every year, but I pat myself on the back all year when serving the gems from my cellar. That's a quality of life that's worth a few hundred dollars a year. I try to get my cellar weeded out and drunk down before the next show, and don't accumulate too much, four cases now after this show. Vicki and I decided I will reorg my cellar by variety and date not region since I have a lot of aging whites hiding in there. I can drink them this winter instead of buying $13 French roses from Woolies online (BWS) every week.
I mostly buy reds, shiraz, cab sav, blends, here in virtual Barossa and virtual McLaren Vale, but was on the lookout for a Chenin Blanc after my trip to Cape Town this year; I tried two from top Barossa vineyards, but they are no match for South African.
Yum: Dowie Doole, prime stop in virtual McClaren Vale. DD staff recognize us year on year.. Vicki and I are a great tasting team.
The train to Olympic park is a modern, very short after-thought hacked line. I am so glad Bakamuna has flown back to me. He's fluffier than before.
For footie at Homebush, there is a direct train from Central, free to make up for the hassle if going so far West. It exits pax right into a little outdoor picnic ground that hosts live music before games, usually Swans-AFL-family-oriented but sometimes they host ear-splitting hard rock. And wine and loos, which are key. But the ghetto-inspired rail transfer junction at Lidcombe makes zero sense. Who planned this bottleneck, especially for a massive people moving event like the Olympics?
The train lets off at Central which means El Builli a block away for mates with post-drunken munchies in a dark warm environment.
We met my mate Phil after the drink fest for Spanish tapas, and it was devine. I love combining strong personalities and seeing what happens, and these two get along great. But we are all 50-ish, so though we were totally up for dinner, we were elated to head home to bed at 830p after three long Fridays.
I walked out of el bulli onto the dicey quite-indigenous streets of Surry Hills, walked 5m to the curb, and stepped unceremoniously right onto an eerie waiting 372 and was in bed by 930pm. I felt bad leaving my buds on the curb, but vicki lives for her über-taxis and the usually scroungy 372 is faster than going via vickis in Bondi, even if her über-taxis are cleverly somehow prepaid and always prompt.
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