The Coup de Gras

(Archive - written Saturday 25^th September 2010)

I am concerned about Ralph.  Ralph wears an aluminium bib, corrugated like a griddle pan that he hangs over his shoulders and strokes with spoons or bottle openers.  That is not the reason I am worried about him.  Those of you who have boned up on your zydeco music, the modern American folk variety that evolved from the Creoles of southwest Louisiana, will recognise this peculiar wardrobe feature as a ‘vest frottoir’ and some of you may even recognise Ralph as a pivotal part of the band, JT and the Zydeco Zippers; obviously not the JT part.  I am concerned about Ralph because he has been in an earthquake.

It is a very hot day in See Canyon, just up the road from Avila Beach.  Ralph, like many of us, has very sensibly been drinking copious amounts of water and, like many of us, has to visit the restroom on occasion.  It is while Ralph is enjoying such a moment alone this morning that the ground begins to surge in various directions and Ralph feels himself, and the restroom with him, jerk sharply upwards in a north easterly direction.  Earthquakes are usually described by insurance men trying to get out of paying for them as Acts of God.  Ralph’s earthquake is an act of Keith.

Today sees the annual Kelsey Wine Club party in which the winding roads of See Canyon reverberate with the sounds of zydeco and Mardi Gras as two hundred wine club members descend on their favourite winery, festooning themselves in garish masks and twinkling necklaces to celebrate another year’s production and top up their cellars.  Before they are allowed in the gates, there is much to be done and, although assisted by his family and a large team of winery workers and winery groupies, Keith Kelsey seems to be doing more than his fair share of it.  As the rest of us set up tables and stock up tasting stations, Keith charges around in battered shorts and an even more battered forklift, getting straight into each task, be it setting up a stage, transferring a grape bin, upturning a barrel and, unfortunately for Ralph, moving the portaloos around.  Ralph’s small and focused earthquake is because Keith has cheerfully hoisted Ralph’s portaloo up on the prongs of a forklift truck and is preparing to drive it to a more shaded area of the winery.  Fortunately Ralph’s shouts are heard over the forklift’s engine and his unconventional journey is prevented before it can go any further.  Ralph brushes himself down and, apologising over his shoulder, Keith tears off with the newly vacated portaloo.  The party starts in an hour.  There is a lot to do.  We follow Keith’s example and knuckle down.

Along with Mexican Chris, I’ve become a bit of a regular at Kelsey Winery, hanging out at the tasting bar with Chantal and Cheryl, a perky pair of part-time pourers, nursing a glass of the Black Box Zinfandel and squirming as Chris shamelessly steers customers towards copies of my book which, having grudgingly forgiven me my comments about her glass dolphins, Delores Kelsey has now put on display at the back; watching Keith feed the dozens of peacocks who roam the winery; lounging in a little golf buggy, glasses of chardonnay in hand, as we tear about the estate (and sometimes joyride up the road to Bluegrass festivals at neighbouring ranches), tasting the sugar content of the pinot grapes on the vine and eating apples and plums straight off the trees; filling bottles of the new Zinfandel and Syrah ports and helping Dick Kelsey seal them by dipping their necks in a mini deep fat fryer filled with sealing wax, turning the bottles continuously to get a smooth spread before dunking them in water and passing them to Dick to finish off with a handheld propane burner to pop out any air bubbles and give them a gloss.  Keith and Chris and I end the day over a beer and a burger in Buffalo, handing out free tasting cards to anyone we come across (let me know if you want one) and discussing ways to introduce their apple wines to the UK, although we may have to sneak it past my sister.  Kelsey kindly provided the wines for a reading event that I did in Paso Robles and I did my best to mention the winery as often as possible during a radio interview I did to promote it.  You can understand why I am determined not to miss the Kelsey Wine Club party, can’t you? 

I say this to an Opodo representative over the phone and, perhaps a little surprised at the level of detail I have just confided in him, he agrees to help me extend my stay, which is why I am there to lend a hand at the party: to ferry joyful revellers, guys with names like Butch and Marian holding hands with women in sequinned dresses and lurid masks, between their huge trucks and the party in my golf buggy; to eat jambalaya and funny cake (looking for the mini plastic babies that will win me a bottle) at a trestle table set up between steel fermentation bins; to hide my third glass of Red Tug from Delores’ eagle eye; to introduce Ben to beautiful girls from San Diego; and, most importantly I feel, to offer solace to Ralph.  

But Ralph has no need of comfort.  He dons the Frottoir and joins JT and the Zydeco Zippers in playing vigorously all afternoon as people talk and taste and toast and tour the vineyard or take shelter from the ferocious sun under umbrellas and gazebos or in the cool of the barrel room.  They place excited orders for cases of wine, tasted from four fabulously festooned tasting tables, and line up to claim their raffle prizes.  They pose on the tractor or lounge on the fork lift while Mark and Keith fill barrels with berries and Frank Johnson prepares for his debut.

Frank Johnson has been preparing for his debut for a long time.  An awed spectator last year, he tells me he has been scrutinising video footage and perfecting his technique ever since.  I think fleetingly of Fabio Capello sitting down Rooney or John Terry to analyse the Brazilian forwards or Argentina’s handling of the ball, but you can tell that Frank Johnson is a different breed of athlete to these two.  He is focussed and I can see that he won’t get over-confident or even upset if he gets booed or paid less than a thousand times the national average.  Frank Johnson is a true contender.

Frank adjusts his paunch and smoothes down his white beard before climbing barefoot into the end barrel with his wife and taking up his stance.  The referee blows his whistle and three pairs of stompers grasp the rail firmly in both hands and begin to flail his knees about like Michael Flatley on Red Bull.  After a couple of minutes the whistle blows again and the pails that have been collecting the stomped down run-off grape juice are held up and compared and I am pleased and proud to see that Frank’s preparation has paid off.  Despite being twenty years older and twenty pounds heavier than most of the competitors (or perhaps because of it) Frank and his wife are the winners of their heat.  They scrub the worst of the grape juice off their legs in a bin full of water and take the stage with the winners of the other heats to claim their prizes.

Half a dozen peacocks trot in a careful line through the gates like awkward latecomers picking their way along the back row of a wedding pew, terrified that they’ve arrived during the ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ moment.  The Zydeco Zippers start up again and Hawaiians Cammie and Bill twirl each other around in circles while others steal spare instruments from the band and fill the dance floor.  A few people begin to slip away, balancing their buys on the backs of the golf buggies.  Mexican Chris feeds Cheryl a handful of grapes and Ben fumes as saucy San Diegan Diandra bops with her boyfriend.  Dick and Delores Kelsey clink glasses and talk to long-standing members while Queenslander, Aussie Chris abandons his official photographer duties for yet another golf buggy joyride with yet another group of gorgeous giggling girls.  Keith’s daughter Devon pours herself a glass straight from a two ton tank of new Cabernet.  An older woman, to whom I have not been introduced, returns three times to hug me goodbye before falling into a passionate embrace with another older lady.  Her partner looks on indulgently.  A conga line forms and romps past us and around the courtyard scattering peacocks and pourers in its wake and more people take their leave as the light begins to fade until the courtyard is bare and above it the stars and the stripes flutter in a long-awaited evening breeze over a sign which reads, ‘Thank you club members.’

Once the guests have left and we’ve tidied the party away, I take a moment alone, wandering down to the empty field to fetch a sweater from the car.  All I can hear is the soft ‘chee chee chee’ of the crickets and at the end of a row of apple trees a solitary deer nibbles a clump of grass in the dusky twilight.  I approach quietly but the peace is pierced with the ‘EEEaaow’ of a peacock and the deer canters away into the darkness.  I return for a last glass in the tasting room with Dick and Dolores and Devon and Keith Kelsey, and Chantal and Cheryl and Ben and an Aussie and a Mexican who are both called Chris; along with numerous others who have helped the winery entertain its members. 

I am sure that Frank Johnson is at home with his feet up, probably admiring his trophy, and I hear that Ralph, with the taste of Mardi Gras in his mouth, has gone on to play at another gig.  I hope they don’t have portaloos there.