Fynbos needs Fire, South Africa Part 2

A fluffy Chihuahua is sniffing my leg. It may be a native breed, with a fierce Rhodesian-ridgeback type name. But Rhodesian ridgebacks are fierce, and this dog is just bothersome. Cute. A little dirty. It will not bring down an antelope, or even a dik-dik. We are in front of an equally improbable structure, an oasis of colonial refinement and calm, white plaster walls and rose gardens, surrounded by millions of acres of nothing. Vines, arid brown scrub, the occasional invasive tree. Trees are as much transplants here as the Cape Dutch homestead, with its barns and red clay tile floors, at which we’ve arrived. The trees crowd out the fynbos, leaching too much precious water from the earth and threatening the unique flora of the Western Cape. The South Africans I talked to were proud of their fynbos. Justifiably. If North Carolina was a flora kingdom completely distinct from the world’s other (much larger) five flora kingdoms, i.e. every plant of my homeland were a part of an ecosystem contained entirely within my homeland, I’d talk about it incessantly as well. Which they do. Fynbos must be etched onto their identity in primary school; rote enunciation of the thousands of remaining flora names as much a part of the educational routine as ABCs and finger paint. On reflection, finger paint may be a distinctly American educational diversion. Our fynbos.

The family I’m visiting dry farm their vines. It is still surprising to see so much green vineyard land in the dry warm afternoon of this place. Looking out onto huge slightly sloping vineyards backed up by jagged mountains to the north and south I’m surprised to hear Mr. Drier say his farm only suffers ten days over 30 degrees Celsius per year, and two over 40. The Atlantic Ocean also makes sleeping possible in this lucky corner of the Western Cape, with an average temperature at night of 25 Celsius. I think I suffer more at home, away from the large African sun. I swear it’s bigger. I feel it resting right over my shoulder on these vineyard visits, scalding my bald spot as I bend over to sample abandoned Cinsault berries. They call them Hermitage here.

The best wine at Leeuwenkuil farm was the 2006 Chenin, a crisp green apple respite from the dry air outside. I want to drink it with white-flesh fish. Unfortunately, while we did eat meals based on the abundant local seafood (kingclip, or pink cusk-eel etc.) perfect refreshing seafood whites like this were never on hand for those meals. Life is full of near-misses. Here we ate gamey sausages and Cook’s Sisters, crispy doughnuts dialed up to 11. According to our hosts, Malmsbury shale soils contribute to their Chenin’s minerality, a welcome component rarely found in (and particularly rarely found in affordable) “New World” whites. The South Africans I’m riding around the Western Cape with would bristle at the use of the term New World to describe their endeavors, and they have a point. The long cool reed-ceilinged dining room that doubles as a tasting forum for these occasions is the hub of a farm that was established in 1693. And not by a retired Silicon Valley mogul.

Fynbos needs fire, at least every 20 years to germinate and grow. A local ant stores the seeds, grows mold on them, and eats it. A little ant farmer. Fire triggers the germination of these underground seeds. How can we as sentient creatures hazard intentional altering of our surroundings when they’re of full of these tiny perfect systems? Alteration seems to stomp forward with little thought or discussion of these vanishing pieces of original ecology. I know the fiendish among you can argue that other fauna predated these ants. But we are not an ice age, or an asteroid. And they’ve been ant farming for tens of thousands of years. The 200 km band that is the Cape Flora kingdom is the main reason why South Africa contains 10% of all the world’s plant and animal species, making that nation the third most diverse nation in the world behind Brazil and Indonesia. Those nations are way bigger. 1,000 of South Africa’s native species are currently endangered, mostly due to invasive species and the presence of booming and expanding Cape Town.

Beer Notes: It's hot here, approaching that tipping point of heat burden where reasonable people scurry under rocks, into movie theaters sucked dry by AC(you didn't really think we wanted to see Pirates of the Carribean III?), or in my case raise the white flag and submit to a complete cessation of movement. So red wine is at present a little unappealing. At least until night falls. I suggest at this apex of summer a beer well-suited to evenings for dining al fesco, perfect for cucumber salads, grilled and slightly spicy seafood entrees, overabundant tomato courses. I mowed the lawn yesterday (hold your applause) and upon completion of this onerous-in-July task went looking immediately for our little owl friend described below.

An apology - My hard drive cracked last week, and this inevitable event (are you backing up files?) sent a lot of text into the great rambling hereafter. Good riddance, I say. But if you're looking to kill time on my blog, I should mention that a great deal of travelogue and really Pulitzer-quality observational prose relating to my 2007 trips to South Africa and France is at least temporarily gone. I do have notes taken with one of those what-do-you-call-them? pens on tattered bits of airline napkins, but the re-creation of these seminal voyages in wine history may be a bit slow in coming. Doing work once bothers me, doing it a second time is excruciating. Hence the notable lack of editing at this address. So I'm saying sorry for the dearth of new content. But if you actually check this space with any frequency you're probably used to long awkward silences. Hey, I'm living my life, man. There's not always time to take notes.

Pathetic excuses.

So maybe I first bought Hitachino White Ale it for the cute owl on the label, but with aromas of orange peel and coriander and subtle, balanced Perle and Goldings hops on the finish it quickly won a place in my heart, and our fridge. While there are distinct differences in beer and saké production, the meticulousness needed to source and properly utilize raw materials in the production of both drinks is the same. This focus on quality keeps Hitachino a cut above your everyday beer.
While only in the beer brewing business for a decade, the family behind Hitachino White Ale have been producers of saké since 1823. The Kiuchi brewery first released Hitachino in 1996, on the leading edge of what has become a large craft brew movement in Japan. This beer has become their most popular brand, winning gold at the World Beer Cup in 2004 and awakening consumers in both America and Europe to the existence of Japanese beer brewed by sources other than one of Japan’s "big 3" breweries. You may be familiar with the Big 3 from every bad Sushi restaurant beer drinking experience you've ever suffered through. This consumer trend toward the craft brew in many ways mirrors the growth of the small-brewery movement in the U.S., and I am happy that both Lantern restaurant (where I spend too many of my off-hours, soaking up sake and amazing sashimi appetizers) and A Southern Season support brewers like Kiuchi brewery with concrete ties and long histories in the communities in which they work. This exceptional beer is a refreshing complement to Lantern's Bang Bang chicken, and serves as a great post-work/pre-dinner libation.