Grapes of wrath

They came half an hour before noon on a cloudy Sunday. Normally I'd be inside by then, pouring wine behind the tasting counter in our cellar door. But it was not long since the end of harvest so I was outside, wrangling wine barrels with the forklift, trying to get things sorted in the winery before the lunchtime rush.

I had just finished forking my barrels on top of each other in tall, neat stacks when I heard grinding noises and shouting. An ageing four-wheel-drive with a trailer attached was parked across three or four spaces under the old cypresses in our small car park. Two people – late middle age, one of each gender – were standing each side of the trailer, surveying this arrangement and bellowing at each other.

When the going gets unhappy, the self-preserving get going. On the street, when you witness this stuff you can cross to the other side. On a train, you change carriages. But when your line of work involves being open to the public, it's harder to dodge. I got off the forklift and clomped over to see them. "Can I help?" I asked.

The male half of the couple desired no help. He explained, with large gesticulations that made his tummy wobble beneath his T-shirt, that he'd been having trouble with his vehicle. He needed to place it on a slope to get it started. Only, he needed to detach the trailer so that he could accomplish a U-turn to get the car into position. And the trailer wasn't coming off easily. It was old and rusty. The man banged it, bounced it, yelled. I was keen to be rid of the banging and yelling, and this circus was blocking half our parking spaces. I walked back down to my forklift, drove up to the car park and offered to lift the trailer away from the car.

"Stop!" shouted my visitor. He rummaged in a pocket and produced a phone. "I'm writing a book, about boys and their toys."

I moved the trailer without stopping to smile for his camera. I was hoping the author-to-be might seize the moment and drive away. "Oh no," he said. "I'm here for the wine tasting."

Inside, my cellar-door staff tried not to catch his eye. They hadn't seen the car-park performance but most people who have worked in hospitality for more than five minutes are like triage leaders in casualty departments: they have a sixth sense for people who might be about to do something a little weird.

Undeterred, our man approached the tasting counter. Behind it were a couple of young women, our cellar-door staff. On the counter were small piles of newly picked grapes – pinot noir, pinot gris and chardonnay. We keep them there during the vintage season so visitors can pluck a berry or two and compare the taste of the grapes with the finished wine.

Mr Trailer tore a heaping handful of grapes from a bunch, then another. He tried some wine. He grinned at the two girls behind the counter. "I feel like I'm raping and pillaging here."

The girls exchanged glances and found urgent tasks elsewhere. Mr T's companion entered, they spoke and she exited. He followed, and the tension we'd all felt in the room evaporated. Within minutes – surprise! – he was back, munching more grapes, sampling more wine. She came back, they spoke among themselves and she left again. After a while he left too, only to return. Another entrance and exit followed. Mr T, solo this time, munched more grapes and looked about, beaming. We poured what must have been his 10th tasting portion of wine.

The cellar door was starting to fill with customers but our visitor – who by now had been there, on and off, for nearly 40 minutes – wasn't budging from his prime position at the small tasting counter.

When Mrs T came back for a further muttered exchange with Mr T, we feared the worst. Was this going to turn into a full-blown stoush? We exhaled with relief when she walked away. Eventually, so did he – without a word of farewell and without buying any wine. Did we chase him out the door and insist he pay our tasting fee? We did not. Sometimes you're just glad to see someone go.

Tony Lee makes wine for Foxeys Hangout, Mornington Peninsula.

What we're drinking

These are our sherry days. A glass of chilled La Goya Manzanilla while we cook dinner. Sanchez Romate sherry vinegar into the salad dressing, then their sweet Romate Iberia Cream after dinner.