Keeping it in the family 16 May 2008

Die Martha has nothing to do with Die Hard, as Tim James discovers in pondering the use of personal names on Cape wine labels

The rich are different, as F Scott Fitgerald kindly pointed out. Perhaps if I were an information technology mogul or a mining magnate I’d understand the urge to put the names of oneself or one’s nearest and dearest on a bottle of wine. I’m not, so I don’t. It’s not surnames that concern me, or the established tradition of using full names. There’s Ernie Els as a recent example of the latter – and while it might have seemed more dignified to call the wine Ernest Els, they reasonably decided not to. And plenty of wineries around the world are named after their founders, including some of the best locals: Hamilton Russell (omitting the hyphen used when naming the owner, however), Jordan, Neil Ellis, Ken Forrester, De Trafford, and so on.

The irritating labels are those using first names: Waterford’s excellent and pricey The Jem follows on their Kevin Arnold Shiraz – but they didn’t call that The Kev, so why now invoke owner Jeremy Orde’s pet name in this way? And why the inexplicable addition of the definite article? Graham Beck, not content with a winery or two named after him, seems to have started this particular practice. The Joshua is that winery’s most expensive wine (though not for me the best), adopting the owner’s second name. It started the trend, and The William followed (one of the best “Cape blends” – that is, with pinotage in the mix), along with The Andrew (a decent Bordeaux-style blend). Both of these were named for Beck grandchildren, but the longer-established The Ridge Syrah was not – and there’d be a problem if they decided to retrospectively maintain the pattern by naming a grandchild after the wine, as Ridge Beck sounds a trifle canine to those with South African accents).

This naming formula seems a local speciality. Fortunately. Think of Bordeaux: the origins of Mouton are obscure (it wasn’t named after a sheep, apparently, or a person), but when Baron de Rothschild bought the property in 1853, in time-honoured tradition he just added his surname. If he’d been a South African, Mouton-Rothschild Grand Vin might well have become The Nathaniel, or The Nat.

Talking of Nats, if I may descend to politics, we do, of course, have one of our finest reds named after a National Party minister of transport – but so long ago that it seems not to matter, even in our politically tender circumstances, and most people have never heard of Paul Sauer as anything other than Kanonkop’s fine wine. Let’s hope there’s no PC fuss, or they might have to rename it The Paul.

They’re pretty dignified at Kanonkop, but some are content with the unpretentious tweeness of first names. Miles Mossop, smart young winemaker at Tokara, was perhaps infected by that winery being named for Tomas and Kara, the children of banker owner GT Ferreira. He called his first two own-label wines after his children, Saskia and Max. They’re both very good (as are the children, I trust). But, though horrified to admit it, I approve more of businessman Christo Wiese. He hasn’t, admittedly, had the good taste to abandon the grandiloquent “Christo Wiese Portfolio” rubric for his wine interests, nor the idea of calling one of his ranges “Five heirs” – but at least the wines have quietly dropped the names of the fortunate heirs themselves, and remain modestly content with varietal characterisations.

The most recent, and perhaps alarming, example of our speciality comes on wines made by the newish outfit near Hermanus styled after that seaside town’s original name, Hermanuspietersfontein. Only Afrikaans is used on their labels (though the website abandons linguistic purity in favour of communication with the wider world), but foreigners who don’t know the language or our quaint labelling habits might wonder at ‘Die Bartho’, Die Martha’ and ‘Die Arnoldus’ – labels apparently wishing death on these people if you assume they’re in English (I don’t know who’s represented, apart from winemaker Bartho Eksteen).

The HPF wines are beautifully made (and handsomely packaged), especially the three sauvignon blancs – yes, three, and a fourth version reportedly on its way. And while I think the people-naming is silly, it allows for a label which is among my favorites. Die Arnoldus is a big, bold cabernet-based blend, but there’s a cheaper and easier-going version of it called – charmingly, wittily and appropriately – Kleinboet (“Little brother”).

On the whole, though, while I’d be the last to suggest that sentimentality doesn’t have its place in this vale of tears, does that place really have to be wine labels?

• This article first appeared in Noseweek, 'South Africa's unique investigative magazine'