There's a documentary on
Netflix called Fyre: The Greatest Party That Never Happened, which tells the
almost incredible story of a brilliant social media campaign before Covid.
Videos of scantily-clad supermodels, apparently having the time of their lives
in a dreamy location, were enough to convince a lot of people to travel to the
Bahamas for a music festival. Alas, the organisers were in over their heads and
the project ended in disaster.
The genesis of my own
tale occurred in the spring, when I went to a Hungarian wine showcase. There
were some lovely wines to try, including a Juhfark (pronounced you-fark, and
therefore a minefield for English speakers) from the volcanic soils of Somló. It had the most
astonishing aroma, like a log fire.
I was also impressed by
a blend of the grapes Furmint (of Tokaji fame) and the less renowned Hárslevelű, which is pronounced
harsh-le-ve-loo. Say it out loud and it sounds like you've been hitting the
bottle. The aroma reminded me of the packs of pineapple chunks I used to buy in
supermarkets in Japan. The whites were the highlights, but there was a memorable
red made from the Kadarka grape, which, according to my tasting note, smelled
of 'smoke mixed with strawberry jam'. Perhaps that sounds strange, but it made
me want to try another one, which is rarely the case following a tasting.
A colleague who was
present at the Hungarian event is very gifted at networking. He seems to know
everyone and have been everywhere. A mutual friend has observed that he
sometimes adopts the accent of those he's speaking to, which may explain his
rare talent for winning favour and making connections. At any rate, he got
chatting to a Hungarian, email addresses were exchanged, and a week or two
later he and I were offered the opportunity to travel to Hungary for a wine
summit in the autumn.
It was as if we'd found
the Holy Grail of wine shindigs: a week in Hungary with airline tickets, local
transfers and accommodation paid for by the hosts. There would be events in the
capital, tours of wine-producing regions, even a 'guided Budapest gastro walk'
(whatever that meant). The last day of the week was set aside for a farewell
bash, as if the anticipated 170 participants wouldn't already have had ample
chance to drink themselves silly while touring the country on someone else's
dime.
My friend and I couldn't
believe our luck, and we jealously guarded the secret of our invitations. As a
pragmatic Scot, he did express the view that it seemed too good to be true,
though. Personally, I was confident it would all happen. I've had more than my
share of very good luck over the course of my life, so I thought it would just
be another such episode. Moreover, I pointed out to my pal that I had been
invited to Austria the year before, with the hosts generously footing the bill.
Admittedly, I went alone, not as one of 170 participants.
Two months before our
anticipated departure, we received the terrible news: the summit was off.
Suddenly, it all seemed to have been inevitable and I couldn't understand why
on earth I'd been so confident about it in the first place. I said to my friend
that someone must have knocked a few heads together and pointed out that the
event would be a very expensive act of insanity. Immensely enjoyable,
certainly, but ruinous.
If someone hadn't pulled
the plug, I could picture well over a hundred individuals pitching up in
Budapest, only to discover that the money for the summit had run out. I
envisioned an almighty drinking binge, before everyone sobered up and realised
that they might as well go home. Our very own Fyre Festival.
I remain grateful that I
put in an appearance at that tasting in the spring. Hungarian wines, it turned
out, can be really good - unique, I think, in the case of Juhfark from Somló. As for the week-long
party that never materialised, it's good to dream. To quote Tim Robbins in The
Shawshank Redemption, 'hope is a good thing, maybe the best of
things'.
