I STEPPED out after a two-hour ride in a car that hurtled past the Maharashtra countryside, mountains and vineyards green with on-again-off-again rain. I was looking forward to a relaxing day at the country’s first wine bar, set up by Chateau Indage at Narayangaon, near Pune, but nothing quite prepared me for the restaurant I walked into.At the bar were seated groups of farmers, munching tikkas, discussing their crops—and sipping chardonnay. I figured if the safari-suited, Nehru-topi-sporting kinds can order champagne, so could I.Perusing the menu, I put on my ‘know-it-all’ look—to find that the only name I could even vaguely pronounce was Chantilli (Rs 65 a glass). Then I noticed sniggering next door. A boisterous gang of grape growers had decided confidently on the Riviera. They were quite amused with the city ‘mem’ who couldn’t even ‘say’ what she wanted. Uff, that hurt. But let bygones be bygones, I thought, and joined in their conversation. Now I don’t know much about grapes, and know even less about soil types. What I do know is that the wine got them talking. KB Bhor, a tough old-timer, thrilled with his Rs 595 a bottle Marquise de Pompadour, told me sternly, “Our villagers don’t believe in taking their women to wine bars.” “Though it is our grapes that go into the wine,” he explained, “it is a place you go to drink alcohol.” I changed places. Settling at a table that looked onto the highway with the vineyard just behind me, I ordered Kolhapuri chicken and paratha, and sipped my sweet red Chantilli. The maitre d’ explained patiently that I should have something soft like a malai chicken, not a spicy dish, to accompany the wine. But who cares? I wasn’t there to learn etiquette. Meanwhile, three bikes vroomed to a stop outside the restaurant and the party of four, all in their mid-30s, trooped in, eyes darting in all directions. These men were the Avti brothers—Kailas, Uttam and Shankar, who were introduced to the place by grape grower Bapu Gaikwad. It feels nice to come here, quipped Gaikwad, who confidently pulled out a chair opposite my table. He added, ‘‘Thankfully nobody from our village comes here at this time, so we can relax.’’ The Avti brothers all nodded their heads in total consonance with Gaikwad. Lunch time brought the 60-plus Lavakares from Pune, who headed straight for the bar. Just back from a tour of Europe, they had been bitten by the wine bug. Sheela is a retired venture capitalist, while hubby Dr Prabhakar is an educationist. They had come because it was Prabhakar’s 70th birthday and they wanted to hand-pick a selection. Looking at the sprawling vineyard behind them, Sheela mused, “It definitely gives us a taste of our European adventure, though their wines taste different from these.” Close on their heels came another lot of picknickers. When it was time to leave, I saw them working their handycam at a frantic pace. Perhaps to show their pub-hopping friends a slice of today’s rustic life? Distance was not a deterrent, nor was the origin of the alcohol. All that mattered was the romantic ambience and the feeling of being there and sipping that. Cheers to the place where two worlds meet.
