Quotes of the Day

One summer evening 15 years ago Len Evans grabbed a good bottle of burgundy and led me out to his veranda for the would-be son-in-law conversation. As the sun fell behind the Hunter Valley's Brokenback range, we got to the part where he gauged my prospects. I was struggling with some banal career decision: one path boring but financially secure, the other much more interesting but relatively poorly paid. Seeking approval, I ventured that the sensible thing might be to go dull and safe. Len thought for a moment, turned to me and asked: "How many lives are you planning to have?"

If anything can temper the sorrow after his tired heart finally packed in last week, it is the certainty that Len could not have extracted any more fun from his life. As we drove up to the Hunter last Thursday, my daughters in the back seat heard a brief tribute on the radio. Nine-year-old Emily asked, "Do you think Grandpapa had done everything he wanted to?" "He never got to Barcelona," I said—the beleaguered heart had several times frustrated his desire to see Gaudí's architecture— "but I can't think of anything else."

Most of the time, the expression "living life to the full" is a platitude. Len turned it into a masterclass, and we were his students. His professional face was that of the wine man, and according to those equipped to judge, he had few rivals in the world for depth of knowledge. Fewer still could match his palate; none could equal his contribution to Australia's wine industry. But to celebrate that expertise alone is to limit him. To my eye, his greatest love was people. His adored wife Trish, his children and grandchildren came first, without question, but I know of no one who took more energetic pleasure in friends and strangers, entertaining them with wine, song, fine food and, above all, laughter.

"We're having so-and-so for lunch," he'd say. "I think you'll enjoy him." Sometimes we wouldn't, but Len's boundless energy and appetite for fun gave him the capacity to enjoy almost anyone and anything. He would find the secret amusing corner of the most difficult personality; he roared with laughter at books with odd titles—his collection began with a volume called Altar Linen: Its Care and Use, although his favorites were Underwater Sport on a Small Income; Dumps, A Plain Girl; and that handy cookbook Be Bold With Bananas.

His appetite was not just metaphorical. He hosted or attended thousands of great meals—so many messages of sympathy last week began: "The best lunch/dinner/day I ever had …"—but his taste buds were not élitist. Little grunts and moans of pleasure would emerge from the kitchen, where he was devouring a sausage sandwich, tomato sauce dripping down his shirt. He would drive me into Cessnock to the pie shop and home through the vineyards, every paddock and building inspiring a pastry-flecked lesson in Hunter history. With silent precision we'd stop at his gate to inspect each other's clothes for telltale crumbs. We were never caught.

Len forgave us both our greed because he was endlessly amused by human folly, particularly his friends'. He would repeat tales of indiscretions and infidelities with rogueish, non-judgmental relish. He could even rejoice in another's meanness—a quality he detested—but only if it was of such spectacular proportions that it made a good story. Raconteur is a word that normally provokes a shiver of dread, but you could listen to Len all night. I never heard him stumble over a name or punchline, even when by rights he should have been stumbling over the furniture. And every tale, bawdy or screamingly funny, showed an understanding of human nature born of self-knowledge and that relentless curiosity. He knew prime ministers, film stars, musicians and multi-millionaires, but when they arrived at his legendary parties they had better learn to mix with cellar hands and vineyard workers.

That love of people, of life, found expression in Len's absurd generosity. Contrary to the general assumption, his cellar was not especially well-stocked, because he was always drinking the stuff. Not drinking; sharing. Len must have poured more great wine down unsophisticated throats than anyone in history: I have a beer-loving friend who still has no idea he has drunk Romaneé-Conti. Len wasn't stupid—his glass tended magically to look a little fuller than the next—but he'd rather have called someone in off the street than drink a great bottle by himself. He was generous too with his time and advice; many fine careers in food and wine were launched with his support. And he maintained his countless friendships with seemingly effortless kindnesses. Something—a book, a trinket he'd found rummaging in an antique shop—would catch his magpie eye and remind him of someone; days later it would arrive with a letter in his bold flowing hand. He would spend hours covered in clay and oxide dust making ceramic tiles, assembling grand mosaics destined for a friend's winery wall.

The last time my wife Sally and I saw him, the Sunday before he died, he and Trish called in on their way home from the airport. They'd eaten on the plane, but our seven-year-old decided to make him a sandwich. She tore holes in the bread with chunks of too-cold butter, stuck on a slice of ham and smeared the lot with enough hot English mustard to make a shark weep. Len ate it as though it were the finest dish ever offered to him, licked his lips and said, "Lucy, that was so delicious I simply have to have another." She beamed with joy and triumph; it was an expression he made appear on many faces throughout his glorious life.

• Steve Waterson
• Len Evans, 1930-2006