Let The Thunder Purr: Why Penfolds Grange 2018 Doesn’t Ask For Permission

You don’t drink Grange to be polite. You drink it because sometimes life needs a velvet sledgehammer. Tonight’s culprit—2018—isn’t an anniversary wine, a library whisper, or a collector’s hostage situation. It’s a live wire in a tux: big, sleek, unapologetically Australian, and so composed it’s almost indecent. I’ve seen emperors with less posture.

Smoke And Velvet

In the glass it’s midnight with stage lights—deep, saturated ruby that clings to the bowl like a slow curtain call. The first swirl throws a flare: black plum and mulberry, grilled blueberry, and that unmistakable Penfolds polish—American oak translating as warm vanilla pod, clove, and a caramelized, almost smoky cedar. Give it thirty seconds and the scene widens: star anise, espresso crema, a little roasted game, a stray eucalyptus leaf crushed between finger and thumb. It smells like a high-end steakhouse after a good heist.

The Iron Fist In Silk Gloves

Texture first: the attack is plush but disciplined, like silk armored with chainmail. Blackberry compote and macerated cherry march in lockstep with cocoa nib, black pepper, and a savory seam of pan-dripping jus. The tannins? Ripped yet tailored—fine-grained, graphite-dusted, more Savile Row than gym-rat. Acidity is the clean vertical line that keeps the dark fruit from sprawling. And that oak signature—the Grange hallmark—doesn’t shout; it smolders, painting everything with a lacquer of sweet spice and smoked toffee. The finish goes long-haul: licorice root, tobacco leaf, a ghost of char, and a return of blue fruit that keeps purring five, six, seven beats after you’ve swallowed. You don’t chase this wine; it circles back for you.

The House That Refused To Be Boring

Grange is Australia’s great pirate story—born of defiance, blended across South Australia, and elevated in unapologetically new American hogsheads because tradition wouldn’t cut it. Call it Shiraz at its most cosmopolitan with, in some years, a sly kiss of Cabernet for backbone. 2018 comes from a blessedly even, warm season that ripened skins and seeds without grilling the dignity out of the fruit. The style hasn’t flinched: multi-regional freedom, relentless selection, and a belief that pleasure and longevity are not mutually exclusive. If Bordeaux is the cathedral, Grange is the opera house—drama engineered for goosebumps.

How To Unleash The Beast

Serve it slightly cool—60–64°F (16–18°C). Decant with intent: two to four hours now if you want the fruit to stand up and take a bow; longer if you crave the oak’s slow confession. Food? Go decadent or go home. Charcoal-kissed ribeye with marrow butter is a layup. Glazed short ribs with star anise and orange peel will light up the spice register. Peking duck with glossy skin? The wine eats the fat and leaves the crackle. If you’re feeling sous vide-virtuous, try lamb racks finished over hardwood with black garlic and rosemary ash. Sides: miso eggplant, pepper-crusted mushrooms, potato gratin engineered for sin.

The Smart Money Move

Grange is one of the few New World reds that behaves like a blue-chip—global recognition, strong critic enthusiasm (think upper-90s into perfection territory), and a production model that favors scarcity over sprawl. 2018 has the architecture to go distance: dense fruit, sculpted tannin, and the kind of oak frame that resolves into haunting complexity with time. Translation: 30–50 years is not hyperbole. Buy three—one for now (after a brutal decant), one for 2035 when the bass line mellows into baritone, and one to scandalize your heirs. Prices seldom travel south for long; the market remembers its icons.

Last Call From Olympus

Skip this vintage and you’ll pretend you never cared; but when the 2018s are singing in dim, future rooms—when the cedar has folded into truffle and the fruit glows like ember—you’ll remember the night you said, “Maybe next time.” Grange doesn’t do “next time.” It does now, and it does forever. Choose accordingly.