A Vineyard in My Glass

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4 A Vineyard in My Glass

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the General Endowment Fund of the University of California Press Foundation.

A Vineyard in My Glass Gerald Asher

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university of california press Berkeley Los Angeles London

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England © 2011 by Gerald Asher Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Asher, Gerald. A vineyard in my glass / Gerald Asher. p. cm. Includes index. isbn 978-0-520-27033-6 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Wine and wine making I. Title tp548.a7918 2011 663'.2—dc22 2011011318 Manufactured in the United States of America 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Book, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso z39.48–1992 (r 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

In memory of Jane Montant and Margaret Costa

contents

Introduction 1

part i. france Fronsac: Chalk and Clay, Legs and Thighs 7 Vouvray: Tufa and Temperate Summers 15 Côte Chalonnaise: Limestone Delicacy 21 White Wines of the Southern Rhône: A Fresh Look at Old Varieties 34 Muscadet: Ocean Breezes and Estuary Sands 46 Saint-Emilion: A Jumble of Soils 56 Chablis: A French Classic from Ancient Seashells 66 The Other Médoc: Vines and Windmills 77 Corton: Burgundy’s Magic Mountain 86 Roussillon: Sunlight in a Bottle 94 Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé: Terres Blanches, Caillottes, and Silex 102 Champagne: Location, Location, Location 107 Château Montrose: The Essential Saint-Estèphe 114

part ii. other european wine regions Soave: Old Lava and New Politics 125 Saar and Ruwer: Riesling, Slate, and Long Summer Days 136 Brunello di Montalcino: Elegance from an Untamed Land 145 Rías Baixas–Albariño: A Fragrant Wine of the Sea 155 Vega Sicilia: A Legend at High Altitude 163

part iii. california Dry Creek Valley: An Easy Grace 173 Clarksburg: The Right Grape in the Right Place 184 Carneros: Wind, Fog, and Hardpan 193 Santa Barbara County: A Geological Quirk 206 Edna Valley: Marine Sediment and Volcanic Debris 216 Lodi: Where the Pacific Meets the Sierra Nevada 226 Mount Veeder: Vines among the Redwoods 235 Anderson Valley: Gravel and Cobblestones in Arcadia 244 Rutherford: The Heart of Napa Valley 252 Index 261

introduction

Like many others, I drifted into the wine trade. A part-time job in a wine shop led to a full-time one with a small distributor. That set the stage for serious employment with a major London wine importer. Thanks to the firm’s standing, I was able to attend the weekly lectures and tastings conducted by trade luminaries in the paneled hall of the Vintners’ Company, one of London’s medieval livery companies. There, along with my peers from other import houses, I was taught the basics of wine. Since then, formal wine trade education in England has evolved, starting with diploma courses and leading to the status of Master of Wine. But in the 1950s, the series of twelve lecture-tastings every spring at Vintners’ Hall was devised to cover, over a three-year cycle, most of the wines and most of the challenges we were likely to face in our professional lives. We were expected to read whatever was available, of course, and to take advantage of every opportunity that arose for tasting among ourselves. At the end of each series, there was a competitive exam, and the three top-scoring candidates were awarded travel stipends allowing them to spend time the following fall in an informal work-study program with a producer in one of the wine regions covered the previous spring. I was fortunate enough to make the cut in each of my three years, and was able to spend time working with respected vintners—first in Spain, and subsequently in France and Germany. The time I spent in their 1

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cellars and vineyards was an appropriate introduction to a life I’ve spent largely in the company of winegrowers.

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From the start, I realized how much depended on where they lived. It was manifest in everything from the food they ate, to the wine they produced, and how they interacted with each other. Their wines, especially, based on those vine varieties historically adapted to their local conditions and shaped by tradition and custom, were part of their identity and an expression of their land. Inevitably I came to associate any wine I met with a specific place and a particular slant of history. I learned to perceive more than could be deduced from an analysis of the physical elements in the glass. For me, an important part of the pleasure of wine is its reflection of the total environment that produced it. If I find in a wine no hint of where it was grown, no mark of the summer when the fruit ripened, and no indication of the usages common among those who made it, I am frustrated and disappointed. Because that is what a good, honest wine should offer. It is not just a commodity subjected to techniques to boost this or that element to meet the current concept of a marketable product. When Jane Montant, then editor in chief of Gourmet magazine, first asked me to write an occasional wine column, the start of what became monthly essays, she left me to work out for myself what I would write about. Not surprisingly, I soon found that I was writing about wine as I experienced it, even though, at the time, it placed me at odds with the way many others approached the subject. The early 1970s was a period when interest in wine in the United States was just emerging, and many California winemakers were sent around the country to talk about the wines they were making. They explained a wine, as they themselves had been taught, in terms of its physical components. Soon there were popular consumer classes in organoleptic analysis, teaching potential consumers how to identify the acidity, the alcohol, and the tannins in the wines they tasted. No one told them that a wine was no more made to be picked apart in that way

Introduction

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than a picture was painted to be broken down into percentages of red, yellow, and blue. Few bothered to explain that, just as with a picture, we first allow ourselves a general impression, we taste a wine, we react to the whole. Then what we know of the wine’s origin and context will expand the experience. The more we know, the deeper our appreciation and pleasure. In everyday life, of course, it’s not quite as simple as that. We are distracted by conversation round the dinner table, by the food, perhaps by the occasion. A wine unfolds and reveals itself gradually, at first allowing us only glimpses of the vineyard in the glass. How many times have we tasted a wine when first poured and thought, “That’s nice,” before resuming our conversation or continuing to eat? Then, two or three sips later, we find ourselves thinking, “This is really good,” and that’s when we begin to wonder about it and ask ourselves why it is as it is. So I have always written about wine within its context, adding whatever snatch of history or geology or folklore was necessary to define it and give it depth. I demonstrate constantly the connection between a wine’s character, its identity, and its origin—in the broadest and most inclusive sense. That definition of origin is what the French call a wine’s terroir, and although it was never my intention to write explicitly on the subject, I suppose that’s what I have done. In saying that, I feel a bit like Molière’s Monsieur Jourdain, who was astonished to find he’d been speaking prose all his life. Gerald Asher San Francisco October 1, 2010

pa rt on e

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France

Sein e

Reims

ve

Ri

r

Marne River

Nantes

Muscadet

er Riv

F R A N C E

Médoc

Lyon

e

Fronsac Saint-Emilion

Rhône River

Château Montrose

Saint-Estèphe Haut-Médoc

Saône Rive

r

Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine

PouillyFumé Auxerre Chablis Tours Sancerre BURGUNDY Dijon LOIRE VALLEY Corton Beaune Côte de Beaune Côte Chalonnaise Vouvray

R.

Loire

ne Yon

Muscadet des Coteaux de la Loire

Champagne

Paris

Bordeaux Dordogne R er iv Ga ron ne

BORDEAUX

SOUTHERN RHÔNE Gard Vaucluse

River

Avignon

Roussillon

0

N

Map 1. Wine regions of France

0

100 100

200 k 200 mi

fronsac Chalk and Clay, Legs and Thighs

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I

n the 1960s I used to buy wine for the British market directly from growers on what was then known as the Côtes de Fronsac, one of many small, often overlooked wine regions that complete the viticultural patchwork of Bordeaux. Its two- or three-thousand acres of vines are at the eastern end of still largely neglected territory separated from Pomerol and Saint-Emilion on one side by the river Isle, a tributary of the Dordogne, and from the Côtes de Bourg, the prolific source of Bordeaux’s workaday wines lying to the northwest, by the old Bordeaux-Paris highway. It is possible to reach Fronsac by taking that Paris road from Bordeaux (now duplicated by an autoroute, imperiously abstracted from its surroundings) just for the pleasure of looping high across the Dordogne near Cubzac-les-Ponts on the long girder bridge built by AlexandreGustave Eiffel in 1882; but then, at Saint-André-de-Cubzac, one must deliberately separate from traffic on its way to the easier pickings of the Côtes de Bourg and slip away on an ill-marked side road toward the town of Libourne. Alternatively, one can take a direct, and shorter, route to Fronsac, crossing the Dordogne at the stone bridge of Libourne, fifteen miles upstream. But many set out that way only to be diverted at the last moment, alas, by the appeal of signs to Saint-Emilion and Pomerol as they come off the bridge. Because both routes from Bordeaux, then, so 7

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strongly tempt the traveler in other directions, it is not surprising that Fronsac sees only the most determined visitors.

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In the eighteenth century, buoyed perhaps by the influence of the Duc de Richelieu, owner of considerable estates in Fronsac until they were seized and sold in the Revolution, the region’s reputation for wine had been high above that of Pomerol, the neighboring village now particularly distinguished for Château Pétrus, its chief growth. In Richelieu’s day, Fronsac wines were bracketed for quality and price with what were described as the third growths of the Médoc. (The official 1855 Médoc classification still in use today was preceded by constantly revised groupings with no formal status.) William Franck, whose Traité—published in several editions starting in 1824—is one of our best sources of information about Bordeaux in the last century, went so far as to claim that Canon-Fronsac wines, despite what he called their “lack of lightness and bouquet,” had formerly been preferred to those of the Médoc. That was probably so; but then the majority of the great Médoc growths now familiar to us, hardly established until well into the eighteenth century, had not won their honors until the nineteenth. “They are deeply colored, firm, with a strong, heady flavor,” Franck wrote of the Fronsac wines he knew. “They develop well, and do not begin to lose their power until after fifteen or twenty years.” Morton Shand had much the same to say of Fronsac a hundred years later in his 1928 volume, A Book of French Wines. “These big, round, and powerful wines, coarse and rough though they are during their infancy, have for long been extremely popular in Belgium, Holland, Germany, and Great Britain. “They have been called the Burgundies of Bordeaux,” he went on, warming to his subject, “and there is a certain superficial aptness in the parallel, for [brokers] are fond of saying of a good and promising Fronsac that it has ‘plus que de la jambe, de la cuisse’ [it has more than “legs,” it has thighs], by which is signified that it is a decidedly stout-bodied wine, buxom and lusty as a fine strapping peasant wench.”

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By the time I was squandering my youth scouring Fronsac properties for wines, however, the appellation had lost something of this earlier sex appeal. The deprivations of wartime, following years of economic depression, still clung to many wine regions of France in the fifties and sixties. The owners of the internationally reputed classed growths of Bordeaux could finance quality winemaking by selling their annual production before its release (as they still do). For a time in the fifties they went even further and presold their annual production while the grapes were still forming on the vines, so badly did they need cash advanced to finance vineyard cultivation as well as barrel aging. But elsewhere growers had no such pull in the market. With neither capital nor sales assured enough to convince the banks to help them, many were hardly able to maintain appropriately, much less replace, essential vineyard and cellar equipment. In any case, lacking the means with which to hold onto their wine for aging and bottling, they were compelled to sell it off in bulk as quickly as possible after the vintage, usually at prices based on nothing more subtle than color, condition, and alcoholic degree. If their wines had lost their brilliance since Shand wrote his book, there lay the reason. The growers could hardly have been expected to extend themselves to preserve local character or vineyard individuality—assuming it had been possible for them to do so— when distinction of any kind would have been no more than a nuisance to the négociants-éleveurs, the Bordeaux merchants, who were buying the wines only to replenish their anonymous blending vats. The growers I most often dealt with had well positioned vineyards and produced impressive wines from time to time—firm, with high color and good flavor. But they were inconsistent. Whether it was because of the condition of their tanks (there were few barrels and those there were did not inspire confidence), their rule-of-thumb methods, or for some other reason, I usually found that on one property, in one vintage, there could be both delicious and worse than doubtful lots. It was of constant concern to me to ensure that the batch I selected was the one actually shipped to London.

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444 I had little reason to return to Fronsac after moving to the United States in 1970. A strong dollar had made the classed growths of the Médoc and Saint-Emilion so accessible that few American Bordeaux lovers were interested in going beyond them. Increased demand for such a restricted group of wines soon pushed up prices, however, and, when these were magnified by exchange rates, a broad gap opened between the fashionable growths and the minor properties of the Côtes de Bourg that Fronsac was perfectly positioned to fill. One of the first to see Fronsac’s renewed potential was Jean-Pierre Moueix, the distinguished Libourne merchant and vineyard proprietor who had led the renaissance of SaintEmilion and Pomerol after the war. With his son Christian he showed his faith in Fronsac by investing in two or three properties there. He counseled the proprietors of other vineyards and undertook distribution of their production to make sure there would be enough good Fronsac wine on the market to be noticed. Fortunately, the Moueix firm’s reputation and strength were themselves enough to revive interest in the appellation. But they could not have sustained it had the generation now in charge of Fronsac’s vineyards and chais not pursued vigorously the opportunity before them. Partly from curiosity and partly from nostalgia, I went back to Fronsac for a few days last spring. In the mostly low-lying landscape of the Gironde, Fronsac’s two “peaks” are exceptional. Though barely two to three hundred feet high, they are so compacted on their tongue of land between the Isle and the Dordogne that they seem dramatically lofty. In the eighth century Charlemagne had built a fort on one of them, dominating the confluence of the two rivers. The Duc de Richelieu, before his exile, had imposed on its ruins a decorative Italian pavilion for what Féret, the Bordeaux Bible, describes coyly as “elegant, witty parties, which were gossiped about well beyond the confines of Aquitaine”—perhaps thereby giving rise to that later confusion of legs, thighs, and Fronsac wine. It is pretty country, much favored by Bordeaux families for their

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secluded and unpretentious summer houses. The lanes that twist down the hills are mostly enclosed, English-fashion, by hedgerows overgrown with wild roses, and the vineyards are punctuated by old Romanesque churches and ruined windmills. In 1976 the word Côtes was dropped from the appellation in favor of plain Fronsac, but the smaller, associated appellation of Canon-Fronsac can still be described with or without it. There are fewer than two thousand acres of vines within the Fronsac appellation, and another 750 produce the wine entitled to be called either Canon-Fronsac or Côtes de Canon-Fronsac. Despite the superiority implied in Canon-Fronsac, the permitted grape varieties (Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Malbec, and Merlot), the permitted yields, minimum concentration, and all the other legal paraphernalia used to prop up French wine appellations are the same for both. Canon-Fronsac is distinguished from Fronsac by the squiggly outline of an eroded limestone plateau. Overlapping the villages of Fronsac and Saint-Michel-de-Fronsac, Canon-Fronsac’s location is described by Henri Enjalbert in his great tome on the wines of Saint-Emilion, Pomerol, and Fronsac as a “privileged viticultural terroir.” What really distinguishes it from Fronsac, however, is no more than an exposure of the chalk elsewhere hidden under a thin layer of reddish soil and the surrounding steep abutments that give its vines a springtime advantage by draining away cold air. In Fronsac, as in Canon-Fronsac (and as in Saint-Emilion), among those layers of limestone deposited by ancient incursions of the Atlantic there are mixtures of clay, sand, and gravel contributed by millennia of wash brought down with the Dordogne from the Massif Central.

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On the first morning of my recent visit to Fronsac, Christian Moueix had arranged a tasting of a few 1985 s put in perspective by a group of 1982s. His own Château Canon-Moueix stood out among the 1985s, closely followed by Château de la Dauphine, another Moueix property. Château Canon-Moueix, the firmer and fuller of the two, had a

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complex flavor; Château de la Dauphine relied more on its light, tender fruitiness. Among the 1982s, Château Mausse intrigued me with its marked bouquet and long flavor of violet-scented pastilles, but I especially liked the elegant Château Canon de Brem, now also a Moueix property, its vineyards adjoining those of Château de la Dauphine, of which it had once been a part. The wine’s structure seemed somewhat severe at first, but it had an intensity of fruit that charmed away all resistance. Delicious though it was, however, it had been placed at a disadvantage for tasting after the outstanding Château du Gaby, a richly concentrated, long-lasting wine that succeeded in dominating the entire group. I lunched with Christian Moueix, who was generous enough to offer me his Château Pétrus ’71 with roast lamb. Having prepared my palate with what is considered to be one of the greatest vintages of Pétrus in the last twenty-five years, he then produced, to my astonishment at his Thurberesque bravado, a bottle of Château Canon de Brem ’64. It stood up to the Pétrus admirably: The mutual check of fruit and structure that had so impressed me in the 1982 tasted earlier was here melded by time into a richly balanced and lively whole. The following day the associations of growers of Fronsac and of Canon-Fronsac had arranged for me a comprehensive tasting of their 1985s, again with a backdrop of older wines for perspective. Reviewing the high and consistent quality of those wines while remembering others from those same properties tasted twenty-five years before, I felt I had strayed into a school of frogs turned to princes. Later, when I visited some of the properties, I understood the transformation. Behind the same crumbling stone walls and unruly gardens were new presses, gleaming fermentation tanks, and well kept—many new—barrels. I sampled some 1986s still in wood and was heartened that there was now the wherewithal to hold and age these wines as they deserved. The proprietors seemed better informed, too. Whereas, in the sixties, their fathers would each have kept much to himself, even

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eyeing other growers with caution, they were now familiar with their neighbors’ wines, ideas, and strengths and willingly talked of them as enthusiastically as they talked of their own. To list and describe each wine tasted would be both tedious and pointless, because few of them are yet available in the United States. But among those that stand out in my memory, in addition to those I had already tasted with Christian Moueix, were the wines of Château Moulin Pey Labrie and Château La Grave (both, I discovered, made by Paul Barre, son of the man who had made that magnificent Château Canon de Brem ’64); the big, intense wines of Château Dalem, their quality and structure reinforced by the proprietor’s policy of using only new wood; the fleshy wines of Château Rouet; and the full-flavored wines of Château de la Rivière, presently one of the best, and best known, Fronsac wines already distributed and widely available here. Jacques Borie, the ebullient proprietor of Château de la Rivière, who has packed into one life what most of us would have difficulty in accomplishing were we given, like cats, the boon of nine, persuaded me, while I was temporarily lulled at the close of lunch by a piece of cheese and his remarkable 1962, to get a better grasp of Fronsac topography from his ULM. For the benefit of other innocents who might presume, as I did, that a ULM is another well wheeled European alphabet car, let me explain that it is nothing more complicated than a midget motor, with what seems to be a toy propeller facing the wrong way, attached unconvincingly to a single canvas wing held by two struts above a long pole. The pilot—if that word can be applied to the manipulator of a few pieces of wire—and his passenger, sitting one behind the other astride the pole, whizz through the treetops on this contraption like a pair of sorcerers on a broomstick, the passenger, as I can tell you, preoccupied most of the time wondering what he is to do with his feet when (if?) they ever come down to land. I shall look forward to tasting again, and soon I hope, the wines of

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Canon-Moueix, La Dauphine, Rouet, De la Rivière, Canon de Brem, La Grave, Moulin Pey Labrie, Mausse, Du Gaby, Dalem, Arnauton, Villars, La Fleur Cailleau, Du Pavillon, Mazeris-Bellevue, and all the rest. But next time I pray I shall be spared having first to inspect the roof tiles of each one in close-up. Originally published as “Fronsac” in Gourmet, March 1989. The Moueix family has now divested itself of its Fronsac properties. Jacques Borie sold the Château de la Rivière. A modification of law allows owners of properties in the Canon-Fronsac appellation to sell their wine as plain Fronsac if they prefer.

vouvray Tufa and Temperate Summers

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ouvray, a cluster of houses by the Loire, a few miles east of Tours, would be unremarkable were it not for the wine that bears its name. Centuries ago Rabelais described that wine as tasting of taffeta, and it remains one of the most appealing in the world. When it is young, its fresh bite brings zest to a soft, natural sweetness, like the crisp taste of a newly picked apple; when it is well aged, and especially when it is made in a year when the grapes had been left to hang late into November, its bouquet and flavor can be of incomparable range. The four thousand acres of vines that produce Vouvray spread into and over seven other villages and hamlets as well. Sainte-Radegonde, Rochecorbon, Vernou, Noizay, Chançay, Reugny, and Parçay-Meslay carry in their High Gothic names an echo of pious knights and illuminated vellum. They spread around Vouvray like ribs in a fan of the chalky tufa that blankets Touraine and breaks into valleys and clefts that open to each other and to the Loire. The slopes and cliffs are of such modest elevation that they seem little more than the twists of an undulating landscape. Here and there a cottage façade, flat against the rock face, appears to be a stage set or an optical illusion until one realizes that its rooms have been gouged from the cliff behind it, with chimneys incongruously puffing smoke among the vines on the plateau above. Acres of other tunnels and vaults extend even farther into the tufa, for what were begun as galleried quarries to build the city of Tours remain in use as working wine cellars. 15

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Tufa, porous and crumbly until exposed to air, is penetrated easily by both water and vine roots. Like well drained gravel or sand it allows a warm surface environment that helps ripen the Chenin Blanc fully while the long, temperate summers of Touraine protect the grapes’ natural acidity. Wire-trained but gobelet pruned, so that in winter the vines look like rows of stubby clenched fists, Chenin Blanc is here at the limit of its climatic adaptability. It ripens late—picking rarely starts before the last week in October—to give juice that, uncommonly, is both rich in sugar and high in acidity. It is this unusual balance of ripe grape sugar and clean, tart acids inherent in the grapes of Vouvray that brings together a soft fullness and an etched flavor that are characteristic of the wine they give. Paul de Cassagnac, whose 1930 classic, French Wines, guided a post-Prohibition generation, marveled that Vouvray could be both sweet and dry simultaneously. “The sweetness,” he said, “exists in the wine, not as a heavy charge, but as a light transparent veil which allows all the charm to appear and the complete and delicate aroma to be freely liberated.” In essence the appeal of Vouvray lies in its sweet-tart character, dry enough to be refreshing, gentle enough to be universally flattering. The natural sweetness gives the wine fullness that sustains it against creamy sauces, and the acidity ensures that it never cloys. My favorite veal escalope dish, with a pan juice, white wine, cream, and mushroom sauce, is at its best, I think, with a not-too-dry Vouvray.

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According to legend the vineyards of Touraine began from a single vine shoot brought in the fourth century by Saint Martin, who had carried it in a bone from his native village near what is now the Yugoslav-Austrian border. (It is also popularly believed in Touraine that the depredations of Saint Martin’s ass among the vines the Saint had planted taught growers the virtues of pruning.) In fact, the Chenin Blanc vine that produces Vouvray and most other white wines of the Loire originated in neighboring Anjou (some speculate that it might even have started there as a wild vine indigenous to the primeval forests of the region)

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and was brought to Touraine, and hence to Vouvray, in 1445 by Thomas Bohier, then Lord of Chenonceaux. Planted by him on the hill of Mont Chenin, the vine, though to this day more often referred to by growers there as Pineau de la Loire, thus acquired its new name. At first it was the Dutch who discovered these new Chenin Blanc wines. They shipped Vouvray to the Netherlands, where often it was discreetly “improved” with a little sweet Spanish wine from Málaga. (The seventeenth-century Dutch were the inventors and masters of the art of wine blending.) They encouraged the growers to extend the vineyards and at one period regularly bought almost the entire production. The wars of Louis XIV and the banishment of Protestants from France that followed the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685 greatly reduced that commerce; Pierre Carreau, an observer of Touraine at the time, wrote in a 1698 memorandum that “loss of business with the Dutch has caused vineyards to drop to a half and a third of their value.” Trade picked up in the eighteenth century only to suffer again in the wake of the Napoleonic wars. Through all these vicissitudes the wine of Vouvray came to be increasingly appreciated for its style, unique among French wines. Easy to enjoy, it became pivotal to afternoon entertaining. Sparkling versions appeared, and when conditions were right the fungus of “noble rot” attacked overripe grapes causing them to shrivel rapidly, concentrating still further both sugar and acid and thereby producing prime dessert wines of such intense flavor and exquisite balance that they seem to age indefinitely. Morning mist from the Loire and the warmth of a late autumn sun were all that were needed. Louis Orizet, in his book Les Vins de France, refers to several occasions when he was lucky enough to drink octogenarian Vouvrays, unfailingly “all smiles through their wrinkles.” Some years ago my long morning’s tasting with a grower at Rochecorbon ended by his reaching for a bottle of the miraculous 1895, buried in sand in a cellar niche. Its orange-gold color gleamed in the light of the cellar candle; the bouquet and flavor, powerfully fresh, were honeyed and rich with suggestions of impossible

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tropical fruits; and for the full half hour we sat drinking it the wine neither faded nor in any way lost its astonishing freshness. It is curious that where the brilliance of a rich Sauternes at its peak inevitably descends to a dry and sometimes harsh cacophony, fine mature Vouvray, because of its perfect acid-sweet balance, seems only to become more harmonious and increasingly vibrant.

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In the nineteenth century white wines shipped from Touraine were often sold as Vouvray, and until comparatively recent times the wines now sold as Montlouis, grown on the opposite, south, side of the Loire, were included in the area of production. The modern regulations controlling the appellation were fought over for fifteen years until they finally established, in the late 1930s, parameters that restrict vines for Vouvray to the shoulder alone of each slope within the eight named communes; land below is devoted to grains, fruits, and sheep pasture, adding bucolic charm to the landscape. Each slope, because of exposure and variation of terrain, is known for the precise difference of quality and style in the wine it will yield. One, perhaps stonier than the others, will sparingly yield an austere wine that brings backbone to a blend; elsewhere, a measure of sand and clay will bring a fuller, more tender element. Then again, wines from valleys closest to the Loire show in their youth a keen acidity, whereas wines from the valleys of Vaux, Cousse, and La Brenne, in what are called the arrières côtes of Chançay, Reugny, and Parçay-Meslay, more often show in their youth a hard finish, with even a hint of bitterness, that also augurs well for aging. The Vouvray vineyard holdings are small; roughly three hundred growers live from viticulture alone—a considerable number of families for only four thousand acres, especially when one remembers that the total acreage includes a few plots attached to mixed farms as well as those, hardly bigger than a backyard, that serve as weekend occupations. A single, unified, holding is rare: No matter how small, each is commonly split up, sometimes into as many as thirty or forty tiny, scattered patches. Unlike Sancerre, however, where a similar situation has been hard to

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change because growers fear so much the consequences of localized frosts or sudden hailstorms—quite apart from each man’s conviction that such dispersion of vines brings balance to his wines—Vouvray has seen some cautious swapping of plots to ease the problems of cultivation. Even so, set as they are on rolling contours among pasture and orchard, meadow and woodland, the vineyards compose a serendipitous picture that entices Parisians down the new autoroute most weekends of the year. Lunch at Vouvray’s Grand Vatel or the cozy Perce Neige in Vernou, a picnic, or, more grandly, a visit to Barrier’s restaurant in Tours is followed by a taste (or two) in a cool and labyrinthine cave before loading a case (or two) in the car.

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There was a time when weekly shipments to the bars and cafés of Paris absorbed much of the production, but that demand seems to have disappeared along with the Art Nouveau décor to which a glass of Vouvray, it must be admitted, once added a shimmering dimension. Vouvray is a period wine with an intrinsic style that is not always in accord with present sensibilities. A white wine that needs its modicum of sweetness to be in balance and some age to show its quality meets resistance when the first duties of a modern white wine are to be dry and young. That is why Vouvray is now in danger of becoming to wine, I sometimes think, what Chaucer is to books. His Canterbury Tales have been so often edited, adapted, abbreviated, and generally pulled about that, even among those who have read them, few have been allowed their full, vigorous flavor. There are Vouvray growers, including some of the best, who have been intimidated, I suppose, by devotees of a nouvelle cuisine that, while inserting irrelevant sugared sorbets in a meal and combining raspberry juice with everything, frowns for no good reason on even a gram or two of needed, natural sweetness in a glass of wine. Such growers attempt to edit, adapt, abbreviate, and generally pull their wines about to fit a dry straitjacket. But Vouvray fermented to complete dryness, I find, is a sorry thing: It is hard when it should be soft, sharp when it should be gentle, boring when it should be beguiling. At dinner

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recently in a distinguished Touraine restaurant, the only Vouvray on the list, from a grower of impeccable reputation, was made with such painful and unnecessary austerity that to drink it required discipline and gave no pleasure. How I longed for a few empty calories. Bewildered by this misunderstanding of the very nature of Vouvray, the growers have turned increasingly to the option of using their grapes to make wine by the Champagne method of secondary fermentation in bottle. Production has moved inexorably in this direction so that now almost two thirds of Vouvray appears as sparkling wine. The law allows growers to increase yields and to pick earlier with lower natural sugar for this purpose, and, unfortunately, the subvariety of Chenin Blanc used to provide the intense wines, graceful yet strong, that age forever is making way for more productive strains better suited to the light wines needed for the Champagne process. By good fortune I was in Touraine this year on a lucid spring day punctuated by gusty showers. Hedgerows were still bare except for sporadic droops of catkins, but apricot trees scattered blossom profligately over stone walls whenever the wind blew. I spent a morning tasting my way through 1983s, still in the huge 150-gallon wooden barrels in which they are both fermented and aged, and through a series of 1982s, already in bottle. The 1983s made from grapes that were dehydrated and concentrated by the heat of last September have both high alcohol and high acid and need the traditional residual sugar even more than did the 1982s, which were softened considerably by pre-harvest rains. When I had selected the wines I needed, the grower and I went together to a local inn for a simple lunch. We had finished eating when he drew from a wrapping of old newspaper a bottle of his 1971 dessert Vouvray. He wiped away the cellar cobwebs with his napkin and drew the cork himself with a screw he had in his pocket. A bouquet of ripe fruits wafted from our glasses as he poured. “Douce France,” I thought, as I settled more comfortably in my chair. Originally published as “Vouvray” in Gourmet, August 1984.

côte chalonnaise Limestone Delicacy

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hen the revolutionary government did away with France’s former provinces in 1791, dividing the country into administrative departments instead, the Côte Chalonnaise was severed from Burgundy’s Côte de Beaune, with which until then it had always been associated. The Côte de Beaune remained part of the Côte d’Or; the Côte Chalonnaise found itself next door in the Saône-et-Loire. Roughly fifteen miles long and five miles wide, the Côte Chalonnaise lies between the Côte d’Or (the strip of high-priced vineyards that runs through Gevrey-Chambertin, Vosne-Romanée, Beaune, Pommard, Volnay, and Meursault) and the Mâconnais. Attached formally to neither, however, the Côte Chalonnaise has been perceived over the years as little more than the space that separates the two. At first its new isolation seemed to make little difference. André Jullien, the Paris wine merchant and author, observed in 1816 that at that time wines of the Côte Chalonnaise were most often presented under the commercial banner of the Côte de Beaune. That state of affairs probably changed very slowly; the comment remained in later editions of Jullien’s book right up to 1863. But Pierre Bréjoux, an inspector of the French National Institute of Appellations of Origin, with the useful hindsight of some further one hundred years, was able to say in his 1960s book Les Vins de Bourgogne that separation of the Côte Chalonnaise communities from the rest of the Côte d’Or at the end of the eighteenth century hurt the Côte Chalonnaise region badly. 21

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It is hard to say exactly why a change in local administration should have caused such a serious reversal, but then the first two or three decades of the nineteenth century everywhere in France turned viticulture on its head. Following the revolution, demand for ordinary wine outpaced supply. Meanwhile, the market formerly existing for fine wines had been scattered. The price difference between the best and the most common narrowed and ceased to justify the greater risk and smaller yields inherent in making high-quality wine. We cannot now be sure whether the communities of the Côte Chalonnaise lost standing because their growers succumbed to the temptation of meeting a seemingly insatiable demand for ordinary wine or whether they dropped from view for the opposite reason—for maintaining standards at a time when there was little or no market for quality Burgundy wine. Whatever the cause, commercial strength ebbed, leaving growers of the Côte Chalonnaise financially weak when they most needed to be resourceful to recover from the ruin of phylloxera at the end of the nineteenth century. Some vineyards reverted to wasteland. The final blow came to many of these small growers in 1923. By then the Côte was known as the région de Mercurey, Mercurey being the only village in the region that had successfully maintained some visibility. In the struggle to define appellations with neither the institutions nor the laws that have since been set up in France for the purpose, the growers of neighboring Givry and Rully had applied to the civil courts for formal approval of their right to be included within the bounds of Mercurey’s appellation. The growers of Mercurey successfully opposed their petition. But thanks, perhaps, to that 1923 court decision, the Côte Chalonnaise—splintered into five distinct appellations, each with its own wine characteristics and a commercial style evolved to suit them—has become a model of viticultural nonconformity at a time when a rapid exchange of information is bringing sameness to the world of wine. The appellations are Rully, just south of Chagny, the small town that acquired international stature a few years ago when its distinguished

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restaurant Lameloise earned a third Michelin rosette; Mercurey, now, surprisingly, the most prolific red-wine communal appellation in all of Burgundy; Givry, boasting particularly tender Pinot Noir wines as well as a gatehouse and a former corn exchange that are two of Burgundy’s secular architectural treasures; Montagny, an appellation that applies only to white wines made from Chardonnay grapes grown on a horseshoe of steeply sloped vineyards above the town of Buxy; and Bourgogne Aligoté Bouzeron, from a small village in a valley hidden between Chagny and Rully, distinguished for delicious white wines made from Aligoté, a grape somewhat disdained elsewhere in Burgundy. (Les Maranges, a brand new appellation established in 1989 on the cusp of the Côte de Beaune and the Côte Chalonnaise, leans toward the former rather than to the latter.)

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All wines made from Pinot Noir grapes grown on the Côte Chalonnaise are entitled to the envelope description Bourgogne Rouge, white wines from Chardonnay may be called Bourgogne Blanc, and white wines from Aligoté, Bourgogne Aligoté. Later this year the qualifying term Côte Chalonnaise will be hyphenated to the word Bourgogne for wines grown there, a move the growers hope will help consumers remember the region by noticing how distinctive is the quality of its wines. The name’s allusion to Chalon-sur-Saône, an industrial river port on the Saône a few miles to the east of the Côte Chalonnaise, is misleading. The Côte Chalonnaise has always looked to Beaune, not to Chalon, as its trade center. The Côte’s main road, lined for mile after mile with ash trees as regularly spaced as sentries, and itself as straight as the Roman road it probably once was, leads north to Chagny and to Dijon. It is by that historic route that the region’s wine has been shipped: to Beaune and from there to markets overseas. Indeed, some would suggest that there has been too much dependence on Beaune, that the region is being allowed to recover its former standing without fanfare to protect its role as a private, almost secret resource of the Beaune wine merchants. Its white wines have more breed, after all, than those of the

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Mâconnais, and its red wines wear a Pinot Noir varietal distinction that has brought Burgundian veracity to many of the merchants’ otherwise nondescript blends. In the southern part of the region, especially around Saint-Gengouxle-National, where the Côte reaches toward the Mâconnais and the Beaujolais, there are extensive plantings of Gamay, the more prolific grape variety used to make Beaujolais. The wine of this area is sold as Bourgogne Grand Ordinaire, or as Bourgogne Passe-Tout-Grains when blended with Pinot Noir. Both versions are popular in France, appreciated as everyday wines with a touch of style; they are rarely exported. But with prices for popular red Burgundies from the Côte d’Or again soaring as a result of early demand for the 1988 and 1989 vintages, the Côte Chalonnaise is increasingly being picked over directly by wine merchants from cities on both sides of the Atlantic. As well it should be. It is not just that the Côte produces 16 percent of Burgundy’s total production (the Côte d’Or contributes 35 percent, the greater Chablis area 14 percent, the Mâconnais 35 percent); more than three quarters of its wine is red—most of it based on Pinot Noir—and all of it of higher quality and greater distinction than Burgundy’s average. The effect of this increased interest can already be seen in a greater preoccupation with meeting the taste of overseas buyers by oak-aging the region’s white wines so that they will more closely resemble those of the Côte de Beaune. The reds, however, are usually more fragrant, milder, and more graceful than those of the Côte d’Or. Unfortunately, because those merchants presently combing the region are really hoping to find substitutes for the Pommards and Gevrey-Chambertins suddenly too expensive for their markets, they are putting pressure on Côte Chalonnaise winemakers to beef up their wines, to make them heavier and richer in tannin, to surrender to the popular myth that “big” wines live longer and must therefore be superior in some way to those too soon too ready to please. In fact, understanding perfectly that the particular appeal of their red wine lies in its fruity delicacy, some of the best growers at Givry

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have preferred to enhance and protect it by investing their money instead in a new type of destalker from Germany. It removes the stems from the bunch while leaving individual grapes whole and uncrushed. Changes within the grape before full fermentation starts and the slower pace when it does—thanks to the yeast being deprived of the freely accessible sugar fully crushed grapes provide—contribute aroma and texture free of coarsening bulk.

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Some Côte Chalonnaise wines are already available in the United States, and we shall see more of them arriving in the next year or two. It might be useful to have the names of a few reliable growers to watch for: Jean-Pierre and Jean-Paul Ragot, for a start. They have controlled their family domain at Givry for the last twenty years. Their best recent wines have been their 1978, 1981, 1985, and 1988—years conventionally considered to be successful in Burgundy. The two cousins’ neat and careful manner is reflected in their style of winemaking: fresh, balanced whites, and reds with a straightforward, well-defined Pinot Noir character. Their neighbor Gérard Mouton is president of the Givry growers’ association. In addition to twelve acres of Pinot Noir just replanted, he has eighteen acres currently in production for Givry Rouge and Blanc, Passe-Tout-Grains, and some Bourgogne Aligoté made from old vines inherited from his father. The Aligoté is so good—fleshy and richly flavored—that he has been reluctant to pull out these old vines despite their uneconomically low yield. The whites from his Chardonnay vines are also well-charged wines— hefty, though, rather than delicate. His reds, on the other hand, are typically Givry: supple with intense flavor and aroma. He revels in the differences to be found among the various vintages of his wines. “One shouldn’t look for the same wine every year. One must approach each vintage with an open mind, ready to draw the best from it.” Gérard Parize has about eleven acres of Pinot Noir for Givry Rouge and an acre or two of Chardonnay for Givry Blanc. He, too, has a new

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destalker, but all in all, he says, he sticks to Burgundian winemaking conventions and adopts new ways with caution. “I prefer to work in a traditional way,” he told me. “Those who went before us knew a thing or two.” His wines have always gone into oak barrels—“I buy new as I can afford them.” To allow for complexity in his wine he tries to slow down fermentation, to keep it going as long as possible. He follows the ancient practice of pigeage: plunging the floating cap of skins under the wine twice a day for improved color and flavor. And most of this work is done manually or at least with minimal equipment. “I am in favor of technology, but you must be careful or it will do the devil’s work for you,” says Parize. His wines, though, are as theologically sound as any: The whites are both plump and graceful, the reds comfortingly spirited.

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The wines of Mercurey, more robust than those of Givry, are also overwhelmingly red. The village sits astride the main road from Chalon to Autun; but until twenty years ago that road was a dividing line between a smaller Mercurey on the north side of the road and Bourgneuf-Vald’Or on the south. Though forming one village as far as anyone could see, these two separate communities faced each other under independent administrations because neither mayor could be persuaded to surrender his sash of office. But when one mayor died of influenza in 1968, the préfet of the department moved quickly to amalgamate the two communities before he could be replaced. French village politics as revealed in Gabriel Chevallier’s Clochemerle are always with us. It is only the location that changes. At least in their praise of the Hôtellerie du Val d’Or, the two halves of the village have always spoken with one voice. The Cogny family runs its small but pretty inn impeccably. The quiet rooms are cozy and well furnished. But one goes to the Val d’Or principally to eat Monsieur Cogny’s simple, exquisitely cooked, regional dishes. When I lunched there last June I was distracted by a dignified, elderly gentleman seated

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at the next table who stayed stoically calm while being advised forthrightly on the management of his vineyard by a woman even more dignified and even more elderly than he. I learned later it was his mother. “Attention,” she would say, eyebrows raised and fork held aloft like a baton to drive home each major point. Distracted or not, I thoroughly enjoyed my salade de Morteau (a warm salad of smoky sausage of the Jura with steamed new potatoes); my biscuit de brochet, a hot soufflé-like mousse of pike; the Burgundian cheeses—Cîteaux, made by the monks whose property once included Clos de Vougeot, and Epoisses, deliciously smelly, from the town where only half the castle was razed at the time of the revolution because only half the family fled the country—and the granité of raspberries and Mercurey wine served on arcs of sweetly fragrant melon. I drank a 1987 Mercurey Blanc, Les Ormeaux, of the Domaine Marcel Protheau  & Fils. Were I not already devoted to the wines of Mercurey, that wine would have converted me. It was elegant, aromatic, perfectly put together—in short, wonderful. I had spent that morning with Hugues de Suremain, a spare, wry man who with his son Yves cultivates fifty-five acres of Mercurey vineyard. “There are about eighty growers with vineyards in the appellation. Their vineyards cover a huge saucer tilted to the south, southeast, and east,” Hugues de Suremain told me. “Our wines are essentially red. Barely 5 percent of the vines here are white: They are planted only in areas heavy in clay. Our soils are mostly better adapted for red wines. We now produce more red wine from Pinot Noir than any other community appellation in Burgundy. “The regulations have always allowed us to put that 5 percent of Chardonnay or Pinot Blanc into our red wine. The white grapes refine it, and that is where most of them once went. But today, growers with white grapes prefer to use them to make a little white wine. The market wants us to make even more. Though if we start planting white grapes at Mercurey where we should have red, we shall have chaos. “Things are better than they were for us. When the appellation sys-

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tem started, before the war, it brought more difficulty than advantage. It didn’t jibe at all with what the distribution system expected. The merchants and distributors had tended to cut corners on things like names. Though more people had been drinking our wine than realized it,” he concluded dryly, “we had a hard time to get them to accept the name Mercurey. By 1946 production here had fallen to six thousand hectoliters. It is now back up to twenty-five thousand.” In contrast to the orderly rows of barrels neatly aligned in the cellar below (“For every twenty-five used barrels, I buy four or five new barrels each year,” he said), the barn where Suremain makes his wine was a gloriously Rococo disorder of vats and barrels, tanks and plastic picking bins, presses, tractor, ladders, and equipment of all kinds—some clearly abandoned. His curly-haired grandson toddled about, exploring happily, as we talked. Suremain’s small production of white wine is richly textured. His reds, once described to me as the Rolls-Royces of Mercurey, are from sites either already classified as premiers crus or in the process of being so classified. He vinifies separately the crop from each one and took me through various lots of his 1988 vintage. They ranged in style from the finely delicate Sazenay (“It’s stony up on that vineyard”) to the dark and solid Bondue (“Needs racking”). Every one of them was elegantly balanced, every one had a long, engaging flavor. Suremain’s nephew, Paul de Launay, has thirty-five acres or so of Pinot Noir in his Domaine du Meix-Foulot on the Montaigu height above the village. His wines have a light, even flowery, style. Their evanescent effect is deceptive. When I lunched with him we had, for example, a Mercurey Blanc ’83—admittedly a big year—which had developed in bottle an astonishing depth of flavor. His red Clos du Château de Montaigu ’71 that followed showed age only in its bouquet—it was remarkably lively.

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Michel Juillot’s wines, though still within the range expected of Mercurey, are almost the opposite. Juillot’s house on the main Autun road

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is by far the prettiest in the village. It is smothered in flowers: Roses, begonias, and geraniums climb trellises, drape from window boxes, and overflow from pots, barrels, and borders. Though describing himself as a traditionalist in winemaking, Juillot is an energetic man, seeking always to improve on what he has done in the past. He has experimented with destalking versus whole bunch and with total crushing, part crushing, and no crushing of grapes. He has experimented over the past five or six years with aging wines in casks of varied sizes, ages, and types of oak. “The impact of oak allows longer aging,” he said, “but I find the wine then has less finesse. Unfortunately, we are pressed all the time by journalists and others who do not understand our wines. They would be happier if Burgundy tasted more like Bordeaux.” Juillot’s 1988 Mercurey Blanc makes an immediate impression. Seventy percent of it was assembled from wine fermented in stainless-steel tanks, with the balance fermented in barrels. It has concentrated flavor, rich texture, and a long finish. His reds are impressive, too. Both the 1988 Clos de Tonnerre and the 1985 he brought out as a basis for comparison were so striking that I decided it would be unfair to visit any more cellars that afternoon. The 1985, with brilliant garnet color, had a rare combination of intensity and delicacy. It had an aroma and flavor of black currants that seemed never to end. The 1988, at its present stage, seemed to be even more concentrated. We shall see. One of the Mercurey estates that produce a substantial proportion of white wine—30 percent of its total production—is the Domaine Saier. Xavier Mounot, its chef de cave, told me, “We have land that lends itself more to white wine than to red, and, as the demand is there, we decided to make the most of it.” He told me that he wants whites that have both finesse and fullness. He showed me a very fruity (pears?) 1988 from the Chenelots vineyard that seemed to fit that description exactly. Another, equally full, from the Champs Martin vineyard, was much firmer—but somewhat in thrall to the flavor of new oak. I was already familiar with the Saier reds, having enjoyed them often on earlier visits to the Hôtellerie du

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Val d’Or. The 1988s had a lively zest and a compact, distinctive flavor. (The French tasting terms nerveux and racé certainly apply to them, but, as wine tasting terms, these words are virtually untranslatable: In English nervous and racy, especially used together, have different connotations.) After showing me a goodly selection of 1988 and 1987 wines, Mounot produced for me a bottle of Mercurey Rouge ’76. It was made before his time as chef de cave, but he thought the grapes had come from the Chenelots vineyard. The wine was aging well: Its color was still brilliant, and the bouquet, no longer quite the straightforward Pinot Noir of the younger wines, suggested old leather, exotic spices, and dried orange peel.

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On clear mornings, the view from the top of Montagny’s steep hill of vines takes in the valley of the Saône, the distant hills of the Jura, and, beyond them, a blurred white line of snow-capped Alps. A community of monks at La Ferté, affiliated with the great abbey of Cluny, first planted vines on that slope a thousand years ago, an appropriate beginning for the sole Côte Chalonnaise appellation in which a communal cave coopérative (the Cave de Buxy) still plays a major role by vinifying 70 percent of all Montagny wine. In the early 1960s the cooperative’s board abandoned oak barrels and wooden vats of all kinds. They turned to a “rational” system of stainless-steel tanks for the production of both red and white wines made intentionally for early consumption. They aimed to save the heavy cost of investing in and maintaining barrels as well as to reduce their investment in maturing wines. By 1980 the expanding borders of the European Economic Community put that policy in jeopardy. Clearly the market for anonymously simple, “cash flow” wines was soon to be dominated by growers in more reliable climates. The members of the Cave de Buxy watched their red-wine sales erode and decided to return to a policy of enhancing and protecting the distinction and quality inherent in their appellations.

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They started with a modest program of aging part of their production of Pinot Noir-based Bourgogne Rouge in barrels. They built a handsomely vaulted underground cellar, where they installed larger wooden vats to age their white wines to allow them to soften and acquire fuller flavor without being overwhelmed by oak. They began a program of barrel-fermenting some batches of Montagny. And all the time they checked their wines against bottles from the most prestigious growers of the Côte d’Or. They set themselves high standards, and they have succeeded. The Cave de Buxy now sells reasonably priced wines to a number of regional importers in the United States. Labels and cuvée names vary, but the name Cave de Buxy usually appears somewhere on the label. There are about a dozen Montagny growers independent of the Cave de Buxy. Alain Roy, the deputy mayor of Montagny, has thirty-three acres—the largest holding—on which he produces an assertively muscular wine sold under the label of his Château de la Saule. The hill of Montagny is used to produce only white wine because its chalky clay is better adapted to white wine than to red. “The soil here is basically the same as at Meursault,” Roy told me.

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Aubert de Villaine, whose family are part owners of the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, has a house in Bouzeron with a vineyard for the production of Bourgogne Aligoté Bouzeron, a rather special wine and the only other exclusively white-wine appellation of the Côte Chalonnaise. The question of an appellation for Bouzeron was first raised in 1936, but at that time many of the vineyards in the valley were still neglected after the ravages of phylloxera. The appellation was finally granted in March 1979. According to De Villaine, who talked as he showed me round his cellar, the success of Bouzeron’s Aligoté is not just a question of the situation of the vineyards. Much is due to the clone planted there: the Aligoté Doré. It has a small yield and ripens especially well. De Villaine’s 1988 was intensely fruity (it reminded me of the smell of bubble gum) and

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elegantly structured. It bore no resemblance to the simple, rather flabby Aligotés from the plain that have given the variety a poor reputation. He uncorked bottles of one vintage after another. “It’s not that age is important in this wine,” he said. “I just want you to see how well it holds up, because that is the sign of structure and balance in a wine.” Bouzeron is tucked away from the main road, but as the crow flies it is cheek by jowl with Rully, another village better known for its white wine than for its red, though it produces roughly equal quantities of each. Jean-François Delorme, grower and merchant, is probably the bestknown and certainly one of the largest of the Rully producers. His Domaine de la Renarde produces some of the most interesting red wines of the appellation. His whites, though, are even better—bright, crisp, and smelling of fresh apricots. Xavier Noël-Bouton, another well-known grower at Rully and the congenially garrulous president of its growers’ association, returned to Burgundy to run the family vineyard after years spent in Switzerland combining a training in econometrics with international studies. “I followed courses that could only have been designed to prepare us for positions as ministers of finance in small countries,” he told me. “But unfortunately there were no such posts vacant, so I came home.” Home is Rully’s Domaine de la Folie, where a maternal great-grandfather, physiologist Etienne-Jules Marey, invented cinematography. Noël-Bouton, too, makes delicious red wines. They are light but intensely flavored. “I am always ready to sacrifice weight and color for the sake of flavor and grace,” he told me. In the tradition of Rully his whites are even better than his reds. We tasted several of them. Two stood out—both from his Clos St. Jacques. The first was a superb 1987, a wine so perfect it is impossible to describe: No one thing can be picked apart from anything else. The second was a 1959 from the same vineyard: still fresh, still brilliant after thirty years, and with an aroma and flavor of quince jam. Growers on the Côte Chalonnaise would like Americans to know

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their wines better. Xavier Noël-Bouton seems to be very enthusiastic about California in particular. A large California Republic flag is pinned conspicuously to the wall behind his desk. On second thought, though, perhaps I missed the point of that flag. I wonder how small a country he had had in mind? Originally published as “Côte Chalonnaise” in Gourmet, February 1990. The Ragot family domain is now managed by Jean-Paul Ragot and his son Nicolas. The Hôtellerie du Val d’Or is now owned by Dominique Jayot, who had worked with the Cogny family for some twenty years as the restaurant’s maître d’hôtel and sommelier. The Domaine de la Renarde is now known as the Domaine Anne & Jean-François Delorme.

white wines of the southern rhône A Fresh Look at Old Varieties

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osing around the cellars in the southern Rhône Valley four or five years ago to check on reports of a particularly successful vintage, I was surprised to find almost every grower at pains to suggest a taste of his white wine—“just as a rinse”—before his red. It was an unusual way for growers there to carry on: Producers of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Gigondas, and Côtes-du-Rhône-Villages know their strong suit to be red wine, their whites having been dismissed, justly or not, as shapeless—the sort of wines, most of them at any rate, that were old before they were ever young. To avoid embarrassment I had ready the usual arsenal of noncommittal harrumphs and murmurs. But what I had expected and what I found were far apart: Each white wine offered seemed to be more delicious than the one before. They were delightfully aromatic, bright, and enticing. Obviously something rather dramatic had occurred. Whites represent little more than 2 percent of the wine production of the Rhône Valley, and in the past their inconsistent quality has made them seem even less significant than that. Faced with a limited and unremunerative demand—white Rhône wines have sold only as bargain substitutes for others temporarily unavailable or, for one reason or another, passingly overpriced—growers were understandably reluctant to make the financial commitment that alone could raise standards and increase production to a level that would build a durable market. A liberating jolt from this vicious circle came in the early eighties 34

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when prices of white Burgundies, including Mâcon Blanc, rose sharply in response to demand from the United States, boosted by a then strong dollar. Too expensive for the French market, white Burgundies flowed across the Atlantic, leaving behind a vacuum within a price range of great attraction to Rhône winegrowers. As a result, investment in the new technology of making white wines—stainless steel, temperaturecontrolled fermentation—already so effective elsewhere around the world, at last made economic sense to them. The growers had also been particularly encouraged by a new attitude on the part of the National Institute of Appellations of Origin. In 1984 the institute had given the nod to the growers of some districts of the lower Rhône by allowing them that year to chaptalize their grape juice before fermentation. The right to chaptalize—to adjust the sugar level of unfermented grape juice—is never automatic, though in some regions of France permission is given almost every year. For historical as much as for practical reasons, however, chaptalization had never until then been allowed in the south. The institute’s gesture therefore marked a departure and reassured the growers that there would no longer be an automatic refusal should the growers need to take steps to help nature when nature had failed to help them. Paradoxically, that reassurance alone, at least as much as actual chaptalization, went far to improve quality. Knowing that sugar levels could be fine-tuned in the fermenting vats, growers were freed from one anxiety and could direct their attention to the more crucial matter of the acidity on which the freshness and flavor of any white wine depends. Much nonsense is written about chaptalization, a practice that, unless abused, is in itself neither good nor bad but merely a practical corrective. The word derives from the name of Jean-Antoine Chaptal, the French statesman responsible for the introduction of the metric system of measure into Napoleonic France. In meager years, since time immemorial, honey and concentrated grape juice were added by rule of thumb to

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enrich grape juice before fermentation. The technique was perfected in the eighteenth century, when the invention of the saccharometer allowed the accurate reading of a liquid’s sugar concentration. The availability, after 1801, of cheap, refined (and therefore flavorless) sugar from beets grown within France gave the practice further impetus and greater success.

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However, though new equipment and improved winemaking added aromatic virtues to the region’s white wines, they also revealed small sins previously hidden by greater ones. It became clear that most of the region’s white grape varieties had one deficiency or another when used alone to make white wine. The white varieties, originally planted at random among the black, had been introduced there over time to bring finesse to the region’s red wines. But toward the close of the nineteenth century and for much of the early twentieth, Rhône wines were largely sought out for bulk blending. Before 1945 the entire production of even so prestigious an estate as Château Mont-Redon at Châteauneuf-duPape, for example, was regularly sold in bulk to the trade. Burgundy’s merchants were then the region’s best customers, and for their purpose—the “improvement” of their own weaker wines—finesse was far less useful than color and alcohol. At their behest, more black Grenache was planted: It gave what was most needed, even if it made Châteauneufdu-Pape a clumsy parody of what it once had been. Many growers simply wrenched out their white varieties to be done with them once it was clear they were superfluous to the style of red wine the market wanted from them. But to others white varieties were an insurance policy, the means to revert to an earlier style should demand turn yet again. So though white varieties were progressively plucked from mixed vineyards, they were often prudently replanted in separate plots. Many white varieties that had previously flourished in the region virtually disappeared at this time, however, though their names continue to be recited in the litany of the thirteen black and white vari-

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eties permitted by law to contribute to wines carrying the controlled appellation of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The survivors, those most widely planted today, were Grenache Blanc, Clairette, Bourboulenc, and Ugni Blanc, of which the first three, in varied proportions, are the ones most often used for the region’s white wines. Grenache Blanc gives a wine alcohol—sugars rise quickly in Grenache grapes, both white and black—as well as body and weight. Clairette brings to the wine a soft delicacy and a gentle fragrance. But neither has much in the way of acidity to provide a wine with backbone. Both give wines that tend to oxidize easily. Bourboulenc ripens late, but its acidity and its very particular character contribute both definition and flavor to a wine. It can also inject an astringent, even bitter, note if not handled with discretion. Interest in Bourboulenc has revived in recent years because of the structure it brings to wines made from Grenache Blanc and Clairette. There is not much to be said for Ugni Blanc (alias Trebbiano Toscano), on the other hand, except that it exists and it is white.

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Some varieties proved better adapted than others to the new role they were expected to play. Growers tinkered with the proportions of this one or that and began to add varieties traditionally used to make white wines in the northern Rhône—Roussanne, Marsanne, and Viognier. Viognier is the fragile but highly perfumed white variety used to make Condrieu and Château Grillet, presently two of the rarest wines of France. The growers had before them the example of Laudun, a village near Bagnols-sur-Cèze on the west bank of the Rhône, which, together with its neighboring communities of Tresques and Saint-Victor-La-Coste, had been producing a much appreciated white wine for centuries. Olivier de Serres, widely described as the father of French agriculture, in 1600 singled out Laudun for praise as one of the best white wines of France. In fact, its pedigree goes farther back than that. Caesar set up camp near present-day Laudun in his conquest of Gaul, and Roman wine pots

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found at the base of a vine-covered hill there adorn the first-century temple known as the Maison Carrée in Nîmes. “Laudun,” said André Jullien, the Paris wine merchant and writer, in 1816, “produces white wines which conserve well their softness; they are light, lively, and of good flavor.” A judgment I can support. Laudun now produces far more red wine than white. Yet each year the village cooperative, the Cave des Quatre Chemins, produces enough white wine to bottle the equivalent of fifty to sixty thousand cases. In good years, when the quality is especially high, it sells at a price 50 percent more than the red. But there can be little doubt that the best white wine of Laudun is presently produced—in limited quantity, alas—by Luc Pélaquié on his family’s domain at Saint-Victor-La-Coste. I went back there earlier this year to see if his wine really was as attractive as I had found it on my previous visit. It had then been a benchmark for me, a pleasure on a particularly miserable, drizzly day. This time spring was well advanced, apricot blossom drifted everywhere, and the optimistic mood (both previous vintages had given general satisfaction) was fortified by a warm sun, a light breeze, and a clear, blue sky.

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The Gard side of the Rhône, the west bank, is quite different from Avignon and the surrounding Vaucluse. It is austere in ways hard to define and seems set in a more sober, even a harsher, reality than the pretty towns and villages scattered over the lower slopes of Mont Ventoux. The sleepy air of Saint-Victor-La-Coste was deceptively at odds with the brisk activity chronicled on the village notice board. Parents had just occupied the village school to protest a regional reorganization. They were supported in their action by the mayor, who had shut down the administrative offices of the village for a day. I read of hearings planned to question the proposed route of a new Paris-Barcelona train à grande vitesse that seemed likely to cut through some of the commune’s best vineyard land. Protest and individual involvement are not new on this side of the

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Rhône. In the religious wars of the sixteenth century it was Protestant territory, and in 1876 Jules Guyot, the eminent viticulturist, doubtless with the horrors of the popular uprisings of the Paris Commune fresh in his mind, complained bitterly and exceptionally of the insolence of the laborers on the west bank of the Rhône. “It is painful to see the exploitation of the land-owners by their workers,” he said in his Etude des Vignobles de France, a work of several volumes otherwise concerned solely and entirely with technical matters of viticulture. What particularly upset Guyot was the independence with which Gard farm workers, even in summer, delayed starting their day’s work until half past seven in the morning in order first to work elsewhere for three or four hours. He complained that they would then quit at five in the afternoon so that they could again work at some other task in the evening. At length he railed against them and at their self-assurance. “Each one thinks himself knowledgeable and capable,” he chided. And that is probably what they did think. In 1889, on the square in front of their new village offices, they dedicated a monument not to saints, war heroes, or their betters, but to the idea of a rational world. The obelisk, commemorating Galileo Galilei and Isaac Newton, is still there. It displays on three of its four faces a hymn to science inscribed in the form of the metric measures of length, area, and volume. (“A meter is 1/40,000,000 part of the circumference of the globe,” it begins.) On its fourth side is a list of the members of the village council who had caused the obelisk to be erected. Luc Pélaquié, a descendant of a man whose name figures there and of yet earlier Pélaquiés whose names had figured in the records of village deliberations for at least two centuries before that, seems to follow tradition. The space he uses as office, sample room, case store, reception area, and laboratory offers more in the way of posters, pamphlets, and information sheets to protest the imminent extinction of the last bears of France in the Pyrenees—and to proclaim the similar fate likely to befall the elephants of Africa—than it does to inform visitors about the wines of his domain. On the other hand, I suppose he can reasonably

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assume that those who find their way to his house, hardly on a main route, already know why they take the trouble. I tasted with him a suite of white wines from five vintages, 1985 to 1989. All were deliciously fresh, delicately tender, elegantly friand. (An affectation, that word, I know; but dainty, the English translation, has nothing but impossibly insipid associations.) The quality of Laudun wines is inseparable from its slopes of sandy chalk. But the wines owe their gracefully fragrant style to the preponderance of Clairette vines grown on them. Pélaquié, for example, uses 70 percent Clairette for his wine, supported by a mix of Grenache Blanc for fullness, Bourboulenc for structure, and Viognier—a recent introduction—for persistence of flavor.

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Jean-Jacques Verda of Lirac’s Château Saint-Roch, on the other hand, uses a much more conventional combination of roughly a third each of Clairette, Grenache Blanc, and Bourboulenc, though he had, since my previous visit, reduced slightly the proportion of Clairette in favor of more Bourboulenc. “Bourboulenc keeps the wine lively,” he said, “but it must be picked early—forget it’s a late ripener—and pressed very gently to avoid bitterness.” The 1985 I had tasted from the barrel on my last visit had been an impressive wine. Without being either harsh or overbearing, his 1988 and 1989 tasted on this visit were both quite big. Bourboulenc character was especially noticeable in the 1989. Verda said it reminded him of garrigue, the sweet-smelling brush that covers the barren hillsides farther west. “It’s our region,” he said. “It’s as important to us as anything else Bourboulenc gives the wine.” Verda told me that Château Saint-Roch now sold more than 30 percent of its white wine production to restaurants, whereas only a few years ago it had sold none. That growing interest in the region’s white wines influenced Guy Steinmaier when he reconstituted an abandoned vineyard on a ridge seven or eight hundred feet above the Rhône just

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north of Laudun and Bagnols. He had bought the land and an old cottage in 1965 and over the next ten years made successive purchases to enlarge the property to seventy-five acres of vineyard scattered in several lots around the house and winery. The hamlet there, Les Cellettes, was virtually deserted when Steinmaier first brought his family to it from Burgundy. Now there are 250 acres of vineyard planted, including those of Steinmaier’s Domaine Sainte-Anne, and quite a few families are living there tending them. Guy Steinmaier’s son Alain is now in charge of the family vineyards. Since 1978, when he completed his studies at the schools of Beaune and Dijon, his other son, Jean, has been responsible for making the wine. Jean is enthusiastically single-minded about his work. His wines have already established the Domaine Sainte-Anne precipitately and decisively in the front rank of Rhône Valley estates. The wines are indeed superb, the reds a reproof to those who doubt that a wine can be darkly concentrated and intensely flavored and still be impeccably balanced. On this occasion I was more interested in his whites. The Steinmaiers rely on Clairette and Bourboulenc only to a limited extent. To give their white wine a more flowery length, a more muscular solidity, they have planted Roussanne and Marsanne, the northern Rhône varieties used for Hermitage Blanc. They have also planted six acres of Viognier, which they bottle separately as a varietal. Steinmaier drew for me samples from as yet unblended barrels of 1989 Roussanne and Marsanne so that I could compare the firm, almost aggressive style of Roussanne against the cleanly aromatic Marsanne. I tasted his 1989 and 1988 Viognier. Both samples had the quite distinct varietal aroma—to me it is a cross between hawthorn blossom and ripe mango—though it was particularly strong in the 1989, perhaps because of its youth.

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Viognier, a recent arrival in the region, was never included in the omnibus assortment of grapes permitted by the appellation law for Châteauneuf-du-Pape, though many varieties of less distinction are to

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be found there. Essentially, white Châteauneuf-du-Pape is based on the same mix of grapes as those used at Lirac: Grenache Blanc, Clairette, and Bourboulenc. Two of the best examples, those of the Domaine Font de Michelle and Château Mont-Redon, are based on an almost identical varietal mix, give or take a few percentage points, with Grenache Blanc contributing half, or almost half, of the total and Clairette and Bourboulenc making up the balance in roughly equal proportions. Both wines have a little Roussanne, too, to add character and structure, and the owners of Mont-Redon have retained in their vineyard a small proportion of Picpoul and Terret, old varieties now hardly to be found at Châteauneuf-du-Pape but that give added vivacity to a blend. The Bourboulenc aroma and flavor—it might be garrigue to JeanJacques Verda but to me it is tilleul, linden-flower tea—really comes through in the Font de Michelle. I tasted the 1985 after tasting the 1989 to see how it developed in bottle. The wine was still fresh and light but with the engaging bouquet of a mature white wine. There was tremendous vintage variation among the white wines I tasted at Château de Beaucastel. But then the wines as a whole were also vividly distinct from other whites of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. JeanPierre Perrin uses different proportions of different varieties from everyone else. His wine is made with 80 percent Roussane and 20 percent Grenache Blanc, a combination that guarantees him a firmer, more aggressive style of wine. Everything else he does, too, seems to be the obverse of what his neighbors do. They pick early; he picks late. They vinify in stainless steel; he makes half his white wine in enameled metal tanks and the other half in small oak barrels. Whereas other Châteauneuf-du-Pape growers block any possibility of malolactic fermentation (the bacterial change that transforms sharply accented malic acid into milder lactic acid), Perrin makes sure that all his white wines go through it. Perrin drew from barrel several samples for me to taste: here a Roussanne with the rich taste of new oak, there a white Grenache with surprisingly crisp acidity, here a wine from especially old Roussanne

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vines, and there an example from a block of old Grenache. A 1988 Roussanne made exclusively from old vines seemed closer in style to a white Burgundy than it did to anything else I had tasted in the region, a 1987 had the nuttiness of a Jura wine, and a 1979 seemed still fresher and paler than wines he had made ten years later. Though it was difficult to find stylistic consistency among these wines of Beaucastel, they were all equally exciting.

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Except at these Châteauneuf-du-Pape estates, few growers on the eastern, Vaucluse, side of the Rhône have attempted until now to make their own white wine. That is partly because the white wine tradition has been largely confined to the west bank, but also because most Vaucluse growers are small and the limited proportion of white grapes in their vineyards did not justify, and often still does not justify, the duplicate installation needed. They send their white grapes to the cooperatives, instead. The Français-Monier de Saint Estève family of Château Saint Estève, north of Orange, is one of a number of exceptions. At the end of the 1970s they extended their plantings of white varieties, introducing both Roussanne and Viognier from the northern Rhône. Their principal white wine, Château Saint Estève Blanc, is based on Roussanne, Grenache Blanc, and Clairette with an insignificant mix of other varieties. The substitution of Roussanne for Bourboulenc in the trinity of varieties standard in this region is an important difference but seems to work well. The 1989 had an attractive aroma and a reasonably intense flavor. But though the wine was good, I was puzzled by a slightly “thick” finish. Marc Français, the family member in charge, told me that his winemaker allowed the juice and skins of the white grapes to macerate together overnight before pressing, and I wondered if that could have anything to do with it. Château Saint Estève is also producing a pungently aromatic Viognier—some of it, in 1989, fermented in barrel. The new oak rather dominated the sample I tasted, but Français told me that the small volume of this barrel-fermented wine was intended

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only to give further complexity when added to the rest of the Viognier fermented in tank. The subject of macerating grape skin and juice before fermentation came up again at the Cave La Vigneronne, the efficiently run cooperative cellar at Villedieu, beyond Vaison-la-Romaine. It was there on my previous trip that I had tasted the first of many whites, and I remembered with pleasure how unexpected had been its exuberant aroma and fresh flavor. To make it, Jean-Pierre Andrillat, the cooperative’s director, had used roughly the varietal proportions of Grenache Blanc, Bourboulenc, and Clairette common for white wines on the Vaucluse side of the Rhône. The only real difference in Andrillat’s wine was the Ugni Blanc he had mixed with his Clairette. Andrillat told me he had changed his white-wine strategy since I was last there. He still prepared each varietal wine separately (and then blended them together before bottling). But the steady increase in the cooperative’s overall production of white wine now allowed him to bottle a pure Bourboulenc. The rest of the cooperative’s white wine production was being sold in bulk to other bottlers. Why had he singled out Bourboulenc? “Because of its character, its intense aroma and flavor,” he said. “We ship all of it to England, and it suits the style our importer there wants.” Andrillat’s 1988 and 1989 Bourboulenc had been awarded Gold Medals at the annual Concours Général Agricole de Paris (news of the medal for the 1989 came through while I sat in his office). He knows what he is about. But though I found in it much to admire, I liked his pure Bourboulenc far less than I had the wine of mixed varietals tasted at the cooperative on my previous visit. A hard, bitter finish seemed at odds with the aromatic blandishments with which the Bourboulenc opened. He told me he now allowed the chilled juice and skins of his Bourboulenc to macerate before pressing. Speaking to me in French, Andrillat nevertheless used English words—le skin contact was what he said—

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when describing to me what he had done, leaving me in no doubt that California had been his source of inspiration for this change. It would have been tactless to tell him that in California there was now little enthusiasm for soaking the juice and skins of white grapes together before pressing and fermenting. It had been in favor in the late seventies and early eighties, but the state’s winemakers now believe prolonged skin contact makes a white wine coarse and leads to premature oxidation. As we talked I remembered how in the early 1960s Italian winemakers, determined to improve the quality of their harsh and often prematurely aged white wines, had gradually stopped their practice of macerating grape skins and juice together in favor of pressing promptly to separate the juice for fermentation. With pride they would tell me they were now making their wine alla francese—in the French manner. There could be good reason, of course, why a practice discontinued in Italy, and found not to work very well for Chardonnay in California, might give excellent results for Bourboulenc in France. But I couldn’t help asking myself whether Jean-Pierre Andrillat, and the winemaker at Château Saint Estève, too, for that matter, would have adopted le skin contact with such alacrity if it had been presented to them not as the latest high-tech idea from California but as a rustic and old-as-the-hills practice from Italy. Originally published as “Cocoons and Butterflies: White Wines of the Southern Rhône” in Gourmet, July 1990. In the text I neglected to point out the significance of the year the obelisk at Saint-Victor-La-Coste was erected. 1889 was the centenary of the fall of the Bastille and the start of the French Revolution. The Domaine Sainte-Anne now bottles a cuvée of pure Viognier, and a Côtes du Rhône Blanc produced from equal parts of Roussanne, Marsanne, Clairette, Bourboulenc, and Viognier. The standard white “Tradition” of Château SaintEstève is now produced from 70 percent Roussanne and 30 percent Grenache Blanc.

muscadet Ocean Breezes and Estuary Sands

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n the 1960s I spent my time as a wine importer shuttling by car between England and France. The quickest route was the air ferry connecting what had been a Battle of Britain airstrip in the Kent marshes to the beach resort of Le Touquet on the other side of the Channel. The flight, in a transport plane just large enough to hold three cars, took fifteen minutes. If I left London after breakfast, I could be touching down at Le Touquet by midday, the perfect time for a bowl of mussels steamed in white wine and a glass of Muscadet before driving on. That pause by the sea for moules marinière and a glass of wine helped me remember, I suppose, that I was back in France. It has been years since I could eat a mussel (I later acquired an allergy to most shellfish), but with the first sip from a glass of Muscadet I still recall landing at Le Touquet, the sound of gulls shrieking over boats at low tide; eating those mussels, using the shell of one to scoop out the meat of the others; and the exhilaration I always felt, knowing I would be at the Boulevard Périphérique by late afternoon with the boundless possibilities of a Paris evening before me. Everything from Champagne to Manzanilla Sherry has been proposed, at one time or another, as the perfect match for shellfish. But at any quayside café from Boulogne to Quimper a bowl of moules marinière, a platter of oysters, or a dish of grisettes—those tiny, sweet shrimp that are a Boulogne specialty—will almost always be escorted by a bottle of Muscadet. In France, Muscadet is to white wine what Beaujolais is 46

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to red. But it has never really found its place in the United States. The name is a handicap, of course, because many Americans assume (why shouldn’t they?) that Muscadet is somehow related to Muscat, a variety with image problems of its own. Even my word processor’s spell-check insists when I type Muscadet that I must really mean Muscatel. In fact, Muscadet, from vineyards at the estuary of the Loire, has always been in a category of its own: fresh, dry, and delicately understated. The region is divided into three zones: Muscadet, Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine, and Muscadet des Coteaux de la Loire. Together, these three appellations form a crescent from south of Nantes to vineyards well to its northeast. An allusion to Beaujolais is not entirely gratuitous. The Muscadet grape, known elsewhere as the Melon de Bourgogne, is a white version of the black Gamay from which Beaujolais is made. It found its way from Burgundy to the Loire Valley in the sixteenth century, eventually spreading into the Pays Nantais, the region around Nantes, after the notoriously severe winter of 1709 had destroyed the vines previously planted there. No one has been able to explain convincingly how or why the name was switched to Muscadet (grape and wine share the same name, as in California), but a nineteenth-century grape directory lists a Melon Musqué that was said to have arrived in the Loire Valley at the same time. Possibly these two then became confused (assuming they were ever distinct), with the modified name of one adhering to the other. Despite long years of shipments to Amsterdam (for centuries the Dutch were the biggest buyers of all Loire wines), neither the old Pays Nantais wine made from Gros Plant nor the new Muscadet was much seen in France outside the region of production until a tour of the area by the sommeliers of Paris in 1929 led to its adoption in the capital. Within a few years one could generally assume that a white wine offered by the glass or carafe in any self-respecting Paris bar would be Muscadet. Contrary to what one might expect, Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine and not plain Muscadet is the principal appellation of the three. It

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embraces 85 percent of all Muscadet produced. The name came into use in 1926 when growers of La Haye-Fouassière, a village on the right bank of the Sèvre Nantaise, a small river that flows into the Loire opposite Nantes, engaged a lawyer to help them draw up a defensible definition of the wine produced in the half-dozen communes around the confluence of the Sèvre and its even smaller tributary, the Petite Maine. Vineyards in this area, all of them on well-exposed slopes and knolls, had long been thought to produce the best wines of the Pays Nantais. The upheavals of phylloxera had encouraged wine fraud all over France, and the growers needed a specific definition of their wine if they were to take action in the courts to defend it. The success of the growers in establishing the appellation and in protecting it made Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine a sort of code name for genuine Muscadet. More and more growers wanted to be identified with it, and by the time the newly founded National Institute of Appellations of Origin gave legal recognition to the name in 1936 it had been expanded to include twenty-three communities together with twenty-two thousand acres of vines. The simpler appellation of Muscadet, on the other hand, established a year later, applies to no more than perhaps two thousand acres. Muscadet des Coteaux de la Loire, around Ancenis on the rocky north bank of the Loire, represents a tiny proportion of Muscadet. The wine grown there is usually leaner and firmer than Muscadet and Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine.

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I went down to the Pays Nantais last spring, as much to talk with the growers as to taste their wines. I’d heard that there were problems. Nantes seemed closer to Paris since last I had visited the city. Apart from the autoroute, a train à grande vitesse now links Nantes with Paris— a distance of about 250 miles—in just two hours. Nineteenth-century railway lines, like early trunk roads, were intended to string together as many intermediary towns as possible, but the new long-distance, high-speed tracks in France have been laid to avoid them. So the blue

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and silver train streaked away from the Gare Montparnasse into a sun-dappled kaleidoscope of white Charolais cattle and beech woods, roses and timbered farm houses before pulling into Angers in the Loire Valley. It eventually came to a gliding halt on the outskirts of Nantes. The vineyards begin only minutes away from the city, and in no time at all I was talking with Claude Athimon, export director of Sautejeau, one of the biggest firms of growers and merchants in the region. He described the current situation frankly. “In France and in England—England is our biggest export market— wines are sold increasingly in supermarkets,” he told me. “A consumer can shop around simply by glancing at the next wine on the shelf. A year or two ago Muscadet producers allowed their prices to rise too high too quickly—they went up 20, even 25 percent. We soon discovered that our Muscadet consumers hadn’t been buying Muscadet at all. They had been buying an attractive dry white wine at an acceptable price. When Muscadet was twelve francs, they bought it. When it went to sixteen francs, they bought something else.” But there has always been something else cheaper, surely? “There has indeed,” he said. “But that something else is now a lot better than it was. Everyone has refrigeration these days, and the fruity aromas generated by cold fermentation in a correctly made jug wine are not very different from the aromas of an appellation white wine in which varietal character has been surrendered to the same technology.” We drank a glass of Sautejeau’s 1991 Château de l’Hyvernière as we talked. “Both its pale color and the flavor come from bottling the wine directly off its lees,” Athimon told me. “All our wines are left on their lees in the stainless-steel tanks where they are fermented until we are ready to bottle them. The practice is typical of Muscadet and keeps the wine fresh while allowing it to develop flavor and texture. The wine can expand without oxidizing.”

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Marcel Martin, a former president of the Comité Interprofessionnel des Vins du Pays Nantais whom I met later that afternoon, explained that

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the local dilemma was essentially one of trying to enhance Muscadet— to boost its qualities and character—while retaining its familiar discreet style. “Those who say that Muscadet is and should remain a simple wine are right. But no wine region can rest where it is when others are changing. Competition in the market is much keener now. An ambitious grower wants his wine to be bold even while conforming to Muscadet’s general characteristics. If his particular vineyard lends some special quality to his wine he wants it to be noticed and remembered. “Growers here have always felt themselves under greater pressure than others to bring out the personality of their wines. The Muscadet grape doesn’t have a particularly robust aroma, like Sauvignon Blanc for example. Some select a special clone or reduce their yields. Others might rely on techniques of winemaking, macerating skins and juice before fermentation, using specially selected yeast cultures, or aging the wine in new oak barrels. Whatever a grower does, though, is not an end in itself. Usually he is trying to raise the profile of his wine by letting it express his vineyard as completely as possible. “He has good reason for that. Character is something the consumer recognizes and becomes attached to. And if a grower can show our National Institute of Appellations of Origin that his vineyard is producing wine of consistent quality and of distinctive character he can ask for the vineyard to be designated a ‘cru.’ I don’t have to tell you how helpful that can be to him, especially now. There has been a suggestion that the three Muscadet appellations should be merged into one and a series of crus created to indicate where the best wines are grown.” Martin is himself a grower, the proprietor of the Clos de la Sablette, and I asked him to doff his diplomatic hat for a moment, explaining all and criticizing nothing, and tell me what he himself chooses to do in making his wine. “At Sablette,” he said, “we pick by machine and press the fruit immediately. It’s fresher that way. We chill the juice and let it stand for fortyeight hours to fall clear. Then we analyze and taste it and assemble

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different, compatible lots to make up our blends before we ferment. Because we bottle all our wines directly off the lees, we couldn’t blend later without disturbing them. Some assemble their blends by choosing this or that lot of grapes in the vineyard, but I think there is too much guesswork in that. “We ferment in glass-lined vats using selected yeasts. It’s a mistake, in my view, to use oak. Our wine is not Meursault. Oak masks the personality of a wine when we should be enhancing it. Much of the style and success of a wine is decided by the fermentation. We experiment endlessly with different yeast cultures, exercising as much control over the fermentation as we can. “When the fermentation is over we leave the wine in the vat on its lees—checking it from time to time—and, depending on what we find, perhaps stirring the lees occasionally. Yeast in the lees scavenge for oxygen and keep the wine fresh. A week or two before bottling we lower the temperature of the vat to precipitate any tartrates in the wine. We do that to avoid crystals forming later in the bottle, of course. But the tartrates also help hold the lees firm and ease the job of drawing off the wine for bottling. By law, a wine sold sur lie must be in bottle by June 30.” To illustrate his remark about fermentation, he brought out two bottles of his 1990 vintage drawn from separate cuvées, each made from identical grapes but fermented with a different yeast. One, softly ripe, was almost Burgundian in style; the other, livelier, had more aroma and a more focused flavor. Before I left, he opened a bottle of his 1979. It was an enticing wine of great elegance, mature yet wonderfully fresh; it still had the ghost of a bead of carbon-dioxide—the usual sign of strict sur lie bottling. Martin offered it for my pleasure, but he was also making a point. Only white wines of perfect balance show as well as that after twelve years in bottle.

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That night I had dinner at La Bonne Auberge at Clisson, the little town clustered around the castle that marks the southern limit both of Muscadet and of Brittany. A dish of warm gougères—cheese and puff pas-

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try—arrived at the table with the menu to accompany my first glass of Muscadet. (What else would I be drinking?) They were a signal that all would be well, no matter what I ordered. And it was—from a starter of red mullet in a sorrel and spinach sauce through noisettes of lamb with a julienne of red bell peppers to the closing triumph of a crêpe soufflée à l’orange. A 1989 Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine, Leloup de Chasseloir, was impressive; delicate enough for the fish and flavorful enough for the lamb. Next morning I went in search of the man who had made it and found Bernard Chéreau, proprietor of the Château de Chasseloir at Saint-Fiacre. I tasted his Leloup de Chasseloir again. It was powerful, a Muscadet that stretched the appellation to its limit. “This is a special cuvée from the fruit of particularly old vines at Château Chasseloir,” Chéreau explained. “The Comte de Leloup was a previous owner, and as it was he who probably planted those vines I gave him credit for it.” As I chatted and tasted with Chéreau, I soon realized that this man, owner of both Chasseloir and of Château du Coing—a vineyard nearby within the angle of the Sèvre and Maine confluence and therefore at the very epicenter, as it were, of the entire appellation—had to be one of Muscadet’s most enthusiastic innovators. “We are lucky enough to have old vines on special sites,” he said. “They give intense wines, and I have a responsibility to allow them to be as good as they can be. Each year about 10 percent of my best wines from my oldest vines on my finest sites are fermented and aged in new oak. “There are those who say that any wine fermented in new oak is not Muscadet; but not everyone in Muscadet has fruit of this quality. In my father’s day all Muscadet was fermented in wood. The barrels then were usually older and neutral, but wood was part of Muscadet’s character long before we began using stainless steel.” We had started our tasting with a 1991 cuvée of the Château du Coing drawn off its lees just a few days before. It had a good, tight flavor. A 1990 that followed had had the chance to form bottle bouquet. For Muscadet, both were unusually big wines.

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Before I tasted his oak-aged 1988 Château du Coing, I was offered the Château du Coing’s 1989 Grande Cuvée Saint-Hilaire, a wine for which juice and grape skins had soaked together before pressing and fermentation—not a traditional practice for Muscadet. Though the wine was within the limits of Muscadet (to ensure a measure of homogeneity, the law does not allow the appellation to be used on any wine with more than 12 percent alcohol), it bordered on the opulent. But then all of Chéreau’s wines are generous and sappy—he is right about the quality of his fruit—and when I eventually tasted the 1988 Château du Coing I found the oak far from excessive. It was well integrated, in fact, and gave the wine an extra dimension. True, the wine was hardly typical of Muscadet. But, I thought, what’s wrong with that? It’s superb. That should count for something.

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Louis Métaireau might not have agreed. One would need to be an agricultural economist with a degree in French law to understand fully the structure and the organization of the small group of passionately committed Muscadet growers Métaireau has drawn together as Louis Métaireau et Ses Vignerons d’Art. If the name has a theatrical ring, that’s not entirely inappropriate. Métaireau is a sort of impresario, the Diaghilev of Saint-Fiacre. There are nine growers in the group, including Métaireau himself, and among them they own or cultivate 190 acres of the best vineyards in the Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine. Each year when their wines are ready they come together with samples and ruthlessly select those from among their own and their associates’ wines that will be sold under their Louis Métaireau, Cuvée LM, and Cuvée One labels. Censoring their own as well as each other’s wines (they taste blind and can sometimes be more severe on one of their own wines than on another’s) they decide as a group which wines will be rejected and sold in bulk to the merchants. The financial consequence of having a wine rejected by the group is heavy. The Louis Métaireau name doubles the value of the wine because

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of the extent to which it has become respected in the top-ranking restaurants of France and around the world. “When we decide which lots will be used for our special labels each year we always look for wines that are most true to our terroir, to Muscadet,” Métaireau told me. “A fine Muscadet must be dry without being ‘green,’ supple without being fat. We look for freshness, for finesse, for length.” We talked and we tasted, starting with the Petit Mouton ’89, a lively wine made from young vines on the group’s jointly owned Grand Mouton vineyard. Grand Mouton stands on that same privileged mound within the confluence of the two rivers, next to Bernard Chéreau’s Château du Coing. Nine of its acres have vines planted sixty years ago. The Petit Mouton was dry and quite long. “A tender wine for oysters,” Métaireau commented. We went on to taste the 1990 Louis Métaireau Black Label, a charming wine, very aromatic—“could stand up to a ham, some charcuterie,” he said. The 1990 Cuvée LM that followed was full but delicately lacy — “the kind to drink with turbot, with a sole,” Métaireau suggested. He showed me the 1989 and 1990 vintages of Cuvée One together. I was stunned by them. Neither had to tug for attention, but their grace— their perfection—held it. How does one describe them? Vivacious, supple, persistent, perfumed, intense. Need I go on? Over lunch Métaireau became philosophical. “We have many problems here,” he said, “but chief among them is the lack of a hierarchy consumers can understand and respect, one that will help them when they are looking for a good wine. Yes, Muscadet needs a hierarchy, distinctions, signposts—perhaps crus. And serious growers have to help provide them. But in wanting to make distinctive wines, some growers are going too far. If the best growers separate themselves by pulling away from Muscadet’s traditional style, what future can there be for the appellation?” An intelligent question. But if an appellation means anything at all,

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surely the influence of all those things the French believe in so fervently—soil, climate, terroir—will prevail. As far as winemaking is concerned, certainly good ideas will be absorbed and others discarded. Over time, extremes will be tempered. Isn’t that what evolution is all about? Isn’t that how anything, including a wine appellation, survives? Originally published as “A Glass of Muscadet” in Gourmet, November 1992. In 1994, two years after this account was written, the Muscadet region gained a new appellation, Muscadet-Côtes de Grand-Lieu, an area southwest of Nantes around the Lac de Grand Lieu between Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine and the Atlantic. Louis Métaireau has now retired. The Grand Mouton estate purchased by his consortium has been gradually taken over by his daughter, Marie-Luce, and her husband, Jean-François Guilbaud, one of Métaireau’s collaborators. Along with Grand Mouton, they continue to offer an LM cuvée, but it is now called Cuvée MLM, for Marie-Luce Métaireau.

saint-emilion A Jumble of Soils

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he Médoc and its classed growths are so overwhelmingly the focus of every review I see of Bordeaux wines that I sometimes wonder if Saint-Emilion, thirty miles away on the Dordogne, is perceived as only auxiliary territory. It’s odd, because Saint-Emilion has a greater diversity of style among its red wines than any other region of Bordeaux. More than a thousand years before the first vine was planted in the Médoc, vineyards existed in Saint-Emilion, and they seem to have been successful from the start. Ausonius, the fourth-century Roman administrator and academician, produced wines from a Saint-Emilion vineyard he acquired as part of his wife’s dowry, and there was probably not much difference between them and the wines that impressed Edward I of England in the thirteenth century. Edward, whose realm included most of southwestern France, drew up the boundaries that still define the Saint-Emilion appellation. The variations among Bordeaux wines—as among wines anywhere—are usually initiated by soil and weather, but the effect of even minuscule distinctions can be magnified by the vine varieties growers choose, believing them best adapted to their particular environment. Since the early nineteenth century Cabernet Sauvignon has been the preponderant grape in the Médoc: Proprietors rely on its resistance to rain in spring, when its blossom sets fruit in all but the worst of storms; and at vintage time, when the skin components that give Cabernet Sauvignon wines their color, flavor, and tannin also protect the ripe fruit 56

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from rot. Merlot and Cabernet Franc are used in the Médoc only as ancillary varieties. Fortunately, Cabernet Sauvignon is well suited to the Médoc’s quick-warming gravel and, except in particularly difficult years, it ripens there easily. But its dominant presence does impose on Médoc wines an inner toughness along with a depth of character. Saint-Emilion’s vineyards are more sheltered from Atlantic squalls, and growers there are less in need of Cabernet Sauvignon’s ability to withstand rain. Which is just as well, because the more exotic soils of Saint-Emilion—mixtures of limestone, chalk, clay, silex, and sand— are colder and can’t be relied on to help Cabernet Sauvignon mature regularly or completely. The preferred grape is Merlot, which gives, in Saint-Emilion, a wine that is both bolder and fleshier than it would be in the Médoc. Some Saint-Emilion vineyards are planted almost exclusively with Merlot. The usual partner for Merlot in Saint-Emilion is Cabernet Franc, a variety that ripens earlier and more easily than Cabernet Sauvignon and, for the most part, yields a wine that is neither as concentrated nor as tense. A Cabernet Franc wine almost always has a distinctive and magically evocative aroma, however, along with good color and an elegant structure. Saint-Emilion wines based on the region’s standard combination of Merlot and Cabernet Franc, in whatever proportions, have a graceful opulence and subtlety. (Several California producers have discovered the appeal of this particular combination, as a close look at the varietal composition of a number of their Bordeaux-style blends will reveal.) Some Saint-Emilion growers do have small blocks of Cabernet Sauvignon, but not by choice. For a time in the 1960s, Paris bureaucrats would allow only Cabernet Sauvignon to be planted in the Bordeaux region, regardless of local tradition or agricultural sense. During those years many Saint-Emilion growers introduced it when vines had to be replaced, if only to preserve their right to use land for viticulture. (The planting, or replanting, of a vineyard in any country of the European Union is strictly controlled to limit wine production.) Most of the region’s Cabernet Sau-

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vignon established over that period is gradually being replaced. The exceptions are two important properties—Figeac and Villemaurine—at which substantial proportions of Cabernet Sauvignon have always made a significant contribution to the styles of the wines.

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To explain why there was no classification of Saint-Emilion’s crus until 1954, a century after that of the Médoc, would require a long digression, and it’s more important simply to recognize the distinctions between the two. Saint-Emilion’s classification must, by law, be confirmed or modified after tasting reviews every ten years. The Médoc’s classification, now set in stone, was based on each château’s market performance—its price—in the mid-nineteenth century. Tasting the wines played no part in the proceedings then, and has played no part since. Any decision to change or, just as important, not to change the status of a Saint-Emilion cru at one of the ten-year reviews is based on several tastings during the period between them. The Saint-Emilion classification is therefore always of contemporary relevance and is not merely a benchmark. The purpose of the ten-year reviews is to discipline any grower who exploits the reputation of a good site without bothering to ensure that his wine conforms to expectations; the reviews were not designed to give a leg up to growers who have done wonders with a poor locale (though that’s always an outside possibility). In other words, it’s easier in Saint-Emilion to be downgraded than to be promoted because the Jurade of Saint-Emilion—a vestige of the town administration originally formed under royal charter in the twelfth century and reestablished in 1947—takes seriously the notion of noblesse oblige. The three categories of Saint-Emilion’s particular noblesse—grand cru, grand cru classé, and premier grand cru classé—are not easy for a layman (or a professional, for that matter) to sort out. Good wines certainly exist among the grands crus, but the designation seems to have been handed out on the same principle as campaign medals. When asked, no one seems to be sure how many grands crus there are.

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With the grands crus classés one is (figuratively) on firmer ground: Among more than a thousand Saint-Emilion vineyard estates, eightyfour are classed, and eleven of those are premiers grands crus classés. (In the Médoc—including Haut-Brion, actually in Graves—there are sixty grands crus classés, of which five are premiers.) In a wrinkle worthy of Animal Farm, Château Ausone and Château Cheval-Blanc are considered more premier than their peers. They are referred to as the “A list,” whereas Beauséjour-Duffau-Lagarrosse, Belair, Canon, Clos Fourtet, Figeac, La Gaffelière, Magdelaine, Pavie, and Trottevieille, to the barely suppressed frustration of some of their proprietors, are known collectively as the “B list.” The classification in which a Saint-Emilion château is placed applies specifically to the vineyard from which its wine is made. That is because in Saint-Emilion each rank of classification is a distinct controlled appellation of origin and, as such, must be geographically defined. The appellation of origin of Château Laroque, for example, is not just SaintEmilion; it is Saint-Emilion Grand Cru. The appellation of origin of Château La Dominique is Saint-Emilion Grand Cru Classé. The significance becomes clearer when compared with the system in the Médoc. There, the appellation of origin of Château Léoville-Las Cases, for example, is simply Saint-Julien, just as it would be for any other vineyard within the commune’s limits. The château’s appellation and its rank in the 1855 classification of the wines of the Médoc are quite separate. There were no formal appellations of origin in 1855, so a Médoc grand cru classification was and still is attached, like an honorific, to the château itself and to the wines it produces without defining any specific vineyard. The situation had changed by 1954, when the Saint-Emilion growths were first classified, and I doubt if the kind of fudging that allows a Médoc grand cru classé to sell some vineyards and acquire others while retaining its classification would be tolerated in Saint-Emilion. In fact, when the owner of a premier grand cru classé of Saint-Emilion tried recently to bring the fruit of his premier grand cru classé and that of a

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separate and more recently acquired grand cru classé into the same winemaking facility, he found his premier grand cru classé property demoted. No one suggested that he might have allowed the fruit of the two vineyards to commingle, but in the region of Saint-Emilion even the appearance of impropriety is unacceptable.

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In the Médoc the best sites for vines—the locations of the classed growths—are gravelly knolls with a deep clay subsoil. The gravel and clay together regulate the vines’ access to water by ensuring a rapid surface drainage while holding, in that deep clay, a reservoir of moisture to sustain the vine when topsoil humidity is gone. These privileged sites have a degree of uniformity that ensures a basic similarity of style among their wines—roundly balanced when young, and silky when aged—whatever subtle variations each might also show. In Saint-Emilion, too, the best wines—including all the premiers grands crus classés—are produced on soils where access to water is regulated naturally. However, Saint-Emilion has at least four soil configurations (rather than one), each controlling its vines’ water economy and affecting the style of the wine. Though sometimes separate, two or more of these soil patterns often exist within one vineyard, either side by side or jumbled together in such confusion that the diversity of Saint-Emilion wines is multiplied almost indefinitely, making them not always easy to categorize. The four principal soil formations at Saint-Emilion, and the types of wine one can expect from each, begin with the limestone plateau at the center and highest point of the appellation and the fragrant, elegantly structured wines that land produces. Limestone absorbs water easily, helping to keep the vines planted in the thin chalky-clay topsoil well drained. In times of drought the limestone releases moisture held in its depths through a kind of capillary action. Wines of the plateau can be exceptionally aromatic but also deceptively slim when young, seeming to offer little potential for development when first presented. They are consistently underrated at that

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stage by those unfamiliar with the region. Wines made from Merlot and Cabernet Franc, when young, do not have the punch of young Cabernet Sauvignon and should not be compared with it. Despite this confusion, the plateau wines, above all others, made Saint-Emilion’s reputation. Through some alchemy these wines fill out remarkably after a few years in bottle. (The process occurs through gradual molecular restructuring of their polyphenols—the tannins, the flavor, the color—that originate in the grape skins). The slopes around the Saint-Emilion plateau, some so shallow as to seem mere extensions of it, are known as the côtes (and lower down as the pieds de côtes). Here, various chalk and clay agglomerations, mixed increasingly with sand toward the base of the slopes, drain well and are supported, in their best sections at least, by substrata of clay. The clay, as elsewhere, acts as a reservoir of moisture available in times of little water. Côte wines are less refined than those of the plateau, but they are rounder and, perhaps because of their tannins, have more body. Sometimes they can be quite muscular. To the northwest of the appellation, where Saint-Emilion adjoins Pomerol, the terrain has been formed by the meanderings of the Isle, the small river that flows into the Dordogne downstream from SaintEmilion. Long ago the Isle deposited in the area around Figeac and Cheval-Blanc an expanse of gravel not unlike that found in the Médoc itself. In this area, as on the plateau, are occasional layers of ancient sand, thought to have been brought there by wind rather than water. Not surprisingly, the vineyards on this gravel—chief among them Château Cheval-Blanc and Château Figeac—produce elegant wines with soft tannins and impeccably balanced alcohol and acidity. They have some affinity to wines of the Médoc, accentuated in the case of Figeac by the presence of Cabernet Sauvignon: The vineyard at Figeac is planted with one third each Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc vines. From Cheval-Blanc, however, come princely wines from two thirds Cabernet Franc and one third Merlot. Beyond the gravel, beds of clay extend into Pomerol. The imperme-

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able surface of a high-clay soil usually sheds sudden, heavy rain into strategically prepared ditches, and the moisture settled in its depths is ready to be yielded up in the stress of drought. But heavy clay usually means wines with strong tannins as well as high alcohol and high acidity. Occurring together, these qualities can be a prescription for the type of tough, big-shouldered red wine that does well in comparative tastings. That can be tempered by winemaking, but when it is reinforced, for whatever motive, these wines are not the most amiable of table companions.

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It seems strange that anyone would want to emphasize rather than tame the more brutal qualities of a wine, especially when they are fundamental distortions of the natural style of Merlot and Cabernet Franc. But in the real world a wine now sells (or doesn’t) according to ratings based on a single taste taken among a multitude of others in varied and uncontrolled conditions. Generally speaking, the greater the finesse of a wine, the more it is at a disadvantage in the ratings game. The wines of Saint-Emilion, especially those of the plateau, have suffered greatly. The owner of one small plateau estate producing exquisite wines told me recently that he has been under pressure from his New York City importer to give them a boost to make them “heavier.” One of the city’s most prestigious retailers even refused to taste his wines and, showing him the door, told him he wouldn’t consider them until they rated “at least a ninety.” The critics’ ratings can make or break a wine producer: If he is to prosper, his wines must be consistently in that golden top 10 percent. There are many, such as the Comte de Malet-Roquefort, owner of Saint-Emilion’s Château La Gaffelière, who continue to do what to them seems appropriate. “I want my wine to be recognizably the wine my father made, and the wine his father made,” Malet-Roquefort said last November, when we discussed some of the changes affecting SaintEmilion. Just a few setbacks, however, are often enough to persuade a grower to heed consultants—the same ones at the elbows of critics

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when they visit the region—who urge them to increase their wines’ tannin and intensify the color by “bleeding” (drawing off some of the juice to increase the proportion of skins to liquid). That free-run juice is always the finest, but it usually goes into a second wine or a “house” rosé. The grower then vinifies what’s left in ways that generate a grotesque fruitiness and load down the result with heavy oak flavors so the wine makes a “strong statement” in the few seconds in which it is “judged.” The finesse, the harmony, and the balance of the wine are destroyed, its identity is lost, its whole point has gone. It becomes a parody, not of itself but of some bizarre and grandiose concept called “world-class” wine. The constant hectoring of producers on the subject of fining (clarifying) and filtration by critics whose technical knowledge of wine is, it would seem, restricted to the use of a corkscrew is also particularly mischievous. It reveals their failure to grasp the purpose of fining as correctly applied, which is to remove suspended organic material and excess tannin that would otherwise mask a wine’s flavor and blunt its delicacy.

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But we must return to our story. The series of outstanding Bordeaux vintages that closed the last decade—1988, 1989, and 1990—have given us some extraordinary Saint-Emilion wines. The 1989s, like 1989s all over Bordeaux, will probably prove to be the most satisfying in the long run. But many of those who have tasted the wines favor the 1990s, a vintage with such a distinctive stamp that Saint-Emilion growers claim the year rather than the individual site is tasted in the wines. I don’t find that to be so. I tasted my way through just about all the grands and premiers grands crus classés when I was in Saint-Emilion last November and felt that in most cases 1990 has brought out exactly the characteristics I most associate with certain Saint-Emilion crus: the tight, nervy style of Ausone, for example; the violet-scented sumptuousness of ChevalBlanc (I think the 1990 will equal the 1947) ; the delicacy of Belair; the vibrant discipline of Canon; the discreet elegance of Figeac; the won-

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derfully plummy fruit of Pavie; the frisky charm of Trottevieille; the generosity of Corbin-Michotte and La Dominique; the sheer grace of Curé-Bon-La-Madeleine, Tertre-Daugay, Soutard, and Haut-Faugère; and the extraordinary finesse of Villemaurine, a wine for which I have particular regard.

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Château Villemaurine’s vineyards, on the plateau at the very gates of Saint-Emilion, mark the spot where, according to legend, a vast army under Abd ar-Rahman, the Arab governor of Spain, encamped on its sweep through France before being defeated at the hands of Charles Martel at Poitiers on an October Sunday in 732—thereby changing the course of European history. It was possibly thanks to the sense of peace and security subsequent to Charles’s victory that the man who became Saint Emilion arrived to seek shelter with a community of Benedictines established in the area. They were surely not the first: The valley of the Dordogne seems to have been a center of religious activity since time immemorial. Galleries dug into the face of a cliff at Saint-Hippolyte, not far from SaintEmilion, were apparently used for the celebration of some ancient cult; farther upstream at Les Eyzies and Lascaux are the famous caves painted roughly seventeen thousand years ago, it is thought with some votive intent, by Paleolithic hunters; and at Pierrefitte, a grassy spot near the riverbank less than three miles from Saint-Emilion, a menhir weathered to the shape of a giant human hand more than twenty feet high and ten feet across thrusts from the ground in solitary and eternal greeting from some mysterious prehistoric time. Saint Emilion’s arrival marked the start of the period when the town began to evolve out of a cluster of religious institutions, including a church carved into the rock itself. The towers and gates, arches, spires, and old stone houses still spill down from the plateau toward the Dordogne in a precipitous muddle of cobbled streets with twists and steps that only the most sure-footed mules could ever have negotiated. Seized at the time of the French Revolution and then more or less

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abandoned, the churches and cloisters of the town of Saint-Emilion— some already ruined centuries before—were visited by travelers swept up in the enthusiasm for all things medieval provoked by Eugène Violletle-Duc’s great Dictionary of French Architecture, published in the 1860s. Viollet-le-Duc, an archaeologist and architect, had already restored Notre-Dame and Sainte-Chapelle in Paris and was at work on the walled city of Carcassonne when his books (the dictionary ran to several volumes) fired the public imagination. The Paris–Bordeaux railway, completed in the 1850s, encouraged a stream of visitors to Saint-Emilion, one of the finest unities of medieval architecture in France. Those who came helped spread the reputation not only of the macaroons of Saint-Emilion (still prepared in all the local pastry shops according to the recipe of the Ursulines, long since departed) but of its wines, too. Travelers who come for the town’s architecture still discover its wines at the tables of the Hôtel Plaisance, the Restaurant Goulée, and at an excellent bistro, L’Envers du Décor, where delicious Saint-Emilion wines are available by the glass with dishes that could have come straight from the kitchen of someone’s grandmother. Originally published as “Saint-Emilion: Bordeaux’s Other Half ” in Gourmet, June 1994.

chablis A French Classic from Ancient Seashells

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t always struck me as odd that any winemaker in California who wanted to distance himself from the over-ripe and over-oaked Chardonnays popular in the 1980s would say that he preferred to make his wine in the style of a white Mâcon. Even the best of Mâcon is simple, and, though I probably drink more of it than any other white wine—in France it’s my daily ordinaire—I would hardly suggest it as a model for an ambitious winemaker. But I suppose the more obvious comparison with Chablis—an elegant wine with snap and sinew—would have raised the dread specter of California’s half-gallon jugs. So the word was never spoken. Chardonnay’s ascendency has allowed California’s version of Chablis to drop below the horizon. There is still plenty of low-priced, virtually tasteless, dull white wine available, most of it with a boost of sweetness just beneath the threshold of recognition to simulate body: but these days, more often than not, that too is called Chardonnay. If California Chablis is becoming a relic from another era (in Australia, use of the name is to be phased out at a date still to be determined as part of an agreement with France to give Australian wines easier access to markets of the European Union), we might yet be able to approach true Chablis, the most classic of French wines, free of the misunderstandings and prejudices generated in the century and more since its name was hijacked.

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Chablis is a small town near Auxerre, about an hour and a half’s drive south-southeast of Paris. Writers have taken to describing the place as ugly when they really mean commonplace. Need and insufficient resources limited rebuilding efforts after a German dive-bomber smashed it in 1940 as a column of refugees was straggling across its tiny bridge. Any cohesive charm Chablis might have had was indeed lost, but it doesn’t lack for character: Two of the town’s ancient gates remain, complete with turreted towers, as well as the medieval church of SaintMartin and a group of associated buildings; the handsome seventeenthcentury headquarters from which the Abbey of Pontigny supervised its Chablis possessions; a stone façade dating from the late Middle Ages, thought to have once been the street front of a synagogue; and a number of village mansions built in periods of prosperity during the past three to four hundred years. The town is in Burgundy, though separated from its heart—the stretch of vineyards from Dijon down to Santenay—by about a hundred miles. But in the twelfth century, when wines from the region of Auxerre were described as “the very best” and “the most precious” and their consumption was a prerogative of Europe’s powerful, this was Burgundy’s heart. It was then that land outside the town was acquired by the monks of the newly established Cistercian abbey at Pontigny to plant a vineyard. They had brought an unerring eye to the selection of a slope in the angle formed by a side valley as it joins the Serein (more a stream than a river). The roughly 250 acres of vines that now cover that original site include, in one continuous block, all of Chablis’s seven grand cru vineyards. The monks would have picked their land, as do grape growers anywhere, by first looking to see where the snow melted soonest at the end of winter. But they seem to have recognized another factor, too: Both there and elsewhere as their vineyards spread they were careful to select only sections of hillside where they found the brittle, gray-white Kimmeridgian clay, a mass composed of billions of tiny seashell fossils laid down almost two hundred million years ago. Eight centuries after

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the monks had made such choices, experts who wrote the 1938 law defining the area of Chablis’s appellation of origin also believed this chalky clay (named for the village of Kimmeridge in Dorset, England, where it occurs as well) to be as fundamental to the wine’s style and quality as the Chardonnay grapes from which Chablis must, by law, be made. And, though adjusted in the late 1970s—more, some say, for political than viticultural reasons—the original boundaries of the appellation enclosed faithfully only zones where the underlying Kimmeridgian breaks (“flowers” is the local expression) through its covering of Portland limestone. Thanks to the quality of its wine, Chablis prospered. By the early fourteenth century, there were more than 450 recorded proprietors of vines, apart from the monks, a number that had swollen to 700 two centuries later. The wine they produced was taken by cart to Auxerre and, from there, shipped on rivercraft to Paris by way of the Yonne and the Seine. Some of it went farther downstream to Rouen, to be sent by sea to foreign markets. This easy route to the north eventually brought an end to the production of quality wines in the Auxerrois region. Even before the French Revolution its vineyards were among the first to be smothered by common, high-yielding varieties planted to meet an insatiable demand for cheap wine from the greatly increased working populations of the cities. Chablis escaped the fate of towns bordering the Yonne, according to Professor Roger Dion of the Collège de France, only because the cost of carting cheap wine the twelve miles to Auxerre would have been disproportionately high. Not that Chablis was particularly well placed to produce wine cheaply anyway—regardless of vine variety. The valley of the Serein is highly susceptible to frost because its narrow, twisting formation traps any cold spring air forced into it by the prevailing west winds. The risk of losing three or more consecutive crops, not unknown in Chablis, is bearable only if successful crops are of a quality that will compensate by attracting high prices. The growers of Chablis had little choice but to stay with Chardonnay—if they stayed with vines at all.

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444 The powdery mildew and phylloxera that reached Chablis in the last quarter of the nineteenth century aggravated the inherent difficulties of the area; and by then recovery from each setback was harder because wines from elsewhere in France, brought to Paris by the spreading network of railways, were ever more easily available to take Chablis’s place there. Neither the vineyard owners nor their workers had much security in a region where the crop could swing from five hundred thousand gallons to fifty thousand and back again in the course of a year or two, and where wine prices, following no logical or predictable connection with either the erratic volume or the wine’s quality, could double or collapse from one harvest to the next. Many vineyards were abandoned, and both before and between the two world wars Chablis contributed to the drift of French rural populations toward the cities. Morton Shand, in his Book of French Wines, published in 1928, refers to only four hundred hectares of vines at Chablis—hardly a thousand acres. It’s ironic, in light of this bare survival, to reflect on Jules Guyot’s declaration, in his multivolume study of the country’s vineyards undertaken at the behest of the French government only sixty years earlier, that “the wines of Chablis are in the first rank of the white wines of France. . . . Notwithstanding the high reputation . . . their true value, in my opinion, is even greater than their fame.” Only once between 1945, when the total crop in the nineteen villages that form the Chablis appellation was a scant 481 hectoliters of wine, and 1961, when it was 13,456, did the production of Chablis exceed 20,000 hectoliters. But then experiments with smudge pots and sprinklers in the 1960s showed that losses from spring frosts could be controlled. A complex system of underground pipes took water from the river and from a lake created for the purpose. As yields began to climb—production in 1966 reached 33,296 hectoliters—replanting followed. In 1970, 74,498 hectoliters of Chablis were produced, and though that number fell the very next year to 23,395, yearly production was soon

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consistently above 50,000 hectoliters. The growers were encouraged by the upward sweep of French wine prices in the 1970s. Between the beginning of the decade and its end the bulk price of Chablis doubled.

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Years of penury and neglect had, however, had a direct effect not only on Chablis’s quality but on its style. Lacking the means either to maintain their wooden vats and barrels or to buy more of them, Chablis’s growers and merchants had gradually replaced them with concrete vats and, later, once revenues made their purchase possible, stainless-steel tanks. Progressively, these changes gave the wines an edginess, an angularity, soon to be touted as the wine’s particular distinction. Chablis had always had what Morton Shand described as a “clean, pebbly, or perhaps one should say gravelly, flavor.” In today’s wine parlance, it’s a taste we would describe as mineral. But, except in particularly difficult years, it had been neither hard nor edgy. After visiting the region more than six centuries earlier, the Italian chronicler Salimbene wrote that the wines—“white and sometimes golden”—were “aromatic, comforting, and of strong and excellent flavor.” They probably didn’t change much, either, until they lost contact with wood. Some growers, it’s true, never did abandon wood completely, having always kept the same well-used barrels for the production of their grand cru wines. Unfortunately, the wood was often badly deteriorated and the wines produced in it did not encourage others to take it up again. Many who had felt cramped for funds did not use the greater flow of cash to replace old barrels with new but directed it instead to the purchase of stainless-steel tanks so that the inconvenience of wood could be banished once and for all. Nonetheless, over the last ten years or so we have seen wood’s return. Mostly in the form of oak barrels, wood is used increasingly, especially for the production of grand cru and some premier cru wines. There are those who see its reappearance as the restoration of a tradition and the recapture of a dimension that had disappeared from Chablis. Others see it, on the contrary, as a casting aside of tradition and, worse, a pandering

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to a fashionable taste that could cost Chablis its identity and eventually its very existence. Those at either extreme of the debate make their case persuasively, but most growers are gradually re-introducing wood, though using it with caution and only for the wines of certain crus, in certain years, and in certain circumstances. There are growers who both ferment and age their wines in barrel; others, who cling to fermentation in stainless steel because they are accustomed to the ease of control it gives, transfer the new wine into wood only for aging. One grower does the reverse: He ferments his wine in barrels and then promptly decants it into stainless steel, where it remains until bottled. Those who use wood on any scale take pains to keep the proportion of new oak within bounds. They are not seeking to overwhelm Chablis’s natural delicacy, but rather to enhance it.

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In choosing Chablis one has always needed to know a little about the crus and their individual characteristics. It is also wise to be broadly familiar with the styles imposed by the weather on those recent vintages likely to be available. But most important of all, perhaps, is finding a grower whose interpretations of both cru and climate—which go beyond any particular use (or non-use) of oak, of course—are most likely to please. In addition to the seven grands crus of Chablis—in descending order of acreage presently planted they are Les Clos, Vaudésir, Valmur, Blanchot, Bougros, Preuses, and Grenouilles—there are forty premiers crus. (Use of the terms grand and premier means that no one need be second.) Fourchaume and Montée de Tonnerre are among the best known of the premiers crus, possibly because they are extensions at each end of the grands crus on the right bank of the Serein. The wines they give are less concentrated than those of the grands crus (though all is relative: a Montée de Tonnerre of a big year can overwhelm a Preuses of a small one), but their characteristics are no less specific, no less distinctive. Wines from Fourchaume, for example, at the northerly end of the grands crus, are always more supple than those of Montée de Tonnerre at the southerly end.

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The extent to which such characteristics dominate a particular wine depends, however, on where the grower has his vines within the cru, their age, and the manner of cultivation. There is no sudden change when crossing the line from one cru to another and it would be blurred even if there were, because the wines of several smaller premiers crus are sold, by long, officially sanctioned tradition, under the names of larger ones adjacent to them. The slope covered by vineyards producing wine entitled to be sold as Fourchaume includes the premiers crus Vaupulent, Côte de Fontenay, L’Homme Mort, and Vaulorent. It stretches for more than three kilometers, making variation among wines labeled Fourchaume— no matter how broadly distinctive—not just likely but inevitable. That’s why some growers, preferring to emphasize the particular character of their premier cru wines, stay with the names of the smaller, less familiar vineyards where they were grown. One should not therefore assume that a premier cru Forêt is somehow “less” than a Montmains simply because its wine usually appears under the better-known banner. René and Vincent Dauvissat’s vines in Sécher, by further example, give a wine that could legally be sold in one cuvée with their Vaillons wine. But Vaillons, as Vincent Dauvissat explains, gives a mild, easily approachable wine, whereas Sécher’s wines are harder. Though these two crus are next to each other on the same slope, a bend places Vaillons slightly out of the wind, and Sécher is fully exposed to it. The Dauvissats like to distinguish between the two characteristic wines that result from this physical difference. Among the seven grands crus, Blanchot, the one grand cru that faces full south, can be expected to give amiable, supple, and aromatic wines even when young; a Grenouilles wine, too, is usually soft and quickly accessible; Valmur and Preuses, though tender, age well, as does Bougros, the boldest, most expressive, yet at times the coarsest of the grands crus. Vaudésir and Les Clos—the two grands crus that age best of all—are the opposite. Vaudésir is the most subtle and the most mineral of the seven; it’s the wine that was probably in Morton Shand’s mind when he gave his definition of Chablis. Les Clos can be the most mystifying: When

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tasted young, it first suggests a big wine—and then the taster hits a wall. The wine opens up only after years in bottle.

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The characteristics of a cru can be modified by the circumstances of the year. What does “hard” mean in a year like 1992, when most Chablis, round and creamy, could have been confused with Meursault? In fact, growers were allowed for the first time that year to adjust their natural acidity. (Not all did; most simply blocked the malolactic fermentation, which normally softens harsh malic acid present in the wine, or accepted the year’s style as an extension of Chablis’s possibilities.) Lowacid, plump wines more typical of the Côte d’Or than of Chablis were general in 1989, too. In 1990 the wines were on a similarly heroic scale. But, because of excellent balance, they are powerful and impressively complex, rather than merely billowy. The wines of 1991, ready to be drunk up, are described by some as elegant and by others as bony. It’s difficult to judge them fairly, of course, against the rather massive wines of 1989 and 1990; but then all wines are judged against some criterion or other. I have found the 1991s better than acceptable, but then I have chosen carefully. There was little to complain of in the 1991 Bougros of Jean-Paul Droin (the year controls Bougros exuberance very nicely) or in his Vaudésir for that matter, where the style of the year and the cru work well together. I’ve also enjoyed the typical Chablis grace of a 1991 Mont de Milieu from Simonnet-Febvre. “Typically Chablis,” too, are the wines of 1993, a year in which most growers needed to adjust the sugar levels of their juice before fermentation. Perhaps because many people had found the 1992s so blowsy, there has been little criticism of the 1993s; nor need there be. More than any vintage since 1988, the 1993 wines come closest to the idea most of us have of Chablis. Certainly they are in the style that comes to mind when we say that Chablis is the perfect wine for oysters. The 1994 crop was relatively small (the recovery of Chablis has been such that there are now roughly 3,500 hectares of vines bearing

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annual yields consistently in excess of 150,000 hectoliters: 1994 produced 176,297—down from 1993’s 212,050). But the 1994 wines are extraordinary. They rank with those of 1990, and in some instances surpass them because of an acidity, good without ever being sharply aggressive, that brings zest to their concentrated power. Interestingly, 1994 is a vintage that has adapted well to whatever technique a grower is using: The wines are solid enough to vindicate those who insist that Chablis is best in stainless steel alone, and they have the structure to support those who choose to give their wines the extra patina of time in wood. Everyone wins the argument in 1994.

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La Chablisienne, the cooperative cellar that produces almost a quarter of all Chablis wine, uses both stainless steel and wood in the form of barrels and vats. I’ve seen photographs of the cooperative in the 1930s, when it relied totally on wood. “It was all taken away in the 1970s,” Hervé Tucki, the young technical director told me, “and stainless steel installed in its place. “In 1984, my father, who was technical director before me, brought back ten barrels as an experiment. It seems to have struck a chord. We now buy almost a hundred new barrels a year and have installed thousand-gallon wooden vats, too, for storage. There’s no intention to revert to wood completely, but there has certainly been steady progress in that direction. “No one here feels committed one way or the other. But we now accept that certain wines turn out much better in wood. We make our decisions based on what we think each wine needs. We are not driven by marketing considerations. In fact, we never show on a label whether the wine was made in wood or steel. And we would be embarrassed by any wine that actually tasted of oak. Our concern is that each wine should be able to develop in the best and most appropriate way. The wines from some crus always go into wood, though others never do. “Experience has taught us to ferment our particular Fourchaume and Vaillons in steel. They’re both inherently soft and supple, and so they

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don’t need wood. Our Mont de Milieu and Côte de Léchet, on the other hand, are invariably fermented in wood. Montée de Tonnerre can go either way, depending on the year. We keep the finesse and elegance of our Preuses by fermenting it in stainless steel.” My discussion with Tucki seemed to put the question of oak versus steel into passion-free perspective. (Growers in Chablis can get quite excited on the subject.) But that evening, as I went through my notes, I noticed that every one of the Chablisienne wines to which I’d given my double-tick accolade had been fermented and aged in wood. That’s probably revealing of me and my preferences, however, rather than of the Chablisienne cooperative.

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Most producers, including Michel Laroche of Domaine Laroche and Jean-Paul Simonnet of Simonnet-Febvre, use oak with caution and, to varying degrees, only for selected cru wines. Those who integrate oak more completely into their winemaking styles are led by William Fèvre, the largest proprietor of vines in the grands crus. But he barrel-ferments consistently only wines produced from estate-grown fruit; wines made from purchased grapes vary according to the year, and his non-cru Chablis is always tank-fermented. Some of the most distinguished examples of the adept use of oak come from the cellars of René and Vincent Dauvissat, Jean-Marie Raveneau, and Jean-Paul Droin. All of them are masters. Growers who oppose the use of wood include Jean Durup of Château de Maligny, the grower who led the battle of the 1970s to get the boundaries of the appellation adjusted. His wines are flowery and can be elegant. But, in the same high category as Dauvissat, Raveneau, and Droin (not to be confused with Beaune winegrower and merchant Joseph Drouhin), the most serious grower adamantly opposed to the use of wood is Jean-Loup Michel of the Domaine Louis Michel. “I like wines aged in wood,” he says, “but that’s not how Chablis should be. This is not Meursault. We offer wines that are Chardonnay from the soil of Chablis without other influences.”

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Michel works with quite small stainless-steel tanks to retain in each lot as much personality as possible. When I taste with him, he frequently points out some subtle difference between two wines that he thinks would have been lost had both been fermented in wood. His wines are certainly the best argument there is in steel’s favor. And a very strong argument it is. Originally published as “Chablis: A French Classic” in Gourmet, June 1995. The William Fèvre estate was sold to the Henriot family of Champagne in 1998.

the other médoc Vines and Windmills

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n the early 1950s, when I began a career in wine by selling it for a couple of hours every evening across the counter of a shop off London’s Curzon Street, three red wines outsold all others. They were Beaujolais, Chilean red, and Médoc. The Médoc, which sold at the time for the sterling equivalent of about $1.50 a bottle, was the most expensive of the three. It was also the most popular. The Médoc is the triangular peninsula north of Bordeaux between the Atlantic and the Gironde estuary; but even then I knew that from a viticultural point of view all that counted was the strip, seven or eight miles wide, running alongside the Gironde from Bordeaux as far as . . . well, at the time I wasn’t sure where the Médoc ran out of vines. Like nearly everyone else in the wine trade, I have spent my time almost exclusively in the Haut-Médoc (haut in this case meaning higher up the estuary), home of the familiar communal appellations—Margaux, Listrac, Pauillac, and the like—as well as the sixty classified grands crus. The crus in particular, between Ludon and Saint-Estèphe, are what give the Haut-Médoc its international reputation and glamour. The bold occasionally ventured beyond Saint-Estèphe as far as the next village, where there are a couple of properties producing some remarkable wines. For a while, the British used to trek out to Château Loudenne— the Gilbey property at Saint-Yzans, a few miles farther on—where hospitality was legendary. My excursions north of Saint-Estèphe were rare, however. Far from being reassured by the sight of the Union Jack, 77

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flying bravely over the prettily pink-washed Loudenne as if it were an especially smart military compound, I remember the uneasy sensation that perhaps I had strayed beyond the northwest frontier. In fact, for years I’ve enjoyed many wines from that other Médoc beyond the grands crus—Château Loudenne not least among them—but it wasn’t until last November, I’m embarrassed to admit, that I took time to go there for a good look round. Though minutes rather than hours from Pauillac, the quirky and, at times, poetic farm country between Lesparre and the Gironde seems curiously remote. There was no need for anyone to tell me that I had crossed into what the French like to call la France profonde. The landscape in that outer Médoc is less orderly, less controlled. There are windmills, old churches, and farms scattered among the vineyards, orchards, and woods. Tiny ports (usually just a quay), a few sheds, and the occasional fishing boat are hidden away on canals dug by Dutch engineers in the seventeenth century to drain the region’s inlets and saltwater marshes. I was astonished at this Médoc’s riches: A small museum at Soulac is filled with Celtic artifacts and ornaments, and near Saint-Germain d’Esteuil the remains of a Roman city have recently been uncovered. Again at Soulac, the twelfth-century Benedictine basilica dedicated to Our Lady of the End of the Earth, now a monument historique, was abandoned in 1744 by the last inhabitants of a community pitifully reduced by the ocean’s relentless erosion. This magnificent church was completely buried in sand and forgotten—lost—until “rediscovered” more than a century later by shepherds drawn by curiosity to a stone cross sticking out of a dune. Today’s Soulac was built in the 1880s and 1890s as a resort destination. Its small, red-brick villas, with their hallmark fretted gables, shutters, and enclosed gardens, are arranged along neat, narrow, sun-washed streets, side by side like dollhouses. Not far from the shore, the spectacular lighthouse of Cordouan, erected in the early seventeenth century and enlarged in the 1780s, ranks equal to Notre-Dame de Paris on the French government’s list of historic monuments.

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Soulac’s wide, Atlantic beaches are backed by thousands of acres of pine forest (laced with miles of hard-surface bicycle track) that were planted by order of Napoleon III in the 1850s to help stabilize the dunes. A narrow-gauge railway links Soulac with the excellent fish restaurants of Verdon and the adjacent Pointe de Grave, at the tip of the peninsula. It was from Pointe de Grave that Lafayette set off to lend his support to the American revolutionaries, and his departure is commemorated by a monument to the American troops of General Pershing, “defenders of the same ideals of right and liberty that took Lafayette and his volunteers to America from this spot in 1777.” (The original monument was destroyed by German troops on May 30, 1942, but rebuilt by France after the war. When I was there last November, I saw that someone had placed fresh flowers on it.)

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My visit started well: Philippe Dambrine and Hervé Monthieu of Château Greysac had invited me for dinner. Conversation soon turned to wine (after the usual polite exchanges of political views and sporting trivia; Monthieu, Greysac’s enologist and vineyard manager, is an enthusiastic soccer and rugby player). We discussed the château’s 1994 and 1993 vintages, which we’d tasted before dinner. The 1994 was round and fleshy, whereas the 1993 was lighter in color and texture, with a more noticeable Cabernet Sauvignon pungency and something of an edge, too. It was obvious that the grapes had been riper in 1994 than in 1993, “but there was also a difference in varietal proportions,” Monthieu said. “In 1993 we had to exclude quite a lot of Merlot because of rain damage—rot—at the time of picking. Greysac usually has almost equal proportions of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot—a fairly standard situation in this part of the Médoc—which is what you taste in the 1994. But many growers had difficulty with their Merlot in 1993, just as we did.” The Médoc’s Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot are usually supplemented with a little Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot, or Malbec. Cabernet Sauvignon is normally the dominant variety in a vineyard—it varies from 45 percent to 70 percent—with Merlot planted in most of the rest.

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Cabernet Franc, which lends aroma and color, rarely represents more than 2 to 3 percent. Malbec was once a principal grape of the Médoc— it gives delicate and fragrant wines that were more appropriate to the tastes of the eighteenth century—but now has hardly any presence at all. Petit Verdot, when used in conjunction with Malbec, added toughness; it would have given any blend some backbone. Petit Verdot ripens with difficulty, however, and is now used only on a very small scale. A Médoc wine with a high proportion of Cabernet Sauvignon is likely to age well. Merlot wines are more forward, and, although some growers maintain a generous percentage of Merlot for that reason (to produce wines that will be ready for consumption early), most plant Merlot when they find a great deal of clay in their soil. The clay retains moisture and is colder; Cabernet Sauvignon planted there either would not ripen fully or, if it did ripen, would probably have an earthy flavor at odds with the normal varietal aroma. At Greysac, the vineyard is gravel and sand (a common mixture in the Médoc) over chalky clay (an equally common subsoil). The chalky clay can come to the surface on the lower parts of slopes, and Monthieu’s response is to plant Merlot there. When the French talk about a wine expressing a vineyard, they have many factors in mind, among them the way in which the soils dictate the varietal blend. At our dinner we drank the Greysac ’90—a wine with a deliciously deep flavor and vigorous power—with a first-course cheese soufflé. The château’s 1982—much more suave but, particularly after that 1990, curiously shallow—appeared with duck breasts, grilled rare. And with a sheep’s milk cheese from the Pyrenees we had the 1975, a wine no longer as aggressively tannic as it once was but still rather angular and decidedly brisker than the younger 1982. That 1990 was a hard act for the other wines to follow. Next morning I visited Greysac’s neighbor, Marc Pagès, at Château La Tour de By. In daylight I could see that both properties are quite near the Gironde estuary; La Tour de By is so close, in fact, that a windmill on the property was pulled down in 1825 and a lighthouse

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built on the same spot. The vines of both properties benefit from the bed of gravel, deposited by the river millennia ago, that dominates many of the vineyards all through the Haut-Médoc and Médoc. Gravel drains quickly, and therefore warms up quickly—which is why it is so highly prized as vineyard topsoil. It supports Cabernet Sauvignon particularly well, contributing the structure and finesse necessary for potential development. At La Tour de By the gravel rests on iron pan. Perhaps for that reason or as a result of Pagès’s preference for traditional techniques, including the use of wooden rather than stainless-steel vats for fermentation, the wines of La Tour de By are known for their tight, elegantly structured style. They reminded me of the way Médoc wines used to be before waves of comparative tastings and universally inclusive rankings pushed their producers to make them fruitier and oakier and—dare I say it?—clumsier, in order to close the stylistic gap between their own wines and California’s, with which they were constantly being compared. Pagès set out for me every vintage from 1995 back to 1979, plus the 1973 for good measure. Though 1989 and 1979 were my favorites, all the wines together represented a remarkable continuum. Rather fancifully, perhaps, I thought they reflected certain qualities of Marc Pagès himself. A courtly, understated, even ascetic man, he was born in Tunisia, where his grandfather, a French army officer, had resigned his commission in the 1860s in order to establish a vineyard. Pagès came to Bordeaux in the early 1960s, when France withdrew from Algeria. (His family’s land in Tunisia had been confiscated.) Once he realized my interest, he was delighted to talk to me about the Roman antiquities of North Africa—clearly a passion—and was both erudite and entertaining on the subject. Maryse and Didier Roba of nearby Château Vieux-Robin had invited me to lunch. Didier Roba made wine for Baron Edmond de Rothschild at Château Clarke in the Haut-Médoc before he and his wife took over her family’s vineyard in 1987. Indeed, the grand but obviously new gates to the property, the freshly macadamed driveway through trimly main-

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tained gardens, recently built barrel storage, and the modern addition to the old farmhouse all proclaimed “new proprietor.” Vieux-Robin’s wine, too, proclaims a new proprietor. The vineyard itself, geologically more complex and with a higher proportion of Cabernet Sauvignon than at either La Tour de By or Greysac, guarantees the wine a balance of delicacy and power, and Roba has expanded those qualities with techniques—more extraction, more new oak—developed during his time in the Haut-Médoc. Lunch began with the 1992, an attractive wine from a vintage that offers much pleasure for early drinking. We then moved on to the more serious 1989, a vintage that will need time; but I suspect the Robas were serving it only as a curtain raiser for their opulent 1990, a magnificent wine that gives Didier Roba every justification for the changes he has brought to Vieux-Robin. Later, I drove to Château Laujac, on the far side of Bégadan, an estate that has been in the hands of the Cruse family since 1852. The present owner, Bernard Cruse—urbane, silver-haired—was waiting for me on the loggia outside the château’s salon. The sun was warm there, and he was in short sleeves; we were enjoying what Europeans call a Saint Martin’s summer. Herman Cruse arrived in Bordeaux from Schleswig-Holstein on the Danish-German border in 1819 and set himself up as a wine merchant. In 1848, a year of revolution that sent King Louis-Philippe scampering to England, wine prices collapsed. Herman Cruse took a gamble: He bought in the 1847 vintage and was able to sell it the following year for a huge profit, which he invested in Château Laujac. For the next century and beyond, the Cruse family, rapidly taking the social as well as commercial lead in Bordeaux, dominated the city. “At the time,” Bernard Cruse said, “Herman considered buying Cos d’Estournel, which was also on the market. But Laujac had everything we needed to be self-sufficient; in addition to the vineyards, we had grains, cattle, and woodland. We needed considerable personnel to run it. To provide for them, the family built a village with a child-care cen-

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ter and a school. There was a bonus paid at each birth to encourage parents to have children. Families helped stabilize the estate by ensuring another generation to work here. Today, however, the village, which had its own bakery and a smithy to shoe the horses, is reduced to a collection of empty cottages at the entrance to the property. “The estate flourished. The area under vines went from 70 hectares to 140 in the years before World War I. We now have 40 hectares; the rest of the land is used for general agriculture or is left in pasture for the horses.” As we toured the vineyard in his Jeep, Cruse pointed out several small, vacant hen houses scattered about. “We used to let chickens loose in the vines,” he said. “They pecked insect eggs from the vinewood and ate them.” Laujac’s vines are also on gravel and include a fairly high proportion of Cabernet Sauvignon, but Cruse handles that combination differently from Roba. His wines, supple and elegant, have a more discreet charm.

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Each day followed a similar pattern. At Civrac I met Jean-Marc Landureau of Château d’Escurac, an earnest, inquiring, and hardworking young man who took over the family vineyard in time for the 1990 vintage and has since been attracting attention for his deft skills. “I am more a grower than a winemaker,” he told me. But in fact he has shrewd and well-informed ideas on everything. He is almost intuitive in the way he micro-adjusts his fermentation temperature to extract precisely what he wants and no more. “You can go too far, extracting tannins that are of little interest,” he says. His wines are clean and lively, but growing seasons since he took over have been so varied that he says he is still looking for his own style. Jean Boivert, of Château Les Ormes-Sorbet at Couquèques, found his style many years ago and is now deservedly one of the darlings of the French wine-writing brigade. He has been given every accolade in the book, and his wines are sought after in both France and Belgium. I tasted with him each vintage of his wine from 1995 back to 1989. Even his 1993 was successful. And his 1990 and 1989 are superb: the 1990, big

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and intensely aromatic; the 1989, tighter and finer. Les Ormes-Sorbet’s vineyards rest on a large section of limestone plateau that runs through the center of this part of the Médoc, supporting not only Les OrmesSorbet but also Château La Tour Haut-Caussan, Château La Cardonne, and Château Patache d’Aux. Philippe Courrian, of Château La Tour Haut-Caussan, explained the role of the plateau by giving me a condensed geological history of the area’s last one hundred million years as we walked through his vineyard. “In the Secondary era,” he said, “the Médoc was a limestone plateau, which was broken up in the Tertiary, when the Pyrenees and the Alps were formed. In the Quaternary, glaciers deposited gravelly alluvium over and around the smashed segments of limestone. Finally, as the glaciers melted, the Gironde left beds of pebble and silt over and among what was already there. Between that vineyard there [he pointed at a jumble of chalky rock] and this one [a bed of gravel] there are sixty million years. Well, more or less.” Courrian’s wines are very appealing—their sequence of flavors owes much to his highly non-tech approach to winemaking. “A wine should express the geology of the vineyard and the personality of the grower, not a formula of winemaking procedures and a list of barrel-makers’ telephone numbers,” he told me. The vineyards of Patache d’Aux, forming a crescent round the village of Bégadan, are 70 percent Cabernet Sauvignon—one of the highest proportions for this part of the Médoc—which gives the wine its tight, highly structured style. Patache d’Aux combines old and new in an interesting way. “We have picked by machine every year since 1982,” director Patrice Ricard told me. “Machine picking means that we can wait until the fruit is at optimum maturity because, once we start, the whole lot can be in the vats within twelve days. Still, most of the fermentation here is in traditional open wooden vats; we use cement and stainless-steel tanks only for storage.” I asked him how modern computerized controls might be used to monitor the fermentation in an open wooden vat. “We don’t need them.

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Computers are gadgets,” he said, with just a hint of disdain. “We like our winemakers to stay close to each fermentation in progress. We want their noses, not a piece of wire, in the vat. Important decisions are best based on information received through the senses.” Before returning to Paris, I visited Château La Cardonne, an estate owned for a while by the Rothschilds of Château Lafite and now splendidly rebuilt—château, fermentation hall, underground chais—by its new owner, Guy Charloux. I had time to wonder, as I dined there royally on squab braised in red wine, how the estate might change the region. It was so large, so grand, and represented such a huge investment. But then I was reassured as I remembered the ease with which Greysac, property of Agnelli family interests since the 1970s, and Loudenne, where I had dined the previous evening with fifteen young flight attendants from Japan Air Lines completing the château’s two-day wine course, have managed to balance two worlds every bit as different, in their ways, as Philippe Courrian’s Tertiary and Quaternary vineyards. Well, more or less. Originally published as “The Other Médoc” in Gourmet, April 1996. Château Loudenne is now owned by Marie-Claude and Jean-Paul Lafragette, who have other interests in wines and spirits.

corton Burgundy’s Magic Mountain

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hen we choose a wine in a hurry, we sometimes do little more than pick a name from the list. “That’ll do.” Yet at times the right choice is so obvious there’s no point in hesitating. One evening last year, at dinner with friends in a restaurant where we were snug and safe from a pounding rainstorm, I instinctively turned to the comfort of red Burgundy, barely pausing before I asked for the 1989 grand cru Corton-Bressandes from Chandon de Briailles. Corton is called a magic mountain and Les Bressandes is, as Burgundians say, a climat on its prime east face. I find Burgundies of the 1989 vintage delicious—they have given me much more pleasure than the vaunted 1988s—and the Chandon de Briailles estate has been a model of well-judged winemaking since Nadine de Nicolay and her daughter Claude took over the management of their family property a little more than a decade ago. In short, I knew this particular bottle was a lucky find that would help us ignore the weather outside. The wine was ready and our glasses filled when the risotto of wild mushrooms, the sauté of sweetbreads, and the roast partridge with glazed chestnuts arrived at the table. Actually, though it might indeed be magical, Corton is not a mountain at all. It’s a massive hill a few miles north of Beaune, thrust forward and almost free from the long slope of Burgundy’s Côte d’Or. Though officially in the Côte de Beaune, Corton produces red wines that rival some of the best of the Côte de Nuits. But the hill is aloof from both and seems rather to play the part of a giant hinge buckling together these two 86

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halves of the Côte d’Or at the point where the vine-covered slopes of the Côte de Beaune swing back to face the southeast, a subtle but important shift away from the unvarying eastern exposure of the Côte de Nuits. Corton’s vines are displayed in a convex half-circle, from east to west, which gives some of them a southerly exposure rare in the Côte d’Or. And the changes in light and warmth from sunrise to sunset and from one part of the hill to another, multiplied by the effect of the vineyards’ rapid climb up to twelve hundred feet, impose a diversity in the way the grapes form and ripen that is rarer still within the bounds of a single Burgundian cru. Corton is a place where one quickly grasps the significance of the word climat in distinguishing one vineyard site from another. Corton is different in other ways, too—the most significant, perhaps, being that the bed of limestone running uniformly through the grands crus of the Côte de Nuits here dips abruptly below strata of chalky Oxfordian marls, clays, and iron-red oolites deposited nearly 150 million years ago, when much of western Europe was covered by Jurassic seas. The manifold layers were shaken up a few million years later when the Alps erupted not far to the east and have been worked on by wind and water ever since. The connections between the tannin in a wine and the clay in the vineyard; between a wine’s deep, vibrant color and the effect of iron; and between a wine’s full expressive aroma and the presence of chalk in the soil were forged by these distant events. In that sense the glow of a Corton wine has origins that go back farther than most of us can even begin to imagine. Having said that, I must now admit that on the scale of that great chronological sweep, the vines from which Corton is produced arrived only yesterday. There could well have been a vineyard on the hill in the time of the Romans. The name, after all, is said to be a corruption of Curtis Orthonis, the domain of Orthon, a Roman courtier. But the real push to viticulture in the region started only with the arrival of the Burgundians fifteen hundred years ago. Their king initiated an enlightened policy that allowed men to take lawful possession of any uncultivated land on which they planted a vineyard. So plant they did.

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In the centuries following Burgundy’s conquest by the Franks in a.d. 534, however, ownership of the vineyards—and often of the men who worked them—was shared between church and nobles. Charles Martel seized church land, including vineyards on Corton, after his defeat of the Arabs at Poitiers in 732, claiming, rightly or wrongly, that the Burgundian churchmen had been lukewarm in supporting his opposition to the invaders. His grandson, Charlemagne, gave much of it back, including the vineyards on the west and southwest sides of Corton that continue to bear his name. In 775 they went, as the personal gift of the emperor, to the collegial abbey of Saint-Andoche, in Saulieu. In those days the Charlemagne vineyards covered fewer than five acres; yet by the time they were seized during the French Revolution (to be sold as state property along with all other church holdings) they were double that size. In fact, in the thousand years between Charlemagne and the storming of the Bastille, vines had spread slowly over most of the hill. The progression had taken time because the slopes, uncommonly steep for Burgundy, were subject to soil erosion and cleft with open quarries where men had extracted the flat sheets of stone (laves) used in Burgundy for cottage roof tiles. Monks of the Cistercian order planted vines on Corton as early as 1160. Other vineyard proprietors included the cathedral chapter of Autun, the abbey of Sainte-Marguerite at nearby Bouilland, and the Knights Templar. Like the Cistercians, the dukes of Burgundy established a vineyard on Corton in the twelfth century. It’s possible to keep close track of it through the ducal accounts: In 1427 it is referred to as the VignePhilippe, an allusion to Duke Philip the Good. It wasn’t long after that, though, that King Louis XI of France, thenceforth master of Burgundy, sent his personal representative to Beaune expressly to change the vineyard’s name in the local register to Clos du Roi. He wanted there to be no misunderstanding about what was now his.

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Corton and Corton-Charlemagne, the hill’s twin grand cru appellations (one red, from Pinot Noir vines; the other white, from Chardonnay) are

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divided into roughly twenty of these named vineyards—climats. There is more than twice as much Corton as there is Corton-Charlemagne produced. It is the umbrella grand cru for red wine produced on much of the eastern, southeastern, and southern slopes of the hill. Charlemagne (Corton was hyphenated to it only in this century) was used historically for vineyards on the west and southwest of the hill that were once associated with the emperor. Straddling the Aloxe-Corton and PernandVergelesses border, they have been replanted any number of times— sometimes with red-wine varietals and sometimes with white—and still exist as the core of the Domaine Bonneau du Martray, the largest producer of Corton-Charlemagne. There is an unlikely legend that the first change from red to white in the Charlemagne vineyard occurred when the emperor’s wife, Liutgard, objected to the wine stains on her husband’s beard. “It’s undignified!” she is said to have protested. In fact, both the soil and microclimate of the Charlemagne vineyards have always been better suited to white wines. The very small volume of red produced there is sold as Corton. The Corton-Charlemagne grand cru appellation extends beyond the original Charlemagne holdings, however, and includes other vineyards recognized for white wines produced in the same terse style. Among them are Les Pougets and Les Languettes (two climats adjacent to Le Charlemagne), Le Corton and parts of Les Renardes (farther along the hill), as well as Corton climats that obtrude into neighboring LadoixSerrigny. All these vineyards also produce red wines sold as Corton, usually with the name of the climat hyphenated to it. White wines (and there are quite a number of them, though quantities are small) produced in the other Corton vineyards are deemed not to have CortonCharlemagne characteristics and are therefore sold—confusingly or not, depending on one’s point of view—as grand cru Corton Blanc. What exactly are the characteristics of a Corton-Charlemagne? It’s easiest to begin by saying that they include neither the fruit and body of certain Meursaults and Montrachets nor the rapier-keen steeliness of top-class Chablis. A young Corton-Charlemagne opens with a subdued,

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pebbly aroma and makes a taut and reserved impression on the palate. It’s lively, however, and has a firm, elegant texture. Depending on the year, it can seem light and mild (1994), supple and delicately fleshy (1995), mouth filling (1996), or long and nervy (1997). The acids are usually good and help keep the wine fresh for years as it develops an astonishing complexity. With Louis Latour, I had a 1990 Corton-Charlemagne that was the taste equivalent of silk shimmering in light, and a 1985, a wine with an almost honeyed intensity. I have only once seen a specific vineyard of origin mentioned on the label of a bottle of Corton-Charlemagne; I don’t think it’s customary. But it is standard practice to show the particular origin of a Corton grand cru. When the name is used alone, without indication of vineyard, the wine is almost always a blend drawn from different sites within the grand cru or, as in the case of Louis Latour’s Château Corton-Grancy and François Faiveley’s Clos des Cortons-Faiveley, from an estate vineyard (theirs are at the center of the coveted east face) that doesn’t fit neatly into the confines of one specific climat. But whether it’s a blend or from a single climat, what is it that distinguishes a Corton from other red wines of the Côte d’Or? When I put this question to a number of growers recently, their answers took a similar direction. “A Corton wine is male,” says François Faiveley, whose family has long been a proprietor of vineyards there. “It is more vigorous than other red wines of the Côte d’Or.” Philippe Senard of the Domaine Comte Senard agrees. “A young Corton is assertive,” he says. “There’s something violent about it. It’s the Burgundy that gains most from aging.” Nadine de Nicolay, a woman as graceful as her wines, also sees in her Corton wines qualities she referred to as masculine. “Savigny and Pernand [neighboring villages] are flowery and fruity, but Corton has the darker aromas of the woods—bark and mushrooms,” she said. From my own experience I would say that a young Corton is distinctive among Burgundies for its focus and curious impression of raw energy. I suppose that’s the violence Philippe Senard refers to. But when

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mature, a well-made Corton of good vintage is as sumptuous as it is possible for a wine to be. Even when differentiating Corton from other Burgundies, however, all the producers I spoke to laid greater emphasis on Corton’s own diversity. “It’s so broad,” Faiveley said to me when we lunched together in Nuits-Saint-Georges one day, “that I’m always surprised to find Corton existing at all as a single grand cru.” “Each Corton climat has such an individual character,” Nathalie Tollot, of Domaine Tollot-Beaut & Fils, told me, “that when tasting, one is repeatedly confronting the most basic notions of terroir. “For example,” she says, “a wine from Les Renardes is always wild, no matter who grows the grapes.” Senard also finds a savage quality in wine from Renardes. “It makes one think of game, of fur,” he told me. “Each site imposes clear characteristics of its own. A Perrières, just as the name suggests, gives a reticent, stony impression. The wines of Bressandes are the most refined of Corton, but they are very muscular, too. Their combination of strength and grace always puts me in mind of a dancer. Wines of Combes are robust, at first even rude, rustic. But it’s the wines of the Clos du Roi that, for me, most typically represent what a Corton should be. They have attack, power, and—if you like—a certain majesty.” “A wine’s terroir just is,” says Nadine de Nicolay. “We do nothing to dramatize it, but we do make an effort to protect it. We avoid the use of fertilizers, which encourages the vine to root deeply and draw on all that is there in the soil. The power and length of a wine comes only from the vine. The kind of power that comes from working the skins and the juice in the course of making wine is superficial; it does not give the wine finesse. On the contrary, it usually destroys any it might have had.” “To some extent we can impose style on a wine in the cellar,” says Jacques Lardière, technical wine director at Louis Jadot. “But we can’t impose character, and we can’t impose quality either. They come with the vine and the terroir. When we try to bring out the expression of a

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particular climat we must take into account the circumstances of the year and, if necessary, modify accordingly both our expectations and the techniques we apply.” The confidence to react with sensibility to the possibilities of each year comes with experience. “Even if a growing season has been difficult, we make sure that the wine shows as well as it can,” Senard told me. “But we must do that without distorting or exaggerating or forcing anything for effect. At each moment I know instinctively what I must do and what I mustn’t. But I couldn’t explain to anyone else what I am doing or why.” Senard’s way of dealing with a vintage, or of approaching a cru like Corton, is unlikely to be the same as his neighbor’s. That’s why two wines from the same site and the same year will always be different. Nathalie Tollot said that the characteristics of the vineyard will always come through—she referred specifically to Les Renardes—“no matter who grows the grapes.” She didn’t say “no matter who makes the wines” because she knows that every producer has a clear signature. Two wines from one cellar but from distinct sites are likely to show a greater similarity than two wines from grapes grown on one site in the same year made into wine by different producers. There are obvious differences, for example, between the rather massive Cortons of Louis Jadot, where Lardière believes in extracting and revealing the essential terroir through long vatting; and the more delicate wines of Louis Latour, who racks a new wine from the skins as soon as he thinks he has what he wants from them, and tames rather than accentuates the terroir by tucking in the tannins as discreetly as Beaux Arts architects kept their structural girders hidden from view. Of recent vintages, perhaps the only one that called for particular restraint on the part of all producers was the 1994. The wines were naturally meager: They lacked flesh, and any attempt to extract more from the grapes would have unbalanced them and made them harsh. Any modest charm would have been lost. The 1993s, on the other hand, have color and power to excess. Nadine

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de Nicolay told me that her Clos du Roi was so concentrated that at first it could have been confused with a Cabernet Sauvignon. “The tannins were ripe and soft but they were huge,” she said. Almost all the Cortons of this vintage tasted recently have a distinct suggestion of licorice. The 1995s are supple and fragrant, and I prefer them to the 1996s, though most Burgundians would have it the other way around. In the long term, particularly as far as Corton is concerned, they could be right. But at present I find the 1996s closed in, rather as the 1988s were; they have the same dense tannins and austere acids. The 1997s are already delicious and will continue to be so for a while. Their tannins are fine, their acids moderate, and their fruit flattering. Tollot thinks they’ll turn out like the 1989s, “but with more substance.” If she’s right, that will suit me very well—I like the 1989s. Their charm was revealed in a 1989 Clos des Cortons-Faiveley offered at my lunch with François Faiveley, as it had been in the Corton-Bressandes 1989 of Chandon de Briailles chosen to accompany my roast partridge and hold a rainstorm at bay. That Corton-Bressandes had been deceptively mellow: its bouquet and flavor, bringing together the still-youthful elegance of Pinot Noir and sweetly nostalgic reminders of fall (the glazed chestnuts could not have been more appropriate), masked a discreet power that was exhilarating. The wine had finesse—it evolved on the tongue between sip and swallow—and, whatever Mme de Nicolay might have to say about the distinction of her Cortons in relation to the floweriness of neighboring wines, it left an impression of woodland violets. It certainly made our evening. I remember thinking how calm the night was when we finally left the restaurant. The rain had stopped and the clouds were drifting away. Originally published as “Corton: The Heart of Burgundy” in Gourmet, April 1999.

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e don’t huddle around a fire at the back of the cave anymore, but at the winter solstice we still feel the need for warmth and light— Christmas-tree candles, Hanukkah lamps, Caribbean cruises—to remind us that the sun is still out there somewhere. I’m apt to think of Roussillon, on record as the sunniest corner of France, tucked away by the Spanish border, between the Pyrenees and the Mediterranean. Date palms flourish among its fig and orange trees; vines are rampant; the light is dazzling; and colors can be radiant. Those of old Collioure, Roussillon’s picture-postcard fishing port, were captured on canvas by Matisse a century ago. A visitor at the time described the town as “a blaze of reds and ochres.” Those are the colors of Roussillon’s wines, too: bold, vivacious reds based on Grenache, Syrah, and Mourvèdre, and aged dessert wines (vins doux naturels) that take on, with time, the hues of old gold, amber, and faded terra-cotta. They are sunlight preserved in a form most likely to be of comfort to us at this time of year. In fact, a rib roast and a carafe of Côtes du Roussillon Villages followed by mince pie with a glass of old Rivesaltes should be reassurance enough for even the most skeptical that the world will indeed go on turning and that the sun will go on shining. “Rivesaltes,” said André Jullien in his Topographie de Tous les Vignobles Connus, published in Paris in 1816, “is the best wine of its kind in France,” and Alexander Henderson, in his History of Ancient and Modern Wines 94

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(London, 1824), said of the local Muscat: “When sufficiently matured by age, it is of a bright golden colour, and has an oily smoothness, a fragrant aroma, and a delicate flavour of the quince, by which it is distinguished from all other sweet wines.” Since the days of André Jullien and Alexander Henderson, the vineyards of Roussillon have endured considerable upheaval. In the chaos that followed their destruction by the phylloxera blight toward the end of the last century, they were hurriedly reconstituted with high-yielding varieties to cash in on the wine shortages continuing elsewhere. The growers were driven by a need to repay, as quickly as possible, the money advanced to them to get started again. Roussillon’s abundant hours of sunshine ensured that the grapes had good sugars even if character had been sacrificed to crop size. It was an advantage that proved to be a mixed blessing: When wine production was back to normal in the other regions of France, demand for Roussillon purely as bulk blending material continued. Meanwhile, much of the area’s traditional fortified dessert wine was finding its way into the production of vermouths and apéritifs, the mainstay of bar sales in French cafés. Once flavored and spiced, its quality was not of prime concern. The force of the appellation laws eventually expelled Roussillon wines from blending vats where they didn’t belong, and when the sale of vermouths and apéritifs in France began to decline, there seemed to be little future. Some growers reacted by joining the rush to plant Chardonnay, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon, while the government offered financial incentives to those who would agree to pull out their vines altogether. It took vision and courage to accept that the way forward was back. Fortunately, it was a view that prevailed, and changes in the past twenty years have gone far to restore what Roussillon had lost a century before.

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In geographic terms, the viticultural sector of Roussillon is easy to define. It’s a rough square formed by mountains to the north, west, and

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south, and by the Mediterranean to the east (the coast, at this point, runs north-south). It is magnificent country, dominated by the Pyrenees and divided by three rivers—the Agly, the Têt, and the Tech. Its soils range from black schist at Maury and Banyuls (the areas where the best vins doux naturels are produced) to zones and patches elsewhere of everything from stones to sand and alluvial clays. Schist gives wine finesse, elegance, and depth; chalky clays make it bold. Growers interpret such differences in their own way. Pierre Piquemal, a grower at Espira de l’Agly in whose cellar I tasted some exceptional white wines, produces them from the schist in his vineyards; but Jean-Paul Henriqués, owner of the ancient domain of Força Réal, reserves the schist at the top of his hillcrest property for Syrah and Grenache. “I like the elegance of the fruit to come through in my red wine,” he said. If the geography is easy to follow, the lines of Roussillon’s appellations aren’t, not even with a map, because areas designated for the production of fortified dessert wines on the one hand and for dry table wines on the other are not mutually exclusive. Banyuls dessert wines and Collioure table wines, for example, are both produced from vineyards in the canyon-riven terrain around and behind these two towns. Until this century, the names applied equally to the sweet and dry wines each produced. Now they are used to indicate the kind of wine, from an area including both types, rather than the wine’s municipal pedigree. The Pyrenees fall straight to the sea here, and within a narrow compass there are vines at all altitudes, from beach level—where a wall at Clos de Paulilles cannot always protect its vines from the surf when there’s a high sea running—to at least 1,300 feet. The Grenache grown at those altitudes on slivers of terraced vineyard carved out of the hillsides—more than 3,700 miles of drypoint wall hold them in position—goes mostly to the production of Banyuls. The Syrah and Mourvèdre for Collioure is usually grown on the lower slopes, where Grenache would be prolific at the expense of quality. But that is a division of convenience, not of law. At the Domaine de la Rectorie, for instance, most of the vineyard—thirty scattered parcels— is composed of old Grenache vines perched on high hillsides, yet the

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grapes are more likely to be used to make the domain’s exceptional red Collioure than for the production of its Banyuls vin doux naturel. “We cannot always expect the degree of super-ripeness necessary for a vin doux naturel. The situation is more fragile than people think,” Marc Parcé, one of the domain’s owners, explained. “We often have several inches of rain quite suddenly in the fall. When it’s early, rot spreads quickly in the Grenache. So we like to harvest the fruit before the September equinox if we can. When I intend to use the grapes for Banyuls, I must make the decision early and thin the fruit to reduce the yields, as much as I dare, and so bring on the rapid maturity of the grapes. Of course, by choosing to work with old vines in poor hillside soils, our yields are naturally low anyway. “But because we focus on making Collioure—dry table wines—we don’t want overripe grapes. This isn’t Bordeaux. This isn’t Burgundy. We don’t have to push the limits to get to full maturity. On the contrary, we have to watch that we don’t go too far, that we keep a balanced liveliness in our wines.” And a glass of his 1997 Collioure Coume Pascole proved that he did.

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Though Rivesaltes, Maury, and Banyuls—Roussillon’s principal dessert wines—were first defined by law in the 1930s, the dry wines of Collioure have existed officially only since 1971, and Côtes du Roussillon only since 1977. (There is also the appellation Côtes du Roussillon Villages, applied to red wines grown along certain sections of the Agly. They are required to be of higher quality than the other wines of the Côtes du Roussillon.) These newer appellations were launched as part of a program to restore to Roussillon the esteem it had enjoyed in André Jullien’s day. It included the gradual elimination of high-yielding vines, greater emphasis on those of quality, and the introduction of new varieties from the Rhône—especially Syrah—as well as more controversial ones from Bordeaux. Pierre Piquemal put it to me this way: “I’ve nothing against Bordeaux varieties. I grow Cabernet Sauvignon and blend it with Grenache

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and Syrah. Because of the Cabernet Sauvignon, I can’t label it Côtes du Roussillon—it’s just a Vin de Pays. I call it Cuvée Justin Piquemal, and it sells very well. It’s served in the dining rooms of both the Elysée and Hôtel Matignon and by the mayor of Paris at the Hôtel de Ville. But I do nothing to promote the wine on the strength of its varietal associations because I want to keep our own Roussillon image strong. “The granting of the new controlled appellations was a boon for us. For years our wine was sold in bulk as Corbières and fetched only a commodity price. Now we are able to sell the product of our own vines, in bottle, as Côtes du Roussillon. The appellation has given our region an identity; the label on the bottle has done the same for our vineyard. We have worked hard and consistently to improve the quality. I don’t want to put at risk all we have achieved by promoting varietal names that can come from anywhere.” Bernard Cazes of Rivesaltes thinks differently. He sees Roussillon as victim rather than beneficiary of the appellation contrôlée system. “Those who had the luck to have Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay as their local grapes have done all right,” he told me. “We got locked into Grenache and Carignan. If we use those other varieties, our wine can be sold only as Vin de Pays. Everyone says we must respect our own grapes for the sake of our typicité. But meanwhile, the whole world plants Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, and the Institut National des Appellations d’Origine stops us from competing. The sommeliers love our regional varieties—they can pick them out at blind tastings. But we are not here for the amusement of sommeliers.” The odd thing was that I preferred Cazes’s Côtes du Roussillon to his blend of Cabernet and Merlot. To me the two wines seemed to demonstrate the opposite of what he had been saying. Similarly, though I liked the Cuvée Justin Piquemal, I found it neither as supple nor as appealing as Piquemal’s Côtes du Roussillon, made from a mix of Grenache, Mourvèdre, Syrah, and Carignan—a succulent wine that was both concentrated and juicy.

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Cazes’s winery is in the commune of Rivesaltes itself, so even though the Rivesaltes name is given to vin doux naturel produced throughout the region, it was fitting that his vins doux naturels should have my keenest attention. His Rivesaltes Ambré ’90, in particular, is remarkable. Rivesaltes is made, like Port, by using high-strength alcohol to stop the fermentation and so preserve the grapes’ natural sugar in the resultant wine. The alcohol is added to the mass of crushed grapes, not just to grape juice, so that the skins can continue to macerate for two weeks or more before being pressed. The wines—red from Grenache Noir and white from Grenache Gris and Blanc, Macabeu, and Malvoisie— are then aged for years in large casks, where a controlled oxidation introduces flavors suggestive of dried fruits and toasted nuts and a slightly dry finish, a rasp referred to as rancio (a quality prized in certain Spanish wines), that balances the wine’s residual sugar and prevents it from cloying. With time, in any case, all these qualities meld into one. Red Rivesaltes takes on a color of old roof tiles, and the wine is referred to as tuilé, and the white deepens to gold and then amber, like the 1990 I tasted. It was once common to take this process further by transferring the young wine into large glass jars of about five gallons each and leaving them on a flat roof for a year, exposed to the sun’s rays, before returning it to casks for further aging. The Etoile winery at Banyuls still keeps three hundred such jars on a flat roof over its office, but the winery best known for keeping this tradition is Mas Amiel at Maury. At any given time there are three thousand jars on its rooftop, and I suspect it’s the sun-aging that gives its dessert wines their extraordinary vitality. Partly for reasons of economics—it’s expensive to hold steadily evaporating volumes of fine wine for up to twenty years—and partly to meet head-on the preference for young Port as an apéritif in France, there is now a version of red Rivesaltes called “Vintage” in which the conventional oxidation is avoided. Some producers—Pierre Piquemal, for example, one of the first to make this style of wine—bottle it after one year in stainless-steel tanks, while its fruity qualities are still fully

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preserved. Others, for a richer aroma and more nuanced flavor, give their “Vintage” wines a year or so in barrel before bottling them. At Mas Amiel, manager Jérémie Gaïk follows a procedure that obviously owes something to vintage Port itself. The grapes for his “Vintage” are trod by foot in shallow, stainless-steel milk tanks. The muted wine is then aged in wood before bottling. Gaïk takes the word Vintage seriously (though Roussillon’s use of the name is being hotly contested by the Port Wine Institute, in Oporto) and makes the wine only in exceptional years like 1993, 1996, and 1998. Jean-Michel Parcé of Mas Blanc at Banyuls is also producing an exceptionally complex wine of this kind, called “Rimage” rather than “Vintage,” in which intense and extravagant flavors go beyond anything I usually associate with either Banyuls or Rivesaltes. Parcé approaches the wine, his own, as if he were having it for the first time. “I like a wine that makes me think,” he said as we tasted it together. “I like to have a conversation with a wine.” Some of the finest vins doux naturels are made by those who usually place greater emphasis on their dry wines and therefore protect the subtlety, freshness, and balance of all their wines instinctively. Estelle Dauré of Château de Jau in the Côtes du Roussillon and of Clos de Paulilles (producing Collioure and Banyuls) offers some of the liveliest and most attractive wines of the region. Even her simple red and rosé Jaja wines—Vins de Pays made from Grenache and Syrah—are as impeccable as they are sprightly. So I wasn’t surprised by the freshness and discretion of her Rivesaltes Ambré. “I am careful,” she said, “to control oxidation. I treat the wine like a table wine even though it isn’t.” As a result, her Mas Cristine ’96, with its touch of caramel and hint of apricot, is more like an especially luscious Sauternes than a young Rivesaltes. Her technique is perhaps best seen, though, in Château de Jau’s graceful Muscat de Rivesaltes ’96, a wine made exclusively from Muscat à Petits Grains, the only Muscat variety used for this wine when Alexander Henderson wrote his eulogy of it, instead of the blend more

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common today of Petits Grains and Muscat of Alexandria. An ancient vine, Alexandria gives a wine of less substance and less finesse but with a more penetrating aroma. And it is sturdier than Petits Grains and far more prolific. You could say that Petits Grains, a fragile vine that gives a small yield, is no grower’s friend. But in the hands of a careful winemaker, someone like Estelle Dauré, its exquisite flavor opens up and seems to fill the world. Originally published as “Sunlight in a Glass: Roussillon for the Holidays” in Gourmet, December 1999.

sancerre and pouilly-fumé Terres Blanches, Caillottes, and Silex

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here are words in the wine lexicon I’ve learned to discount: the “steeliness” of Chablis, the “spiciness” of Zinfandel, and the “complexity” of just about everything. The writers of back labels know which buttons to push. “Sweaty saddle” is now an almost obligatory flourish in tasting accounts of Hunter Valley Shiraz; “gamy” lurks in descriptions of mature Burgundy; and “chocolate” is attaching itself to Cabernet Sauvignon of every style and quality. Once accepted into the canon, expressions like these revalidate themselves perpetually, always there for anyone at a loss for words, sometimes apt and always reassuring. In my earliest days as a wine-trade trainee I was more puzzled than reassured by the expression “gunflint”—pierre à fusil—as applied to the wines of Sancerre. In some texts I read that the “fumé” of PouillyFumé, Sancerre’s twin across the Loire, was a reference to that wine’s “gunsmoke” aroma. In my then limited experience, young Sancerre was bright and crisp with, in good years, the taste of fresh peach. Pouilly-Fumé, also made from Sauvignon Blanc, was rounder but with something of a rasp at the finish—a suggestion of grapefruit is how I’d describe it. When I graduated to buying, I came to look for that hint of slightly bitter citrus, recognizing it as a promising sign in a young wine. But I didn’t find any smoking guns. In my effort to understand Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé, I paid attention to the difference between two types of soil: terres blanches and cail102

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lottes. Terres blanches is a bed of Jurassic clay, thick with tiny marine fossils, that runs from Chablis, seventy-five miles northeast, down through Pouilly and Sancerre; caillottes, a shattered limestone—crumbly chalk— streaks around it. Wines from caillottes are graceful and fragrant, and especially enticing the spring and summer after the vintage. A terres blanches wine has more substance, and its aroma and flavor are more subdued; it needs a year or so to come round, and, if the quality is right, it will continue to improve over a few years. Almost every Sancerre grower has vines on both caillottes and terres blanches—the average family domain is a jigsaw imposed by French inheritance laws—so that the wines generally have some of the early appeal of caillottes backed by the weight of terres blanches. In Pouilly, where caillottes is rare and terres blanches predominates, far fewer wines have that early appeal, while most do well with a couple of years in bottle. But what about that gunflint? Eventually I learned that caillottes and terres blanches are not the whole story. The slope between the town of Sancerre and the Loire, where vineyards were cultivated as early as the fifth century, is rich in silex, or flint. There’s more flint on the hill at Saint-Andelain, on the opposite side of the Loire, where monks from La Charité-sur-Loire, a village just downriver, developed a vineyard in the twelfth century. Wines from those two isolated sites, one in Sancerre and the other in Pouilly, are taut and minerally. At the time they were planted, other vineyards were sparse, so these flinty associations, revalidated over the years, must have been extended to all the wines of the region. No wonder I was confused.

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When I was coming to grips with these wines, it wasn’t easy to taste and compare those that reflected any one of these three specific soil types. In the 1960s and 1970s, few Sancerre and Pouilly growers bottled cuvées that were site- or soil-specific. In fact, the majority sold their wine in bulk to merchant-bottlers, a legacy of the region’s history. For more than two hundred years after the opening of the Loire-Seine canal in 1642, Sancerre had been producing cheap red wine for shipment

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by barge to Paris. It wasn’t until the early 1900s that Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Noir, always present but marginalized, replaced the acres of Gamay and of low-grade, high-yielding Grand Noir destroyed by phylloxera. But most growers left the selling, and often the making, of the “new” Sancerre to others, who continued to blend out individuality for the sake of consistency. Price and quality were caught in a vicious circle. Some of the finest sites—Les Monts Damnés in Chavignol, for example—were virtually abandoned at that time because the potential return didn’t justify the cost of working such difficult, stony ground. Meanwhile, the intensely mineral (gunflint) contribution of fruit from vineyards on silex, when harvested at all, was carefully blended out. I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t find it. Change was in the air by the early 1980s, when a new generation, better trained than their fathers and well traveled—many having spent time in California, South Africa, or New Zealand—began to take up active roles in the vineyards and cellars. They understood that they needed to preserve and enhance the distinct qualities of their wines. Alain Cailbourdin, a Pouilly grower, put it to me bluntly: “We aren’t here simply to make Sauvignon Blanc. We are here to express our terroir, and Sauvignon Blanc is the means to do it.” People who buy a PouillyFumé or a Sancerre, he said, don’t just want to taste a variety of grape. They want to taste caillottes, terres blanches, and silex. As things turned out, it was, in fact, the gunflint taste of silex that led the revolution. For silex is the signature of Didier Dagueneau, the flamboyant, dogsled-racing grower who drew attention to the region. The impact of his bold wines was particularly dramatic because his vines, with insignificant exception, are on the silex-rich slopes of SaintAndelain. Here was gunflint with a vengeance. Dagueneau, a man as emphatic and uncompromising as his wines, brushes aside any credit for innovation in winemaking. “I do what my father and grandfather did,” he says. Silex wines have been successful because of their extraordinary

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verve. But the transfiguration of Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé is farreaching. By taking back responsibility for bottling and marketing their own wines—almost half the production of Sancerre is now estatebottled—growers select better vine stocks, adopt organic methods of cultivation, and reduce their yields. “No serious grower can leave it to regulations and freak weather to limit his crop,” Alphonse Mellot, a leading Sancerre grower, said to me as we walked through his vineyard. “He must have the will to do it himself. We need to rid ourselves of a mind-set that equates a good harvest with a big one.” Mellot—whose La Moussière vineyard, on terres blanches below a ridge southwest of Sancerre, has no silex (or caillottes for that matter)— has planted his vines at almost double the density required of him so that he can halve the number of bunches each vine must carry to full ripeness. Until ten years ago he was both a merchant-bottler—as his father and grandfather had been—and a grower, responsible for the estate acquired by his family in the course of the last three hundred years. “I folded the merchant side of the business,” he told me, “because it was impossible to keep it at a quality level I could live with.” He wanted to concentrate on selling wine for which he could take full responsibility. Now he is sharing that responsibility with his son, recently returned from working in New Zealand. The Mellots make three cuvées of white Sancerre: La Moussière Classique, from parcels of vines less than sixty years old; Cuvée Génération XIX, from older vines, some of them planted a century ago; and Cuvée Edmond, named for Alphonse’s father and made from lots of their best fruit. We tasted all three together. The Moussière Classique 2000, intensely aromatic, finished with that delicate touch of terres blanches grapefruit I had learned long ago to appreciate. The acid was in perfect balance. “Notice how it seems to sit in the middle of the tongue,” Mellot said. “That’s tartaric. Malic acid [usually a sign of unripe fruit] clings to the gums.” The 1999 vintage of Cuvée Génération XIX had a gentle aroma but was developing an expansive flavor, also in true terres blanches

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style. Finally, we tasted the Cuvée Edmond ’99. I don’t think I had ever tasted a Sancerre of such depth and grandeur. It was a revelation. And I didn’t miss the gunflint at all. Originally published as “Words of Wine: A Search for the Mysterious ‘Flint’ of Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé’s Elusive ‘Gunsmoke’ ” in Gourmet, April 2002. Didier Dagueneau, a man of extraordinary energy, an iconoclast and a risktaker, died when his ultra-light flying machine stalled and crashed in September 2008. His son, Louis-Benjamin Dagueneau, seems to have inherited, along with his father’s estate, both his style and determination.

champagne Location, Location, Location

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here was once a time when Champagne drinkers paid more attention to where the grapes were grown than to the name of the producer. They knew how to choose between a well-rounded Ambonnay, say, and a graceful Avize, much as Burgundy fanciers today consider the rival merits of a Gevrey-Chambertin’s gravitas and the surface charm of a Volnay. But that was long ago. Change began in the seventeenth century, when Dom Pérignon, a monk at Hautvillers in the valley of the Marne, found he could crush a grape against the roof of his mouth, say where it had been grown, and decide immediately into which vat the load should go. He was one of the first to understand the art of assembling Champagne’s diverse qualities to produce a single wine with a style of its own. Champagne producers continue to blend for balance, but they also want the result to reflect the characteristics of the vineyards they own. André Lallier, former owner of Deutz (now owned by Champagne Louis Roederer), once told me that the most important decisions affecting a blend are made not when samples of the year’s vins clairs—newly fermented wines—are combined in assembling the cuvée for second fermentation in bottle. “They’re made,” he said, “when land is bought or grape-purchasing contracts signed. The rest is fine-tuning.” Until recently, however, what we were told about the composition of a Champagne blend was confined, for the most part, to the propor107

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tions of each of the region’s three classic grape varieties: Pinot Noir for body; Chardonnay for grace and finesse; and Pinot Meunier for a fruity aroma. Yet as Henri Krug says: “It’s more important to know where a variety was grown than how much of it is in the cuvée.” And in the face of growing competition from sparkling wines made all over the world, Champagne producers are now giving greater emphasis to the origins of their grapes. It’s the vineyards that make Champagne unique, they’re telling us, not the second fermentation in bottle—the méthode champenoise.

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The French take for granted Champagnes that reflect a particular place, even a single vineyard. Though not easy to find, such wines are available in the United States, too. Look for the letters RM on the label (quite small): They stand for récoltant-manipulant and indicate a producer who uses only his own grapes. While the wines of these independent growers are sparsely distributed here, there is broader availability of Champagnes from other producers—small and not so small—who depend mostly, and sometimes entirely, on their own grapes. Many offer cuvées from specific sites, and in some cases the characteristics of the site and the style of the house have converged to become one. That’s certainly the case with the wines of the Gimonnet family, growers at Cuis, a premier cru on the Côte des Blancs, since 1750. Their vineyard holdings extend into the adjacent grand cru villages of Chouilly and Cramant. “Cramant gives a comforting wine, round and with good structure,” Didier Gimonnet told me. “Chouilly is lighter but more expressive. The two complement each other. But it’s the vivacious, low-profile wine from our vineyards at Cuis that draws together the estate as a whole. It adds freshness to the body of Cramant and verve to the elegance of Chouilly. Fortunately, we have old vines: It takes time for roots to go down deep enough to give full expression to the land.” Of the several cuvées Gimonnet produces each year, the one called Gastronome is typically the most youthful; Fleuron is more evolved and

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nuttier (it has a higher proportion of Cramant); but in the Cuis Premier Cru, a crisp and airy apéritif Champagne, the intent to fit house style to vineyard character is most precisely achieved. The most fabled liaison of character and style, however, is the Champagne of Salon, produced a few miles south of Cuis. Eugène-Aimé Salon, a successful Paris couture furrier in the late 1800s, acquired a patch of land at Le Mesnil-sur-Oger to satisfy a long-nurtured ambition to make a Champagne that he could have for the exclusive pleasure of his friends and clients. They loved it, so he bought a few more acres. They wanted more and asked if they could buy wine from him. In 1914, he went commercial and began buying grapes from Le Mesnil growers he trusted. But he made his Champagne only in outstanding years—and even then he sold off in bulk all but the best of his production. With rare exception, only Chardonnay grapes are grown on the Côte des Blancs—hence its name—so Salon sold his wine as a Blanc de Blancs (he was the first to use this term to mean a Champagne made from white grapes alone). His wine was the house Champagne at Maxim’s in the 1920s, and by the advent of World War II, its prestige in Paris was firmly established. After the war, the firm was sold, and then sold again, and Salon faded into the background for a while. It’s now owned by Laurent-Perrier, whose management is supportive but careful to leave well enough alone, allowing Salon to work within its own tradition, at its own pace, and in its own style. The Champagne is still made solely from Le Mesnil grapes and exclusively in great years: There have been only thirty-three vintage cuvées in the last century, and production of any one of them has rarely been as much as five thousand cases. The wines are held for many years before release. The 1985 was not considered ready for sale until 1999. Yet the 1990, currently available, has not only the opulence of its year—there’s even a hint of late-harvest honey in its bouquet—but also the freshness of a wine bottled yesterday. Its style is pure Le Mesnil: delicate yet sumptuous, dry but silky-smooth. Salon is expensive. It’s the Champagne for the man or woman who already has everything.

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444 The Côte des Blancs attracts perfectionists like Gimonnet and Salon— perhaps because they feel challenged by the innate refinement of its wines. But in this zone of perfection, Anselme Selosse, of the Champagne house Jacques Selosse, in Avize, has earned himself a reputation as a perfectionist’s perfectionist. Personally he is amiable and unassuming, more at ease in overalls than in a suit. But he reads everything, he absorbs everything, and he tries everything. His is the insider’s Champagne, the one that now appears before dinner in the houses of those at the forefront of change in all the other wine regions of France. Anselme Selosse himself is also at the forefront of the new mood in France, cultivating his vines organically and according to the position of the moon. “This business of the moon has nothing to do with waxing and waning or rising and setting,” he tells me. “Look up in the sky, and you’ll see that the height of the moon’s path above the horizon rises and falls in a regular cycle. Every farmer knows the difference it makes if he plants or prunes when the moon is ascending or descending.” Selosse believes in terroir, in the life of the land. “What does terroir mean if the integrity of the vineyard is not respected?” he asks rhetorically. “I see my vines as musical instruments. The land is the score. The interpretation will vary a little from year, but it’s my responsibility to allow the vine to express the terroir honestly.” Unlike Salon, where the wine is never in contact with wood, Selosse does ferment in wood, mixing the age and origin of his barrels and puncheons for maximum effect. He works to no timetable. “I taste the wines in April to see if they’re opening up. I make my cuvées when the wines are ready.” He uses little sugar in the primary dosage that controls the second fermentation in bottle, so the pressure of gas in his wines is sometimes unusually low, a surprise to those who judge Champagne by its foam. “The mousse,” he says, “is there to open up the aroma and flavor. It expands the wine on the palate and makes it seem more voluminous.” His teasingly complex wines incorporate both the intense fruit of

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his vines and the austere mineral background of his terrain. My favorite is neither his smoothly round Brut Initial (formerly Tradition) nor his austere Version Originale (called Extra Brut until recently)—both highly praised on all sides—but a blend of several vintages he calls Substance. It is the very essence of Avize: long, graceful, and delicious.

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The Chiquet family, which owns the old firm of Jacquesson & Fils, at Dizy—in predominantly Pinot Noir country, across the river from the Côte des Blancs—also has vineyards at Avize, from which it makes a Blanc de Blancs as expressive as that of Jacques Selosse. But the firm has most of its vineyards distributed among several crus in the Vallée de la Marne. Jean-Hervé Chiquet, one of the firm’s two managers, has a strong sense of the character associated with each of them. “We have the same responsibility as any other grower of fine wine to preserve vineyard character. It takes work. And it means we must impose rigorous limits on yields. I find it difficult to accept the theory, popular in Champagne, that yield doesn’t matter here because we should be more concerned with a wine’s finesse than its substance. The two qualities are not mutually exclusive so long as you remember that finesse is not just a polite term for lightness—you can get lightness in a wine simply by adding water.” Jacquesson’s considerable reputation is based on the small group of cuvées it produces year after year. When I tasted with Jean-Hervé, he insisted that we use conventional tulip wineglasses, not flutes. “Flutes are pretty,” he said. “And they’re fine for looking at the tiny bubbles. But to fully appreciate a Champagne as a wine, you must use a wineglass.” Like Salon, Jacquesson sells its wines only when they are ready. At present, the Grand Vin Signature is available in both the 1988—a severe vintage in Champagne that needed time before release—and the 1993, which was much more forward. Brut Perfection, a nonvintage wine, is always aged sufficiently to make any final adjustment of balance either minor or unnecessary. (When a bottle is topped up with a little wine after the fermentation deposit is disgorged—just before being

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shipped—there is usually a whisper of sugar syrup in it. The less there is, the easier it will be to fully appreciate the wine’s depth of flavor.)

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Francis Egly’s wines are typical of his vineyards at Ambonnay, a grand cru at the start of the Montagne de Reims, far from Jacquesson’s vats at Dizy. It is one of the best crus for Pinot Noir. Though the wines of Bouzy, nearby, are more muscular, the wines of Ambonnay are fine and ample. “When I took over the property from my father twenty years ago, I was lucky,” Egly told me as we tasted a succession of wines in the cellar behind his house. “He handed down to me many acres of old vines that had been properly cared for. And the soil had been consistently aerated and fertilized organically. I make the most of what I have. I take pains to pick my fruit at maximum ripeness. I give the wine the time it needs in vat, and then as much time as I can on the lees in bottle before I disgorge.” His Egly-Ouriet Brut Tradition Grand Cru reflects the proportions (roughly) of the two varieties in his vineyards at Ambonnay: about 70 percent Pinot Noir and 30 percent Chardonnay. It is redolent of toasted almonds. But then all his wines are richly flavored and mouth-filling: typical of Ambonnay. My favorite was a 1997 Blanc de Noirs—100 percent Pinot Noir—from old vines at Les Crayères, a vineyard planted by his grandfather in 1946. (It’s sold without mention of the vintage.) It had an aroma of acacia blossoms and marzipan. “Les Crayères is a great vineyard,” he said. “There’s little we need to do to these wines—except remember to do very little.” Other producers in the Vallée de la Marne use wines from several crus to complete each cuvée, striving for a style in which the characteristics of the sites complement or reinforce each other. Gosset bases its Grande Réserve on vineyards at Aÿ—where the firm was founded in 1584, making it the oldest in Champagne—because it likes the structure and aromatic elegance in its wines. But the blend usually includes wine from Bouzy as well, for power, and from Ambonnay for fullness and for its fragrance of almonds and wild strawberries. Like Celebris, the

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prestige cuvée Gosset introduced with the 1988 vintage, the Grande Réserve has Chardonnay from grand cru vineyards at Le Mesnil and at Oger on the Côte des Blancs for greater refinement to balance the imposing Pinot Noir of the Marne. Laurent-Perrier, at Tours-sur-Marne, also brings together Chardonnay and Pinot Noir in its Grand Siècle “La Cuvée,” but Alain Terrier, the firm’s longtime director of production, has had many years to experiment with small lots from all over to find exactly what he wants to maintain the wine’s style from year to year. He explained to me what he looks for in the final blend: “It mustn’t be heavy—that would be tiring. It must have a presence, but mustn’t be so overwhelming that one thinks that’s enough. One should look forward to the second glass. “Whenever I have to make a choice in assembling a cuvée, I go for purity of taste and aroma. I avoid anything clumsy that might obscure the essence of the wine. After all, the definition of our wine—and of Champagne itself—is elegance and pleasure.” Originally published as “What Makes a Wine Unique? Location, Location, Location” in Gourmet, December 2002. Jacquesson now has a modified approach to blending their nonvintage cuvées so that each reflects the style imposed by the vintages actually used for that particular blend. Every release therefore is now given an identifying number.

château montrose The Essential Saint-Estèphe

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vertical tasting of just about every major vintage of Château Montrose back to the 1880s—38 wines in all—is a prospect that would thrill (and possibly daunt) even the most jaded among us. In the event, the wines—arranged in three flights at a lunch at Taillevent in Paris in September 2005, followed by a further three flights at a dinner the same evening—were received with unflagging enthusiasm, occasional surprise, and considerable pleasure by roughly twenty-five of us (“roughly” because the guest list varied slightly from lunch to dinner) drawn from all over Europe, America, and Asia. Bipin Desai, a nuclear physicist from southern California, has orchestrated important single-growth vertical tastings like this for many years now, and on this occasion he had the full support, and presence, of Jean-Louis and Anne-Marie Charmolüe, the proprietors of Montrose, without whom it would have been difficult to reach back so far and to have included such an extended range of wines. The tasting brought out, yet again, the old French aphorism that there are no good wines, only good bottles. Fortunately, Desai had prepared for the likelihood of uneven development from bottle to bottle—inevitable with such old wines, even if aged side by side in the same cellar—by marking each glass poured to identify the bottle from which it came. He made sure that everyone had a neighbor with the same wine from a different source. A doubt could often be resolved simply by comparing the two. Above all else, a tasting that goes back so far reveals the essential, 114

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unchanging character of the vineyard itself. It’s impossible not to recognize what it is that united the wines, regardless of the differing circumstances of the year in which each was made. The opposite is true, too: Once we’re alert to that basic character, we can easily distinguish among the variations and identify the styles imposed by each vintage. And yet, when the tasting is as deep as this, both vineyard character and vintage style are complicated by history. The Montrose vineyard has been replanted twice since 1888, the year of the oldest wine we tasted. As a result of the invasion of phylloxera in the late nineteenth century, there was a gradual change to grafted vines that continued almost to the start of World War I. The varietal composition of the vineyard was changing continually along with that replanting. And there was a great change, yet again, when much of the vineyard was replanted after the devastating frost of 1956. At that time, in line with a trend common throughout the Médoc, the proportion of the vineyard devoted to Merlot was increased at the expense of Cabernet Sauvignon. In some ways, it could be argued, these changes—from ungrafted to grafted vines, and from an overwhelmingly Cabernet Sauvignon vineyard to one in which both Merlot and Cabernet Franc play greater roles— reinforced the predominant role of the vineyard itself. But they also made comparisons across the decades more difficult. And perhaps that was just as well. Comparisons at this kind of tasting, when any one of the wines was itself worthy of being the focus of a whole evening, lead us into the trap of assessing each one for what it isn’t rather than for what it is, just as excessive analysis obscures rather than illuminates a wine’s quality. At any rate, since the last major Montrose replanting of fifty years ago, the vineyard has been composed of 65 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, 25 percent Merlot, and 10 percent Cabernet Franc. These proportions do not necessarily carry over into the grand vin, of course, which, once fermentation is complete, is assembled from individual lots to arrive at a balance that best represents the character of the vineyard and the style of the year. There is usually a proportion of each variety in the blend, but Cabernet Sauvignon always plays the dominant role.

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Saint-Estèphe’s wines stand apart from those of the rest of the Médoc for good reason. The gravelly knolls, well exposed and well drained, associated with the Médoc’s finest vineyards are supported in SaintEstèphe by a bed of chalk unique to this commune. Geologists refer to it simply as Saint-Estèphe chalk, and they are not sure when it was formed. Here and there it breaks through the gravel, bringing with it a layer of clay. Unlike gravel, clay holds water, and it does not warm up as quickly. Though the cool, damp roots that penetrate there can be a boon to the vines in hot, dry summers, they can be a brake on complete ripening in less propitious years. Add to that established fact the folklore I was taught as a wine-trade beginner—and that years of tasting have long since confirmed to my own satisfaction—that clay soils increase the level of tannins in red wines, and it’s easy to understand why the marriage of Cabernet Sauvignon and clay should be approached with caution. Bruno Prats, former owner of Cos d’Estournel, a neighboring property of Montrose, once told me he avoided a potential problem by planting only Merlot on the chalky clay in his vineyard—Cos d’Estournel’s 40 percent Merlot is high even for Saint-Estèphe. In a lessthan-perfect summer, he said, Merlot adapts to clay much better than Cabernet Sauvignon does. Jean-Louis Charmolüe takes the opposite approach at Montrose, concerning himself less with the years of imperfect conditions—which will not, he argues, give an extraordinary wine anyway—than with taking full advantage of potentially great years and making sure that heat and drought don’t stress the vines, causing them to shut down and preventing them from bringing the fruit to full maturity. By planting Cabernet Sauvignon on the chalk and clay on the lower part of his vineyard, nearer to the river, where vines keep functioning even in hot and exceedingly dry summer conditions, Montrose wines of those big, hot years are always rich in the ripe tannins that lead to the dense, velvety character we associate with a well-aged Montrose in its prime. Furthermore, because those tannins are from Cabernet Sauvignon, they are associated with other qualities we expect from very ripe Cabernet Sauvignon: massive fruit, supported by a thread of acid-

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ity, a linear edge, that defines Montrose even at its most concentrated and voluptuous. At Montrose, the flavor of ripe Cabernet Sauvignon is supported by Cabernet Franc, a variety that always expands the opening aroma of a wine and, at Montrose, contributes further to an elegance that balances and contains the muscular brio we’ve learned to expect of a great Saint-Estèphe classed growth.

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Jean-Claude Vrinat, Taillevent’s owner, made his start as a sommelier when he joined his father at the restaurant in 1952, and he has remained discreetly passionate about wine ever since. His instincts in associating wine and food to the advantage of each are impeccable. Lunch that day had to be held within bounds or we would have found it difficult to return, after no more than a short break, to the dining table. So he focused at lunch on vegetables and fish—light and easy to digest—but built subtle bridges to accommodate sometimes quite youthful red wines. Even his cheese course at lunch—Ossau Iraty, a firm and rarely met sheep’s-milk cheese from the Pyrenees—was sprinkled with a dusky layer of peppery spices in the tradition of Keats, who, according to his friends, used to sprinkle cayenne pepper on his tongue before drinking claret to heighten his appreciation. Be that as it may, steamed vegetables in a truffled broth were an unexpectedly satisfying backdrop to an opening flight of wines that ranged from the youthfully sturdy 2003 back to the classic 1989 by way of a light but edgy 2002; a 2000, smoothly supple but at a closed, awkward phase; an impressive 1996 (a wine I had found to be among the best of the 1996 Médocs when tasted en primeur in the spring of 1997); and the deliciously scented 1990. The 1990, plump and accommodating, was the easiest to enjoy right then; Charmolüe told me his own favorite was the 1989; but to me the most impressive was the 1996. You could taste its history in the glass. In 1996, after a summer of scattered but often severe storms, an anticyclone settled over Bordeaux for three weeks from August 26, keeping all bad weather offshore. Day after day, from dawn to dusk, the vines were exposed to a relentlessly bright sun in a cloudless sky. At

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the same time, cool northwesterly winds kept temperatures unseasonably low. The conflicting effect was as strange as it was unexpected. Sugars were high because of the strong light; tannins, high in response to a burst of heat just after fruit-set, ripened to give the new wine a concentrated flavor and dense texture; yet acids were also high because of those low temperatures. Their chief constituent, however, was malic acid, and once it was converted through malolactic fermentation, all the wine’s elements came together in perfect harmony. In the 1996 we tasted at Taillevent, the acidity bestowed a brilliance and grace supported by the wine’s solidly tannic foundation. To accompany the next flight of wines, Vrinat offered cèpes and a mousse of chestnuts to bring steamed bass into the ambit of wines that began with a superb 1964 and ended with a 1952—finally approachable! —by way of a disappointing 1961, an attractive 1959, an unexpectedly seductive 1955, and a fast-fading 1953. Montrose was one of the properties that picked before the onset of rain at the end of the first week of October in 1964, and the wine is ample confirmation of how outstanding that vintage really was and how great a loss it was for those who did not pick in time. The Montrose 1964 is sumptuous, kept in check by just a suggestion of the characteristic Montrose edge. It was, as Michel Bettane, formerly with La Revue du Vin de France, said, as complete as any wine could be. Along with the 1955—its opposite: delicately, ravishingly silky, but quite gorgeous—it stood out in this flight. The 1961, alas, was drying out and came across as meager and sharp. It had been a small crop, and much of the year’s reputation was based on the resulting concentration of the wine. But concentration does not automatically bring balance, the essential quality for long aging. Yet despite our pleasure in the 1964 and 1955 and our disappointment in the 1961, perhaps the most interesting wines in this flight were the 1953 and 1952. When I started my career in the London wine trade, soon after these two wines were released, I remember them both as successful vintages. But the 1953 was described to us as forward and urged for early drinking because few saw in it any development

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potential; and the 1952, described as substantial, was marked as a keeper for long-term development. Over the fifty years since then I’ve enjoyed more 1953s than I can remember—always charming, lively and delicious. And in all that time I have found one 1952 after another to be surly and clumsy. Well, eventually, all good things come to an end, and if the 1953 Montrose we tasted is indicative of the vintage, it is finally drying out and coming to a close, alas. The wine was thin and had lost the charm that had stood it in such good stead for so long. The 1952, on the other hand, has at last shed its armor, but it shows within less than one might have hoped for. It was better than the 1953, now shed of its glory, but one can hardly say that it was worth the wait. We finished lunch with that Ossau Iraty cheese and a group of older vintages, ranging from an elegant yet substantial 1918 and an ethereal 1916, and then went back through a fine 1911, an aromatic 1906, a surprisingly firm 1898, and a thin but appealing 1890. We finished lunch with the 1888. It was a wine of unexpected vivacity but with the nostalgic charm and sweet aromas of pressed flowers. The château’s records show that 1888 was an abundant year, its wine described at the time as “good, elegant.” It would have been made from ungrafted vines only, so we knew we were tasting something that can no longer exist. Yet it confirmed the legend associated with the vineyard: that Montrose not only develops well, but offers its best only to those with the patience to wait or the good luck that had befallen us that day.

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In the evening, after an amuse-gueule of crème brûlée made with duck foie gras (some appreciated it more than others), we settled into a first flight of wines from the 1980s and 1970s served with John Dory poached with basil. When the wines were first released, opinions on the 1985 and 1986 reflected the kind of split that there had been over the 1952 and 1953 (and, much earlier, the 1928 and 1929). It was felt that 1985, like 1953, would be forward and charming and short-lived, while 1986, like 1952, would be the long-term keeper. The 1985 was indeed delicious. It was both firm and supple, with a depth of flavor that could have come only from well-

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ripened fruit. The 1982, also in the flight, was the same, only more so: It was one of the few wines tasted that day in which the cassis notes we associate with ripe Cabernet Sauvignon were pronounced and unmistakable. Like the 1985, it was firm yet full, and with just the shadow of a Montrose edge. The 1986, however, despite a fine flavor and a degree of elegance, was disagreeably severe. According to Bruno Prats, 1986 was a year in Saint-Estèphe in which the tannins smothered the fruit. Some time ago, David Peppercorn MW described the Montrose 1986 as overpoweringly massive and tannic—“not, perhaps, a wine for beginners.” I found the tough quality of the wine’s tannins a challenge. I hope the fruit and elegance will still be there when they have been resolved. Both wines of the 1970s—1975 and 1970—were impressive, but neither had much appeal. The 1975 still holds its own counsel, closed up, as so many wines of that vintage still are; and though the 1970 is still a broadshouldered wine, it’s beginning to lose some of the flesh that had made it so irresistible when young. We all looked forward to the next flight—served with a roast pigeon—that was to include 1949, 1948, 1947, 1937, and 1934. 1949 and 1947, especially, were magic years that produced a plethora of exciting wines, and we were not disappointed. The 1947 was beginning to dry out a little, but the 1949 was as lush as ever, and both had preserved the fruit ripeness that caused such a sensation when they were first released. But the biggest surprise was the 1948. Those of us who remember, if only vaguely, what happened back in the late 1940s knew that 1948 had been underestimated. The 1947, just launched, was meeting with huge success in the trade, and by the end of the summer of 1949, when the brokers were starting to consider the 1948 wines (wheels turned at a more leisurely pace in those days), it was obvious that 1949 was going to produce a good quantity of very fine wine. The trade couldn’t handle it. If it had backed the 1948, then with both 1947 and 1948 in the pipelines, there would have been scant opportunity (and even scantier cash in those penurious postwar years) to invest in the 1949. (This was before big purchases were immediately passed through to consumers as futures.) It

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made more sense to soft-pedal the 1948 and allow some breathing space for the 1947 to move ahead before promoting the 1949. As a result, 1948 was one of the most undersold top vintages in years. That much was obvious at Taillevent. Even in the company of the 1947 and the 1949, it shone. It was in every way superior to either: deeper, more nuanced, rounder, and more charming. There is little I can say about either the 1937 or the 1934 that followed. The 1937 still had an aristocratic tone, but it was all structure and severity and no charm. It was described in the Montrose archive as hard when first made, and it seems not to have improved much since. The 1934 was just empty. Alas. The last flight had us on tenterhooks. It started with the 1945, a wine we knew would be vigorous, powerful, and concentrated (and indeed it was, with the added advantage of that edgy quality specific to Montrose). But we would then be swept into a series of wines from 1929 back to 1893 that could not possibly match it. Or could they? Was it right to set such a magnificent wine as a touchstone for what was to follow? We need not have worried: The 1929 was all fruit and woodsy elegance, fresh and vivacious, its tannins fully resolved. A delightful wine. Though showing less charm, the 1928 was robust and substantial, and by no means diminished by the 1945. And then we tasted the 1926—a wine that seemed to bring together all that was best in the two that went before; in particular, the power of the 1928 and the elegance of the 1929. It had been a small crop, and although the Montrose archive refers to it as “a very good year,” the wine was, in fact, sensational. And then it was surpassed by the gorgeous, seamless, shimmering 1921. It was after tasting that pair of wines that we came to one of those moments where we had to remind ourselves not to make comparisons. We knew that any wine following those two would shine only with difficulty. Indeed, we couldn’t help but notice that the 1920, despite a fine bouquet and flavor, was drying out a little and its tannins were unresolved. On its own, we would have focused on its good points and ignored the others, just as we would have done for the 1900, a fine wine that was difficult to appreciate in the circumstances. With that in mind, I approached the final wine,

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the 1893, with fear that I was about to underestimate one of the great vintages of the past several centuries. It had been the earliest and most abundant harvest known up to that point—a year of such abundance that the growers had been obliged to use whatever containers they could to hold the fermenting juice. I need not have worried. The wine was, in fact, the very apotheosis of Montrose. From the opening note to the final chords of its long aftertaste, there was nothing to fault and everything to praise. It was glorious. Originally published as “Glory Be: Château Montrose 1888 –2003” in The World of Fine Wine, Issue 10, 2006.

pa rt two

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Other European Wine Regions

Berlin

GERMANY Mosel R.

Rhine R.

Trier

Saar and Ruwer

Adige R.

Soave Rías Baixas

Verona

Santiago de Compostela Miño R.

I T A L Y Vega Sicilia

Ombrone R.

Valladolid Duero River

Siena

Brunello di Montalcino

Ribera del Duero

Rome

Madrid

S P A I N

N

Map 2. Selected European wine regions

0

150

300 mi

0

250

500 k

soave Old Lava and New Politics

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hough it had been relegated, not so long before, to corners reserved for straw-covered flasks and dusty bottles of retsina, Soave became, in the 1970s, one of the most popular white wines in the United States. Restaurants of all kinds offered it by the glass as their house wine, and it was stacked prominently in two-liter jugs in markets and stores. To some extent, of course, Soave’s success sprang from its low price and from Americans’ readiness in that decade to try whatever was different or new. But the demand for Soave was above all the first obvious result of changes that had swept through Italy after the introduction of new wine laws in the 1960s. Newly defined appellations had encouraged Italian growers to extend and rationalize their vineyards. (Vines had often been mingled with other crops, especially fruit trees, and sometimes still are.) Furthermore, in helping to finance a modernization and refitting of Italy’s wine cellars, the government had stimulated a formerly uncharacteristic obsession with technically fault-free winemaking. The well-packaged, polished wines that began to flow from Italy quickly attracted attention and gave Italian growers, merchants, and exporters a renewed commercial energy. As far as Soave was concerned, the 1968 law defining what it was and where it came from tripled the area of production defined by ministerial decree in 1931 by extending it from hills that separated and surrounded the small towns of Soave and Monteforte to include great stretches of adjacent flatland. At one time much of this land had supported cereals, 125

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especially corn, and the road from Soave to Verona, the nearest city, is still lined with the bakeries and processing plants that once had drawn their raw material from those fields. Vines had begun to displace grains on the plain at least ten years before the 1968 law, and wine produced from the new vineyards had already been accepted as Soave of sorts. As vineyards had not previously been planted on the flatlands—the ancient custom had always been to put them on hills—there was no other name in current usage, and to those concerned it had probably seemed easier to enlarge an existing denominazione than to create a new one. The original vineyards of what is now described ominously as “historic” Soave still cling to their terraces on slopes too steep for mechanized cultivation. They are rooted in a meager, friable volcanic tufa, porous with tiny air bubbles that were trapped when lava cooled who knows how many millennia ago. Officially these hills have been reborn as Soave Classico in the hope that this slight distinction of name will be enough to alert consumers and therefore protect their hardworking proprietors, who have been obliged since 1968 to compete directly with the fifteen thousand acres of parvenu Soave surrounding them on the fertile plain of the Adige river. No one can say that things have gone well for “historic” Soave since the change. Though there is now renewed interest in the hillside vineyards, and considerable rejuvenation among them, it is said that more than a thousand acres of their vines have been more or less abandoned since the enlarged, 1968 definition took effect. Unlike vines in other regions, secured to stakes or trained along wires, vines for Soave are spread horizontally across arbors, called tendoni and pergole, a few feet above the ground. The difference between the two is slight: A tendone is a single, narrow, flat beam about six feet across, supported by posts on either side of the alley that runs between the rows, whereas a pergola is an open arch formed by two poles, each attached to an upright stake and the whole arrangement resembling a pair of honor guards, swords slanted overhead, at a military wedding. Both came into general use in the 1840s, but only after much debate on the advantages of this then-newfangled idea compared with the known

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merits of training vines up and between trees. Seen from above, the vines present a vast green canopy smoothing and smothering everything except an occasional clump of trees and the towers and tawnycolored rooftops of the two towns and their adjacent hamlets.

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I have heard that there were once as many as two dozen grape varieties grown in this part of Italy, but today, in principle, just two are used to produce Soave. One of them, Garganega, is unique to the region and is known to have been cultivated there since the thirteenth century. It gives Soave its structure and its characteristic, slightly almondlike aroma. It is a vigorous vine that fruits prolifically; growers know that, if allowed to, a Garganega vine will produce more fruit than it can fully ripen. The poor soil of the hillside vineyards serves to restrain growth, but even so the growers have always had to be careful to graft the vines onto rootstocks calculated to discourage the bearing of excessive fruit. Such does not seem to be the case on the plain. “If God gives abundance,” one plains grower said to me, “why should we refuse it? It would be perverse.” The truth is that the plains growers, most of them suppliers of grapes by the ton to the cooperatives and big production houses, learned long ago that, even if a bigger crop meant the quality of their grapes could command only a lower price per kilo, the volume alone would more than make up the difference. Green grapes pay one’s debts, runs an old Italian proverb. The second variety planted for Soave is, in theory, the Trebbiano di Soave. First used in the early nineteenth century, it boosts the wine’s strength while refining its flavor. From the beginning, Trebbiano di Soave has often been mixed (and confused) with Trebbiano Toscano, its common but high-yielding cousin. Trebbiano Toscano, unlike Trebbiano di Soave, brings nothing to a wine except volume. Yet as vineyards spread across the plain in the 1960s, the Trebbiano planted there was more often Toscano than di Soave. It has always been said that the vineyards expanded faster than local nurseries could supply vinewood for Trebbiano di Soave. But it is common knowledge that growers on

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the plain were less impressed by Trebbiano di Soave’s qualities than they were influenced by its drawbacks: It is less productive than either Garganega or Trebbiano Toscano; it is more susceptible to rot, a serious consideration on the humid flatlands; and its grapes ripen considerably earlier than those of the Garganega, raising logistical problems because the varieties are comingled for planting and hired teams must pick them together. The 1968 law requires that any Soave blend include from 70 to 90 percent Garganega and from 10 to 30 percent Trebbiano, but, more honored in the breach than the observance, this seems to be read as an ideal rather than a regulation. Many of the vineyards in Soave Classico are 100 percent Garganega—as are the wines made from them—and no one knows how extensively the Trebbiano Toscano is planted in the plains, due to the practice there of planting varieties promiscuously. It would take an army of qualified officials to identify each vine. I remember tasting in the 1960s, when the transformation of Soave was barely under way, a marvelously compact, deeply flavored wine made from a grape called Durella. Though once in high favor among the growers of the region, it is rarely used now except as the base for a locally consumed sparkling wine. It is thought to be too homespun, too coarse, for the “new” style of Soave. That sleek, high-tech style, an important factor in Soave’s success in the 1970s, resulted from applying winemaking techniques introduced worldwide in the 1960s— essentially, fermentation at a low temperature in stainless-steel vats— to grapes planted where the very conditions that ensured ease of cultivation would also guarantee unobtrusive characteristics in the wine. One could say that everything about the new Soave led logically and as if by design to the production of a clean dry wine, inexpensive to produce and simple to promote. Nicolas Belfrage, in his book Life Beyond Lambrusco, describes the new Soave as a “product whose greatest asset is the improbability of its causing offence,” while Victor Hazan, in Italian Wine, dismisses it with faint praise so exquisitely deadly that a Borgia

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would have been thrilled: “[It] is such an inoffensive wine,” he writes, “that to reproach it for not having a bolder personality seems peevish.”

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Of course, Soave’s an easy target now. But that is because we have already forgotten how difficult it was twenty-five years ago to find just such a consistent, refreshing Italian white wine to drink as a straightforward mealtime beverage at a price comparable to that of a beer or a soft drink. There was much to be said for the brave new Soave then, and there is much to be said for it now. The mistake, and from the point of view of the hillside growers of “historic” Soave perhaps the word should be misfortune, was to grant it a distinguished name and thereby all but eclipse the original. Luckily, some extraordinary wines have continued to be made as Soave Classico throughout this period of change, though in this country, by and large, they have been difficult to find. Changes in Italy itself— laborers who drank copiously of inexpensive wine as a source of calories no longer need to do so, while their grown children share what are now international tastes in wine as in much else—have brought quality and character rather than quantity and anonymity back into focus. Even the large production companies are now setting aside special lots for separate bottling and are establishing Soave Classico blends from specific vineyards where their interest begins with the choice of clone of the vines to be planted. Bottling companies are forming contractual associations with the owners of vineyards of repute whereby they provide financial and technical assistance in return for marketing rights. For instance, starting with the 1984 vintage, Pierluigi Borgna, cellar master of Santi, a small, fine wine subsidiary of the Gruppo Italiano Vini (owners of Folonari and many other important Italian wine companies), began to set aside selected lots of grapes from Monteforte for a distinctive Soave Classico, Vignetti di Monteforte. He has experimented with it constantly over the years since then, at one point initiating his present practice of fermenting 10 percent of it in small French oak barrels. The

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improved structure, better texture, and increased subtlety, he decided, more than made up for a slight loss of aroma. He has also experimented with the current fashion of cold grapeskin maceration—allowing skins to soak in the juice at low temperature for a few hours after crushing and before pressing to extract flavor— using a blanket of nitrogen to avoid the perils of oxidation. “In the sixties we introduced the French method of pressing to separate skins and juice completely as soon as the grapes were picked, and this was a great improvement on previous, clumsy practices. Some character and individuality were lost, but the Soave was lighter, more agreeable, more consistent—and more popular. But that very consistency has also been one reason that Soave, traditionally a handcrafted wine with a longtime reputation for individuality as well as quality, has begun to be perceived as industrially produced. Grape-skin maceration is not in itself the whole answer. But we need to restore character to our wines.” Borgna has already managed to do that even for his standard Soave. In his greenish straw–colored 1989 vintage the delicately almond aroma of Garganega replaces the vapidly anonymous “fruit” of most coldfermented white wines. The texture and length of flavor of the wine are equally memorable. And, despite my fears at Borgna’s mention of barrels, his 1989 Vignetti di Monteforte, a dramatically fine wine with honeyed aroma and deep flavor, has only the roundness and harmony that oak aging gives—not the flavor of oak itself. Bolla, for its part, has developed Soave Classico Castellaro, made from a combination of grapes from selected sites, about twenty acres in all, on the slope of Foscarino near Monteforte. Bolla’s production director, Elio Novello, like Borgna, has been a keen proponent of coldmaceration techniques to boost flavor, and his Castellaro is a wine that adds authority to the firm’s customary lively style. Even the managers of the cooperative—by far the largest producer of Soave—are now separating grapes from vineyards on advantaged sites to make special wines. The cooperative’s Costalta, a wine of peachlike delicacy, is now as highly regarded as any wine from a small estate. The

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cooperative now also pays premiums to grower-members for grapes from vineyards with certified low yields.

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Perhaps Masi, a small, family-owned company at San Ambrogio di Valpolicella, has gone to the greatest lengths with the concept of wines from particular sites. The owners, brothers Sandro, Dario, and Sergio Boscaini, have formed relationships with growers owning favored sites: Masi supplies cash and technical help to build or improve the winery facilities as well as year-round viticultural guidance. (Dario Boscaini, the man who provides this counsel, not only is responsible for Masi’s own vineyards but is also the director of viticultural studies at the Valpolicella Agricultural College.) Last summer I accompanied Dario Boscaini on one of his visits to Benvenuto Pra, owner of Col Baraca, a remote vineyard producing a wine with which Masi has had particular success. The vines at Col Baraca, I was told, are virtually all Garganega, with perhaps 1 or 2 percent of old Durella and an even smaller proportion of ancient Trebbiano di Soave that survived a devastating hail storm in 1960. Pra, an energetic man in early middle age, is proud of the well-equipped but no-frills winery that now adjoins his house. “I invested along with Masi,” he told me, “but I now have more profit, more security, and more satisfaction. Before I built the winery, I was obliged to sell my grapes. The price I got for them was never affected by any extra effort I made. Now the return I get is a direct function of the quality of the wine. “It is not easy for a small farmer like me to set up such a winery. Even supposing that I had had the resources to do it alone, I had no access to the market. Which is why this collaboration has been so important to me. It has added value to my crop and to my land.” If you were to ask local growers and winemakers who among their colleagues are presently producing particularly distinguished Soave— in addition to their own, of course—Roberto Anselmi and Leonildo Pieropan would certainly be among the first names to be mentioned.

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Pieropan and Anselmi, opposites and competitors but friends and allies in the defense of Soave, have sometimes attracted the resentment as well as the admiration of their peers. There was more than muttering when they recently worked with Luigi Veronelli, Italy’s most respected wine writer, to persuade the Italian minister of agriculture and the president of the Italian National Wine Committee to block a recommendation of the local consorzio to raise Soave’s present maximum production limits per hectare. “The consorzio’s solution to every problem has been to increase production,” said Anselmi, with more than a touch of scorn, puffing on a cigar. “I have a problem with the consorzio.” Others, calmer and perhaps more cynical than Anselmi, have suggested, however, that the consorzio’s objective in easing the level of the maximum permitted yield was not to increase production but merely to bring the regulation closer to what is actually being harvested and thereby to make more palatable the start of a long-overdue enforcement of the law. The consorzio is the body charged with implementing wine regulations and, if generally supported by growers and merchants, with making recommendations to Rome for their modification. Every denominazione has a consorzio. I could see how the Soave consorzio would have a hard time keeping everyone satisfied, obliged as it is to look to the interests of growers as diverse as those who push their vines for tonnage and those who, like Anselmi and Pieropan, are constantly pruning to reduce their crops. Anselmi’s concerns and projects are such that it would have been amazing if he hadn’t had a problem with the consorzio.

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With more than sixty acres of his own, and an even bigger acreage under his control, Anselmi has taken a radical approach in his search for quality. For a start, he is passionately opposed to the traditional pergola, for he believes it leads inevitably to overcropping each vine and therefore sees it as the most primary of all evils. He already has ten acres of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc, trained along wires according to

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the Guyot method commonly used in France, that are planted thirteen thousand vines to the acre (the customary density in the region, even Soave Classico, is a thousand vines to the acre). And he will shortly plant seventeen more acres in the same way. In order to comply with the legal tonnage regulation, the level of pruning required is severe. Even more controversially, he had, when I saw him last year, prepared the ground to plant a vineyard of wire-trained Garganega with a density of ten thousand vines to the acre. “The law does not require me to use the pergola. Which is not to say,” he went on darkly, “that the consorzio won’t try to introduce such a rule.” Actually there is more skepticism than hostility directed at Anselmi’s vineyard practices. “It’s not just that it goes against what we were taught,” one neighbor told me. “I believe it is more than chance and blind tradition that have led us to use the pergola system through several generations. To plant vines so densely means that pruning will have to be extreme. And, given the exuberant vigor of Garganega, I don’t see that the vines will survive such drastic treatment very long. If we all trained our vines that way, we would never again have old vines or the quality of wine we get from them. Even so, I raise my hat to his courage.” One gets the impression that Anselmi has deliberately sought to distance himself from whatever is conventional Soave wisdom. Still—and despite the Chardonnay and the Sauvignon Blanc, the controversial density of planting, and his experiments with barrel fermentation— Anselmi’s Capitel Foscarino, a traditionally made wine based on grapes grown on traditional pergole, is without doubt one of the greatest of all Soaves. (Foscarino is the hill that dominates Soave, and Anselmi has a vineyard on its summit.) The 1989, subdued but intense, can be accepted as the perfect example of what the French call a peacock’s tail: a long elegant shimmer of flavors. I can’t say that I was as impressed by the barrel-fermented Capitel Croce ’87 that Anselmi gave me to taste. It is an interesting white wine (and also, incidentally, one of the most expensive in Italy) made from pure Garganega; but any character the wine might have had was overwhelmed by oak, and I was reminded of

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the Chardonnays we endured in California ten years ago when new oak was all the rage. Anselmi uses his French oak barrels to much greater advantage in aging his superb Recioto di Soave. Before it was known for anything else, Soave was famous for Recioto, wine made from the most sugarconcentrated grapes on the vine. (André Jullien, the Paris wine merchant and author of the classic Topographie de Tous les Vignobles Connus, referred to Soave’s Recioto in 1816 as “a well-regarded vin santo” but was so unfamiliar with Soave that he mentioned only “a fairly good red” of the Soave hills, about which he might have been confused, and said nothing of the white.) To make Recioto, the ripest and most perfect bunches are allowed to dry on reed trays, to concentrate the grape sugar, before they are pressed and undergo their long, slow fermentation. The practice probably goes back to antiquity, but it is usually accepted that the Venetians encouraged Recioto’s production in the sixteenth century after Ottoman encroachments on their eastern empire had deprived them of similar dessert wines from the Greek islands. In any event, Anselmi’s 1987 Recioto dei Capitelli, with its rich flavor of praline, coffee, and conserved fruits, is an unqualified delight.

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Leonildo Pieropan, who also makes a Recioto, as well as an experimental late-harvest Soave, took on the family vineyard and cellar in 1967. He inherited from his father and his uncle not only ten acres of vines— since increased to fifty—but a passion for excellence. The Pieropan vineyards are well placed, something he himself would emphasize as the source of all else; but it is clear from talking to him that the style of his wines is an expression of the man. Unlike Anselmi, Pieropan comes across as a prudent traditionalist even though he has tried, and continues to try, every new fad if only to be sure that there isn’t a better way. He has rejected in turn barrel fermentation (“the Soave character just disappeared”), grape-skin maceration (“it was the old peasant way of making wine; it gives a good aroma at first, but the wine doesn’t stand up in bottle”), and fertilizers (“we chop up and put back everything

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we take from the vine, including what we prune. We don’t need to add anything more except some sheep dung every two or three years”). On the other hand, though with nothing like the density of Anselmi’s vines, he has planted his vines at eighteen hundred to the acre as opposed to the standard thousand so that each vine, pruned back, need ripen fewer bunches. Not content with that, he always counts his potential crop after flowering and further removes any bunches he considers excessive. His press wine, 20 percent of his yield, is separated and sold off in bulk. I lunched last June with Leonildo Pieropan and his wife, Teresita, at Lo Scudo, a new restaurant on the main road outside Soave. The Pieropans would have a chance to try out the kitchen there, and I could taste their most recent wines in an appropriate context. He poured for me the 1989 and 1988 wines from the Calvarino vineyard we had visited earlier that day. (The name Calvarino—Calvaire in France—sometimes refers to the site of the crucifix among the vines. It is more commonly the name given to the steepest, most backbreaking, but, as likely as not, most rewarding section of a vineyard.) Looking back, I remember finding delicious a sopressa sausage with grilled polenta and some veal medallions in a Soave-based sauce, but I forgot to ask the Pieropans for their verdicts on the restaurant because at the time I was so captivated by those two wines. The 1989, youthfully vibrant, had that rare intensity of flavor we have come to expect only in wines bearing appellations of far greater international prestige than Soave. The 1988, aromatically concentrated and ample, was not only everything, surely, that Pieropan could have hoped for from one of his wines; it held marvelous promise, for all of us, for the future of Soave. Originally published as “Tales of Soave” in Gourmet, March 1991. Robert Anselmi has since withdrawn his wines from the Soave Classico DOC, even though they would have been entitled to it. “It was like divorcing a much loved wife,” he said when speaking of his decision. Relations between Anselmi and the consorzio had become too bitter for him to continue. His wines now carry the broader appellation of IGT Veneto. Whether labeled Soave Classico or not, they remain among the very best the region produces.

saar and ruwer Riesling, Slate, and Long Summer Days

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am sometimes asked—who isn’t?—to name my favorite wine. Or I’m asked which wine I would choose to have on a desert island if I could have only one. Impossible questions to answer. One can get bored even with perfection; and, in any case, if I were marooned on an island I’d have more to be depressed about than having chosen the wrong wine. Yet there are times when I am so happy with a wine, when I find such pleasure in it, that I ask myself why I would want to drink any other. (The answer is often in the next bottle, of course.) I have had those moments with wines from many places, but as far as whites are concerned I think I have had them most often with wines from the Saar and the Ruwer. When I say so, however, I get a blank stare. I am expected not only to explain what I mean but to answer for the improbability of my choice. The names of these two valleys have strayed to the margins of interest because they appear in print rarely, except as the hyphenated extensions of Mosel-Saar-Ruwer, the official name for Germany’s Mosel wine region as a whole. German wine law is based on the premise that everything not allowed specifically is forbidden, and there is no provision for the words Saar or Ruwer to appear on a wine label in any other way. And so, although probably more often in the glass than many assume, these wines frequently go unrecognized. Even in the German section of a store or wine list, Saar and Ruwer wines are invisible except to those familiar with the names of the valleys’ villages or leading estates. 136

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444 Both valleys are pretty enough, though neither is dramatically picturesque. The Saar twists from a France of light-industrial villages into a German countryside where cows graze on buttercups; and the Ruwer, its neighbor, actually a stream rather than a river, waters a mixture of vines, orchards, and pasture. The two join the Mosel at short distances on either side of Trier—a city rich in antiquities, palaces, and Rococo churches founded by the Roman emperor Augustus. Despite their centuries of activity—vineyards were first planted in these valleys by the Romans, extended by monks in the Middle Ages, improved later by princes of the church, secularized by Napoleon, and modernized by the Prussians—winegrowers of the Saar and Ruwer have found it no easier to establish an identity for themselves and for their wines than it was for the growers of the Mosel to persuade the world that their valley was more than an appendix to the Rhine. Some of them would like to take their chances with a separate appellation, but most fear they would be overlooked completely if they took too independent a stance. The area under vines is small: roughly 3,200 acres of vineyard in the Saar valley and no more than 800 in the Ruwer, out of some 30,000 acres for the Mosel-Saar-Ruwer region as a whole. Yet those who know Saar and Ruwer wines are aware of the style and character that distinguish them from the wines of the Mosel (and from each other). Fragrant when young, and as taut as silk shot with steel thread, they ripen magnificently. The mature bouquet of these wines is hard to equal: One splendor unfolds from another. When Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote, “silvery gossamers that twinkle into green and gold,” he could well have had a glass of Saar or Ruwer wine at his elbow.

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But few know the wines of the Saar and Ruwer, alas, and even fewer get to enjoy them properly aged because of the conviction many have that German wines are to be drunk young. Peter Hoffmann, director of the Staatliche Weinbaudomäne (State Wine Domain), in Trier, laments that

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most Saar and Ruwer wines are drunk far too soon: One from a good vintage, he says, needs six or seven years to be at its best. The transformation in bottle of these wines is possible neither because of tannin—as whites, obviously, they have little—nor because of some supposed preservative quality in alcohol. Many have alcoholic strengths as low as 7 or 8 percent, and rarely do they reach, let alone exceed, 10 percent—even in a sugar-rich, late-picked Beerenauslese. Their magnificence springs principally from their acidity. That word has such negative connotations—I suppose because of all those antacid ads on television—that I want to dwell on it for a moment. Every wine has at least a trace of each of a host of acids; its nuances of aroma and flavor depend on them. The distinction of Saar and Ruwer wines hinges on the difference between the two most important: tartaric and malic acids. Tartaric is specific to grapes. It is wine’s own acid, lively and racy. Malic is the acid of unripe fruit, harsh and raw; its Latin derivation signals its association with green apples. Malic acid gradually disappears as grapes ripen, which is to say that ripe grapes have less malic acid than unripe grapes. In warm climates, the level of tartaric acid too is likely to go down, which explains why wines made from grapes grown in such conditions tend to be flabby. The Saar and Ruwer valleys are far enough north to have long days of ripening sunlight yet relatively cool temperatures in the growing season to protect the level of tartaric acid. Ripe acidity—essentially, tartaric acid—gives a wine tension and clarity, enhancing the flavor and bringing its character into relief. In Saar and Ruwer wines it is brought into balance with mild alcohol (high alcohol can make acidity in a wine seem awkward) and a discreet level of residual sugar. All three contribute to the harmony of a wine, and all three are essential if the wine is to age well. Sugar is another of those words that strike terror, but as Carl von Schubert of the Maximin Grünhaus, property of a Benedictine abbey for almost a thousand years and now the leading Ruwer wine estate, says, “a Saar or Ruwer wine with promise for the long term is always a little sweet at the start. Over the years, as the wine develops

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a fuller flavor, it also becomes drier. A wine that starts dry becomes grotesquely austere in that time.”

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There is another particularity about these two valleys that I am sure has much to do with the quality of their wines. Both are planted almost entirely with Riesling. We think of Riesling as synonymous with all German wine, but an encroachment by varietal crossings, developed in recent years to increase yields or grape sugar levels or both, has now reduced the overall proportion of this great, classic variety planted in German vineyards to barely 21 percent. Riesling gives an intensity and purity of flavor unmatched by other grape varieties. The proportion of Riesling in the Saar valley is 81 percent, and in the Ruwer, 89. Wines from the leading estates of both, those with the most advantageously placed vineyards, are usually 100 percent Riesling. The growers of the Saar and Ruwer would have had little choice in the matter. Though the shattered slate of their vineyards drains quickly and stores heat as if each slope with a southern exposure were a giant solar panel, such soil (or lack of it) is inhospitable to just about all varieties other than Riesling. The vines are attached to stakes bristling from hillsides steep enough to appear perilously vertical when seen from the upper paths. (Once, in a letter to his wife, Frieda, D. H. Lawrence described these hills as “angry hedgehogs.”) More often than not, vineyard workers pruning, tying shoots, or picking grapes must cling to metal sleds lowered for them with ropes and winches, or grab the rope itself and take advantage of any toehold they can find, to avoid sliding precipitately to the riverbank two or three hundred feet below. But no matter how unlikely it seems to anyone looking at those gaunt slopes in the bright northern light, the sun, rain, slate, and Riesling are fused there by some mysterious alchemy into what has been called “liquid gold.”

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The valleys’ marginal climate brings risks as well as benefits, and the wines of one vintage can differ dramatically from the wines of the next.

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The vintages of 1988, 1989, and 1990 were the first three consecutively successful ones in living memory. Not unreasonably, Germans take the proportion of a crop that qualifies for Predicate wines (Kabinett, Spätlese, Auslese, etc.)—the percentage of the grape harvest, in other words, that needed no help from the sugar sack to achieve optimum balance in the wines—as an indicator of the quality of the vintage as a whole. In the last decade, taking all German wine regions together, the proportion of such wines has swung from a low of only 7 percent in 1984 to a high of 60 percent in 1990. In 1989, the percentage was 47. These numbers give perspective to the fact that in 1989 most leading estates of the Saar and Ruwer produced close to 95 percent Predicate wines—double the national average. I am not a numbers enthusiast, but these are nature’s own and they speak for themselves. German growers say that the high natural concentrations of sugar mandated by law for grapes to be used for the uppermost reaches of Predicate wines, for the Beerenauslesen and Trockenbeerenauslesen especially, are possible only when grapes have been affected by the fungus called botrytis. When conditions are favorable—humid mornings and mildly warm afternoons—it attacks the fruit and causes it to shrivel abruptly, concentrating the sugar, the acidity, and all else. The Saar and Ruwer had an overwhelming proportion of Predicate wines in 1989 because botrytis swept through both valleys. Most of the wines of that year have the honey-and-ash aroma peculiar to wines made from botrytis-affected grapes, but their sumptuous texture never cloys because of the grapes’ acidity, concentrated, of course, along with the sugar. Botrytis has given the 1989 vintage its very specific character and has helped bring the wines on very quickly. Of the three vintages, the 1989s are the most ready. The 1988 and 1990 seasons gave wines of totally different styles. In 1988 the weather followed classic patterns for the region, and the wines are classic too: symmetrically patrician, with just the right degree of austerity, just the right intensity of flavor, just the right delicacy. The

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summer and autumn of 1990, except for one or two rain bursts in late August and early September, were exceedingly dry, so there was no botrytis worth speaking of. However, because the summer and fall were warmer and sunnier than usual, the grape sugar was concentrated anyway. The wines, too, are boldly concentrated; but, with aromas and flavors unaffected by botrytis, their Riesling character is clear as a bell. Many believe that wines of the 1990 vintage will be the best on the Saar and Ruwer since 1976.

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Site and year are the deciding factors, but the philosophy of each grower affects in some measure the style of his wine. Usually any difference in outlook or practice will have begun as a response to his particular vineyard. But there are also variations of response to broader questions. Some—for example, Peter Geiben, the much admired young ownerwinemaker of the Karlsmühle estate, and Annegret Reh-Gartner, managing director of the Reichsgraf von Kesselstatt estate, both of them on the Ruwer—use stainless steel for the fermentation of their wines rather than wood. They say it preserves Riesling flavor, and there on the Ruwer, where the wines are traditionally more tender than on the Saar, they could be right. It is more usual, though, for the leading estates to ferment their wines in wood, preferably in old thousand-liter oak casks. These are more labor intensive, but Peter Hoffmann says they help the wines clarify naturally, smooth the edges of their acidity, and generally support a faster development. “It was always traditional to use German oak casks in the Saar and Ruwer,” he says, “but their use is now more widespread than ever because of the demand for drier wines. For dry wines, fermentation and aging in wood are essential.” Growers have varied attitudes to the whole question of trocken (dry) wines. They were first in vogue about ten years ago, one of the consequences of nouvelle cuisine but also in reaction to the overly sweet style of German wine that had become popular in the sixties and seventies. Bone-dry wines became the fashion in Germany, and many growers in

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the Saar and Ruwer, sensitive to the equilibrium of their wines, have regarded this trend as an aberration, a distortion of what their wines should be. But even Carl von Schubert makes two thirds of his wine trocken to meet demand. Others, including Egon Müller of the MüllerScharzhof estate and Eberhard von Kunow of the Von Hövel estate, both on the Saar, rarely do so.

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I said earlier that Saar and Ruwer wines are invisible except to those who know the village names or who recognize the leading producers. And here, in the following paragraphs, are some to watch for. After each village name, I give, in parentheses, its particularly distinguished vineyard sites. On the Ruwer the villages and vineyards are Kasel (Nies’chen); Eitelsbach (Karthäuserhofberg, Marienholz); Waldrach; and Mertesdorf (essentially the Maximin Grünhaus estate and the Lorenzhöfer Felslay, a vineyard owned exclusively by Peter Geiben of the Karlsmühle estate). On the Saar they include Serrig (Antoniusberg, Schloss Saarfelser Schlossberg, Herrenberg, Würtzberg); Saarburg (Rausch, Antoniusbrunnen); Ockfen (Bockstein, Heppenstein); Oberemmel (Hütte, Agritiusberg); Ayl (Kupp, Herrenberg); Wawern (Herrenberg—but Wawern wines, be warned, tend to be light); and Wiltingen (Kupp and, thought to be somewhat better, Braune Kupp). The Scharzhofberg, at Wiltingen (not to be confused with Scharzberg), is so celebrated that it always stands alone without the village name. Avelsbach (Hammerstein) and Trier (Deutschherrenberg), between the Saar and Ruwer valleys, are names usually seen on wines from the State Wine Domain. The estates I recommend (some of them also own vineyards on the Mosel itself, so one must watch for both estate name and village name) include the Staatliche Weinbaudomäne; Vereinigte Hospitien (United Charities), itself composed of what were once many separate vineyard-supported monastic hospices, orphanages, leper houses, and refuges for the aged and still one of the largest vineyard owners on the Saar and Ruwer; Bischöfliche Weingüter (the ecclesiastical estates);

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Karthäuserhof; Karlsmühle (Geiben makes rather steely wines); Reichsgraf von Kesselstatt, wonderfully expressive wines; Dr. Wagner; Dr. Fischer; Zilliken, sometimes described as Weingut Forstmeister (Hans-Joachim Zilliken’s great-grandfather had been Master Forester to the King of Prussia), whose wines are all superb; Von Hövel; Peter Lauer, owner of the Ayler Kupp restaurant, the best on the Saar; and Bert Simon, owner of the Weingut Serriger Herrenberg. The Maximin Grünhaus estate on the Ruwer and the Egon MüllerScharzhof estate on the Saar are exceptional even in this distinguished company. The Maximin Grünhaus has three adjacent vineyard sites: Abtsberg, Herrenberg, and Brüderberg. The document recording the gift of this land in the tenth century from Otto, Charlemagne’s successor, to the Benedictine monastery of Saint Maximin in Trier is in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. The Von Schuberts acquired it in 1882. The Müller family’s estate includes vines at Wiltingen for the wine they sell under their Le Gallais label as well as their celebrated vineyard on the Scharzhofberg, a hill planted by the monks of Saint Martin’s Abbey in Trier in the eighteenth century. Egon Müller, Sr., retired late last year from the management of the Müller-Scharzhof estate. Before handing control to one of his sons, he sold thirty-six bottles of his 1976 Scharzhofberger Riesling Trockenbeerenauslese at the Trier Wine Auction. Each bottle fetched roughly eleven hundred dollars. On hearing about it, I remembered what his son had said to me when I dined with him in the family’s comfortable manor house at the foot of the Scharzhofberg about a year ago. “We haven’t released any of this yet,” were his words as he poured that very same 1976 wine into our glasses. (We were about to eat a warm, caramelized apple tart.) “After making this Trockenbeerenauslese in 1976, we had no opportunity to make another until 1989. Only now, with the 1989 in the cellar, are we thinking of letting a little of this go. But I can tell you, no matter what the wine might sell for, the price will never cover the costs—let alone justify the risks—involved in making a Trockenbeerenauslese wine in the Saar valley. Nevertheless, when the

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circumstances are right for a Trockenbeerenauslese (unfortunately, they rarely are) we have to make one. We have no choice. Our reputation rests on making such wines, no matter how rarely we get the opportunity or how little we produce when we do.” The wine was delicious and set a new benchmark for me. Yes, it had echoes of praline and apricots and honey and all those wonderful things—but to analyze the taste of such a wine is to limit, even to diminish, it. Suffice to say that it gave me one of my “why drink anything else” moments. In fact, already in a happy frame of mind (the 1976 had been preceded by the Müllers’s Scharzhofberger Auslese ’59 with a roast pheasant), I might, just then, have been receptive to the notion that a desert island could have its compensations. If I were marooned there with the right wine, that is. Originally published as “My Favorite German Rieslings” in Gourmet, May 1992.

brunello di montalcino Elegance from an Untamed Land

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W

hen the 1990 Brunello di Montalcino wines arrived in the United States last year (Italian law requires that producers of Brunello age their wines for a minimum of four years before releasing them), it was obvious that the vintage was a success. In 1996 we shall see the arrival of the 1990 Riservas (the same law requires that Riservas be aged for five years), among them several of the best wines produced in Montalcino for some time. We must wait until the 1995 Riservas are released in 2001 to see their like again—assuming that vintage fulfills its promise. Montalcino (the soft Italian c is pronounced like the ch in church) is twenty-five miles south of Siena. Its red wine, made from a single grape variety, Brunello, is cousin to Chianti. Brunello, a Montalcino variant of Chianti’s Sangiovese, is grown on a less hospitable terrain in a climate sometimes completely different from that prevailing in the Chianti hills to the north. There have been vines at Montalcino at least since the hill was settled a thousand years ago by people fleeing Saracen raiders and the malarial swamps of the lowlands that lie between Montalcino and the sea, about forty miles to the west. It’s probable that Etruscan and, later, Roman settlements nearby had vineyards even earlier. In the seventeenth century the Medici dukes of Tuscany gave Montalcino wines as gifts to popes and favorites alike. But modern Brunello di Montalcino is different from all that has gone before; its origins go no further back 145

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than the early decades of the nineteenth century, when Clemente Santi began selecting and propagating at Montalcino a distinct, locally generated clone of Sangiovese. The wines Santi made from his new vines were acclaimed at exhibitions in London and Paris in the 1850s. But it wasn’t until his grandson, Ferruccio Biondi, assumed control of the family vineyard in the 1880s that Brunello in the style we know today—wood-aged, gracefully muscular, and long-lived—was created. Ferruccio’s son, Tancredi Biondi-Santi (by then the family had hyphenated its two names), refined Brunello’s style and set about promoting it. Others in the area—including the Colombini of the Fattoria dei Barbi, and the Franceschi of Sant’Angelo in Colle—followed suit.

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Brunello di Montalcino was quickly established as one of the most distinguished wines in Italy. Few people got to taste it, however. Its prestige depended largely on legends generated by a tiny production from a handful of producers. Reforms in landownership in the 1950s and 1960s brought difficult years to rural Tuscany. But, as things settled down, curiosity about Brunello, new confidence, and outside investment combined to encourage a revival and an extension of the area’s vineyards. One of the first outsiders to play an active role was the Banfi Corporation, of Long Island, New York. In the 1970s it initiated a project that developed into a vast estate, acquired in discrete phases, around the medieval castle of Poggio alle Mura—a stronghold built, ironically enough, to protect the integrity of the Sienese republic from foreign invasion. Successful growers from elsewhere in Italy, including the Marchesi Antinori, the Marchesi de’ Frescobaldi, and Angelo Gaja, have also acquired vineyards in the region. So have Italy’s insurance giant, SAI, and many professionals and businessmen who simply like the idea of being involved with wine and land. The few hundred acres of vineyards that were producing grapes for Brunello di Montalcino in the 1960s expanded, by 1984, to two thousand acres. In the decade since then, the acres in vines have almost doubled again. For the time being,

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there is an embargo on any continued expansion of the vineyards, though demand (and prices, too) remains high. As a winegrowing region, Montalcino forms a rough twelve-mile square almost enclosed by three rivers: the Ombrone (north and west sides), the Orcia (south), and the Asso (east). Much of it is riven with short, steep-banked valleys formed by streams (in winter, torrents) that feed those surrounding rivers. The resulting breaks and twists in the lay of the land often allow one vineyard an exposure to the sun that is in complete contrast with the vineyard next to it. Banfi, in particular, relandscaped much of its property to ease mechanical cultivation. But the character and power of Brunello is inherent in this challenging country; much of it, too difficult to till and certain to be unprofitable if it were, is still untamed scrub and woodland. The meager Montalcino soil—an assembly, in varying proportions, of chalky clay; tufa; galestro, or marl, a rock that crumbles on exposure to the air; and another, harder rock that unfortunately does nothing of the kind—is ill-suited to most kinds of agriculture. Only the vine and the olive flourish on it. For the rest, the Montalcinesi, who once lived mostly as simple woodcutters, charcoal burners, and potters, rely on forlornly thin pasture for sheep milked for cheese; on beekeeping for honey; and on pigs, once left to forage for acorns but now farm-fed, for prosciutto and sausages. And, of course, on the mushrooms, truffles, and game in the extensive woodlands. The town of Montalcino lies slightly northeast of the area’s center. Its name refers to the holm oak—il leccio—a stumpy evergreen that clings tenaciously to much of the hill on which the first settlement was perched. From its dominating height, almost two thousand feet above sea level, Montalcino’s fortress controlled the surrounding valleys, and, because it was close to an important medieval route (the Francigena, from Rome to the north by way of Siena and Lucca), the town’s strategic value attracted the attention of both Florence and Siena during a period when each of them was anxious to contain the ambitions of the other. Montalcino is still proud, as its citizens miss no opportunity of remind-

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ing anyone who will listen, to have been the last of Italy’s independent towns to succumb, in the sixteenth century, to Medici power. The town has changed little since then. The streets are narrow, and the small, irregular piazzas are garnished with steps and arches, halfhidden courtyards, and gaunt façades like a series of operatic stage sets. It’s a romantic place, softened by caper plants that hang down from the crevices in old stone walls, by an abundance of potted plants on sills and doorsteps, and by staked and wired vines that share every available scrap of land, even within the town, with an olive tree, a row or two of vegetables, and a clump of tender young chard. Anyone exploring—and there’s much to discover—will be confronted repeatedly by views over faded roof tiles to a landscape lifted straight from a sixteenth-century canvas. When I was in Montalcino last October, a golden varnish of autumn sunlight enhanced the illusion.

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It was a good time to be in Montalcino. The days were fine—even warm—and the nights were clear and cool. By late October, the grapes are picked, and, although there’s still some activity around the vats and presses, relative calm pervades the countryside until the olives must be gathered in. No one seemed to be around: I could visit the frescoes at Monte Oliveto Maggiore without the summer-season crowds elbowing me along and enjoy the great Benedictine nave of Sant’Antimo in appropriate silence. I was in Montalcino to catch up—I hadn’t visited the town for a while— to hear opinions on the 1995 vintage, and, if possible, to form one of my own. There’s a tradition in Tuscany of tasting the new wine, young as it is, on All Saints Day—November 1—with hot roasted chestnuts. With new Moscatello (or perhaps with a glass of old vin santo) the Montalcinesi like to take their pane coi santi—“bread with the saints,” a leavened loaf seasoned with pepper and anise and stuffed with walnuts, raisins, and dried figs—made only at this time of year. To the delight of the children—naturally ghoulish everywhere—there is also an especially brittle cookie made for All Saints Day called Ossi di Morto, Dead Man’s Bones.

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I stayed in one of the Fattoria dei Barbi apartments that the Colombini rent out to visitors who want the experience of staying on a busy Tuscan farm, and dined, on my first evening, with Donatella Cinelli Colombini in the taverna on the property. Here the farm’s products—wine, olive oil, cheese, hams, and sausages—are combined with local fish and game to present the best of regional food. “It’s not really appropriate to describe a dish as Tuscan,” she said as we tucked into a scottiglia—a very slow braise—of the wild boar that now infest the woods and create a problem for growers when the grapes are ripe. “Every village—every family—has its own way of cooking. In one place the ground might be more fertile, in another there might be more water; so some people have more root vegetables and others more greens. Elsewhere it might be easier to find mushrooms and truffles in the woods. “Our dishes are always very simple. In the country we don’t have access to a large variety of ingredients, and we prefer something that can be left to cook for hours because we are usually too busy to spend time with complicated preparations. Few visitors ever taste authentic country food—the contadini feel it is not grand enough to offer to outsiders, and the restaurants always fancify it. In the beginning we used a professional chef, but then we simply couldn’t get him to leave well alone, to cook the food as it should be. We have village women do the cooking now. They work slowly, but the result is better.” Dinner included an engagingly soft 1993 Rosso di Montalcino and the estate’s Brunello di Montalcino Riserva ’90—youthfully firm but already velvety—and ended with a well-aged Pecorino from the estate (“Try a little honey with it,” Donatella urged), followed by some creamy ricotta montata—ricotta whipped with sugar and a little vin santo. I slept well.

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The three distinct Montalcino denominazioni for red wines—Brunello di Montalcino, Brunello di Montalcino Riserva, and Rosso di Montalcino—are based on considerations of quality, not geography, even

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though a vineyard’s site is often the deciding factor in determining whether its grapes will be used for any of the three. Brunello di Montalcino is essentially the wine developed by Ferruccio Biondi-Santi more than a century ago. It was among Italy’s first official appellations, created in the heyday of new legislation in the 1960s, and in 1980 it was the very first to be raised to the rank of DOCG—denominazione di origine controllata e garantita—a distinction accorded only to the best of Italy’s appellations as a sign of guaranteed quality. This wine must be made from Brunello grapes grown in the defined communal territory of Montalcino. At least three of the four years of aging before release must be spent in wood. The argument for giving Brunello di Montalcino Riserva five years of aging before release is that any wine selected for Riserva bottling is sure to be more resistant, even though potentially finer than other wines produced on the estate. A Riserva needs time before anyone can appreciate even its potential. Though standards vary—a simple Brunello from one producer can be superior to the Riserva of another—a Riserva wine usually represents the best that an estate can offer. Sometimes it’s the result of a selection among the vats, but more often fruit for the Riserva wine comes from specific blocks of mature vines or from vineyards with perfect exposure. Even so, Riserva wines are exceptions, produced only in exceptional years. The wood-aging of these wines takes place in oak vats with capacities that generally range from one thousand to three thousand or more gallons; smaller vats are sometimes used, too, and recently some estates have been experimenting with including a few months in conventional Bordeaux-style barrels of sixty-gallon capacity. During the three years or more that a Brunello stays in wood, it is in any case regularly racked from one container to another to remove it from its accumulated lees. Most growers use this opportunity to expose each wine systematically to vats and barrels of different size, age, and origin. Traditionally, Montalcino’s vats have been made of Slovenian oak, from the north of the former Yugoslavia; but the introduction of French oak barrels a few years ago has

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led several producers to experiment with vats made of French oak, too. It takes years for a Brunello to reach full maturity, so we still don’t know what benefits, if any, these variations will ultimately confer. French oak, in particular, dominates a young wine and lends it a sumptuous envelope that will not necessarily exist when the wine is mature. Rosso di Montalcino—also made from Brunello grapes, though the name might suggest otherwise—is made to be drunk young. A Rosso is usually more open and vivacious than a regular Brunello, and less tannic, too. A producer can age his Rosso a short time in wood if he wants; he is, however, under no obligation to do so. Mostly, Rosso di Montalcino is held in stainless-steel tanks until ready for bottling. This keeps the wine fresh and lively. Rosso di Montalcino may be released for sale—and for early consumption—a year after the vintage; still, most growers hold onto their wine for a little longer. Though it needs no aging, two or three years in bottle does no harm and, if the vintage was robust to begin with, can do some good. Nevertheless, one shouldn’t expect too much of a Rosso. For its production, growers normally use the grapes from their young vines, if they have any. Others use the grapes from sections of the vineyard known to produce a lighter style of wine. Or they divert to Rosso those lots that, in certain years, do not have the backbone for aging as Brunello. In some years a grower’s entire crop has been bottled as Rosso di Montalcino. Biondi-Santi makes two distinct types of Rosso di Montalcino: one from the fruit of vines under ten years old; another—identified by a red stripe, hence its name, Fascia Rossa—from the fruit of mature vines in years when quality, in the view of Franco Biondi-Santi, the present head of the family, does not justify the long aging that bottling under a Brunello label would appear to endorse. Caparzo, too, distinguishes between its standard Rosso—which spends little time in wood—and the Rosso di Montalcino it produces from a single vineyard, La Caduta, a wine aged for eight to twelve months in French oak barrels that are about three times normal size. Vittorio Fiore, Caparzo’s consulting enologist, claims that this gives the wine greater depth.

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444 My visits to local winegrowers were arranged for ease in getting around. Tasting the wines in geographic groups also made a lot of sense because the most marked variations among Montalcino wines are more obvious when one compares those clustered north and east of the town with those from the south or farther west—like Banfi’s Poggio alle Mura and Frescobaldi’s Castelgiocondo—where lower altitude and full exposure to the afternoon sun almost guarantee higher summer temperatures. Wines from estates to the north and east of Montalcino, including, among my own favorites, those of Caparzo, Altesino, Biondi-Santi, Valdicava, Fattoria dei Barbi, and La Gerla, have a taut acidity that brings out their vivid flavor and enhances their innate elegance; these wines have grace and finesse as well as power. Wines from estates in the south, such as Il Poggione, Col d’Orcia, Talenti, and La Poderina, are rounder, plumper, and softer: They, too, can be very elegant but in a style that is all silk rather than sinew. Those from the west are more solid than the others: Concentrated and, though lower in acidity, rich in both tannin and alcohol, they give a broad-shouldered impression that can be larger than life. At present these characteristics are sometimes muted because of a 1970s enthusiasm for the California technique of planting low-density vineyards, in which one vine must sometimes do the work of three. This has changed, however. Even on the large estates, recently planted vineyards have four thousand to five thousand rather than two thousand vines to the hectare. (It is astonishing to learn that the regulations for Brunello di Montalcino did not include a minimumdensity requirement. But in the 1960s many growers still mingled their vines with olive and fruit trees, so it was no easy matter to take the actual measure of vineyard land. Minimum-density controls are essential; otherwise maximum permitted yields are nonsense, with fewer vines forced to produce more fruit.) Banfi seems to handle the potential force of its west side grapes by limiting the extraction that occurs during winemaking; its wines are generally lighter-framed than one would expect. Frescobaldi takes the

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opposite tack and actually increases extraction by leaving the new wine and its spent skins in contact for a considerable time after fermentation is complete. Then each batch of Brunello is allowed a short stay in French oak barrels. The interplay of different woods and container sizes at Frescobaldi’s Castelgiocondo goes far to introduce a rich subtlety in the wines while preserving their regional character. The Brunello di Montalcino Riserva ’90, for instance, is a masterly example of civilizing Caliban. Everywhere I went I met excitement over the 1995 vintage. Heat in July had thickened the grapeskins and ensured intense color and tannins, but a cool August—no one could recall such chilly weather at that time of year—had left the acids intact. Warm, sunny weather in September brought sugar to appropriate levels. The wines I tasted, some still fizzing as they were drawn from the fermenting vats, were dark, rich, and chewy. The general consensus is that they will equal the 1990s. In addition to producing wines with Montalcino appellations, many growers are now using Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot—and other varieties, too—both alone and in combination with the Brunello grape, to make less conventional wines. Certain producers are experimenting with French oak in ways that preclude them from selling the resulting wine as Brunello di Montalcino even when the grape is used alone. I tasted only a few such wines, as it would have been confusing to mix them constantly with actual Brunellos. Among those I did taste, some stood out, including two from Altesino: Alte d’Altesi ’93 (70 percent Brunello and 30 percent Cabernet Sauvignon), a deep and smoothly harmonious wine; and Borgo d’Altesi ’93, a richly stylish wine of pure Cabernet Sauvignon. Both were aged in French oak barrels, as is Birba, a pure Brunello produced by La Gerla. When I compared the 1990 Birba with La Gerla’s 1990 Brunello di Montalcino—the same wine, in effect, aged conventionally in Slovenian oak vats for three years—I found the Birba more opulent. In bottling these two wines, Sergio Rossi of La Gerla makes a point very effectively.

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It would be unfair to write about the superb older vintages I enjoyed with lunches and dinners—the 1978s, the 1970s, the 1964s, the 1955s—as they are no longer easy to find. Among 1990s that particularly impressed me, in addition to those already mentioned, were the Brunello di Montalcino wines of La Poderina, Biondi-Santi, Altesino, and Caparzo—especially Caparzo’s single vineyard wine, La Casa— and the Riservas of Fattoria dei Barbi (Vigna del Fiore), Talenti, and Biondi-Santi (a magnificently patrician wine). I wish there were space to write of the other things I did during a glorious week: truffle hunting at dawn in the woods near San Giovanni d’Asso; tasting olive oils at Trequendo; watching the extraction of honey from the Fanci-Tassi family’s hives; and visiting the ancient warmspring spa of Bagno Vignano, where the top togas of ancient Rome came to relax. Another time, perhaps. Originally published as “Brunello: Pride of Montalcino” in Gourmet, March 1996. Controls on the expansion of vineyards at Montalcino remain. In 2009 the area under Brunello vines had expanded but to no more than roughly five thousand acres. Meanwhile, a new denominazione di origine controllata, Sant’Antimo, was introduced, covering virtually the same territory as Brunello di Montalcino, but allowing growers to present wines made from Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, and Pinot Grigio with a place of origin but without compromising the Brunello DOC. The new DOC was popular for a while and the acreage of these alternative vines quickly mounted to a peak of more than two thousand acres. Interest has since fallen, however, and in 2009 there were little more than a thousand acres of assorted non-Brunello vines planted for the Sant’Antimo denominazione.

rías baixas – albariño A Fragrant Wine of the Sea

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as a totally unfamiliar white wine ever given us such a jolt? Such pleasure? Albariño from Rías Baixas, in northwest Spain, is still no more than an eddy in a puddle compared to the ocean of Chardonnay we consume every year. But in the United States, sales of this seductively aromatic wine have bounded from just two thousand cases in 1992 to twenty-two thousand in 1998. If production could have supported it, sales would have risen even faster. In Spain, the wines from this small corner of the province of Galicia have won praise on all sides—they are now on the list of every serious restaurant from Seville to San Sebastián—and for at least the past decade, they have had a place at the royal table. Albariño is actually part of a much larger secret. In summer, when northern Europe invades Spain’s Mediterranean beaches, the Spanish themselves disappear to Galicia, a private green refuge tucked between Portugal’s northern border and the Atlantic. Santiago de Compostela, the region’s capital, ranks with Rome and Jerusalem as a place of pilgrimage for the world’s Catholics, of course. But for most Americans it’s usually just a stop on a wider European tour. Having paid their respects to the cathedral—its altar ablaze with gold and silver—and allowed themselves to be beguiled for a day or two by the medieval charm of narrow, winding streets that open abruptly onto vast plazas of an austere splendor, they are on their way. Rarely do they venture the short distance to the coast, with its countless bays and inlets—the rías—or 155

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discover, farther inland, the rivers that long ago carved out deep canyons in Galicia’s ancient mountains (now mostly protected as natural parks), or walk in woods where paths are banked with creamy rockroses and clearings edged with beds of tiny scarlet wild strawberries. Galicia is hardly the Spain of popular imagination: of strumming guitars, stamping heels, and carnations between the teeth. The Moors never established themselves here, so Galicia dances in slippers to the Celtic drum and bagpipe, and its pilgrims walk in sneakers and parkas (but still with cockleshells pinned to their hats) on roads punctuated by tall crucifixes directing them to the tomb of St. James. For curious travelers there are mysterious cave drawings and prehistoric dolmens, feudal castles and Romanesque churches, Roman bridges (still in daily use), and monasteries built near remote passes where pilgrims in centuries past could find a night’s shelter and protection from brigands unimpressed by their piety. Elsewhere are sober, seventeenth-century stone pazos—manor houses presiding over villages that still live on what they can wrest from a wild land and an even wilder sea. Like Brittany and the west coast of Ireland, Galicia is a place of sudden storms and drowned fishermen, of lighthouses, ghost stories, wee folk, and things that go bump in the night. Above all, however, it’s a place where one eats and drinks well. There are mussel and oyster beds in the rías, and every village up and down the coast has its own line of fishing boats. Only Japan consumes more fish per capita than Spain, and in this region, which boasts two of Europe’s most important fishing ports—Vigo and La Coruña—meat is rarely more than a footnote on the menu. Even the scruffiest of the bars and taverns that line Santiago’s twisting Rua do Franco serve just-caught fish of unimaginable variety cooked with a confidence that would put any restaurant in Paris or New York on the defensive. No one knows when the vine was introduced to this part of Spain. It can be assumed that the Romans, who settled in the area two thousand years ago to mine the hills near Orense for precious metals, would have provided for themselves somehow. The first reliable record we have that links past to present, however, is of vineyards planted in the twelfth

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century by Cistercian monks at Armenteira in the Salnés Valley near the fishing port of Cambados. (According to local legend, Albariño is descended from cuttings of Riesling brought from Kloster Eberbach in the Rheingau by some of these Cistercians. It’s a pretty story, but recent DNA research has shown beyond a doubt that there is no such connection; the variety’s origin is, therefore, still a matter of speculation.) More vines were planted later on lands granted to the monastery of Santa María de Oia, forty or so miles south within the sharp angle formed by the estuary of the Miño—the river that establishes the frontier with Portugal—and the Atlantic. From these early beginnings evolved the vineyards of Val do Salnés to the north and those of O Rosal and Condado do Tea to the south. (A fourth defined zone roughly midway between them, Soutomaior, was created recently, but it produces such a small quantity of wine that, commercially, it has had no impact as yet.) There are all kinds of shadings and subtleties to be explored—with wine there always are—but an explanation of the differences between Salnés on the one hand and Rosal and Condado on the other is enough to illustrate most of what one needs to know about Albariño. The vineyards of Salnés form an open bowl facing west to the ocean. From the terrace of the Martín Códax winery on Burgans Hill, above Cambados, there is a limitless view of the bay and the Atlantic beyond. The individual shelves and terraces of vines face this way and that to catch the sun, but all are exposed to whatever blows in from the sea. The vineyards of Rosal and Condado also turn about, to accommodate the rise and fall of a terrain shaped by the streams and rivulets that feed the Miño, but their broad direction is always to the south, to the river. Rosal is affected by the ocean less directly, and Condado—because it is farther upstream—even less. Their vineyards are drier and warmer than those of Salnés; they get less rain and have more hours of sun.

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There are other differences, too. Vines in Salnés are on a fairly homogenous granitic sand, while those of Rosal and Condado also contend with crumbled schist, clay, and the rolled pebbles typical of any place where

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the water’s flow has shifted. These differences of soil and prevailing weather do not make any one zone better than the others (though you can be sure that’s not the way the growers see it), but they do impose distinct and varied characteristics on their wines. A Salnés Albariño is bolder than one from either Rosal or Condado. It has good acidity, a pungent aroma and flavor (some say of pineapple), and it gives a powerful, fleshy impression. Its focus is intensely varietal. Rosal wines—and to an even greater degree those from Condado—are more graceful and more supple. Their flavor steals across the palate and lingers there. If a Salnés wine tends to express the varietal more than the site, a Rosal or Condado wine does the opposite. The official revival of Rías Baixas (pronounced ree-as buy-zhas) had its start in 1980, when the local board of control recognized the distinct qualities of the Albariño wines produced in Galicia with a new denominación de origen. The ruling was rewritten by the Spanish legislature in 1988 to conform to European Economic Community standards that required the primary definition of an appellation to be geographic rather than varietal. The redrafted regulations formally established four zones and listed Albariño, Loureiro, Treixadura, and Caiño Blanco as the main vine varieties recommended to be grown within their boundaries. Any Rías Baixas wine labeled Albariño is made from that variety alone, and a Salnés wine is almost always 100 percent Albariño. The other recommended grape varieties do not grow as well in that valley: Conditions are too extreme. But that isn’t the case for either Rosal or Condado, where Loureiro and Treixadura in particular have always contributed to the style of the wines. In fact, regulations require, for example, that a wine labeled Rías Baixas–O Rosal must have at least a little Loureiro to enhance its natural fragrance, and one sold as Rías Baixas–Condado do Tea is understood to have the benefit of Treixadura’s finesse and structure. Using other varieties in this way reinforces longstanding distinctions among the zones of Rías Baixas, but Albariño now predominates in more than 90 percent of the vineyards, and most producers offer Rías Baixas only as an Albariño varietal wine.

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444 The aroma and bite for which Albariño is celebrated owe much to the cooling proximity of the ocean and to the stress-free growth guaranteed by ample spring rain. In Spain, at least, these are conditions unique to the Rías Baixas. Ground humidity brings potential problems, of course, even though Albariño has a thick skin. As protection from rot, the vines are trained over high, horizontal pergolas. The hefty granite pillars used are not the most elegant supports, but they fit in with the local custom of scattering vines about in handkerchief-size plots like untidy afterthoughts. A vineyard is sometimes no more than an arbor attached to the side of a house, an arrangement of granite and wire in an awkward bend of the road, or a backyard shared with a patch of turnips or cabbages. For years, most families in Rías Baixas have had vines to make wine only for their own consumption. It was a crop grown for the household—like peppers, corn, and potatoes—that sometimes provided a surplus that could be sold. Ironically, it was a crisis in the fishing industry that sparked Albariño’s resurgence. New restrictions on fishing in European waters in the mid1980s hit small ports like Cambados, Bayona, and La Guardia badly. The big factory ships of Vigo and La Coruña could go in search of new fishing grounds; boats from the smaller villages have a limited range, though, so these communities had to find a way to supplement what was earned from the sea. Shopkeepers, schoolteachers, and particularly the fishermen themselves—everyone with a few vines—moved from making wine for their own consumption to expanding their production and selling it. From the five hundred acres of vines existing in Rías Baixas in 1986, the acreage is now close to six thousand. The Martín Códax winery, one of the first to come onto the scene in Salnés, was founded in 1986, funded by a group of small growers who knew they could achieve more together than if each tried to make and market wine on his own. With modern equipment—good presses, refrigeration for cool fermentation, easy-to-clean stainless-steel tanks —they were able to reveal Albariño’s forgotten qualities. “And who is Martín

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Códax?” I asked Pablo Buján, the firm’s sales manager. “The prime mover of the project? The partner with the biggest holding?” “He was a thirteenth-century Galician poet and troubadour from this very place,” Buján replied. “He drank a lot of wine.” The thirsty Códax would doubtless be pleased to know that the winery named for him is probably the most successful in Rías Baixas, producing almost 1.5 million bottles of wine in a normal year. To understand the difficulty of this feat, one must remember that the grapes are grown by more than two hundred partners who together own nearly four hundred acres of vines divided over twelve hundred separate plots. Over the years, land in Galicia has been divided and divided again through successive inheritance. Vineyard plots on the terraced hillsides got smaller and smaller, and in the end those at a distance from the villages were hardly worth the effort needed to cultivate them. In the 1940s and 1950s, under General Franco, most were given over to stands of eucalyptus trees to provide pulp for a paper mill in Pontevedra. In the rain their drooping leaves and peeling bark lend a wistful melancholy to the landscape. But where the trees have been cleared, the original terracing can still be seen. “Our natural trees are oak and chestnut. Eucalyptus trees give a poor return and are bad for the soil,” says Javier Luca de Tena, director of Granja Fillaboa, with a dismissive wave of the hand. Angel Suárez, manager of the Lagar de Cervera (now owned by the Rioja Alta winery), endured several years of painstaking negotiations with disparate owners to put together enough land to restore a rational, workable vineyard. Often a single row of trees belongs to one family, and the next one, to another. Each of four brothers will cling to his clump of half a dozen eucalyptus trees when their entire holding, taken together, makes up a block no bigger than a kitchen garden. A program encouraging owners to swap land in order to build up the size of individual holdings has not been a great success. Apparently, the smaller the patch, the greater its mystical importance to someone unwilling to part with it. To put together an economically viable vine-

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yard, therefore, takes a great deal of forbearance and much money. (One doesn’t buy land in Galicia, one bribes the owner to part with it.) Another Rioja winery, Bodegas Lan, now owns Santiago Ruiz in O Rosal, a small producer of such prestige in Spain that it could afford to dispense with marketing a varietal Albariño, despite the demand, and concentrate on producing a Rías Baixas–O Rosal, a superb wine in which Albariño’s exuberance is tempered by Loureiro to just the right degree. La Val, another producer in Rosal, also makes, along with its particularly delicious varietal Albariño, an exquisite wine made from Loureiro and Albariño—reversing the proportions used by Santiago Ruiz. I was not surprised when José Luis Méndez, son of the owner of Morgadío, told me that his family was trying to think of a way in which Loureiro could be brought back into the vineyard. The producers’ dilemma is that they would all like to offer the more stylish wine that a proportion of Loureiro can give, but they don’t want to give up the right to the magic name Albariño on the label. Both in Spain and in the U.S., it gives instant recognition. While in Galicia recently, I lunched with Angel Suárez at a restaurant near the old fishing harbor of La Guardia. We chatted over a bottle of his 1998 Albariño and a dish of assorted fish—hake, turbot, and monkfish—simmered with potatoes and served in a sauce of garlic and pimentón, a very small pepper that is dried over a slow wood fire and then ground to a fine powder. It has a hauntingly smoky, sweet-sharp taste, and no Extremaduran or Galician kitchen is ever without it. I enjoyed the wine, but Suárez said 1998 had been a difficult year for Rías Baixas. Spring came early: The vines sent out tender shoots in February, but the weather then turned very cold, with a predictable effect. Hailstorms in April did further damage, and rain in June meant that the fruit set poorly. As a result, the crop was barely 40 percent of the previous year’s and never did reach the level of quality hoped for. The 1997 vintage had been more or less normal in Rosal and Condado, though it presented some problems in Salnés. But 1994, 1995, and 1996 had been three good years for all of Rías Baixas. “After a run like that,”

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Suárez said, “our difficulty now is to keep people happy when we have a year with so little wine for them. “A red wine region copes with this kind of difficulty more easily,” he continued. “Red wine is usually aged for a year or two, and differences of crop size from one year to another can be blurred, at least, by delaying or bringing forward the release date. Albariño is best when bottled and consumed young. We have no stocks to fall back on. Production is increasing a little every year, but at present, even when the crop is of a good size, it seems there is never quite enough to meet demand.” He poured the last of the 1998 into my glass, leaving none for himself. Originally published as “Albariño: Fruit of a Wild Land and an Even Wilder Sea” in Gourmet, September 1999. There are now roughly nine thousand acres of vines within the denominación Rías Baixas.

vega sicilia A Legend at High Altitude

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ega Sicilia is a wine apart. For almost a century, its reputation has bordered on the mythical. I’ve shared a bottle of it no more than three or four times in as many decades. So the prospect of tasting, over the course of a weekend in Los Angeles, twenty-two vintages from this Spanish estate, considered by many to have no peer, was both daunting and exhilarating. On a Friday evening, seventy of us sat down to dinner at Spago, where the high point was a sumptuous 1976. The next day at lunch at Valentino, the power and elegance of the 1986 stole the show. And at a final lunch on Sunday at Patina, few could decide between the velvet discretion of the 1970 and the verve of the 1981. Though not many outside Spain even know of its existence, Vega Sicilia sells at prices that must at times make even the owners of Bordeaux’s first growths misty-eyed. Rarity, of course, fuels the legend. Production is small, and almost as soon as the wine is released each year, it disappears into the cellars of those with sharp antennae or the right connections. Valbuena, the estate’s other wine, can occasionally be found on merchants’ published lists, but the great wine itself, usually referred to as Unico, is seldom seen except in auction catalogs or on the occasional restaurant list, priced to adorn rather than to sell. The wine is produced on the plateau of Castile, not far from Valladolid, at about 2,300 feet above sea level. At that altitude, cool summer nights help preserve a bright acidity that balances the wine’s sun-driven concentration and power. There could certainly have been 163

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vines on the site—three hundred acres of well-drained, gravelly soil close to the Duero River—since the Middle Ages, when Benedictine and Cistercian monks from Burgundy settled in northern Spain. But the property as we know it was created only in the nineteenth century, when Don Eloy Lecanda Chaves turned five thousand acres inherited from his father into a model agricultural domain. To supplement the cattle breeding and field crops, Don Eloy planted a vineyard with French varieties brought back from Bordeaux in 1864 to improve on the local Tinto Fino. In 1888, when Don Eloy got into financial difficulty, the socially prominent Herrero family acquired an interest in the property. They eventually took control of it, and in 1915 hired Domingo Garramiola, a talented winemaker, to manage the vineyard and winery. With ample revenues coming in from the rest of the estate, the Herreros were less concerned with making their vineyard a commercial success than with producing an exceptional wine that would add further prestige to the family name. Following their instructions, Garramiola created Vega Sicilia Unico, setting a style and a standard that have since been carefully adhered to—and even improved on. By the 1920s, the wine had an unrivaled reputation, though most of the bottles went to the Herreros’s friends, often as gifts. Inevitably, access to Vega Sicilia became a social prize because money alone couldn’t procure it. In Spain, that still holds true. Pablo Alvarez, who manages the estate on behalf of his family, owners since 1982, still allocates the wine of each vintage to private customers and retailers on a list that he controls personally.

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The Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Malbec introduced by Don Eloy contribute more than mystique to Vega Sicilia’s wines. Though rarely more than 30 percent of the Unico blend, they add to the wine’s subtlety and structure; they give it finesse. In fact, the regulations of the denominación de origen Ribera del Duero, of which Vega Sicilia has been a part since the appellation was inaugurated in 1982, have been adjusted to allow other winemakers to introduce moderate proportions of these same vari-

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eties into their vineyards. But important as the Bordeaux connection has been, the critical and distinctive influence on Vega Sicilia’s style has been the unusually judicious use of oak as a finely calibrated tool. “Wine from barrels,” observed Alonso de Herrera, a sixteenthcentury Spanish agriculturalist, “is more fragrant than wine from jars.” He was comparing the ancient practice, still seen elsewhere in Castile, of making and storing wine in tinajas, huge jarlike containers—once earthenware but now concrete—with the aging of wine in the oak vats and barrels introduced into Castile by those Burgundian monks in the twelfth century. The robust constitution of both Unico and Valbuena permits—even requires—an exceptionally long aging in wood. Each wine rotates from vat to vat and from barrel to barrel, with the size of the container, the age and provenance of the wood, and the time spent in each depending on the winemaker’s sensibility and his judgment of the wine’s need rather than on any formula. Over time the wine acquires a deeper and more somber flavor and a velvety texture. The goal is to make it both bold and elegant, generous and aromatic, while leaving the style of the year enhanced and the inherent, distinctive character of Vega Sicilia uncompromised. Though the actual volume varies from year to year, as much as a third of the crop—but sometimes, as in 1977 and 1984, none at all—is selected for Vega Sicilia’s Unico, all of it tight-bunched fruit taken from the oldest vines on the property. After fermentation in open wooden vats, the wine spends seven years moving from cask to cask and then at least three years in bottle before release. Vega Sicilia’s Valbuena is fermented in stainless-steel tanks. Made from Tinto Fino with small proportions of Malbec and Merlot (Cabernet Sauvignon is usually reserved for Unico), it spends a shorter time in wood, with at least part of it in new barrels to season them for use making Unico, and an even shorter time in bottle before being released, five years after the vintage. There are years—1963 and 1971, for instance—when the estate makes neither Vega Sicilia Unico nor Valbuena; and in any year, there are lots not included in the selections for either.

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The rarest wine from the estate, Unico Special Reserve, is a holdover from a time when it was common in Spain to blend complementary or compatible vintages. That was when a bottle was seen only as a sales container and wines remained in wood until they were consumed. By then, an older vintage was ready to be refreshed with a younger one, and a younger wine given interest by the addition of a small volume of another with more age. The Special Reserves follow this tradition. Two wines from the cellar are combined to make a balanced blend that reflects the consistency of Vega Sicilia rather than the style of a particular year. In fact, the label carries only the year of the wine’s release, with no mention of the vintages used in the blend. The Special Reserves are usually offered only to a privileged group on the private list. “They understand it,” Alvarez told me.

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In the course of our three Los Angeles banquets, we tasted four of them: the 1990, a blend of 1976 and 1980 now easing into its twilight; the 1992, a decidedly firmer blend of 1980 and 1982; the 1994, a fruity and lively blend of 1982 and 1985; and the 2000, a blend of 1986 and 1990, both powerful wines, with a predictable result. In complete contrast, we also tasted four vintages of Alión, a wine developed by the Alvarez family at a vineyard separate from Vega Sicilia to give expression to the contemporary style of modern Ribera del Duero. “We use only Tinto Fino for this wine,” Alvarez said. “We ferment it in stainless-steel tanks and hold the wine there for a short time until it’s ready for aging in new oak barrels. What we’re looking for in Alión is brighter fruit and robust tannin.” The Alións we tasted in Los Angeles, from the 1994, 1995, 1996, and 1997 vintages, were impressive. Though more narrowly focused than either Unico or Valbuena, they were open, bright, and lively. They were also younger, of course, and in tasting them I found myself missing the ambiguities lurking in the beguiling depths of a Vega Sicilia. In fact, the wines were presented over the three days in a sequence

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calculated to minimize such awkward comparisons. As many as nine and as few as four wines—all of them with something in common— were offered with each of three or four courses on all three days. “That doesn’t mean the wines of each set were similar,” said Bipin Desai, the event organizer. “We just wanted them to have enough in common— age or style—to make the contrasts among them interesting.” Each flight of wines led to another, usually of bigger, older, or greater wines. Always the most memorable wines were kept for last. Desai—a professor of theoretical particle physics at the University of California, Riverside—is a passionate collector of wines who organizes events such as this once or twice every year for fellow enthusiasts. They come unfailingly from almost every state, as well as from Europe, Asia, and South America. The Vega Sicilia weekend—exceptionally popular because the wine is rarely presented at all and never on such a scale— was possible only because the estate contributed so much. Almost all the wines offered that weekend were specially brought over from Spain. Devising menus that would show them off to advantage yet be neither bland nor repetitive was no easy task. Dinner at Spago in Beverly Hills on Friday began with a little diversion. The Alvarez family owns, in Tokay, Hungary, the historic Oremus vineyard, once the property of the Ráckoczi family and classified since the eighteenth century as a first growth. To accompany an apéritif of its Late Harvest ’96, a rich but sweet-sharp wine the color of burnt gold, Wolfgang Puck had prepared a slice of seared foie gras on a purée of sweet-sour rhubarb in a light ginger sauce. It was a princely combination. Then we got down to business: nine vintages of Vega Sicilia’s Valbuena—from 1986 through 1992, followed by the 1995 and 1996—to be tasted alongside a paella of diver scallops (wrapped in bacon and roasted), sweet shrimp, sausage, and peas. My favorite wine of the flight was the vibrant 1986. Yet each of those wines had something to distinguish it—the particular bouquet of the 1989, the exuberance of the 1992, the generosity of the 1996—and they ranged in style from the light

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and almost herbaceous 1995 to the brooding 1988, and from the soft and gentle 1987 to the weightily subdued 1990. The four Unico wines that followed, with roast wild Scottish pheasant and braised cabbage, were older—1976, 1979, 1980, and 1982—and yet despite their closeness in age, they too displayed differences that helped us see the impact of vintage. The wines of 1976 and 1982 were both rich and opulent, but the 1979 and the 1980—the first an early vintage, the second particularly late after an unsettled summer—were tightly reserved. As an appropriate gesture of Austro-Hungarian solidarity, Puck closed with a melt-in-your-mouth apricot dumpling in Valencia orange sauce to accompany a 5 Puttonyos Tokay Aszú ’95 from Oremus, the vineyard where the first botrytis-enriched Tokay was made in 1630. The evening had come full circle.

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Next day at Valentino, Piero Selvaggio used a meaty porcini sauce to bring together a light stew of monkfish and red mullet and the four vintages of Alión mentioned before. Then spicy pork sausage was an ingredient in a creamy risotto of Mediterranean octopus served with the first flight of Vega Sicilia—the 1960, 1972, 1973, and 1974 vintages. I admired the balance of the 1960 (its mature flavor was supported by lively acidity) but found myself actually drinking the 1972, a lighter wine full of surprise and pleasure. In choosing either, I was out of line with the rest of the table, for whom the 1974—a wine I found rather aggressive—was the firm favorite. (I should have paid attention to what they actually drank.) At first I was surprised to see that Desai had arranged for four much younger wines to follow—1983, 1985, 1986, and 1990. But it was soon clear that they were bigger and more assertive than the wines of the first flight—except for the 1983, which was going through one of those awkward stages when initial fruit is lost and a deeper aroma and flavor have yet to form. We tasted them with Selvaggio’s irresistibly mellow stracotto of beef. My favorite was the 1986—as dramatic a vintage for Unico as it

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was for Valbuena. The 1990 was mouth-filling, too, and richly textured; while the 1985, though powerful, showed a more austere side of Vega Sicilia. We must have shown an appropriate appreciation of the 5 Puttonyos Tokay Aszú from Oremus the previous evening, because lunch ended with three vintages of it—the 1975, the 1994, and the 1995. The 1975 had a bouquet of cream, honey, and caramel; the 1995 (actually a 6 Puttonyos wine), both lively and viscous, was fruitier; and the 1994 somehow bridged the two. With them, Selvaggio wisely served nothing more than a simple poached-pear tart.

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Oremus reappeared at Patina on Sunday as a dry but flowery Furmint ’98 served with Joachim Splichal’s ahi tuna sashimi prepared with Kumamoto oysters. This whetted appetites for the pasta with black chanterelles and day-boat scallops in truffle juice that accompanied the Vega Sicilia Special Reserves. But we were ready and eager when the first flight of Vega Sicilia—the 1942, 1953, 1957, and 1964 vintages—was poured for us to taste against a sauté of John Dory fillet with celery root and rabbit jus. All four were impressively graceful. The 1942 still had power (“a dying bull” was the way one Spanish guest put it); the 1953 was charming; the 1957 and 1964 showed elegance and finesse but were fading a little—the bones beginning to show. The last flight, served with braised short ribs, included six of the most tantalizing vintages at Vega Sicilia—1962, 1965, 1968, 1970, 1975, and 1981. All have attracted attention at one time or another, and even oenophiles who have never tasted any of these wines might feel they know them from the extensive notes prepared by those who have. The wine of 1962 is acknowledged to have been the best of the decade, but both the 1965 and the 1968 acquired a special mystique. (Despite those years being horrendous for most of western Europe, at Vega Sicilia the summers were long and hot.) The 1962 still has superb flavor, but I felt we were coming to the

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1965 and 1968 a little too late to appreciate their glory. I had no such thought about the 1975, a wine of captivating elegance, or of the gracefully supple 1970. But the most magnificent of them all, appropriately reserved for the finale, was the 1981, a wine of spirited grandeur and infinite subtlety—and a splendid wine to end a splendid weekend. Originally published as “Taste of a Legend” in Gourmet, December 2000.

pa rt thr ee

4

California

Mayacamas Range

Dry Creek Valley Ru Sacramento R.

Clarksburg Sacramento mne R. Mokelu

Lodi

SacramentoSan Joaquin Delta San Francisco Bay

San Francisco

uin oaq nJ Sa R.

C A L I F O R N I A

Morro Bay

Edna Valley Santa Ynez Valley

San Luis Obispo

Santa Maria Valley SANTA BARBARA COUNTY Santa Barbara

N 0 0

75 50

Rutherford NAPA Mount Veeder Carneros

Boonville

see inset

St. Helena er Riv

SONOMA

Anderson Valley MENDOCINO COUNTY Navarro R.

n ssia

Healdsburg

150 k 100 mi

Map 3. Wine regions of California

dry creek valley An Easy Grace

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t takes months to get settled in a new city, to find the right butcher, track down a fishmonger, learn to buy produce here but cheese there, and discover not necessarily the best of everything but the kind and quality of food and drink to suit one’s own taste. When I moved to San Francisco in the early 1970s, I was obliged, even as a wine merchant, to think about wine, too. It was to be a year at least before the new company I had come to manage would have its own wines available for sale. The choice was far more limited then than it is today, and California—for me, anyway, removed from a familiar world of European wines—was exotic terrain. After trying most of the options, I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t do better for everyday drinking than the straightforward red wines produced by the J. Pedroncelli Winery, located nearby in Sonoma County. Their cost making barely a hiccup in the housekeeping budget was not exactly a disadvantage either. Eventually I took a tour of the winery and tasted wine at the wooden counter Jim Pedroncelli and his brother, John, had set up in a corner of their cased-goods warehouse. In talking to them about their family vineyards, I learned that the Sonoma County wines I was drinking with such satisfaction were of a particular kind: The Pedroncelli vineyards were (and are) in Dry Creek Valley. Southern Sonoma County—Sonoma Valley—opens to San Francisco Bay, but the wine-growing districts of northern Sonoma County are linked, by stretches of the Russian River and by the streams and 173

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creeks that feed it, to the Pacific. The river valley, opening to the ocean just north of Bodega Bay, is divided into two viticultural areas. The cooler section of the valley, between the coast and the bend in the Russian River near Healdsburg that modifies the flow of ocean air, is called Russian River Valley; this zone is where Chardonnay and Pinot Noir grapes destined for some of California’s best Champagne-method sparkling wines are grown. Alexander Valley, the warmer section above Healdsburg, is known for ripe-flavored Cabernet Sauvignon and mouth-filling Chardonnay. Dry Creek (no longer dry, since the construction of Warm Springs Dam at its head assured a year-round flow) runs into the Russian River from the northwest, just near the Healdsburg elbow, the angle formed by the join of the Alexander and Russian River valleys. Climatically, too, it holds a middle ground between them. The style of the wines produced there is neither as edgy as those of Russian River Valley nor as full as those of Alexander Valley. The wines of Dry Creek Valley have an easy grace.

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Depending on who is speaking and how he chooses to define it, the Dry Creek Valley can be anything from ten to sixteen miles long and from one to more than two miles wide: It is difficult to be precise about a valley that twists so extravagantly. On both sides a succession of knolls is crowned with live oaks and redwoods. Below them, madrone, toyon, and manzanita trees give way to an open benchland, where successive generations have planted vines and fruit trees. Dry Creek is not as manicured as Napa Valley. In this farm country the growers still wear muddy boots and drive fixed-up, beat-up trucks. Perhaps its rural charm has been a draw for gentlemen-vintners. In 1972 there were in Dry Creek Valley only fifteen hundred acres of vines, but about fortyfive hundred acres of prune orchards. Today there are between five and six thousand acres of vineyards—and hardly any prunes at all. When David Stare, a civil engineer from Massachusetts, converted a prune orchard into a vineyard at the lower end of Dry Creek Valley

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in 1972, he was the first in forty years to bring a new wine venture to the region. He joined the Pedroncellis and two other producers, Chris Fredson and Frei Brothers (the latter since bought by Gallo), both of whom sold their wine only in bulk. Stare had chosen Dry Creek Valley over Napa because its viticultural record went as far back as the 1850s and because—Dry Creek having never fully recovered from the setbacks of Prohibition—the land cost was startlingly lower. Stare now owns about a hundred acres of vines, thirty of which are in neighboring Alexander Valley. He started by emphasizing Chardonnay (“there could be no denying the demand for Chardonnay,” he said, “and we are primarily market driven”) and had soon converted his Chenin Blanc vineyard and part of his Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot plantings to Chardonnay as well. Stare then found, however, that for every two cases of Chardonnay, his winery shipped three of Fumé Blanc. “We started selling Sauvignon Blanc from the very beginning, following the lead of Robert Mondavi by calling it Fumé Blanc,” Stare told me recently. “I had chosen Dry Creek for the name of the winery, and the success of our Sauvignon Blanc helped develop the association many now see between Sauvignon Blanc and this valley.” But whatever might have prompted the association, the success of Sauvignon Blanc in Dry Creek Valley—there are still only 236 acres of it planted, compared with 719 acres of Chardonnay—is not least due to its particularly attractive style, with its lively aroma, ripe flavor, and good balance. A Dry Creek Valley Sauvignon Blanc has rarely even a hint of that green stemmy flavor—euphemistically referred to as grassy or herbaceous—often associated with California Sauvignon Blancs. Despite the name of the winery, David Stare’s Fumé Blanc has a Sonoma County rather than a Dry Creek Valley appellation, because a considerable proportion of the fruit used to make it comes from vines in Alexander Valley. It is fatter than a pure Dry Creek Valley wine would be but lacks none of the clean peachlike aroma and flavor typical of the Sauvignon Blanc wines of this area.

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An association with Sauvignon Blanc might indeed have started with David Stare’s wine, but the valley has been known for quality Zinfandel since the 1880s, and possibly since before then. According to William F. Heintz, a Sonoma County historian, statistics published by the Healdsburg Vinicultural Association in 1883 confirm not only a dramatic increase in the number of vineyards in Dry Creek at that time (as in recent years), then in response to the destruction of French viticulture by the phylloxera root louse, but also the importance of Zinfandel as the preferred local variety. The 1883 report listed Zinfandel among the varieties grown in almost every one of the fifty-four vineyards then in Dry Creek Valley. Today, with more than thirteen hundred Zinfandelbearing acres, this variety is still the most widely planted in the valley. Most of the Zinfandel vines still on the benchland were planted before World War I. The alluvial gravel of the valley floor, formerly used for wheat, hay, and hops, has been planted with vineyards more recently. Varieties better adapted to its conditions (early maturing vines like Sauvignon Blanc, for instance, previously not seen in Dry Creek) are doing well there. Though the greatest volume of Stare’s business is based on Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay, and Cabernet Sauvignon, he confesses to a weakness for Zinfandel. “Perhaps it’s just my way of reacting to the world’s obsession with Cabernet Sauvignon,” he said. But it might also be his reaction as a vintner to the high proportion of old Zinfandel vines. They survived Prohibition because their fresh grapes were in demand for shipment to home winemakers in San Francisco’s North Beach, then predominantly Italian. When Lou Preston followed David Stare into the valley in 1973, the land he bought still had productive old Zinfandel vines on it. Working on a hunch rather than from any scientific reasoning, Preston planted the rest of his first eighty acres with Sauvignon Blanc, Sémillon, and Chenin Blanc. On some particularly well-drained gravel he put Napa Gamay, and he allowed himself to experiment here and there with small blocks of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Syrah, and Petite Sirah.

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He used a particularly enigmatic area of sandy soil, formerly creek bottom, to plant Barbera. He made his first batch of Napa Gamay in 1978. “It was our first crop of Napa Gamay,” Preston told me, “and I decided not to follow everyone else into whole-bunch fermentation, Beaujolais style. To get a desirable intensity of fruit aroma, I fermented at a low temperature instead, as if I were making a white wine. I kept it in stainless steel and added a little Zinfandel to expand the flavor [Napa Gamay can be one-dimensional]. When I released the wine, just before Thanksgiving of that year, it was an instant success. “I felt sufficiently encouraged to buy a neighboring forty-acre property, the Vogenson ranch, mostly for its sixty-year-old Zinfandel vines. Combined with the vineyards I already had, it took my potential production up to thirty thousand cases a year. “I had been immersed in matching grape varieties to appropriate locations. I hadn’t gone overboard studying statistics and heat summations. I thought past practice had to be a better guide than theory. But it is warmer here, at the upper end of the valley, and I had to check with neighbors and look up records to see what had previously done well where. “I had intended to keep for my own winery only the cream of my Zinfandel, some Sauvignon Blanc, some Cabernet Sauvignon, and some of the varieties I had planted by way of experiment. But as it became clear that I intended to keep the best fruit for myself, wineries that had been buying from me lost interest in taking what was left. By then, all the vines I had planted were coming into production, and I hadn’t been thinking in terms of case sales. My limited winemaking had had nothing to do with a business plan. I had planted vines as I thought right and had then begun to make small lots of wine experimentally simply because the grapes were there.”

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Preston’s Napa Gamay has become his signature wine. It sums up his style: fragrant, fresh, elegant. The same words come to mind when tasting his Cuvée de Fumé, a Sauvignon Blanc with modest amounts of

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Chenin Blanc and of Sémillon, the first to throw its fruit aromas into greater relief and the other to allow graceful aging. It is a lean, refreshing wine. His Estate Reserve Sauvignon Blanc, about 90 percent Sauvignon Blanc and 10 percent Sémillon, is made from fruit grown on thin soil where the vines’ leaf canopy is naturally spare. The fruit, exposed to filtered sunlight as it ripens, develops a full, round flavor, and the wine itself has a viscous texture and long finish—and a more focused varietal style than his Cuvée de Fumé. When I visited his winery last fall, Lou Preston gave me a deliciously jaunty 1987 Zinfandel to taste, but I liked just as much the discreetly composed 1986 Cabernet Sauvignon that followed it, a wine of milder varietal stamp than we are used to in California. It was also unusual for Dry Creek Valley, where I more often find Cabernet Sauvignons to be trim and angular because of their firmer acidity. In fact, Dry Creek Valley Cabernet Sauvignons remind me of Médoc wines in the onceupon-a-time before it became fashionable to edge Bordeaux closer to the engagingly forward fruit and youthful blaze of flavor we normally expect of California Cabernets. If I am saying that Dry Creek Cabernet Sauvignons are not typical of California, that might have been why I had felt particularly at ease with Pedroncelli’s Cabernet Sauvignon when I first arrived, my palate still attuned to the more restrained style of European wines.

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This characteristic of Dry Creek Valley Cabernet Sauvignons is even more apparent in the Cabernet Sauvignons of Charles Richard’s Bellerose Vineyard. They are mildly tannic when young, not atypical of the variety, but in this case the tannins are allied to a particularly lean, terse structure. Formerly a classical guitarist, Richard bought his property near the Russian River end of Dry Creek Valley in the spring of 1978. “The place was run down, and the price was too high,” he told me. “But I stood in the orchard and felt at peace with the place.” Precommitted to Bordeaux

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grape varieties, he was also at peace with the forty acres already planted with Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. With some additional planting and some grafting, he now has roughly twenty-four acres of Merlot, ten acres of Cabernet Sauvignon, four acres of Cabernet Franc, and two combined acres of Malbec and Petit Verdot. Richard also makes a white wine with grapes from his five acres of Sauvignon Blanc mixed with some Sémillon. “The style at Bellerose is defined by the vineyard. Our job is not to distort it,” Richard told me. “We work to no formula, we have no whirling centrifuge. Sometimes we filter a wine, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we clarify by fining, sometimes we don’t. I try to be flexible and responsive to each wine. The Sauvignon Blanc is barrel-fermented and stays on the lees for five months or so. I work in as simple a manner as possible, because I want the wines to be an expression of the vineyard rather than my winemaking techniques.” He uses his two Belgian draft horses wherever appropriate. “I enjoy working with horses,” Richard explained, “and they are practical and efficient for a property of this size. The farm had stables and a hayloft when I bought it, and there was abandoned horse-drawn equipment all over the place waiting to be used again. Most vineyard tasks must be done slowly—the seeding of a cover crop to be plowed under as fertilizer, for example, as well as the spreading of organic fertilizer, of which the horses are an important source. The horses do the work in the hayfield, raising much of their own food, and from most points of view—initial cost, maintenance, and soil conservation—horses have advantages over tractors. I do have a tractor, but I use it mainly for primary ground breaking.” To compose his Cuvée Bellerose, a Cabernet Sauvignon, Charles Richard—like the proprietor of a Bordeaux château—makes a selection of his various lots of wine each year. Those lots that don’t fit for one reason or another are assembled into his second cuvée—which has the character of a Bellerose Vineyard wine but is a shade less refined— Workhorse Red.

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444 The terseness that defines the Cabernet Sauvignon of Bellerose is also apparent in those of Domaine Michel and William Wheeler Winery, two important wineries, both now European-owned, in the hills on the west side of Dry Creek. Bill and Ingrid Wheeler bought their 175-acre ranch in 1970 with the idea of establishing roots for themselves as well as a vineyard. Education and work had kept both of them living peripatetic lives. In 1972 the Wheelers cleared prune orchards to plant twenty acres of vines (they now have thirty). They made their first wine in 1979, using the facilities of a neighbor, and in 1981 they had the satisfaction of receiving their own grapes into their own newly built winery. As their vines have matured and their own ideas of vineyard management and winemaking have adapted to Dry Creek Valley conditions, so the Wheeler Cabernet Sauvignons have evolved from an early awkward severity to a smoother, more fluent style. The 1987 Wheeler Cabernet Sauvignon (not yet released), a fine wine of long, etched flavor, is a model of the Dry Creek Valley Cabernet Sauvignon style. The 1988 vintage confirms that the 1987 is not just a fluke. There seems to have been a similar progression at Domaine Michel. Jean-Jacques Michel, a Swiss banker, purchased his property in Dry Creek Valley and began planting vineyards there in 1979. His land is a series of rugged, irregular, broken slopes. Perversely, benches of heavier soils with greater water retention sit higher on the hills than the betterdrained gravels, so the moisture distribution is contrary to what might be expected. Vines had to be planted in small patches, with each variety carefully matched to an exposure and soil type that would best suit it. From slightly astringent, even harsh, beginnings, Domaine Michel’s Cabernet Sauvignons have also arrived at a style that is recognizably Dry Creek’s. They are now more graceful—in line with the greater maturity of the estate’s vines and with the newer techniques that have recently fallen into place. Both the 1987 and the 1988 wines are well proportioned, concise, and urbane. Fred Payne, who recently took over the job of winemaker at Domaine Michel, said that the moderate tan-

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nins of Dry Creek Cabernet Sauvignons, a result of the prevailing cool temperatures (“as the crow flies we are only seventeen miles from the surf,” he explained), contribute to both the symmetry and the mildness of the wines. Domaine Michel does not follow the trend in Dry Creek Valley to produce Sauvignon Blanc, and the estate doesn’t produce a Zinfandel, either. But then Jean-Jacques Michel has no vineyards on the valley floor, where most Sauvignon Blanc has been planted, and prefers to use his hill position to produce some unusually scented Chardonnays. The style of his Chardonnays is still evolving: As yet no two successive vintages show similar characteristics.

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Sauvignon Blanc has been one of the strengths of Quivira, on the other hand, a new winery with vineyards both on the valley floor and on lower benchland. The Quivira winery, on a highly visible site, could have been a jolt to the valley’s rural charm. But, to the credit of the owners, Holly and Henry Wendt, and the architect, Michael Rubenstein, the unpretentious barnlike design, the redwood facing, and the simple but effective use of large-scale trellising have made it instead an appropriate and aesthetically satisfying punctuation to the landscape. Henry Wendt, chairman of the board of SmithKline Beecham and a man who appreciates many facets of wine, bought the Quivira property in 1981. He was looking ahead to a time when he would be able to slow down and enjoy an occupation and a business challenge while living in an agricultural community. The project has come together faster than he had originally planned. Even with the handicap of having to use others’ facilities to crush until their winery was built in 1987, the Wendts managed to attract almost immediate attention for both their Sauvignon Blanc and their Zinfandel. Indeed, many say that Quivira’s Sauvignon Blanc and Zinfandel are already the best examples of how these Dry Creek Valley varieties should be. The Wendts have planted a scattering of Petite Sirah in their hillside vineyard of Zinfandel, following the practice of a field blend that was

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very common a century ago. They are trying their hand at making a wine based on Rhône varieties and will release this year their first Dry Creek Cuvée, composed of an assemblage of Zinfandel, Grenache, and Petite Sirah. Allowed a preview, I found it a softly agreeable wine, but one without the spark of their Zinfandel. The Zinfandel, with an echo of a Rhône character of its own, is a wine of hidden depth. Unlike less subtle examples, which explode with aroma and flavor that disappear as soon as the wine is swallowed, Quivira’s Zinfandel opens fairly quietly but then unfolds and grows and persists. The Wendts’s Sauvignon Blanc, made with the addition of 20 percent Sémillon, is similarly deceptive: A softly delicate texture masks the wine’s firm structure even as it enhances its deep, honeyed flavor.

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Surprisingly, Sauvignon Blanc has no place at present in the plans of E. & J. Gallo, the proprietor of the largest vineyard in Dry Creek Valley. The eight hundred acres that it recently recontoured and planted are devoted almost entirely to Zinfandel and Cabernet Sauvignon (with a little Merlot). Though quartered in the Central Valley of California, Gallo has bought grapes in the coastal counties, and especially in northern Sonoma, since the 1930s. It became a partner of Andrew Frei in 1949 and bought Frei’s share of the jointly owned vineyards and bulk winery when he retired in 1975. In an ambitious program to extend its newly acquired benchland vineyards, Gallo has moved hills and obliterated canyons. But even while redirecting the very motion of the landscape, it has protected the trees and preserved the thickets that most shaped its identity, coming to live-and-let-live terms with the wildlife harbored there. For example, deodorant soap rubbed on the vine stakes, Gallo growers have found, is sufficient notice to deer not to trespass. At present Gallo ships in bulk from Dry Creek to Modesto, where these wines form the backbone of its northern Sonoma varietal blends. But Gallo is known to be considering Dry Creek Valley estate bottling at least part of the production of its new vineyards in years to come,

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a move that will have repercussions on the public perception of both E. & J. Gallo and Dry Creek Valley. Meanwhile, Jim and John Pedroncelli, hardly industry giants, remain, for the time being, the largest bottling winery in Dry Creek Valley, with sales of over 120,000 cases a year. They have built a handsome tasting room since the days when I first used to visit them fifteen years ago. And although their other winery buildings wear the same weathered patina, the redwood tanks inside have been replaced by stainless steel and the latest presses and gadgetry. Jim Pedroncelli reassured me: “The basics haven’t changed, you know. Our grapes are grown in the same places. We do what we have always done. The equipment just helps us do it better. That’s all.” Originally published as “Dry Creek Valley” in Gourmet, March 1990. The Wheeler Vineyard is now Pezzi King Vineyards. Charles Richard sold Bellerose: The property is now owned by Everett Ridge Winery. The Domaine Michel is now Domaine Michel-Schlumberger. The Quivira estate was sold to Peter and Terri Kight, who have introduced full biodynamic cultivation in the vineyards. E. & J. Gallo has added Malbec to the range of varieties planted in its Dry Creek vineyard estate. Most of the wine produced there is now bottled at its Frei Ranch facility. The acreage of vines in Dry Creek Valley has almost doubled from 1990 to 2010 and now stands at 8,876. There are now 499 acres of Sauvignon Blanc, 1,210 acres of Chardonnay, and 2,251 acres of Zinfandel, which is no longer the most widely planted varietal. That is now Cabernet Sauvignon, with 2,316 acres.

clarksburg The Right Grape in the Right Place

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ontroversy over geographic descriptions of American wines ended in the early eighties with the designation of viticultural areas. They were to supplement, not replace, the names of states—California, Washington, New York—and counties—Napa, Sonoma, Monterey— that had until then been used to identify a wine’s origin. Growers and consumers alike expected that these new areas—each defined by terrain and weather rather than by an administrative line irrelevant to growing grapes—would help sharpen distinctions of style, quality, or both among American wines and make choosing a wine easier and more interesting. Wine regions independent of county borders had existed already, of course, but their extent had been left open to interpretation. Napa Valley, for instance, had long had popular recognition, but no one was sure where its boundaries lay: at the watershed? at the Napa County limits? It was because such ill-defined regions had begun to proliferate that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, an appendage of the U.S. Treasury charged with overseeing all aspects of wine labeling, had decided that no geographic name would be allowed on a wine label unless all concerned had agreed what it meant—where it began and where it ended. Growers and wineries rushed to petition for a viticultural area, sometimes as a means of defining and confirming an existing name and reputation and sometimes as a first step toward establishing a new one. The research into idiosyncrasies of land, sun hours, and rainfall 184

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needed to support such petitions gave new impetus to an old idea: that American—especially California—growers would find neglected affinities between specific varieties and their newly examined sites. In many other countries, and especially in France, the wine of one viticultural area (or appellation of origin) is usually distinguishable from another mostly by the varieties of grapes that soil and climate have dictated. Soil and climate are of such importance that Bordeaux wines would undoubtedly differ from those of Burgundy even if Cabernet Sauvignon vines were planted in both places. On the other hand, most of us can tell a Pauillac from a Beaune because we have learned to recognize the difference between Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir, not because of some more subtle nuance of local conditions. Though rarely inhospitable to vinifera—the European vine varieties used to make quality wines throughout the world—growing conditions in California vary considerably from place to place. Some areas are more suited to one variety, some to another. The cool Carneros region close to San Francisco Bay has fog to spare. Its long cool ripening season produces Chardonnay and Pinot Noir wines of intense and fine flavor. In contrast, the warm hillsides of Dry Creek Valley are especially suitable for Zinfandel; some of California’s best are made from grapes grown there. Outstanding sites with balanced conditions, as one might suppose, bring out the best of almost any variety. If Napa Valley is planted in Chardonnay and Cabernet Sauvignon rather than French Colombard and Grenache, it is not because those simpler grapes would do badly there. In fact, from Napa-grown French Colombard and Grenache we would get wines of a quality not thought possible from those varieties. But Grenache and French Colombard, no matter how exceptional, lack marketing glamour, and the prices their wines fetch are always modest. That is why a grower in Napa, where the cost of vineyard land is particularly high, is discouraged from growing them. The economics of wine are shaped by consumer preferences and prejudices, and in the end what we choose—and what we choose to pay for it—plays as

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important a role as soil and weather in matching varieties to the regions where they will (or won’t) be grown.

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Which brings me to Clarksburg, a small farming community southwest of Sacramento, and to the viticultural area of the same name around it. Clarksburg growers were among many who hoped that a line on a map would help crystallize their reputation. They wanted, indeed needed, to distinguish themselves from the adjacent and threatening anonymity of the California Central Valley, and they won that right in 1984. “Use of the [Clarksburg Viticultural Area] name in labeling and advertising,” read the announcement of the Treasury’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, “will allow the wineries to better designate where their grapes are grown, and will enable consumers to more clearly identify the wines they buy.” I first noticed the name Clarksburg on a particularly satisfying bottle of Chenin Blanc produced by Grand Cru Vineyards of Sonoma County, California. Robert Magnani, consulting winemaker at Grand Cru, told me how it got there. “In the early seventies, our sales broker asked us to make for him a respectable, basic white wine that restaurants could sell by the glass. He wanted something he could offer under his own label. “We looked around for some good, cheap grapes and a friend of a friend led us to Perry Cook, a grower on Merritt Island in the Sacramento delta with Chenin Blanc to sell. Once fermentation was under way, I knew from the aromas alone that these were no ordinary grapes. The wine we made from them was more than just respectable. The following year we bought some of the grapes for ourselves and made a Chenin Blanc to sell under our own label. We have continued to buy Chenin Blanc grapes from Perry Cook every year since, and every year we have been awarded a fistful of medals for the wines we have made from them. Even when the grapes are picked early, the wines can be fantastic, with flavor that climbs out of the bottle.” Merritt is one of a skein of islands downstream from Sacramento

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reclaimed as part of a draining and embankment program that started in the 1850s and continued until the 1930s. Meandering past and around them through a web of sloughs on either side of its main course, the Sacramento River eventually merges with the San Joaquin in an even more vast confusion of islands and water, sandbar and wild marsh tract. The two rivers finally flow together freely, as one, through Carquinez Strait into San Francisco Bay. Though once not much more than a river-delta swamp, the twentymile tangle of which Merritt forms a part became pear orchards and tomato fields. Portuguese immigrants who had come as river fishermen stayed on as valley farmers. Da Souza and Vieira are still common names on delta mailboxes. But though it’s so close to the state capital and less than two hours from San Francisco, the region has remained isolated. In part that is because the Sacramento River Deep Water Ship Channel, to the west, and Interstate 5, California’s main north-south artery, a few miles east, act as barriers to traffic that might otherwise pass through it. Back roads, mere single-lane levees for the most part, wind with the sloughs for many teasing, twisting miles before depositing the curious traveler back at his point of departure. Bridges are rare. Even where they exist—painted contraptions of cast iron that swing open like huge traps to let river traffic pass—they suggest separation rather than union. Route 160 is the one sure road in and out, switching from one riverbank to the other, basting them together like tailor’s thread. Here and there the telephone poles sport a discreet replica of a California poppy, the state’s way of identifying it as a scenic route.

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Perhaps the delta’s flat landscape needs that affirmation to be appreciated. Its particular charm—it is neither magnificent nor even dramatic—is untypical of California. For most of the year the river is so tranquil it seems barely to move: Broad stretches of water, overhung with willow and aspen, cottonwood, oak and flowering locust, succeed each other like a series of Sisley canvases, provoking a strangely dislocated sense of place and time. Flotillas of small fishing boats spread

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over its surface, morning and evening, to lie in wait for striped bass, sturgeon, and, in season, steelhead. The row or two of buildings at Freeport, Clarksburg, and Courtland, small riverside communities, offer few facilities beyond bait-and-tackle shops and beer taverns for fishermen. New farmhouses along the levee road are interspersed with the elegant façades of old Victorians shipped there, prefabricated, in days of early prosperity. Both old and new are protected by screens of shrubbery and ornamental orange trees. A peaty, organic soil, accumulated here over the millennia, was partly overlaid with more than a billion tons of mineral-rich earth washed down from the Sierra at the end of the last century, when high-pressure water hoses were used to flush gold from the mountains. The prevailing weather is distinct on this part of the river, too. Winds that blow through the coastal gap at San Francisco and are funneled through the Carquinez Strait eventually lose themselves here. Afternoon breezes herald trails of evening fog from the bay, giving Clarksburg a range of summer temperatures roughly on a par with those of St. Helena, in Napa Valley, and usually ten degrees cooler than those of Sacramento. The soil and the weather were the principal arguments put forward in the growers’ successful petition for recognition of a Clarksburg viticultural area, even though its agreed perimeter is uncompromisingly manmade and reads like instructions for a particularly daunting treasure hunt: “Beginning at a point (on the Sacramento West topographic map) in Yolo County in T8N/R4E, at the intersection of Jefferson Blvd. and Burrows Ave. . . . Then southwest in a straight line 1.2 miles along Jefferson Blvd. to the eastern bank of the Sacramento River Deep Water Ship Channel. . . .” In fact, the viticultural area is shaped like a pear, its top four or five miles south of Sacramento, incorporating both sides of the river roughly as far as the ship canal on one side and Interstate 5 on the other. (Merritt Island, fully contained within it, is also itself a viticultural area.)

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Grape grower John Baranek was the moving spirit behind the petition. His family’s firm, the Herzog Company, had been first to establish a

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vineyard in the delta. Dairy farmers near Courtland for three generations, the Herzog Company began in 1960 with a few experimental vines and expanded them to thirty-eight acres of Chenin Blanc in 1963. It now has 412 acres of vineyards, almost a quarter of them planted with Chenin Blanc. Its first crops were sold to Christian Brothers to make California Chablis, but a change of ownership there led to a marketing strategy of selling only varietals from grapes grown in the Christian Brothers’s own Napa Valley vineyards. Baranek now sells to a number of wineries, but mostly to Sebastiani and Glen Ellen, in Sonoma County. Other farmers followed suit. Warren Bogle and Perry Cook on Merritt Island planted Chenin Blanc in 1968, selling their grapes to Wente Bros., which used them in its successful Blanc de Blancs. But Wente Bros. also had a change of policy: The development of its extensive vineyard holdings in the Arroyo Seco of Monterey County and in Livermore Valley gradually ended its need to buy outside grapes anywhere. In reaction, Bogle set up a small winery in his barn to try his hand at direct marketing. His son Chris, now in charge of the family property, still sells about 20 percent of his production as bottled wine rather than as grapes. Cook, on the other hand, said that when he lost Wente as a customer he just went out and hustled. “Grand Cru Vineyards was already buying from me, and I found Dry Creek Vineyard was also looking for Chenin Blanc.” Perry Cook’s son Roger had by then set up a vineyard of his own in partnership with his wife, Joanne. By 1979 they had plunged deeper than any other grower, building a winery, R. & J. Cook, big enough to crush all their own grapes. Bogle and R. & J. Cook are still the only wineries in Clarksburg. But Chris Bogle says he sees the winery as an adjunct to his involvement with grapes rather than as a driving force, and the Cooks, having made a strong start, were handicapped and eventually forced to retrench because of weak financing. Though there are now three thousand acres of vineyard in the Clarksburg Viticultural Area, the owners are still essentially hands-on, bill-capped farmers. That suits Bruce Rector, a general partner at Glen

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Ellen Winery. “Clarksburg vineyards belong to old farming families,” he told me. “They are not burdened by debt. Their land is fully paid for. They are free to use their profits to improve their farming practices. When I tell a Clarksburg grower what I want, I know I am talking to the guy who sits on the tractor. Often we talk to owners and must rely on them to get our message across to a vineyard management contractor who has other things on his mind.” Though many Clarksburg growers are happy to stay farmers (“I don’t can my tomatoes,” said Dave Wilson, “why would I want to make wine?”), they regret Clarksburg’s low profile and feel that local wineries would have a greater commitment to promote the name. But John Baranek takes a realistic view: “To be in the wine business—as opposed to growing grapes—calls for huge resources. It takes a lot to make marketing work. And yet there’s no doubt that a lack of Clarksburg wineries made it much harder for us to show the unique possibilities of this area when we were petitioning for recognition. A few strong Clarksburg wineries would make it easier for all of us.”

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Grand Cru Vineyards and Hacienda Winery, both in Sonoma County, use the Clarksburg appellation on their Chenin Blancs. “It is a classic example of a grape variety suiting a region,” Robert Magnani told me. “It is the grape for that area.” And Eric Laumann, winemaker at Hacienda, says he couldn’t ask for better Chenin Blanc than he gets from Dave Wilson’s Clarksburg vineyard. The owners of the J. Lohr Winery, in Santa Clara County, are so convinced of the quality of Clarksburg Chenin Blanc that they purchased their own acreage there. Yet Kenwood, where winemaker Michael Lee says he now buys Chenin Blanc only from Clarksburg (“It’s the best in the state”), uses the appellation “California” for the wine made from it. Neither Glen Ellen nor Sebastiani presently uses a Clarksburg appellation on its Chenin Blanc. These wineries do not use exclusively Clarksburg grapes, either, but Sebastiani, at least, acknowledges the difference Clarksburg fruit makes. “It has a peachy, melonlike flavor,” says Mary

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Sullivan, Sebastiani’s winemaker, “even when the grapes are picked early at mild sugar levels. It allows us to make light, delicate white wines without surrendering varietal character.” It is frustrating to growers that consumers, even when they learn of the quality of Chenin Blanc from Clarksburg, don’t know when they are tasting it (though I hope I have now given a few clues). Without popular recognition for what they do well, Clarksburg growers are left more vulnerable to pressure to switch to any other variety that a client winery happens to need. After all, if few consumers know that exceptional Chenin Blanc grapes are grown in Clarksburg, what incentive is there for growers to produce them for $257 a ton when they are offered $635 a ton for undistinguished Merlot, $643 a ton for Cabernet Sauvignon, and $674 for Chardonnay—all of them destined for blending? Is it surprising that Clarksburg crops of all these three have been increasing annually, even as the annual production of their distinctive Chenin Blanc has declined? The matter shouldn’t be left there. The first Clarksburg growers chose to plant Chenin Blanc because they knew they had a ready market for that variety. As might have been expected—they had been successful, after all, with both pears and tomatoes, fruits that have flavor or have nothing—their grapes were outstanding. But should I, or anyone else, assume that success with one white variety precludes success with another, whatever my reservations about Clarksburg reds? Clarksburg growers have been encouraged recently to plant Chardonnay for wineries that doubtless see the region as a source of inexpensive fruit for competitively priced varietals. In 1982 Clarksburg produced fewer than 40 tons of Chardonnay grapes. In 1989 wineries carted away 1,562 tons of Chardonnay, paying for it half the average price paid last year for Chardonnay in California. When I first saw those statistics I was depressed. “Why do they bother to grow mediocre Chardonnay,” I asked myself, choosing, for a start, to ignore economic reality, “when they could be giving us delicious Chenin Blanc?” I was blinkered, precipitate, and irrational. There is no Clarksburg

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Chardonnay on the market: The crop so far has disappeared every year into sundry blends, and I had not knowingly drunk Clarksburg Chardonnay. In the course of one recent day, however, visiting growers in the delta, I tasted several that had been custom-crushed or prepared in some way for the growers’ own use. No, they weren’t the best Chardonnays I had ever tasted. But they were good and could doubtless be even better as the vines mature—provided Clarksburg gets public recognition, which might then allow a grape price that would give the growers a chance to restrict their yields (they presently get “six or seven tons” to the acre, when quality Chardonnay is harvested at no more than four) and take more trouble with time-consuming techniques— trellising, leaf removal—that help sharpen a viticultural area’s distinct style and quality. Wasn’t that where we came in? Originally published as “Clarksburg, California” in Gourmet, August 1990. Matters concerning wine labels, including the approval and registration of American Viticultural Areas, are now dealt with by the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau (the TTB) within the Department of the Treasury. Several wineries offer Chenin Blanc with a Clarksburg AVA origin, including Dry Creek Vineyard, Baron Herzog, and Ehrhardt Estates. Pine Ridge offers a Clarksburg Chenin Blanc as a blend with 20 percent Clarksburg Viognier.

carneros Wind, Fog, and Hardpan

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arneros (or The Carneros; no one ever seems quite sure) takes its name from the Rancho el Rincón de los Carneros—the rams’ patch—one of three Mexican land grants that together once covered nearly sixty square miles of the low hills north of California’s San Pablo Bay. Originally open pasture, the hills and meadows by the 1850s were being systematically sown for hay that was harvested, baled, and shipped—in flat-bottomed boats that could navigate the creeks—as fodder for San Francisco’s horses. Much of Carneros is still grazing land, but in 1983 it was declared by law a viticultural area (an American Viticultural Area is a distant cousin to a European appellation of origin)—its outline the shape of a ragged and badly knotted bow tie spread across the lowest reaches of the Napa and Sonoma valleys just as they merge and eventually lose themselves in a maze of sloughs and saltwater marsh. Vineyards had first been established there along with the hayfields in the 1850s, but, although the original vines flourished for a time, almost all eventually succumbed to one of two ensuing plagues: phylloxera and Prohibition. A first sign of revival was the Garetto Winery, built by John Garetto in 1935 on the site of a winery that had been established before the turn of the century. Twenty years later Garetto was sold to Beringer of Napa Valley, which used the buildings as a satellite wine-storage facility. The winery changed hands again in 1980, when a group of East Coast investors relaunched it as 193

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Bouchaine. They extended the 1935 building and modernized it with discretion. Its open, concrete fermenters are still in annual use; and, though the winery is as clean as a dairy, it still wears an attractively old-fashioned, rustic air. The revival impetus started by Garetto was greatly strengthened in 1942, when Louis M. Martini, founder of the Napa Valley winery that bears his name, bought two hundred acres of the old Stanly ranch in Carneros. In the 1880s and 1890s Judge John Stanly’s vineyards had produced some of California’s finest wines. Though the property had declined—what with Judge Stanly’s death, Prohibition, and a fire that destroyed the winery buildings in 1936—Louis M. Martini had been buying grapes from the ranch throughout the 1930s and knew what the potential of the land could be if planted with appropriate varieties.

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Carneros shares San Francisco’s marine climate, and the tempering effect of the bay protects it from the sometimes oppressive summer heat of California’s valleys. At two in the afternoon, especially in July and August, Carneros will be ten, even fifteen, degrees cooler than St. Helena in the heart of Napa Valley, and by early evening wraiths of fog will have drifted through the Golden Gate and settled among the vines of Carneros. Winter is milder in Carneros, spring earlier, and a long, cool growing season ensures that the grapes ripen evenly but more slowly than others in northern California. Carneros also has drawbacks. Its shallow and meager soil lacks nutrients; and the effect of a clay hardpan, close to the surface and impenetrable to water-seeking roots, is made worse by the area’s scant rainfall, pitiful even by California standards. An unrelenting afternoon wind is further desiccating: It blows so hard that any exposed Carneros vine is soon permanently distorted into the configuration of a galloping horse’s tail. To grow grapes under such conditions is no simple matter, and it is not surprising that the first steps in the region’s viticultural rehabilitation should have been taken by the owners of wineries. Growing grapes for wines they hoped would build their reputations,

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both John Garetto and Louis M. Martini could afford to take a longer view than that of a grower producing grapes for sale. Until a decade or so ago, grapes sold to wineries in California were negotiated as a commodity, by and large as wheat is sold to mills. The fruit’s sugar concentration was the only measure of quality affecting the purchase price. Carneros grapes, slowly ripened and shielded from extremes of heat, had livelier flavor and crisper acidity than most other northern California grapes, but yields were low and sugar levels moderate. For growers obliged to look to tonnage and sugar levels for their revenues, the return on grapes (as opposed to wine) from a Carneros vineyard was unimpressive. Almost as if confirming that only wineries could go where growers might hesitate to tread, Beaulieu Vineyard was next to follow Martini and Beringer into Carneros. In 1961 André Tchelistcheff, then technical director of Beaulieu Vineyard, persuaded Hélène de Pins, the winery’s owner, to buy land there specifically for the production of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. He was convinced that Carneros would provide ideal conditions for these two varieties. A few stalwart independents began to follow suit—some because they, too, believed in Carneros and others simply because land was cheaper there than farther up Napa Valley. Then, between 1969 and 1972, California grape prices tripled, according to Francis Mahoney of Carneros Creek Winery, and the expectation of higher revenues made vineyards in areas like Carneros desirable. “Talk in those days was always of land prices, grape prices, tonnage per acre, investment. Yet it has never made sense to approach grape growing in Carneros—or anywhere else, perhaps—purely in terms of a financial return on grapes. On the other hand, Carneros land was then at most $3,000 an acre, compared to $7,000 an acre in Stags Leap, so there was a rush to buy. Unfortunately, the vineyards planted in 1972 and 1973 came into bearing in 1975 and 1976, just in time for the great collapse in grape prices. Cabernet Sauvignon fell to $275 a ton and Pinot Noir to not much more than $100. It was costing $600 or $700 a year just to

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cultivate an acre of vineyard [it costs more like $1,800 an acre now] and in Carneros the yield was at best two or three tons of grapes to the acre. “The California Farm Advisor had urged me—as he’d probably urged everyone else—not to plant vineyards here because it was too cold to get good sugars and the yields were too low. In those days yields were everything. Grape growing was an activity so divorced from winemaking that any effect on the quality of the final product—the wine—was hardly considered when viticultural decisions were made. “I came to Carneros anyway because I wanted to grow Pinot Noir. Others had already planted Pinot Noir ahead of me because they, too, were convinced it needed the kind of growing conditions we had here. Their vineyards weren’t exactly encouraging. I could see the vines struggling.” Coping with the adverse growing conditions of Carneros was a problem even at Beaulieu Vineyard. “Vines take longer to get established in Carneros. Growth is slow, and the circumstances at the beginning were less than ideal,” Anthony Bell, Beaulieu Vineyard’s vice-president and general manager, told me as we toured the winery’s No. 5 Ranch (the original Carneros purchase) recently. “Tchelistcheff recognized Carneros as a cooler region than Rutherford, yet he seems to have handled the vines—spacing and trellising them—exactly as he would have done in Napa Valley. They were irrigated with portable sprinklers and got water in long but infrequent cycles because of the bother of moving the equipment from row to row. When Hélène de Pins came to inspect the new vineyard two or three years after it had been planted, the vines were still looking rather sorry. Used to the luxuriant growth of Napa Valley, she wanted to know what those smart fellows who had assured her that vines would do well in this region had to say for themselves.”

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But “sorry” vines hold the secret of Carneros quality. Devigorated (winespeak for weakened) by its environment, a Carneros vine has neither water nor nutrient to spare for excessive foliage. It fruits sparingly,

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too, in accordance with some physiological rule of balance that seems to concentrate in a few bunches the measure of flavor that elsewhere would have been diluted in twice as many. Anne Moller-Racke, director of vineyard operations at Buena Vista Winery in Carneros, told me that one has no choice but to accept production limits in the area—the conditions are too harsh to do otherwise. “We have adapted our practices to meet our needs and the needs of the vines in this environment,” she told me. “For a start, we are planting vines more densely. Vines were planted here in the 1970s at 450 to the acre. This year we are planting vineyards with 1,100 vines to the acre. If it is against our interest—and nature—to push individual vines here to produce, then wide spacing, common elsewhere, becomes wasteful. It is like using big pots for small plants.” Angelo Sangiacomo, whose family transformed its business of growing pears at the cooler, western end of Carneros into one of the region’s largest and most successful grape-growing enterprises, agrees with Moller-Racke. “When we started we planted our vines at intervals of eight feet by twelve. Now we plant eight by six.” A few years ago the Sangiacomo family bought a vineyard with vines already planted at intervals of seven feet in rows twelve feet apart. They inserted a new vine between each existing one—“not the ideal solution,” Angelo Sangiacomo conceded, “but inserting extra rows would have made mechanical cultivation difficult”—and, while maintaining the previous yield of four tons to the acre, they have pruned to reduce the grape production of each vine from sixteen pounds to eight. “The difference in the quality of our grapes is more than worth the cost and trouble,” Sangiacomo said. Most growers have adapted in other ways, too. For example, because foliage grows less exuberantly here than elsewhere they have sought maximum leaf exposure to sunlight. Methods presently in vogue in other parts of the wine world—the open-lyre form developed in Bordeaux and the draped curtain of vine devised for New York State growers at the Geneva Agricultural Experimental Station above the Finger

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Lakes—demand a more luxuriant growth than vines can support on the poor, shallow soils of Carneros. Instead the growers are training each vine’s shoots upright with row-long catch wires that can be raised as the vines grow. The technique, usually referred to as vertical trellising, was developed in New Zealand, but Carneros growers have adjusted it to suit their circumstances. Air flows through the trellising easily here, so there is less risk of mildew, of rot, or of damage from wind. The grapes ripen better, with deeper color and better flavor; and, without the trailing of undisciplined shoots, equipment can pass down the rows more easily, even though they are now narrower.

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Needless to say, the physical appearance of Carneros is increasingly affected by the preference shown for particular varieties of grapes and by the techniques widely adopted to match these varieties to the local environment. When I drive through Carneros today I am reminded of Fernand Braudel’s observation in The Identity of France that the patchwork of the French landscape is no more than man’s translation of the underlying mosaic of soils, subsoils, and microclimates. Anthony Bell introduced vertical trellising on Beaulieu Vineyard’s No. 5 Ranch at the time of replanting it in 1987, and he also installed a computerized drip-irrigation system. “Drip irrigation was developed in Israel twenty years ago,” Zach Berkowitz, vice-president of vineyard operations for Domaine Chandon, told me. “In Carneros it has been revolutionary in helping us deal simultaneously with scarce water, shallow topsoil, and surface-rooting vines.” A sophisticated installation of drip irrigation, however, like that at Beaulieu Vineyard, means that a grower can also simulate, at the push of a button, weather conditions that others can only pray for. He can ensure that his vines have the correct amounts of water needed for growth and physiological change, and he can also stress his vines when that is desirable—just after flowering, for example, when slight water deprivation helps concentrate in the newly set bunches certain

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elements that will eventually contribute color, tannin, and flavor to the wine. Zach Berkowitz’s responsibilities are far-flung: Domaine Chandon has vineyards in many areas of northern California. But the Domaine’s focus is Carneros, where it is the largest single user of grapes, buying from independent growers to supplement the production of its own 750 acres. The region’s grapes have drawn other European sparkling-wine producers opening shop in California as well. Mumm Napa Valley, a joint venture of G. H. Mumm & Co. and The Seagram Classics Wine Company, recently took under lease a hundred acres of the former Simonton ranch. It was on the Simonton ranch in the 1880s that Professor George Husmann made his contribution to the defeat of phylloxera in California in a series of experiments with European vinifera vines grafted onto resistant American rootstocks. Domaine Carneros—a joint venture of Taittinger Champagne, Taittinger’s New York importer, and the grower who had first established the vineyard now at the core of the enterprise—recently released its first sparkling wine made exclusively from Carneros grapes; Freixenet, the Spanish sparkling-wine producer, established its Gloria Ferrer subsidiary in Carneros a few years ago; and Codorníu, also from Spain and proprietor of 350 acres in Carneros, will open its new sparkling-wine facility there in time to receive its 1991 harvest. The sparkling-wine producers’ interest in Carneros is generated in part by the region’s production of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, varieties classically associated with the Champagne region of France. But, like producers of still wines, the makers of sparkling wines have been attracted to Carneros grapes for their greater intensity of flavor— noticeable even when grapes are picked early, as they generally are for sparkling wine. According to Eileen Crane, managing director of Domaine Carneros, “The diversity of our own vineyards—we have planted five different clonal selections of Chardonnay and four of Pinot Noir—helps give our wines character, something as essential to a quality sparkling wine as

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it is to a still wine. And the long Carneros growing season allows our grapes to develop their flavors without losing their acids—even when bud-break is the same, we always pick here a week later than elsewhere. “It’s a point not always appreciated. Growers sometimes offer me grapes they describe as ‘not suitable for still wines,’ and I have to tell them that a grape unsuitable for making still wine will be even less suitable for making sparkling wine. Though the flavor of a fine sparkling wine is subtle rather than bold, the bubbles will thrust it forward and expose any flaw.” The special association of Carneros with Chardonnay and Pinot Noir has not been a matter of caprice. Eileen Crane pointed out that the normal range of Carneros temperatures during the growing season falls somewhere between those of Champagne and Burgundy—both regions in which Chardonnay and Pinot Noir also predominate. (“If Champagne itself could be moved closer to Burgundy,” she said mischievously, “Champagne’s temperatures would be closer to ours, and I suspect a lot of the growers there would be happier.”)

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The importance of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir to Carneros can be gauged from the proportion (almost 90 percent) of the region’s seven thousand acres devoted to these two varieties. No other region of California comes close to such a tightly specific varietal involvement. It was from a vine Louis Martini had planted on the former Stanly vineyard that Professor Harold Olmo of the University of California, Davis, had taken the cutting that eventually gave rise to the Chardonnay clone— Davis 108—that is now the most widely planted on the West Coast of the United States. One could say, with only slight exaggeration, that the modern era of California Chardonnay was born in Carneros. And, although he was hardly a pioneer when he planted Pinot Noir in 1973 at Carneros Creek, the clonal trials Francis Mahoney has conducted for the past sixteen years in conjunction with the University of California have led to the selection not of one super clone but of half a dozen, which, when used in combination, give what Mahoney calls

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“the range of qualities from which outstanding wines can be created.” In pointing to specific clones for specific results (the clone of Pinot Noir necessary for the production of early picked grapes for sparkling wine, for instance, is not necessarily the clone best adapted to practices intended to enhance color in still wines), Mahoney has greatly influenced all who grow Pinot Noir and not only those in Carneros. Saintsbury, one of the first of the new wineries physically established in Carneros, has been particularly influential in establishing the region’s reputation for Pinot Noir. (Most other wineries—including Clos du Val, Robert Mondavi, Clos Pegase, Grgich Hills, S. Anderson, St. Clement, Shafer Vineyards, Silverado, Robert Sinskey, and ZD—were content to buy the area’s grapes or vineyards.) Using grapes bought from a number of vineyards developed in the previous decade, Saintsbury’s partners, David Graves and Richard Ward, began in the early eighties by releasing a series of modestly priced, critically acclaimed Pinot Noirs that were appealingly fragrant and, at a time when there seemed to be an inverse relationship between the critics’ ratings and the palatability of most other California wines, wonderfully drinkable to boot. Their prices are now those of the established wineries (I won’t say “alas” because I am glad to see prosper those who purvey delicious wines rather than ego), but Saintsbury Pinot Noir is still a useful benchmark against which to measure wines from a far wider field than Carneros.

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Graves and Ward buy some of their grapes from the Sangiacomos, who had made their first move from pears to grapes in 1970. “We saw Carneros moving toward vineyards,” Angelo Sangiacomo told me. “But no one we spoke to had had any experience of vines at this end of Carneros. We put in 130 acres anyway—Chardonnay and Pinot Noir mostly. We leased the land: We weren’t about to pull any fruit trees until we saw that vines would work here. In fact, we didn’t take out a single fruit tree until 1980. The last one came out two or three years ago.” Since their father, Vittorio, died in 1987, the Sangiacomo property has been managed by Angelo with his brothers Bob and Buck and their

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sister, Lorraine. I met them over lunch in their mother’s kitchen on the ranch where they had all grown up. The Sangiacomos, though with households of their own, still eat together in that kitchen every weekday and deal with any vineyard business while they are together there. I suppose there were ten of us around the table, not including Mrs. Sangiacomo and Lorraine, who were busy all through lunch dishing up, serving, and urging seconds. A massive bowl of tortellini was quickly followed by an even bigger platter of chicken alla cacciatora, peas with onion, baskets of sourdough bread, salad, and cake. Every inch of the table not taken by plates and glasses and bowls and platters and baskets was covered with bottles of wine from the myriad wineries that buy grapes from the Sangiacomos, their names an honors list of California vintners. The family has no winery of its own, but so well regarded are Sangiacomo grapes that wineries buying them will usually say so somewhere on the bottle, on a back label, for example, or at the very least in their press releases. “Our experience in Carneros with fruit trees has helped us,” Angelo said. “We use tensiometers and all the other scientific devices, but we can see from the vines themselves, just as we saw from the trees, what to do and when to do it. Vines are very site specific, even within a vineyard. We watch each one scrupulously and react immediately. We don’t ever want to have to give excuses to our customers. They rely on us for quality. “We grow Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, and Merlot. Those are the varieties that do best here. Some Cabernet Sauvignon we planted early on soon came out—this is not the place for it.”

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Like the Sangiacomos, but at the opposite end of Carneros, Anthony and Jo Anne Truchard grow grapes for others—and with similar distinction. They bought their first parcel of land there in 1973. “At three thousand dollars an acre, it was considered less than choice,” Anthony Truchard told me, “but I am originally from Texas, where land was four hundred dollars an acre; and four thousand dollars—that was the price of land in Napa Valley itself—seemed unreasonable to me.”

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Whether by luck or judgment, the Truchards bought well: Their vineyards are a shade warmer than the Carneros average, and the soils have somewhat better permeability. Those differences are slight, but they probably explain why a wine made from Truchard grapes will be supported by a mouth-filling texture along with the concentration of flavor that is the Carneros regional hallmark. The Truchards have recently set up a small winery behind their house, and for the last couple of years they have crushed twenty-five of the six hundred tons of grapes they produce to make wines to be sold under their own label. “We saw wineries doing well with our grapes, and we just thought we would enjoy having a little of the kudos ourselves,” Truchard said. Buck Bartolucci had intended to have a winery of his own from the day he planted the first vine in his Madonna Vineyard. “The land was a hayfield when I bought it in 1972,” Bartolucci told me, “and I had to decide right away whether I was putting in a vineyard as a grape grower or as a winemaker. I chose to be a winemaker even when I wasn’t, so I was geared for quality rather than quantity from the beginning. I had been put to work in the vineyards my family owned in Napa Valley when I was fifteen. I knew in my fingers how things were there, and I soon saw what the differences were in Carneros. For a start it is more difficult for the grafts to knit in this climate. “It took until 1976 to get the vineyard established and five more years to build the winery. My father’s seventy-eight now, but he and I built it ourselves, literally. We called it Mont St. John, because that had been the name of my grandfather’s winery in Oakville.” Half the crop is still sold as grapes to generate cash flow. “This has never been a hobby occupation for me,” Bartolucci said. “I have had to work with limited cash, but I don’t owe the banks a penny, and I am under no pressure to sell my wine at $20 a bottle.” (Grapes from Bartolucci’s Madonna Vineyard were among the first to be used for a series of single-vineyard wines made by Acacia, a winery new to Carneros in 1979, and, like Saintsbury, still producing only

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Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. Acacia’s first wines, released in the early eighties, caused a sensation and contributed as much as any others to the new perception of Carneros.) Bartolucci’s father still works around the winery. Virtually singlehanded, and with not much more than a trowel and a wheelbarrow that I could see, he is currently building an enlarged grape reception area. “It keeps him out of my mom’s way,” Bartolucci explained.

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Because of competition for Carneros land, prices are now equal to those farther up Napa Valley. From two thousand dollars to three thousand dollars an acre twenty years ago, land in Carneros suitable for vines is now twenty-five thousand dollars an acre as it stands or forty thousand dollars already planted. (A few years ago Seagram paid $8.5 million for the choice 120 acres of Winery Lake Vineyard.) And Carneros grapes— especially those from the Napa side of the viticultural area, entitled to be sold as either Carneros or Napa Valley or as both—now fetch the highest prices of any in California. That’s because California winemakers like Carneros grapes. They recognize inherent characteristics in those varieties—especially Pinot Noir—that do well there. And therein lies a valuable lesson. Growers and vintners in the Carneros Quality Alliance took the step, unprecedented in California, of defining the local style of Pinot Noir—the grape that has clearly become its key variety. They asked for help from Professor Ann Noble of the Department of Viticulture and Enology of the University of California, Davis, whose work in taste analysis has been recognized worldwide. She planned and supervised within her department tastings in which ten Carneros Pinot Noir wines, drawn from two vintages, were compared blind with nine similar, non-Carneros wines from Napa County and nine from Sonoma County. Following a technique developed at Davis by Dr. Noble, twelve trained tasters plotted their individual flavor analyses on a graph where nine of the ten Carneros wines,

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their identities revealed, were found to be bunched together, whereas the non-Carneros wines were scattered in all directions. These tests emphasized, if emphasis were needed, that a Carneros wine requires no label for its characteristics to be recognized. Furthermore, the distinction of a Carneros wine is not of the kind that can be imposed on grapes simply by applying the house technique of this or that winery. On the contrary, the tests showed that Carneros grapes, no matter who makes the wine, bring with them an identity shared by none of the others. And that is how it should be. When Braudel observed that a patchwork of landscape is no more than man’s translation of an underlying mosaic of soils, subsoils, and microclimates, he neglected to explain that wine, too, is part of the landscape’s patchwork. But then as a Frenchman he would have assumed his reader to know that. Originally published as “Carneros” in Gourmet, June 1991. In 2010, unplanted land in Carneros sells for as much as $150,000 an acre. Cost of cultivation varies from $5,000 to $10,000 an acre, depending on the grower. Anne Moller-Racke is now president of Donum Estate in Carneros, and is personally responsible for vineyard cultivation there. Zach Berkowitz is now a freelance vineyard consultant. Mumm Napa Valley is owned by Pernod-Ricard. Domaine Carneros is owned jointly by the Taittinger and Kopf families (founders of Kobrand, Taittinger’s U.S. importer).

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arlier this year, after a relay of tastings spread over several days, a 1989 wine from Byron Vineyard & Winery in Santa Barbara County was selected as Best American Chardonnay from a field of 350 samples from wineries that included the most prestigious of California. Ken Brown, one of the founding partners of Byron in the early eighties, has been winning medals of one kind or another for his Chardonnay, grown in the Santa Maria Valley, since the winery’s first vintage, in 1984. It does not diminish Brown’s achievement to say that most of his Santa Barbara colleagues have been doing equally well. Even the gold medal awarded recently to Sanford Winery, also in Santa Barbara County, for a 1986 Pinot Noir assessed by an international jury in London in open competition with top Burgundies was only one more fleck on Santa Barbara’s rich canvas of honors and awards. It is reasonable to be skeptical about wines given recognition at such mammoth events by panels of experts who often are no more than the likes of you and me purveying their opinions. It is harder to dismiss the judgment of the marketplace, where grapes grown in Santa Barbara County, particularly Chardonnay grapes, now command higher prices than those grown anywhere else in California except Napa Valley. Even there, despite the marketing advantage conferred on any wine by the Napa Valley appellation, growers must be satisfied with the slimmest of premiums over Santa Barbara. Northern California will never lose its lead—the major wineries, including those that now buy grapes and 206

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have even bought vineyards in Santa Barbara County, are too well established—but it is clear that the growing success of Santa Barbara County has caused the state’s viticultural center of gravity to slip, at the very least, toward the south. Vines, along with the missions, were first established in what is now Santa Barbara County in the late eighteenth century. The Ortega family, whose land grant, Rancho Nuestra Señora del Refugio, covered most of the mountainous terrain between the Santa Barbara and the Santa Ines missions, planted a vineyard as early as 1794. Then, in 1822, in an episode worthy of a Jack London yarn, Joseph Chapman, abandoned by pirates on a Santa Barbara beach, fled to the safety of the Santa Ines Mission, where he met and married an Ortega daughter before planting a vineyard that made him, as far as anyone knows, the first American (I use the word in its popular sense) winegrower in California. Though they seem not to have been extensive, vineyards spread and continued to flourish in Santa Barbara County throughout the nineteenth century. Old county records consulted in the compilation of A Directory of California Wine Growers & Wine Makers in 1860, a book published in 1967 and based on research by Ernest Peninou and Sidney Greenleaf, show that—in days when vineyards’ yields were lower than they are today— a total of 10,550 gallons of wine was produced in Santa Barbara County. (In their accounts of individual growers’ activity, the authors note that a James McCaffrey was renting from the Church the original vineyard of the mission in Santa Barbara. Having already existed then for almost a century, the mission vineyard continued to prosper under his son until Prohibition closed it down.) Though recognition is due to those who shepherd grapes through the process of winemaking, the quality and character of any wine depends in the final analysis on the circumstances in which the grapes were grown. Santa Barbara’s distinction in this respect is largely the consequence of a geological fluke (which is in fact true of most of the world’s great winegrowing regions): A sharp turn in the direction of the coastal mountains at Point Conception gave the Pacific coast its

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only range running east-west rather than north-south and as a result endowed California with valleys directly exposed to the ocean. Most of the state’s coastal valleys are tucked behind the coastal range and run north-south, parallel to the shoreline, where they are shielded at least partially from the rigors of the Pacific. The Santa Maria and Santa Ynez valleys in Santa Barbara County are, to the contrary, utterly exposed. (Confusingly, though Santa Ines Mission retains a Spanish spelling, the name of the valley in which it stands has been anglicized to Santa Ynez.) In California the ocean plays a more significant role in determining climate than do points of the compass; people with fixed ideas of north as cold and south as hot find California an enigma. In Redding, a lumber town insulated by mountains from any marine influence, summer temperatures hover around 100°F even though it is so far north it bumps the Oregon border. Yet on the flower farms around Lompoc in Santa Barbara County, hundreds of miles to the south—as far south from Redding, in fact, as the Mediterranean beaches of Saint-Tropez would be from Norway’s fjords—the workers must wrap themselves against cold, damp fog on August mornings, for the local average maximum temperature at that time of year there might get as high as 72°F. Before writing those memorable words “[I] hate California, it’s cold and it’s damp,” in what became one of his most successful lyrics, Lorenz Hart must have been traumatized by a particularly gloomy summer weekend on the Santa Barbara coast.

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I have strayed a little, but all this talk of Norwegian fjords, lumber towns, and Rogers and Hart has been an attempt to explain how it is that the Santa Maria Valley and the lower Santa Ynez Valley, spreading west of Buellton, a small town on U.S. 101, are two of the coolest grape-growing regions in California. One final comparison will confirm the point: An average summer temperature in the town of Santa Maria would be 73°F; at St. Helena in mid–Napa Valley, at least four hundred miles north, it is 88.8°F. With this in mind, one might do well to remember what Professor Albert Winkler of the University of

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California, Davis, demonstrated more than thirty years ago: The flavor of fruit from certain vine varieties, especially Pinot Noir, is greater if the grapes are allowed to ripen slowly in the kind of temperate conditions prevalent in Santa Maria and Santa Ynez. Santa Barbara’s geological flukes go beyond arrangements of the landscape, however. Much of the county has a soil peculiarly well suited to vines. It is still unfashionable in California to suggest that soils affect the characteristics, let alone the quality, of a wine. (A farmer who grows anything else, however, knows that his soil’s composition directly influences the yield and quality of his crops.) As far as California viticulture is concerned, the official line has been that soil is a passive element to be judged only for its water-holding properties. Yet among the bric-abrac I was obliged to absorb as a trainee in France in the 1950s was the notion that soils rich in calcium give wines with concentrated flavor and intensified aroma. I can’t give a scientific basis for what I was taught—if indeed there is one—but I accepted then as I do now the validity of conclusions based on long and broad observation. (In the field of wine, most recent research, valuable though it has been, has served above all to explain and confirm what earlier generations learned through trial and error.) Burgundy, the original home of both Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, was and is always cited as an example of a region where such soils give exactly the results I’ve just described. Santa Barbara would seem to me to be another. Though its soil, basically no more than a mix of clay, crumbled rock, and gravel washed down from the mountains, has no nutritive content to speak of, it is rich in active calcium. With all that said, I must add, nevertheless, that neither the county nor its valleys have uniform climates. At Sisquoc, for instance, well to the east, far up the Santa Maria Valley, and in the Santa Ynez Valley east of Buellton, days are appreciably warmer; and the maze of canyons and mesas between the two valleys offers as wide a range of possible climates within their narrow area as one could hope to find throughout the entire state. Chardonnay and Pinot Noir give their best in most of the Santa Maria Valley and in the lower Santa Ynez Valley, while Cabernet

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Sauvignon and Sauvignon Blanc—and other essentially Bordeaux-type varieties—do better in the warmer conditions of the upper Santa Ynez Valley, in the Sisquoc area, and in adjacent Foxen Canyon. Johannisberg Riesling does well throughout the county, though styles vary with location. The dry Rieslings from Babcock Vineyards in the lower Santa Ynez Valley are as different from the luscious Select Harvest Rieslings of Rancho Sisquoc as the crisp Rieslings of Germany’s Saar are from the fruitier wines of the Palatinate. Rick Longoria, winemaker at The Gainey Vineyard in Santa Ynez Valley, says that Rieslings from Santa Barbara County have always been of consistently high quality, whatever their style. “But we have stopped talking about it,” he says, “because no one listens. You’d think all those people drinking white Zinfandel would fall on these Rieslings. They have much more style and zest.” Some consumers, in fact, have indeed either got the message or discovered the quality of Santa Barbara Rieslings for themselves. It can’t be an accident of marketing that has made the Riesling produced in Santa Ynez Valley by Firestone Vineyard one of the best selling (if not the best selling) wines of that variety produced in California.

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These compatibilities of variety and vineyard were not immediately apparent to the county’s post-Prohibition, postwar pioneers, Uriel Nielsen and Bill DeMattei, grape growers who came to the Santa Maria Valley in 1964 from the less subtle conditions of California’s hot, irrigated Central Valley. Convinced of the Santa Maria Valley’s potential after having found and read an early study of the area sponsored and filed away by the University of California, they began the new era of viticulture in Santa Barbara County by planting 120 acres of Cabernet Sauvignon, Sauvignon Blanc, Riesling, and Chardonnay. Grape-grower brothers Louis and George Lucas, Jr., followed them from the Central Valley in 1970, stimulating a wave of speculative planting by the sheer scale of the eight hundred-acre vineyard they planted at the junction of Santa Maria Valley and Tepusquet Canyon. The Lucas brothers were responsible for planting the first Pinot Noir vines in the county.

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Vines spread from the Santa Maria to the Santa Ynez Valley in 1969, when Boyd Bettencourt, a local dairy farmer, took cuttings of Riesling and Cabernet Sauvignon from Nielsen and DeMattei to establish vineyards on what had formerly been pastureland. Like those of Nielsen and DeMattei, Bettencourt’s grapes were shipped to northern California’s increasingly receptive wineries, where winemakers were quick to appreciate their quality. And, besides, there was no way to turn them into wine in the county itself, which had but one small winery, in the city of Santa Barbara. That single winery had been started in 1962 by Pierre Lafond, a French-Canadian architect who had settled in Santa Barbara in the 1950s, bought a wine-and-food shop, and decided to make for himself the unpretentious generic jug wines he needed for a trade that was essentially shaped by the proximity of the beach and the University of California campus. At that time the price of the grapes he processed was a more important consideration than either variety or climate. By the mid-seventies, however, Brooks Firestone had established the Firestone Vineyard in Santa Ynez Valley, following Boyd Bettencourt’s example, and had built an architectural award–winning winery to boot. Bettencourt went on to convert a disused dairy into the Santa Ynez Winery, now under separate ownership. Lafond understood what was happening, bought land in the coolest, western part of the valley, and changed the focus and style of his wines. With the beach barely two blocks away, the sales room of Lafond’s Santa Barbara Winery still has a decidedly southern California ambiance (winemaker Bruce McGuire, as serious and competent as any in the state, even keeps his sailboard propped against one of the winery’s fermenting tanks), but Lafond’s wines now reflect the elegance and flavor inherent in grapes grown in the lower Santa Ynez Valley. His winery is taking as big a share of awards as any in the county. These wineries and others that began laying concrete crushing pads and erecting redwood barns (Santa Barbara County wineries are generally indistinguishable from the farm structures around them) provided

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a home for their own grapes and for much of the rest produced in Santa Ynez. But Santa Maria growers continued to rely for the most part on out-of-county buyers and were therefore vulnerable to fluctuations in the demand for wine grapes in the state as a whole. Just when their vineyards were reaching maturity, when the quality of the grapes was higher than it had ever been, and when the reputation of the region had reached a peak, a depressed grape market (and economy) in the early eighties left highly leveraged grower partnerships at the mercy of the insurance companies that had financed most of the development. In swift order the vineyards were repossessed and a battle royal broke out among giants for control of what had clearly become one of California’s prime wine regions. By the time the dust had settled, more than half the vineyards of Santa Barbara County had changed hands, with just three of northern California’s most important wineries acquiring the greater part of the Santa Maria Valley’s vineyards. All three now have wineries in the area: Beringer Vineyards has established Meridian Vineyards in what had previously been the Estrella River winery in neighboring San Luis Obispo County, slightly to the north of Santa Maria; the Robert Mondavi Winery has purchased Byron Vineyard & Winery, complete with its winemaking facility; and Kendall-Jackson, buyer of a large part of the handsomely mature vineyards planted by the Lucas brothers in 1970, has established Cambria, a new winery, on part of the former Tepusquet estate.

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These large newcomers have made some housekeeping changes, mostly by correcting mismatches of vine and terrain that occurred when the vineyards were first established. In 1974 nearly 2,000 acres of the 5,500 acres then planted in Santa Barbara County were dedicated to Cabernet Sauvignon, with a further 500 acres given over to Merlot. And much of both varieties was to be found in the unsuitably (for them) cool Santa Maria Valley. By 1990 the acreage of each variety had been halved, and what remains is more appropriately positioned. The area planted with Pinot Noir, having first been shrunk, has been climbing steadily in the

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sections where it is now seen to do well. The Chardonnay acreage has been increased six-fold. Given such changes, the wineries would like to revise, or at least add to, the American Viticultural Area designations granted to the Santa Maria and Santa Ynez valleys in 1981 and 1983 respectively. Time has confirmed that the valleys do indeed provide far from homogeneous conditions for their vines: Santa Ynez, in particular, incorporates a zone that is among the coolest in California as well as the warm region of the upper valley as it narrows to the San Marcos Pass. Many of the smaller wineries buy grapes from several locations to take advantage of their complementary qualities. Rick Longoria, for example, buys small batches of grapes from seventeen different sources to complete the selection from his winery’s own vineyards. But the result is that although both the Santa Maria and Santa Ynez appellations can be found on wine labels—especially on those of producers who, like Firestone Vineyard, use their own grapes virtually to the exclusion of all others—most wineries now use the broader appellation of Santa Barbara County to allow themselves some latitude. A move is afoot to ask the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms to designate a new American Viticultural Area that would cover both valleys, incorporating them under the name Santa Barbara Coast. Understandably some resistance has been voiced by those who feel this would merely duplicate the county appellation without resolving the lack of homogeneity in AVAs already created. It is resented even more by those who do not want an appellation that reaches north of the county border to include parts of San Luis Obispo County, as has been proposed by the new appellation’s sponsors.

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Happily, the county’s pocket microclimates of mesa and canyon have encouraged small wineries to blossom among the newly arrived giants. They have lodged themselves where an offbeat grape variety will do well or where, say, a particular and personal style of wine can be assured. Fred Brander, whose Brander Vineyard has acquired a fair reputation

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for Sauvignon Blanc, is now producing an interesting cuvée based on Cabernet Franc. Zaca Mesa, another of the earliest wineries in Santa Ynez Valley, began with a broad partnership wanting to be all things to all people and since has settled down to making a smaller range of wines, with emphasis on a softly scented Syrah. Another enterprise is more a cluster of wineries, and I have yet to sort out which of the enthusiastic and talented young men who own and run them belong where: One of the pair at this winery is part owner of that winery and also makes wine under another label from the vineyard he owns jointly with their friend—or is it their friend’s father-in-law?— who is in partnership with them in yet another venture. At any rate, the key labels to look for are Au Bon Climat for some superb Chardonnay and Pinot Noir; and Qupé, also for Chardonnay but more especially for an expanding range of reds and a little white, from Rhône varietals established for them in Santa Maria Valley’s Bien Nacido Vineyards and at Los Olivos. Rancho Sisquoc is an unexpectedly artisanal operation producing five thousand cases of wine a year from grapes grown on a 220-acre vineyard planted by the James Flood family on its 37,000-acre estate. Stephan Bedford, the winemaker there, makes some graceful Cabernet Sauvignon, a very small amount of an exquisite Special Select Late Harvest Riesling (slightly more reliable quantities of this kind of luscious dessert Riesling are produced most years by Firestone Vineyard), and a Sylvaner that shows how good so-called secondary varieties can be when given the benefits of a prime vineyard site and imaginative winemaking. One of the newest wineries in the county, Foxen Vineyard, promises also to be one of its brightest, if tiniest, stars. Richard Doré, a lanky retired banker, grew up in the old, white-painted house in Foxen Canyon where he now lives with his family, just across the road from the barn and smithy he converted into a winery in the mid-1980s. The narrow canyon, sheltered from the Pacific (it is at least twenty-five miles away even as the crow flies), was named for Doré’s great-great-

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grandfather, Benjamin Foxen, who once raised cattle here on ten thousand acres secured as a Mexican land grant in 1837. The cattle ranch is a quarter of what it once was, but with a partner, Bill Wathen, formerly vineyard manager at Chalone Vineyard, Doré has planted ten acres of it with vines. Half of them are Chardonnay, and the rest are divided among Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, and Merlot, classic Bordeaux varieties that they hope will do well there. “We count our grapes here by the bucket, not by the ton,” Richard Doré admitted modestly. “But whatever we make is as good as we know how.” As good as they know how seems to be very good indeed. The winery’s 1987 Chardonnay and a Pinot Noir made from purchased grapes were snapped up, as I expect all their future wines will be. Those I tasted in barrel were exceptionally fine. We shall hear and see more of Santa Barbara wines. Their flavors are bold but engaging, intense but oblique. They have good, natural balance. Most important of all, they are delicious. Originally published as “Santa Barbara County” in Gourmet, October 1991. Byron Vineyard is now owned by Jackson Family Wines. Rick Longoria has his own winery, Longoria Wines, near Lompoc. Stephan Bedford now has his own winery in the Los Alamos Hills of Santa Barbara County, where he continues to make small lots of highly expressive, artisanal wines.

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his past winter’s rain ended six years of drought and left California looking like a child’s picture-book image of spring. Between vines, under fruit trees, and across hillsides that had been barren only weeks before, California poppies, flowering mustard, and lupine splashed orange, yellow, and blue on the bright green of new grass. At the end of a drive south from San Francisco to San Luis Obispo—about 230 miles, much of it along the Salinas Valley, where crews were already bringing in the first spring crops—I was so entranced by the transformation that I overshot my freeway exit and was almost at the ocean before I realized my mistake. Granted, San Luis Obispo, hidden from the highway that serves it, doesn’t announce itself with the visual equivalent of a trumpet blast. But my inattention brought home to me how close to the Pacific the town is—as automobiles run, let alone as crows fly. The fishing boats of Morro Bay and the surfing of Avila and Pismo beaches are in the town’s backyard. In its special situation, open to the ocean yet a little protected from it, San Luis Obispo has what is probably California’s most equable climate. It’s also one of California’s most equable places to live. Almost midway between San Francisco and Los Angeles, San Luis Obispo is compact, friendly, and independent of both. It has advantages unexpected for its size—galleries, book shops, cafés, good movie theaters (the town’s Fremont is an Art Deco gem), and lively, unpretentious restaurants—thanks to Cal Poly with its busy and prestigious schools of engineering, architecture, and agriculture. 216

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The town’s tie to agriculture in particular is made plain every Thursday, when four blocks of Higuera Street, not far from the sprawling eighteenth-century mission, are closed to traffic at the end of the business day and allowed to become, for a few evening hours anyway, a giant street market for local farmers. San Luis Obispo County is known for the quality of its fruits and deliciously tender vegetables. Bright days, cool nights, and the humidity of sea fog even in the driest summers combine to give local strawberries their intense flavor, and Higuera Street vendors offer them by the crate, along with bell peppers, basil, and coriander. In season there are artichokes and snow peas, onions and zucchini, a multitude of lettuces, bok choy and apples, broccoli and avocados, cucumbers, sweet anise, oranges, and walnuts. Beef ribs and local sausages to ease appetites provoked by the sights and smells of so much fresh-picked produce are available from huge barbecue pits set up on the sidewalks; flowers massed on all sides sell for a couple of dollars a bunch; and, at every corner, there’s a musician, a juggler, or another street performer trying, usually in vain, to divert attention from fat tomatoes and garden-grown corn sweet enough to eat straight off the stalk. In fact, Thursday evenings in San Luis Obispo are as much celebration as commercial endeavor, and except when it rains the whole town turns out for this weekly paseo.

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Jack and Catharine Niven, whose family once shared ownership of California’s Purity food chain (service- and quality-driven, it didn’t survive the great wave of supermarket expansion in the fifties and sixties), already knew of San Luis Obispo’s reputation for fruits and vegetables when they were looking for vineyard land to plant in the early seventies. They were not, then, surprised to find that Edna Valley, abutting southeastern San Luis Obispo, had been recommended for potentially highquality wine production in the Winkler-Amerine study of California’s wine regions, completed back in the 1930s. Jack Foote, San Luis Obispo County Farm Advisor (now retired), had planted an experimental plot of vines in 1968, in fact, and by 1972, when the Department of Viticulture

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and Enology at the University of California, Davis, made some wine from those grapes, there was general agreement that viticulture in the area was worth pursuing. For those who cared to look for it, other evidence pointed in the same direction. The Franciscans who had accompanied Junípero Serra in his trek up the coast of California to establish the early missions had planted vines to meet their domestic and religious needs wherever they set up a community. The wine produced at San Luis Obispo was particularly good, however, and as word got out production was stepped up to a commercial scale. The mission’s vineyard was extended, and by the first decades of the nineteenth century, according to Dan Krieger, history professor at Cal Poly, Father Antonio Martinez of San Luis Obispo Mission was making over a hundred barrels of wine a year and trading it with whalers and other missions at a good price. Records show that San Luis Obispo Mission had the highest revenues of any in California. That vineyard at San Luis Obispo was temporarily abandoned when Mexico secularized all the missions in declaring herself independent of Spain; but then, some twenty years later, in the 1860s, it was acquired and reconstituted by Pierre Hippolyte Dallidet, a French immigrant. His son, also named Pierre Hippolyte, predicted in a local board of trade pamphlet of 1887 that San Luis Obispo’s vines would eventually bring great wealth to the county. By then, says Krieger, local farmers—the McCoppins and the Hays, the Andrews and the Taylors, the Atwoods and the Hasbroucks—were already shipping raisins, grapes, and wine to San Francisco from a new wharf at what is now Port San Luis, railhead of the narrow-gauge Pacific Coast Railroad built to connect it with the town itself in 1881. Despite skirmishes with phylloxera and the economic depression of the late 1880s, vineyards continued to flourish in Edna Valley until they disappeared completely with Prohibition. It took the Nivens and Norman and Carolyn Goss to get them started again. The Gosses (Norman was a Los Angeles restaurateur aware of the quality of San

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Luis Obispo produce) came to the valley independently of the Nivens but at about the same time; both families bought land in 1972 and planted vineyards the following year. In 1975 Andy and Liz McGregor planted sixty-three acres of vines; and then in 1990 and 1991 several hundred more acres were planted as new growers moved in to join those by then already well established.

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It was never the Nivens’s intention to make wine. But in order to grow grapes successfully for others, they had to think of themselves as winemakers. Their Paragon Vineyard Company had had little but theory and the narrowly focused experiments of Jack Foote to guide it in planting five red varieties and three whites in different sites to see how each would react to the range of soils, altitudes, and exposures to sun and wind. As Jack Niven tells the story, it was soon evident that the valley was too cool for Cabernet Sauvignon and Zinfandel, and Merlot just wouldn’t set fruit. Equally as clear was proof that any Edna Valley Chardonnay could be successful. But, as no one alive could remember having tasted wine made from Edna Valley grapes, the Nivens’s attempts to sell their fruit were at first disappointing. Their chance to show how good Edna Valley Chardonnay could be arrived fortuitously rather than as a result of strategic planning. Chalone, a winery on a limestone bench two thousand feet up in the Gavilan mountains and about a hundred miles north of Edna Valley, had a reputation for Burgundy-style Chardonnay and Pinot Noir unequaled at the time. The limited supply tended to be kept under wine merchants’ counters for a favored few, and the long drive from San Francisco deterred all but the most ardent from attempting to buy directly at the winery. The last part of the three-hour drive leads up a twisting road through miles of parched mountain landscape resembling nothing so much as a Dutch primitive’s idea of St. John the Baptist’s habitat. In the early seventies, what’s more, the winery itself, eerily remote and virtually without either water or electricity, did indeed have an almost religious austerity about it; its domestic-type well and small generator

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didn’t come close to supplying its needs. Since then, the company that owns Chalone has brought in a power line, and that in turn has allowed the winery to install pumps to bring water up seven miles of pipeline from a well in the valley floor. Chalone extended its vineyard in 1977 and also built a new winery large enough to receive the increased crops. From the beginning, Dick Graff, Chalone’s president and winemaker, had a policy of using only grapes grown in Chalone’s own vineyard for wines sold under the Chalone label. But he hoped to find a use for the winery’s spare capacity until the newly planted vines were bearing. At about the same time, in the late seventies, John Walker, an eminent wineshop in San Francisco’s Financial District, wanted Chardonnay to sell under its own label and knew that Le Central, a nearby bistro popular with Montgomery Street bankers and stockbrokers, was looking for something similar. Their need, Chalone’s space, and the Nivens’s grapes consequently came together in a private-label program. Begun in 1977 as an arrangement of convenience for all concerned, the program became an enormous success, launching the Edna Valley appellation among a knowledgeable and well-heeled clientele. By 1979, when Chalone was compelled to take fewer of the Nivens’s grapes in order to make room for its own, Dick Graff fully recognized Edna Valley’s potential and was loath to cut himself off from it. As a result he and Jack Niven developed the idea of a joint venture between Chalone and the Nivens’s Paragon Vineyard Company to make and sell Edna Valley wines. The Nivens had a winery built on their land to Dick Graff’s specifications, and this they leased to the new enterprise, Edna Valley Vineyard, in addition to supplying the grapes. Graff’s Chalone undertook the responsibility of making the wine and marketing it, and the entire operation was up and ready for the 1980 crush.

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If the arrangement with Dick Graff grew out of happenstance, so did Paragon’s relationship with Charles Ortman. By the late seventies Ortman had become Napa Valley’s Mr. Chardonnay: He had advised, consulted, or actually made Chardonnay for an impressive number of

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important wineries there, including St. Clement, Spring Mountain, Far Niente, Fisher, and Shafer. Whether inevitably or by chance, Ortman’s involvement with Edna Valley, like Graff’s, gave the region a great boost in acceptability. Ortman remembers first working with Edna Valley grapes in 1979. “The Nivens offered me some that had lost their home,” he told me recently, reminiscing, and alluding perhaps to the changing situation at Chalone. “So you could say I got the grapes by default. The wine I made from them was bottled under my own label. I was impressed by the fruit and bought again in 1980 and in 1981. “I didn’t have another opportunity to work with Edna Valley grapes until 1987. The wine I made then had still not been released when in 1988 I concluded an agreement with Beringer Vineyards, which bought my brand name, Meridian, and applied it to its new winery near Paso Robles. Beringer’s management shared my enthusiasm for Edna Valley, and, as we already had that stock of the Meridian Edna Valley 1987 Chardonnay, the appellation was integrated into the new program from the start. We’ve continued to take grapes from Paragon every year, but we have also bought land there and have now planted a hundred acres of Chardonnay of our own.” A number of other wineries also began buying Edna Valley fruit after the 1979 vintage. Because they could be relied on as sources of improved flavor and texture, the grapes sometimes disappeared into a Central Coast or other blend. Over the years several wineries have earned their Chardonnay laurels thanks to the contribution of Edna Valley grapes. Very few have been able to make a Chardonnay of these grapes alone, however, because the quantities available have been so limited. The first vineyards planted, in 1973 and 1975, included fewer than 450 acres of Chardonnay—enough to produce a grand total of about one hundred thousand cases when the vines could be persuaded to produce at the rate of four tons to the acre, which was seldom. A further three hundred-plus acres of Chardonnay are not yet bearing fruit at all. Even when they do, there will still be fewer than eight hundred acres of Edna

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Valley Chardonnay compared with nearly fifty-seven thousand acres of Chardonnay in the state of California as a whole.

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I had driven down to San Luis Obispo to take a look at Edna Valley, to try to understand what made its Chardonnay unique. For in any Edna Valley Chardonnay certain characteristics stand out regardless of the style of the person who made the wine. The Edna Valley Chardonnay by Charles Ortman at Meridian, though not to be confused with other Edna Valley Chardonnays—whether by Steve Dooley at Edna Valley Vineyard, Brooks Painter at Leeward, Michael Martella at the Thomas Fogarty winery, Gary Mosby at Chimère, Clay Thompson at the Gosses’s Chamisal or at his own Claibourne and Churchill winery in San Luis Obispo—is closer to all of them than it is to the Santa Maria Valley Chardonnay also made at Meridian by Ortman. This phenomenon intrigues me not just because I like Edna Valley Chardonnays but also because Edna Valley, declared an approved American Viticultural Area in 1982, is one of the very few to meet what should be consumers’ expectations of all such geographically defined wine regions. An Edna Valley Chardonnay is distinctive, it’s recognizable, and it’s consistent. And, because Edna Valley vineyards are overwhelmingly Chardonnay (more than three quarters of the acreage planted in the valley is devoted to this one variety; the rest is divided among many), to ask for a bottle of Edna Valley wine is almost like asking for a bottle of Meursault: Within reasonable limits, the buyer knows exactly what to expect. Though I hadn’t at the time known it, I’d begun to unravel Edna Valley’s mystery when I’d overshot San Luis Obispo’s freeway exits and found myself on the beach. The maritime influence is pervasive in the valley—to a far greater extent than in any other wine region along the Pacific coast. The very soil in which the vines grow is made up largely of marine sediment deposited twenty-five million years ago, when sea levels rose at the end of the Ice Age. The marine sediment is rich, of course, in the tiny shell fossils that give Champagne and Chablis in

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France their chalky content. But it is supplemented here by degraded granite and tufa from a chain of fourteen ancient, greatly eroded volcanoes that stretch in a line parallel with the valley from southeast of San Luis Obispo to the ocean. This spectacular formation, some of the peaks worn down to stumps while others loom to a thousand feet or more, seems to end at El Morro, at the entrance to Morro Bay, but actually continues offshore to finish under thirty-six hundred feet of ocean with Davidson Seamount. If soil composition affects the taste of grapes, as is commonly supposed—it stores the water and nutrients needed for growth, and its form and texture control rooting patterns —then it must inevitably affect the taste of any wine. Given the unique soil of Edna Valley, this relationship is particularly relevant.

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Many people would say, however, that Edna Valley’s grapes and wine are affected to an even greater extent by the valley’s unusual climate. California wine regions have been neatly categorized into something called heat-summation zones ever since the time of the WinklerAmerine study. Albert Winkler and Maynard Amerine, professors at the University of California, Davis, calculated the number of degrees over 50°F—below which almost no growth in a vine is possible—in the mean temperature of each of the growing months (April to October) for a particular region. If the mean temperature for June were 70°F, say, then the excess to be counted would be 20. This they would multiply by 30, the number of days in the month, giving a result of 600. They then repeated the calculation for the six remaining months of growth and graded California’s wine regions into five categories, from cool (2,500 or fewer degree-days) to hot (degree-days in excess of 4,000). These categories have come to be viewed as indicators of which grape varieties are best suited to different regions. Simple though it is, the system has been helpful to California winegrowers. But it can be misleading because it cannot distinguish between one region with fairly constant temperatures throughout the growing season and another with extremes—a freeze in April and then a heat wave in August—that balance each other out.

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According to the Winkler-Amerine system, Edna Valley is a low Region II (2,501 to 3,000 degree-days), which ranks it with Santa Rosa in Sonoma County or Asti in Italy’s Piedmont. But the actual weather and temperature patterns in Edna Valley are not at all like those in either Santa Rosa or Asti: In Edna Valley spring temperatures are much warmer and summer temperatures much cooler than is usually the case in a Region II zone. Vines begin to sprout leaves in Edna Valley up to two weeks earlier than in Napa Valley (parts of which are classified, according to the Winkler-Amerine tables, as a warmer Region III). Edna Valley vines also flower earlier, and their fruit sets sooner. But the lower summer temperatures in Edna Valley allow the fruit to ripen more slowly, so grapes there are normally harvested two weeks or more after those of Napa Valley. Spending a total of up to one month longer on the vine gives Edna Valley grapes a greater concentration of flavor; and, because temperatures have been no more than moderate throughout the summer, the grapes’ fruit-sugar is offset by a ripe acidity. This unusual balance is enhanced by the moisture of morning fogs, which become more frequent and persistent as the grapes linger on the vine into the early days of fall. Similar morning fogs drifting over the vineyards of Sauternes, near Bordeaux, provoke Botrytis cinerea, called noble rot, which causes a shriveling of the grapes. That is what happens in Edna Valley, too. But whereas the growers in Sauternes encourage the botrytis, picking over their vineyards repeatedly to seek out only those grapes fully affected by it, the growers in Edna Valley, not intending their grapes for dessert wine, pick as soon as the botrytis appears. Rarely is more than 2 or 3 percent of an Edna Valley crop touched by botrytis. But those plants that are bring a barely perceptible but deliciously honeyed strain to the bouquet of any Edna Valley Chardonnay. More important, botryticin, a natural antibiotic produced by botrytis, moderates the pace of fermentation by impeding the yeast’s growth, allowing deeper flavors to develop in the wine and more glycerol to be formed. As a result Edna Valley Chardonnays, though fermented to be dry, are rounder, fatter, and more viscous than others, and they

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have a longer finish. These qualities are accentuated when the wines are fermented in barrel—as most of them are.

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The forward, rich style of Edna Valley Chardonnays is especially good with deeply flavored or “meaty” fish, such as salmon or tuna, particularly if the fish is grilled. It’s good, too, when fish is served with a cream sauce, which can make a white wine taste thin. But its compatibility is wider than the usual tag of “white wine with fish” might suggest. In recent weeks I’ve enjoyed Edna Valley Chardonnays with roast chicken; batter-dipped fried eggplant; grilled veal chops; and veal scallops in a sauce made by deglazing the cooking pan with dry white vermouth (Boissière from Chambéry is best) and then adding a few sliced mushrooms, seasonings, and cream. It’s a mouth-filling wine that is not easily defeated. Before I left San Luis Obispo I stopped for lunch at a café by the creek that runs through the center of town. I took a table on its long narrow deck, cantilevered over the water at the side of the building. In no time at all I had in front of me fresh bread and some perfectly, delicately grilled halibut. It came with nothing but melted butter and a dressed green salad. And a glass of Edna Valley Chardonnay, of course. At that moment, anyway, there seemed to be nothing lacking in life. Originally published as “California’s Edna Valley: Chardonnay by the Sea” in Gourmet, July 1993. Edna Valley Vineyard is now a joint venture between the Niven family of Paragon Vineyards and Diageo, the international wine and spirits company who purchased Chalone. In 1998, Richard Graff was killed in a small plane crash. Charles Ortman has long since left Meridian. With his son, he has his own vineyard and winery in Edna Valley. Meridian no longer offers an Edna Valley Chardonnay.

lodi Where the Pacific Meets the Sierra Nevada

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e are drinking more California Merlot in the United States. More California Zinfandel, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Sauvignon as well. And, of course, more Chardonnay. After several years in the doldrums, sales of all California wines, in fact, are moving ahead again even though the grape crop in some parts of the state has fallen because of the replanting made necessary by the ravages of phylloxera. Rising demand and a restricted supply usually mean scarcity and higher prices, and some wineries are indeed allocating their most popular wines to distributors to be sure that all markets have a share. Yet, overall, there seems to be no shortage of good California varietal wines at reasonable prices. If that seems contrary to economic law, perhaps it’s because factor x is helping to balance the equation—x being Lodi, a town in California’s Mokelumne Valley, about midway between Sacramento and Stockton. Lodi, the butt of a Creedence Clearwater Revival rock ballad of the late 1960s (“But those guys only ever stopped here once, for gas,” the town still complains), now produces fully 16 percent of California’s crop of varietal wine grapes. There have been vineyards around Lodi for more than a century. But changes in the last decade or so have been dramatic. The area under vines has increased substantially, and, more significantly, the growers have pulled out Carignane, Grenache, Alicante-Bouschet, and Palomino—reminders of a time when the region had been pushed into growing grapes for jug wines—and have planted in their place 226

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Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Sauvignon Blanc. The acreage of Zinfandel has doubled. Most important of all, Lodi growers are leading California farmers in the direction of allowing nature itself to control the pests and weeds that threaten their crops.

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Though it’s barely an hour and a half from San Francisco, the Mokelumne (pronounced m’kahl-amee) Valley has never lost its rural vocation—probably because it has never been the easiest place to get to. Originating as a stream in the high Sierra Nevada, the Mokelumne River empties into a skein of channels formed by the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers as they merge in an island-choked delta behind the Carquinez Straits, their narrow exit to San Francisco Bay. Crossing the delta in any direction has always been difficult, so the main routes east from San Francisco run to the north of the valley, through Sacramento, or to the south, through Stockton. For this reason the Mokelumne Valley escaped suburban sprawl. Recent signs of wine-country gentrification—here a house slightly showier than customary for these parts, there a flowery bed-and-breakfast, and, lately, a talented chef at the Wine and Roses Country Inn—could be portents of what is to come. But perhaps not. Lodi doesn’t really go in for life-style. The Lodi region is both in and separate from the Central Valley, lying as it does in the direct path of the cool air stream drawn from the Pacific across the delta whenever Central Valley temperatures rise. It has the advantages, too, of good alluvial soil brought down from the Sierra Nevada and of Mokelumne water, organized since the 1920s through a locally managed irrigation scheme. This has long been serious farming country. The town itself began in 1869 as Mokelumne Station, a halt on the Central Pacific Railroad. By 1880, according to Christi Kennedy’s Lodi: A Vintage Valley Town, the new railroad was shipping from its Lodi depot 3.4 million bushels of locally grown wheat a year—the largest wheat crop worldwide. But as the Great Plains—served by the same railroad—became progressively the nation’s granary, Mokelumne farmers

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looked to other crops. After a short spell as “Watermelon Capital of the World,” Lodi turned to grapes, which became, before 1900, the town’s principal economic resource.

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Lodi was then renowned for its Flame Tokay, a fleshy, thick-skinned table grape grown on vines as sturdy, and almost as big, as small trees. Lodi’s warm days and cool nights—thanks to those breezes through the Golden Gate—gave its Flame Tokay a particularly juicy flavor and a bright flame-red color not matched by grapes of this variety grown elsewhere. Flame Tokay and Lodi became synonymous, with 95 percent of the world’s tonnage of the variety produced within a five-mile radius of town. Yet, in spite of its popularity and the ease with which it sustained handling, packing, and shipping, demand for Flame Tokay as a dessert grape fell abruptly once the sweeter, seedless grapes grown farther south in the San Joaquin Valley could be shipped east for table use. Though more fragile, they also transported well, thanks to newly introduced refrigerated rail cars. Flame Tokay was reprieved by the onset of Prohibition, its tough skin making the grape as practical for shipping for home winemaking as it had been for table use. The table-grape packing sheds at Lodi, close to the railroad, made the town a natural center for the dispatch of all Central Valley grapes. Many of the mature Zinfandel vineyards for which Lodi is now particularly distinguished were planted during Prohibition to meet the ever-growing demand from the shippers. When Prohibition ended, Lodi’s Flame Tokay crop was turned to good use as a base for sparkling wine and brandy. Zinfandel, which ripened well in Lodi, giving wine with good color and rich flavor, was diverted to Port production; and Palomino, a popular shipping variety planted during Prohibition, gave local wineries the idea of making Sherry, the wine for which this grape is used in Spain. These wines were well received, and such was local pride in their success that Lodi’s growers petitioned for—and Washington granted—recognition of Lodi as a “district of origin,” for use on its wine labels. This special status—

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the first of its kind in California and a precursor of the American Viticultural Area program introduced in the 1980s—brought the town to a high pitch of expectation. “As a result of the new definition,” a smiling John Hoggatt of the Lodi District Chamber of Commerce told a press conference in the town, “this area will soon be known throughout the world as America’s Sherryland.” Unfortunately, he was right. Through hard work and vigorous selfpromotion, Lodi bound its reputation to fortified wines just when consumer interest in California’s table wines was reviving: The focus of wine production shifted to Napa and Sonoma and the other coastal counties, and the market for fortified wines collapsed. In the 1960s and 1970s Lodi’s wineries failed, to be taken over as satellite production facilities, or closed. The vineyards were replanted with the usual Central Valley jugwine varieties—Carignane, Grenache, and Alicante-Bouschet among others. A reconversion to quality varieties began, very slowly, only in the late 1970s. But as wineries throughout California recognized the potential of fruit coming from Lodi’s new vineyards, change accelerated. By 1994 the area planted with Flame Tokay vines had shrunk from twenty thousand acres to fewer than eight thousand. Ironically, there is now something of a conservationist ardor about protecting those that remain. Flame Tokay, it’s reasoned, is part of Lodi history, and the huge, gaunt vines across the Lodi landscape are a signature as defining as Tuscany’s olive trees. Lodi now has some 15,000 acres of Zinfandel, 7,500 acres of Chardonnay, 6,000 of Cabernet Sauvignon, and 3,000 of Merlot. (According to published statistics, it is still possible to find there 30 acres of Palomino, the pride of America’s Sherryland. But I suspect one would need to know where to look.)

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Change of this magnitude is usually a response to the market. Interest in wines from old Zinfandel vines—Lodi probably has more mature Zinfandel vineyards than any other California region—had already drawn the attention of serious wine producers by the 1980s. Then the

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shift from jug wines to moderately priced “fighting” varietals persuaded producers to press their area contract growers to graft vines to meet that demand. Few were prepared for the consistent quality Lodi would provide. But once Robert Mondavi installed himself in 1978 in an old area winery and began to promote a series of table wines under the Woodbridge name, Lodi was brought into the mainstream. Mondavi brought to this Lodi enterprise policies that had worked for him in Napa Valley, one of which was to use small-winery techniques, no matter how big the winery. This practice made possible a program that changed the way Lodi growers saw themselves and their crops. For years Lodi growers had delivered their grapes to cooperatives or to large-production wineries, where they were quickly lost in the mass. (There were, and are, few vineyard-wineries in Lodi.) Except by reading the degree of sugar concentration, a key factor in the payment they received, growers had no way of knowing whether their grapes were better or worse than their neighbors’. At Woodbridge, however, the presses are just large enough to take the volume of grapes necessary to fill one fermenting tank. The wine made from that—and every—lot there keeps its individual identity until final blending. By keeping separate the wines made from each category of grape received from each grower, Mondavi’s Woodbridge winery was able to establish a wine archive in which the growers had discrete sections. Having samples of every lot allowed both the winery and the grower to keep track of the wines’ development and what each lot contributed as it matured. Checking on the wines in this way gave the winery an opportunity to assess over time the potential of individual growers and the cultivation techniques that seemed to work (and didn’t). It also enabled managers to identify sections of the Lodi area that seemed best suited for the style and quality they wanted in specific varieties. When the Mondavi winery began bringing growers together to compare wines, their perspectives were soon raised beyond questions of healthy and unhealthy, economic and uneconomic, sugar bonus or no sugar bonus to consideration of why one wine had more flavor, another

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more intense color, or yet another better balance. Such changed attitudes were important to Mondavi because the firm’s approach is based on conserving and emphasizing varietal fruit and vineyard personality— characteristics that must be intrinsic to the grapes themselves. They can’t be invented in the winery. “We work with two hundred growers in Lodi,” Bradley Alderson, the winery’s general manager, told me. “We’ve tried hard to show them that grapes are not a commodity, that the distinctiveness—the quality—of the fruit they grow makes it more or less useful, more or less desirable, more or less valuable to us. “We’ve demonstrated that balanced grapes give wine better flavor and better color. I don’t want to be obliged to adjust the acidity of a wine. We shouldn’t have to adjust anything at all in the winery. If something isn’t right, it must be corrected in the vineyard. Every wine is made in the vineyard—not just Château Lafite, but every wine. If one grower is able to give us exactly the fruit we want, why, we have to ask, is another having a problem? That’s what we try to discover so that we can help resolve it.” Alderson arranges seminars for his growers and fosters their deepening knowledge by taking them on trips to other regions, even other countries. Brothers Brad and Randy Lange are among a small group of Mondavi growers who belong to a Cabernet Sauvignon circle. Eight of them meet regularly at the Mondavi winery to taste and compare and discuss the wines made from their respective grapes. Lange told me how these tastings, backed up by explanations of the practical application of recent research at the University of California, Davis, can help them. “By tasting how the measure of water a vine got during different phases of its growth cycle affects a wine, we’ve learned how and when to adjust irrigation in order to leave the vine in slight stress just after the fruit sets. Who would have thought that stress just at that moment would have the effect it does on flavor and color? Until I got involved with this I was just a grape grower. Now I’m a winegrower.” Alex Delu and his son, Kevin, grow mostly Merlot for Sebastiani,

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which also has a winery in the area and makes similar efforts to guide and encourage its growers. “We used to grow grapes for jug wine,” the Delus told me. “And our chief concern was operating cost. That’s all changed. We now spend twice as much money and time cultivating each acre, because positioning shoots, thinning the crop, and pulling leaves are expensive, labor-intensive activities. But it’s work that has to be done. Everyone here is serious about quality, and there’s tremendous pressure to keep up.”

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Pressure to “keep up” is to be expected in a region where families have farmed together for three or more generations. Relationships are constructive. After the growers and wineries of the state of California voted against a wine commission to be funded by an industry-wide levy, the growers of the Lodi Viticultural Area (the “district of origin” status granted in 1956 was converted, with slight adjustments to its borders, into an American Viticultural Area in 1986) voted, in 1991, for a winegrape commission of their own, to work on problems of common concern. Along with a determination to raise and maintain quality levels, high among those concerns was an integrated system of sustainable agriculture—using natural means, in other words, to reduce and even eliminate reliance on sprays for pest and weed management. Growers in California have for some time used natural predators to rid themselves of harmful pests, but programs are difficult to control when a farmer is surrounded by people who use other methods or when the predators are not part of a naturally modified environment. In Lodi the commission’s own entomologist supervises strategies effective throughout the area. Everyone participates. Most vineyards, for example, are now bordered with French prune trees to provide habitat for wasps that destroy the grape leaf hopper, and throughout the area there are hundreds of nesting boxes for barn owls and kestrels. I’m told that a “to let” sign on a newly erected box will be noted and acted upon within hours. A pair of barn owls raising their young will consume as many as a thousand gophers or voles in a year.

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The barn owls’ role is essential because growers now use native California grasses as a cover crop between rows, both to harbor insect life and to keep weeds down (under the vines they spread chopped-up vine cuttings to accomplish the same thing). Tilling less frequently allows greater freedom for the gophers and voles and field mice to multiply. As well as providing a haven for friendly predators (friendly to the growers, that is), the cover crop contributes nutrients and conserves soil; it reduces dust in summer—and hence mites—and in winter, when the soil is normally wet and muddy, it improves access to the vineyards. The programs initiated by Lodi growers through their elected LodiWoodbridge Winegrape Commission have provoked such interest throughout California that its meetings and seminars now attract growers from all over the state. And the results have been so effective that in August 1995, the commission was awarded one hundred thousand dollars by California’s Department of Pesticide Regulation and the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency to allow two vineyards—a 30-acre plot of Zinfandel and a 120-acre block of Cabernet Sauvignon—to serve as classroom sites for growers who want to learn how to apply Lodi techniques on their own farms. “Conventional farmers were looking for a shining example of a district-wide program that demonstrates how it’s done,” Mark Chandler, the commission’s executive director, said. “With this grant we hope to be that example.”

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With appropriate justice, Lodi grapes are now in demand. “They give wines with ripe, varietal expression,” said Mary Sullivan, one of Sebastiani’s winemakers. “Lodi grapes offer a lot of quality for the dollar,” Frank Cabral, the buyer at Sutter Home, told me. “The climate there gives grapes with better balance than you’ll find elsewhere in the Central Valley. The growers are enthusiastic about what Mother Nature provides. They’ve been willing to adapt. It’s thanks to Lodi fruit that we can sell good wine at a good price.” The irony is that very few California wines show a Lodi identity

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on the label, despite the important role the region now plays. That’s partly because Lodi lost its own wineries in the 1960s and 1970s; those since installed in the region buy grapes from elsewhere to use with Lodi fruit. Wineries in other areas buy Lodi fruit to supplement their local grapes. In all these cases the concern is to build brand identities rather than geographic appellations. But as Ed Hughes, grower relations manager for Cook’s winery, says: “The Lodi Viticultural Area might get little recognition from the consumer, but it gets a lot of respect from the industry.” Cook’s uses predominantly Lodi fruit for its varietal wines even though they carry only a California appellation. Among the wines from a few small vineyard-wineries to watch for are Peirano Estate, producing Zinfandel from what is said to be the largest single block of old, head-trained, natural-rooted Zinfandel vines in the state; and The Lucas Winery, the vineyard and winery of David Lucas, the man otherwise in charge of Robert Mondavi’s statewide grower relations programs. Lucas, too, makes only a Zinfandel from what he describes as his “frugally yielding” sixty-five-year-old vines. There is Lodi fruit in more brands of California wine than anyone might imagine. Apart from Cook’s varietals, it is most in evidence in August Sebastiani Country varietals—the Cabernet Franc in this series is 60 percent Lodi and very good—and in Robert Mondavi’s Woodbridge Wines. In the Woodbridge series, the Zinfandel, the Sauvignon Blanc, and the Cabernet Sauvignon all have more than 60 percent Lodi fruit, and their Lodi character really shows. You could call it their x factor. Originally published as “Lodi: A California Renaissance” in Gourmet, January 1996. By 2009, the Lodi AVA had in excess of 70,000 acres of varietal grapes, of which 18,800 were Zinfandel, 13,560 Chardonnay, 11,270 Cabernet Sauvignon, and 7,500 Merlot. Woodbridge, along with the rest of the Robert Mondavi enterprise, is now part of Constellation Brands, who also own the Lodi facility formerly owned and operated by Sebastiani.

mount veeder Vines among the Redwoods

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corner of my wine cellar that is especially awkward to reach is reserved for bottles that can be forgotten for a while. I rummage there from time to time and, on occasion, surprise myself. Last Christmas I found some 1971 Château Doisy-Védrines, a Sauternes that I must have put there twenty years ago. It was delicious. And in the spring I came across a bottle of Mount Veeder Winery’s 1979 Cabernet Sauvignon. In the late 1970s, when the superfluous tannins in many California Cabernet Sauvignons were a matter of controversy, Mount Veeder Winery was managing to get it right—the tannins were big but ripe and in balance with the scale of the wine. (This hadn’t made Mount Veeder Cabernet Sauvignons any easier to appreciate when they were young, but it does explain why I would have put a bottle of it to one side while not wasting space on many another.) I had lamb shanks braising in the oven with a little garlic, rosemary, and lemon zest. The aroma was compelling, and I wanted something to drink that I would enjoy just as unreservedly. I wasn’t disappointed: That 1979 Cabernet Sauvignon was superb. It had a royal color, a sweetly comforting bouquet, and a texture of old velvet. The red wines of Mount Veeder—the appellation itself, not just the winery—have a reputation for being stubborn when young and idiosyncratic when mature, but I have yet to taste one that was boring. In his book Making Sense of California Wine, Matt Kramer writes, “Against more polished but less site-specific Cabernets, [Mount Veeder’s] very 235

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character sets them uncomfortably apart, like a wild fish in a school of tank-raised trout.” Maybe so; but they are mountain wines and they need time. Those who have patience are usually as well rewarded as I was. Rising to an altitude of almost twenty-seven hundred feet, Mount Veeder is part of the Mayacamas coastal range separating Napa and Sonoma valleys. The word “mount” suggests a smooth-sided cone—a California Fuji, if you will—but through the merging of school and fire districts many years ago, the area defined as Mount Veeder now includes many contiguous hillsides, valleys, and canyons known collectively until World War II as the Napa Redwoods. Lying on the east side—the Napa side—of the divide, most of this area is still untamed. Madrone, fir, oak, and redwood give cover to deer, coyote, mountain lions, and black bear, while eagles soar above. But scattered through it—sometimes on isolated slopes carefully protected from erosion, more often on even steeper, terraced hillsides, and occasionally on small, flat shelves of land from which one can look down precipitously toward a distant San Francisco Bay—are more than a thousand acres of vineyards significant for the distinctive style and quality of the wine they produce. The wines of Mount Veeder are so characteristic of themselves, in fact, that the region is now an officially defined viticultural area within the larger one of Napa Valley. “The wines up here have always had strong character,” says Brother Timothy, winemaster for fifty years at the Christian Brothers’s Mont La Salle winery. “They were more concentrated than valley wines. We could always recognize Mount Veeder grapes just by tasting them and comparing them with any others that came into the winery.” Bob Travers of Mayacamas Vineyards, the most venerable winery on the mountain, is himself a producer of quintessential Mount Veeder wines: unyielding in youth, slow to evolve, and imposingly grand in their prime. He describes the mountain’s wines as intense but never showy. They have an unruly element: In the fruit of the young red wines there is a reminder of the hedgerow briar rather than the cultivated berry patch. “Even Chardonnay grown here has depth and character,” Travers

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says. “It takes on, with time, an opulence one wouldn’t have expected from tasting it when it was young and angular.”

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A Captain Stalham Wing (about whom little is known) planted the first vines on Mount Veeder, in what is now called Wing Canyon, before 1860. The descendants of others who planted vines soon after him, most of them immigrants of German origin, still live on the mountain. And many vineyards established there in the 1880s—a boom decade for Napa Valley, as vineyards expanded from three thousand to twenty thousand acres within the decade—flourish still, despite the ravages of phylloxera at the turn of the last century and the even worse depredations of Prohibition. Some vineyards have come, gone, and come again, however, and all have passed through the hands of several owners. The Hess Collection, for example, which is presently Mount Veeder’s largest winery, is really the continuum of a vineyard first planted in 1862. With adjustments to boundaries and buildings, this site has been both the Theodore Gier Winery, one of the most important in California in the years before Prohibition, and the Mont La Salle estate of Christian Brothers. Mayacamas Vineyards started life in the 1880s when John Fisher, doubtless following the Napa trend, built a stone winery, still in use, on the rim of an extinct volcano and planted vines on surrounding land where he had previously grazed sheep. These vineyards and wineries were no mere adjuncts to mainstream activity in the valley below. At Castle Rock, a winery preserved on Mount Veeder though no longer operating as such, Rudolf Jordan was the first in California to experiment commercially with low-temperature fermentation (he pumped cold water through a coiled pipe plunged into the fermenting juice), using selected (as opposed to indigenous) yeast. In the account of his work submitted to a local publication in 1912, Jordan wrote: “By the addition of pure yeast to start a fermentation, as well as by the cooling of all fermenting musts, a product can be obtained that is superior to that made in the old ‘let alone’ way.” Jordan explained that fermentation at low temperatures preserved the alcohol in the wine,

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precipitated sharp tartaric acid in crystal form, and checked the formation of volatile acidity, all of which combined to give “wine [that] tastes smoother and more pleasant.” He introduced, in fact, controlled fermentation—a turning point for California. Mount Veeder Winery, which produced the 1979 Cabernet Sauvignon I enjoyed last spring with my braised lamb shank, does not have its roots in an earlier era. In 1964 Michael and Arlene Bernstein bought a small farmhouse on Mount Veeder Road that was attached to a fifteen-acre prune-plum orchard. At the time they had nothing more in mind than to use the house as a weekend retreat, although Michael, a Philadelphia lawyer transplanted to San Francisco, was already a wine enthusiast and knew something of the area’s grape-growing history. “When I first came to California,” he told me, “I drank Cabernet Sauvignon and Barbera from Louis Martini’s Monte Rosso vineyard up on the Mayacamas ridge. Martini explained on every back label why grapes grown on hillsides give better wine, and the argument stuck in my head. Then in 1960 we answered an advertisement directed at anyone interested in making a small investment in a winery. It turned out to be Mayacamas Vineyards. The estate was being revived by Jack and Mary Taylor, who had bought it in 1941. Encouraged by my bit of learning about the superiority of hillside grapes, we bought twenty shares at ten dollars apiece. This entitled us to attend regular shareholder meetings at which much wine was consumed and even more sold to the shareholders with a 20 percent discount. It certainly stoked my interest in the viticultural possibilities of the Mayacamas.” When the Bernsteins bought the orchard, the farmer—getting on in years and wanting to wind down—showed them what to do with the plum trees. But they soon began putting in a few vines, just for fun. “By 1968 we were pulling out trees and planting four or five hundred vines a year—hard work because we did it all ourselves on weekends. Then I took a year’s leave of absence from the Federal Trade Commission, and we moved up here.” Their idea was to sell the grapes, just as they’d sold fruit to the plum

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driers. But in 1970 they began to make a little wine for their own consumption and by the following year they were hooked. The Bernsteins raised some cash, put up a simple wood-faced building, and had the first crush in 1973. “I never did go back to the Federal Trade Commission. We released the 1973 vintage in 1976, having already introduced into the vineyard a little of all the other classic Bordeaux varieties—Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Malbec, and Petit Verdot—to soften the rigor of the Cabernet Sauvignon. We also planted some Zinfandel. But, as we tasted our young wines, we realized that the mountain itself, not the variety, was the determining factor in each of them.” The wines had power and intense flavor as a matter of course, they found, regardless of what the variety was, but their concentrated tannins often obscured all else. The next step was to learn to work with those tannins, and even to modify them, without losing or weakening the qualities that gave the Cabernet Sauvignon, in particular, its personality. “I did what the French usually do in such circumstances. Starting with the 1976 vintage, I fined the wine with plenty of fresh egg whites to reduce the tannins—they attach themselves to the protein and sink to the bottom of the barrel—while leaving everything else intact and, in fact, more attractively revealed than before.”

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Up the hill, meanwhile, the Taylors had sold Mayacamas Vineyards to Robert and Elinor Travers. Travers, a man with a tradition of farming on both sides of his family, had decided three years earlier to quit his job with an investment bank and get back to the land. He wanted a vineyard where he could grow grapes and make a wine with character, one distinctive enough to be recognized as the product of a single estate. Mayacamas Vineyards, two thousand feet above the Napa Valley floor, was the first property he looked at, and eventually, after visiting more than a hundred others throughout the world, it was the one he settled on.

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“Our vineyards,” he told me when I visited him last March, my interest in Mount Veeder having been stimulated anew by that splendid 1979, “are among the highest on the mountain, from eighteen hundred to twenty-four hundred feet—well above the morning fog. In fact, most vines on Mount Veeder have sunlight all day, yet it doesn’t get too hot here because of breezes straight off the bay; temperatures rarely go into the nineties. An inversion—our cool air flows down to the valley, their warm air rises here—keeps us temperate at night, too. Because the vines are rarely shut down, whether from heat or cold, our wines have great intensity and concentration when compared with others from Napa.” Travers studied geology—his brother teaches it at Cornell—and he talks confidently of the compressed volcanic ash and pyroclastic rocks on Mount Veeder. Other specialists, too, explain the contribution of volcanic debris to the character of these wines: The shallow depth of topsoil over bedrock, allied to the steep topography, allows no more than negligible reserves of water to accumulate, even though, due to a quirk in the way moisture-laden air passes over the Mayacamas range, Mount Veeder has almost double the average annual rainfall of the valley floor. On the lower slopes, there is more clay (which increases the tannic element in a wine), and in some of the valleys—Wing Canyon, for instance—there are pockets of flint and gravelly loam that contribute to the wines’ elegance. This same low level of nutrients can be found in the volcanic debris throughout the area, and that keeps crop levels down. “We average about a ton and a half of fruit an acre from our Cabernet Sauvignon vines,” Bob Travers told me. “And we get half that from our Chardonnay.” On the richer soils of the Napa Valley floor growers commonly get four tons to the acre. The Bernsteins sold Mount Veeder Winery in 1983, and it is now associated with the Franciscan Winery of Rutherford. Agustin Huneeus, one of the partners there, reiterated the shared wisdom regarding the Mount Veeder appellation: “The wines are much more dense than those produced in the valley; in fact, their concentration is often used to give

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a boost to blends. Some of Napa Valley’s best Cabernet Sauvignons are as successful as they are because of the inclusion of a small proportion of Mount Veeder grapes. The tannins in Mount Veeder wines must, however, be managed judiciously. If you go too far in trying to control them, you will lose the best of what the wines have to offer. You have to find a way of working with the tannins, not against them.” Every grower on the mountain has his own way of doing that. Michael Bernstein gently peeled some of the tannins away with his egg whites. Robert Travers, having made sure that the grape tannins are fully ripe before picking, gives the wine long aging in wood before bottling— eighteen months in thousand-gallon oval oak casks followed by a year in conventional sixty-gallon barrels—to allow the tannins time to resolve themselves before gradually merging, in bottle, into the wine’s textured depths. Bill Jenkins, of Wing Canyon Vineyard (an organic winery—even the energy he uses is generated most of the year only by sun and wind), approaches the problem differently. He ferments his crushed grapes in small, shallow bins—there’s little room for more than a barrel of wine in each, if that—allowing for maximum contact between the cap of skins and the juice. When the cap is spread out over the contents of a small container, it’s easier to punch down the skins frequently and extract the color and flavor quickly. Jenkins runs the juice off into barrel just before the fermentation has finished, usually after no more than six days. “That last remnant of unfermented sugar,” he told me, “is converted in the barrel and generates a little carbon dioxide to keep the new wine fresh.” I don’t know what the carbon dioxide does for his wine, but it seems to me that the important effect of his technique is to control the presence and quality of his wines’ tannins. Tannins are more easily extracted from grape skins in the presence of alcohol, so if the new wine and the spent skins are separated as soon as the fermentation is complete—or even a little before the maximum level of alcohol is attained—then the tannins in the wine are more efficiently controlled and the harshest tannins, the last to be released into the wine, can

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be avoided altogether. Bill Jenkins produces wines at Wing Canyon in which he has infused the natural power and distinction of Mount Veeder with an extraordinary grace. Jenkins manages the cap of skins—the source of tannins and therefore the key to controlling them—literally with hands on. Randle Johnson, at the Hess Collection, and Tony Sargent, at Rubissow-Sargent, also focus their attention on the cap, but each handles it in a different way. “We have worked at finding a way to extract what we need without overmanipulating the cap,” Johnson told me. He has developed a technique that translates Jenkins’s palm-of-the-hand in a large bucket to the circumstances of a high-volume winery. “We use gentle air pressure to drive an automatic system of punching down the skins,” Johnson told me. “Even so, we watch the maturity of the tannins in our grapes before picking so that they will contribute to the texture of the wines and, contrary to what is usually expected of tannins, contribute to their suppleness.” Tony Sargent, a biophysicist by training and experience and the partner at Rubissow-Sargent responsible for fermentation, is eclectic in his cap management. He follows the traditional routine of pumping the fermenting wine from the bottom of the vat over the top of the layer of skins. But, instead of allowing the pumped wine to hit the cap fiercely and break it up, he uses a revolving sprinkler to spread the fermenting wine gently over the cap and seep slowly through it. Having extracted his tannins in this way, he fines the wine at a later stage with two or three egg whites to the barrel—about half what would be used in Bordeaux. “We expect the wines to have some snap to them,” he said. “But the place and time to manage what that should be is in the vineyard.” Marketta Fourmeaux, of Château Potelle, also insisted that the real control of tannins takes place in the vineyard. “When the grapes are in balance, we can stand back and interfere minimally in the winemaking. We make picking decisions based on flavor and tannin maturity, trusting our palates more than analysis numbers. Over the years we have

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learned what to expect from each block of vines. This one might always give a rather luscious result, that one might contribute more austerity. “The most important decisions are made during picking. That’s the time when we shape the wine; every subsequent decision flows from what we decide then.” Ms. Fourmeaux takes a fundamentally different tack from all the others. “We give our Cabernet Sauvignon, in particular, a long maceration with the skins—sometimes up to thirty-five days. Inevitably the tannins are both heavy and harsh at first. But, left alone, they polymerize,” she said, referring to the way in which tannins, when massively present, often form heavy molecular chains that taste rounder and eventually fall out of the wine with other sediment. “We rack the wines off their lees by gravity, manipulating them as little as possible. All this takes time, but it’s necessary if the wine is to be pure pleasure, something to enjoy. Without that, we shall have failed.” The growers on the mountain rarely do fail. Even the Zinfandels of such tiny producers as Lori Olds and Linn Brinner at Sky, and Bill Hawley at Random Ridge, are memorable. Of course, almost any Mount Veeder wine can, on occasion, seem too intense, and therefore overly dramatic. But that goes with the territory. Originally published as “Vines Among the Redwoods” in Gourmet, November 1997. Mount Veeder Winery is now owned by Constellation Brands.

anderson valley Gravel and Cobblestones in Arcadia

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ick Grace of Grace Family Vineyards told me over dinner a year or two ago that it’s now easier to find designer silk sheets in Napa Valley’s St. Helena than an ordinary box of nails. But on a recent trip to Burgundy, Grace was astonished to discover that Vosne-Romanée, a wine village known the world over, is as down-home as any other. There’s the butcher, the baker, and the hardware store, and not a designer label in sight. Grace need not have traveled all the way to France: Northwest of St. Helena, in California’s Mendocino County, Anderson Valley is now producing some of the state’s most distinguished sparkling wines, as well as Pinot Noir and Chardonnay with a consistency of style that bespeaks their origin, and there are no designer labels there either. Anderson Valley is wine country with a small c: The annual County Fair and Apple Show and the Labor Day Ice Cream Social (to benefit the volunteer fire department) are still the big events of the year. In the 1970s, Anderson Valley was a refuge from San Francisco, an Arcadia attracting those who wanted to escape the pressures of business and professional life and others who, after years of living in the city’s counterculture, simply wanted space and a breath of air. It was a mix of personalities that led to a specifically Anderson Valley way of looking at life. Some say it had always been so in the valley, a place that once prided itself on speaking Boontling, a local dialect that had sprung, legend has it, from the languages of early settlers (but is really little more than an entertaining collection of words drawn from inspired imagery). 244

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Though only a hundred or so miles north of San Francisco, Anderson Valley seems more remote because getting there—whether from the coast highway or from U.S. 101—means an attentive drive on two-lane roads through difficult terrain. Tightly enclosed on all sides by mountains, about fifteen miles long, and never more than two miles wide, the valley narrows into a canyon formed by the Navarro River just before it escapes into the Pacific. That canyon controls the entry of ocean fog, and Highway 128, the main road through the valley, dipping and turning with every mile, offers not only sudden shifts of perspective but also—and of greater relevance to the winegrowers—significant changes in microclimate from one end to the other. The soil is a mix, in varied proportions, of clay, gravel, and old cobblestone brought down from the mountainsides. As far as its wine goes, the valley is both old and new. There are still productive vines, mostly Zinfandel, planted by Italian immigrants who settled in the 1890s on the sun-struck ridge of hills above the fog line between the valley and the coast. DuPratt, probably the best known of the old vineyards, is still bearing grapes from vines planted in 1916. Local families made wine essentially to meet their own needs, but there was an eager market for any surplus in the logging camps on the Mendocino coast. Some eventually developed small commercial wineries that operated until Prohibition. Sonoma County’s Italian Swiss Colony planted two hundred acres of vines in Anderson Valley just after World War II, but when the fruit failed to ripen to expectation, all plans to continue were dropped. It was some time before anyone tried again, but eventually Donald Edmeades, a Pasadena surgeon, established a vineyard near Philo in 1963. Tony and Gretchen Husch followed in 1971, opening the valley’s first post-Prohibition bonded winery in a disused sheep shed. In 1972 Deron, Donald’s son, opened the Edmeades winery, and the first vines were planted at the site of Allan Green’s Greenwood Ridge Vineyards. Hans and Theresa Kobler established themselves at Lazy Creek Vineyards in 1973, the same year that Ted Bennett and Deborah Cahn founded Navarro Vineyards. These were all pocket-size operations set up, for better or worse, in a

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marginal climate that requires careful viticultural adaptation. Yet many of those involved had arrived with limited experience. It was all of a piece with the valley’s learn-as-you-go, do-it-yourself culture. One can therefore imagine the dismay and excited hostility when news surfaced that the Champagne house of Louis Roederer, the absolute of cosmopolitan sophistication, had been quietly at work for some time selecting and buying land in the valley with the intention of planting vineyards and building a winery there. Jean-Claude Rouzaud, Roederer’s director, chose Anderson Valley for the site of his United States winery in 1982. He was encouraged by the relatively low price of vineyard land but persuaded, in the end, by the valley’s climate. Of all the areas he had visited in California, Anderson Valley had a temperature range that came closest, in his opinion, to that of the Champagne region of France. He moved quickly, discreetly, and with utmost tact. As Roederer began preparing the first acre for planting, it built good housing for those it hoped to employ in the vineyard and the winery, showing a concern for the future workers’ comfort and welfare that took the valley by surprise and calmed much of the very vocal opposition. The design of the winery was entrusted to Jacques Ullman, a FrenchAmerican architect alive to the needs of the valley and to the feelings of those who lived there. He was one of them: For years he has kept a cabin in the hills for his family’s summer use. For the most part, he built Roederer’s winemaking facilities from local wood and set them deep into the hillside. All that can be seen from the road, in any case, is an unobtrusive stretch of roofline punctuated by gables made of Mendocino redwood. While Roederer’s physical presence in the valley has been lowkey—except for its name at the gate, the winery avoids calling attention to itself—the influence of its winemaker, Michel Salgues, has had a galvanizing effect. “A good neighbor,” is the way Milla Handley of Handley Cellars summed him up. Associated for years with the Institut National de la Recherche Agronomique, Salgues taught in Montpellier

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at France’s leading school of viticulture and enology before Rouzaud, in 1986, put him in charge of Roederer’s new enterprise. Friendly, unassuming, and a natural teacher, Salgues, who is now also Roederer’s V.P. of production, has kept an open door from the moment he arrived, giving the valley’s growers and winemakers—many of them then still fumbling at a new vocation in a difficult environment—free and limitless access. Always in jeans and work shirt, Salgues made it clear from the start that he was not just passing through. His youngest daughter was enrolled at a local school and he began giving free, informal French lessons once a week at what is now Lauren’s Café, the valley’s social hub in Boonville. Whole families turned up regularly to make an evening of it. In truth, the valley was fascinated by Salgues, and he was fascinated by the valley. “I began to understand America,” he told me several years ago, soon after I first met him, “when a school friend of my daughter’s was admiring our piano. I asked her if she could play. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t tried.’ ” There can be no doubt that Roederer’s reputation lent Anderson Valley sparkling wines immediate credibility. In fact, the market could well have assumed that the refinement of Roederer Estate’s initial releases was dependent less on the particularities of Anderson Valley than on the transfer of skills from Roederer in France. That is, had Handley Cellars and Scharffenberger Cellars, established at about the same time as Roederer, not proved otherwise. The marvel was that all three managed to produce, from the outset, sparkling wines compelling for their distinction (each house has its individual style) yet with common characteristics that helped define elegance, fragrance, and discreet power as qualities inherent in Anderson Valley wines.

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As I drove up to Anderson Valley from San Francisco last September, I realized it had been several years since I’d been there. I’d been invited, along with three other wine writers, to lunch with the valley’s winemakers at the Schmitt family’s Apple Farm and taste a selection of wines.

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Sally and Don Schmitt had been proprietors of The French Laundry in Yountville, Napa Valley, for many years before selling it to chef Thomas Keller and moving to their apple farm in Anderson Valley in 1994. The evenings I spent at their Yountville restaurant were among my most memorable in California. “The table is yours for the evening,’ ” Don would say as one arrived. If the weather was fine, there was every reason to take a walk through Yountville before dessert, or a last glass of wine in the pretty cottage garden while admiring the moon. “I simply cook for The French Laundry’s guests as I cook for a dinner party at home,” Sally Schmitt once told me. There is no restaurant at the Apple Farm, but Sally gives cooking lessons there and occasionally prepares lunch or dinner for a special group. Our tasting began with two flights of sparkling wines, five bruts of various vintages and then an assortment of five more—this time Blanc de Blancs, rosés, and crémants. Sally offered us plates of freshly baked cheese biscuits. Our tasting brought out the house differences very well. I noticed that although Scharffenberger Cellars seems to have lost some of its momentum since the departure of John Scharffenberger (who now makes fine chocolate) in 1994, the winery’s Pacific Echo Blanc de Blancs ’95 still shows the steely edge for which his wines were most appreciated. The Handley and Roederer wines (there were three from each) revealed quite clearly their opposing house styles. Handley’s is brisk, focused, and as lustrous as a diamond, while Roederer Estate’s is layered and creamy—the wine always gives me the feeling that there’s more to discover in the next sip. The differences stem from both practical and philosophical divergences in winemaking. For a start, Milla Handley, for her brut, sticks to the traditional proportions of black and white grapes used in most cuvées assembled in France: roughly two thirds black to one third white. “Pinot Noir gives life to my wine,” she says. “I use Chardonnay to add length and weight.” Roederer’s Michel Salgues reverses those proportions. “Chardon-

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nay,” he says, “gives our wine its elegance, subtlety, and finesse. Pinot Noir adds strength and structure. In California, grapes ripen more easily than in France, so it’s not difficult to get the strength and flavor we need. It is not so easy to retain the fruit’s elegance and subtlety. This can change, of course, but that’s why, for now, I use a greater proportion of Chardonnay.” Other key differences concern the way in which the components of each blend are brought into harmony. Milla Handley allows all her Chardonnay to go through a complete malolactic fermentation—the transformation of harsh malic acid into milder lactic acid—before bringing it into the blend. Michel Salgues uses malolactic fermentation far less. But he uses Roederer’s technique of introducing older wines to his blend to round it out, to soften the bite, and contribute to its finesse— that impression of unfolding endlessly. “Ten to 20 percent of the volume comes from these reserves of older wines. They help impose a continuity of style from year to year, of course, but they also give the wine depth.”

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We all enjoyed the sparkling wines, and the early reserve at the Apple Farm was breaking down by the time we turned our attention to a few Gewürztraminers and a Provençal onion tart. Because of the cool climate of Anderson Valley, Donald Edmeades had included Gewürztraminer among the varieties he introduced there in 1963, and Navarro first attracted wide attention because of its success with it. Those we tasted—1997s from Navarro and Husch, 1998s from Handley and Lazy Creek—were attractive wines. But none compared with the mouth-filling 1997 Edmeades that I had stopped to taste on my arrival in the valley. The acreage of both Gewürztraminer and Riesling has slipped in recent years, so it’s heartening to hear that the V. Sattui Winery of Napa Valley has recently acquired land in Anderson Valley and intends to plant sixteen acres of each. Most of the lost Riesling acreage has gone to Chardonnay—needed for the production of sparkling wines, quite apart from meeting demand

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for this ever-popular varietal. We were offered a half dozen from the 1996, 1997, and 1998 vintages to try with platters of smoked shrimp and roasted red peppers. The wines were delicious; but more than that, every one of them was an expression of place. Their lemony fruit and firm but delicate texture were pure Anderson Valley. I was particularly impressed by the elegance of the 1997 Navarro Reserve and the shimmering brilliance of the 1997 Handley Estate.

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Chardonnay in the Anderson Valley is now overshadowed by the production of Pinot Noir. There are now almost a thousand acres of Pinot Noir, close to double the area of fifteen years ago, and the acreage is likely to double again in an even shorter time. Many of the new vineyards have been planted with cuttings of vines developed at the French government research station at Dijon, in Burgundy. Van Williamson, the winemaker at Edmeades, and formerly at Greenwood Ridge, told me that the first of them arrived in the valley with Roederer, and Michel Salgues made budwood available to anyone who wanted it. “It was a stimulating time,” he said. “We began to get new ideas.” “I still like the Pinot Noir we already had,” he went on. “But our future is with the new kind of vines. They allow us to pick at riper flavors. When I first came to the valley, everyone was keen to pick early to control the sugar levels, but the flavors weren’t developed.” The Dijon clones—some are good for color or power, others for aroma and flavor—have the advantage of ripening earlier and at lower sugar levels than the California clones. This lets winemakers avoid the dilemma of having to decide between flavor and lower alcoholic strength. “A Dijon grape is beginning to reach its full flavor at 22 Brix,” Bruce Regalia, general manager and winemaker at Goldeneye, told me. Goldeneye, a new winery financed by the investors behind Duckhorn Vineyards in Napa Valley, is devoted to Pinot Noir. “You’d have to allow a much higher Brix,” he said, “to get a grape of one of the California clones to reach the same flavor intensity.” The new mix of clones and the

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different approaches they make possible (quite apart from the increasing confidence of the valley’s winegrowers) have contributed to the growing success of the wines of recent vintages.

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Pinot Noir was the climax of our tasting and dominated it as much as it does the valley itself. With some pan-roasted duck breasts, we set to work on eight Pinot Noirs of the 1997 and 1998 vintages, and five more of the 1995 and 1996. Of the older wines, I thought the 1996 Handley Estate Reserve and the 1996 Edmeades outstanding: the Handley for its verve and its softly complex aroma and flavor, and the Edmeades for its impressive color, power, and concentration. Of the younger wines, the elegantly stylish 1997 Goldeneye was easily everyone’s favorite. To my taste, the Pepperwood Springs Estate ’97, though quite different, was its equal. But it was a controversial wine with an earthy, woodsy aroma lurking behind its bold Pinot Noir front. Those who like the clean, straightforward fruit more typical of California denounced it rather heatedly as a flawed wine. But then there are those who can look at an El Greco painting and see only the artist’s alleged astigmatism. Originally published as “California’s Arcadia: Anderson Valley” in Gourmet, February 2000. Michel Salgues, now retired, has returned to France. His replacement is Arnaud Weyrich, who also trained at Montpellier and previously worked under Salgues at Roederer Estate. Scharffenberger is now associated with Roederer Estate. Of the twenty-two hundred acres of vines in Anderson Valley, twelve hundred are now Pinot Noir.

rutherford The Heart of Napa Valley

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omeone with a sense of irony had decided to hold the first major press tasting of Rutherford’s 2007 Cabernet Sauvignons on Bastille Day. And at Rubicon Estate, no less. We sat expectantly at a long table in one of the winery’s reception rooms, the first flight of a dozen wines in a semicircle of glasses in front of each of us. Peter Granoff, wine director of Ferry Plaza Wine Merchants in San Francisco, gave us a brief introduction, telling us to expect the wines to mark a clear shift away from recent excesses in Cabernet Sauvignon, back toward balance and greater finesse. He was joined by Joel Aiken, formerly with Beaulieu Vineyard and now a partner in Meander Cellars, who said “2007 was a year when nature helped us get things right, with ripe tannins, chaste structure, and a good balance of acidity and sugars. We didn’t have to interfere with the fruit we were given. All we had to do was insure that a controlled fermentation permitted gentle but perfect extraction of what was there.”

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Aiken’s point was well taken. In 2007, conditions in Rutherford, at the heart of Napa Valley, were ideal. Though the preceding winter had been cold, it had been dry, with barely 60 percent of normal rainfall, so the soil warmed up quickly, encouraging an early start to budding and bloom. Any year’s crop size is set the year before, but that modest water level seems to have sent a further message to the vines to hold back. Bunches, as they formed, were spare, and berries remained 252

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small, so the potential crop was naturally limited from the start. After a mild and uneventful summer, a brief spell of warm temperatures in early September gave the sugars a much-needed boost. Temperatures quickly cooled down again, and in the second week of October there was just enough rain to insure that the vines, under slight water stress throughout the season, would bring the fruit smoothly to full maturity. “It’s always a plus to have an even growing season and no drama,” Kristen Belair Honig, of Honig Vineyards, told me. “The result in 2007 is Cabernet Sauvignon of elegance and refinement.” Certainly, all of the circumstances seemed to be the opposite of those just ten years before, in 1997, when an early harvest of overripe grapes with high sugars had given wines of massive uniformity. It had coincided with the culmination of a trend in growing and winemaking. Enthusiasm for the 2007 vintage confirms that a return to normalcy is well under way. Rutherford, at roughly the midway point in Napa Valley, is planted overwhelmingly with Cabernet Sauvignon—3,518 acres (1,424 hectares) at the last count, compared with 305 acres (123 hectares) of Sauvignon Blanc, the second-largest grape-variety acreage. Historically, it has been the epicenter of Cabernet Sauvignon production in the valley, with Beaulieu Vineyard and Inglenook (now Rubicon Estate) both established there in the nineteenth century. Its wines are perhaps less nuanced than those of Stags Leap District, the other Napa Valley AVA of similar renown, but they are more expressive and more muscular. Comparisons between Napa Valley and the Médoc are best avoided (though inevitable, given that both express themselves through the medium of Cabernet Sauvignon), but I sometimes think that Rutherford is to Stags Leap District what Pauillac is to Saint-Julien. Such comparisons are invidious, of course, and difficult to make in Napa Valley. Some shared characteristics are clear, especially those that mark the wines of Howell Mountain, Spring Mountain, and Mount Veeder. But most other differences among the valley’s sectors are difficult to define, because the distinctions imposed by soil, elevation, and exposure are

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subtle and highly diverse. The principal cause of diversity and, indeed, of the valley’s very existence is the Pacific’s Farallon Plate, slowly sliding under the North American continent. The resulting compressions, eruptions, volcanoes, and faults of the past 150 million years or so are the stuff of geology texts, but over those millions of years, the pressure of this great tectonic meshing created California (the North American continent once ended where California now begins) and, with it, Napa Valley—a muddle of decomposed volcanic debris, old ocean crust, sediment from the Central Valley swept westward by the violent convulsion that produced the Sierra Nevada and Franciscan Formation, described by geologists Jonathan Swinchatt and David G. Howell in their book The Winemaker’s Dance as flotsam and jetsam—and the more recent accumulation of alluvium. There’s nothing in this valley remotely like the immense beds of limestone or tufa, silex, or Kimmeridgian clay that define European wine regions. Our fascination with Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon starts with its multiple environments. The Vaca Mountains, abrupt and often cliff-like, enclosing the valley on its east side, are made up of thick layers of rock that overlap each other like roof tiles sloping toward the north. Here and there their severe barrier is broken by canyons, but despite weathered surface decay, the rock is difficult to penetrate, and growers have often had to dynamite their way to planting vines there, especially at the higher elevations. The Mayacamas, on the west side of the valley, are the result of a giant fold. They catch Pacific rainstorms that, over millennia, have carried debris down to the valley where it has formed the gentle slope of alluvial fans that merge and stretch from the base of the mountains on to the valley floor. The physical composition of fan or vineyard seems to be secondary to its water-holding properties and its particular environment. The Rutherford fan, like others, has particular qualities, and its vineyards, through their wines, display a range of characteristics that together define the AVA. While most think of Rutherford’s key mid-valley position in terms of temperature—not too far up the valley to be too warm,

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not too near the bay to be too cool—Andy Beckstoffer attributes the particular pertinence of its relation to Cabernet Sauvignon to the quality of Rutherford light, at a point where the valley is still wide and open before starting to narrow markedly at St. Helena. It is light (energy), after all, that is the chief factor of transformation in a vine and of singular importance for Cabernet Sauvignon. (There’s an old saying in Bordeaux that the best Médoc vineyards are those that can see the Gironde estuary—that is, those most exposed to its reflected light.) But whatever their origin, Rutherford’s “range of qualities” is sometimes condensed into the expression “Rutherford dust.” André Tchelistcheff, for years the iconic winemaker at Beaulieu Vineyard, is said to have applied the expression to Rutherford dirt. But no one is quite sure what he meant by it, and it’s now more often used as an omnibus description intended to convey the impression made by a Rutherford wine—its often somber fruit, its elusive depth of flavor, and the quiet power lurking behind the surface grace of its wines.

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We started on the first twelve wines. Péju was fragrant and light; Monticello’s Tietjen, balanced but still closed; Flora Springs’s Hillside Reserve had an enticing blackcurrant nose, perfect balance, and exquisite finesse; the Sullivan estate wine, with good fruit, supple tannins, and impeccable balance, was one of my favorites of this first flight; another was the Round Pond Estate, with its open fruit, good structure, and hint of chocolate at the close; Frog’s Leap was a very pure expression of Cabernet Sauvignon, though still a little austere; Honig, with good fruit, was more assertive than I had expected from past experience; William Harrison, offered as a Bordeaux blend, showed good fruit but, perhaps because of the high proportion of Petit Verdot (29 percent) was clearly out of key with the other wines; Martin Estate’s Collector’s Reserve was another favorite, well proportioned, very Rutherford, nothing showy; Piña, too, was a favorite—an elegant wine yet surprisingly rich, with barely perceptible but very ripe tannins, giving it a velvety quality; Quintessa, another favorite, was bold, its fruit well defined by

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good acidity; Lieff’s Auberge Road Vineyard showed distinctive character behind a fruity facade but was still youthfully tannic. Flora Springs’s Sean Garvey told me that the vineyard from which the family makes the Hillside Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon is one of their most difficult to cultivate. Tucked into the northwest corner of the AVA, it sprawls from its peak at 800 feet (240 meters) down to the valley floor. The combination of steep slope, multiple exposures, and particularly old vines (hence that intense blackcurrant in the wine) is so difficult to handle that they were almost ready to give it up. Garvey said the 2007 vintage has saved it; they are so excited by the wine’s fruit, structure, and complexity that they now have a manager devoted to the vineyard’s special needs. The Martin Estate vineyard was replanted in 1996, reviving what had been the ancient H. H. Harris winery, established in 1887 and, though abandoned, is one of the oldest in Rutherford. In reestablishing the vineyard, the Martins used a mix of clones that has contributed as much to the success of their wines as has the favored site of the vineyard.

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A little background on the Cabernet Sauvignon clones used in Napa Valley might be useful at this point. The clone known simply as 8 is currently the most widely planted there. It was developed at the University of California, Davis, from cuttings taken from a vine in Concannon Vineyard in Livermore Valley in 1965 and then released to nurseries for propagation in 1971, just in time for the major extension of vineyards in the valley. It is a reliable, late-maturing clone that gives the grapes plenty of time to develop flavor. It gives a substantial yield and in most years needs green-harvesting. Some growers prefer to mix it with clone  4, developed from cuttings brought to Davis from Mendoza in Argentina in 1964. It was thought then that a vine that had been long separated from Europe would have fewer viruses and present fewer problems. It gives particularly robust and vigorous wines, suited to some tastes but overwhelming if the proportion is high. Clone 6 is something of a jewel among the Cabernet Sauvignon clones in California. Before Prohibition

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closed down the experimental work barely started by the enology and viticulture department of the University of California (at that time still part of the Berkeley campus), Eugene Hilgard, its chairman, had set up experimental vineyards to test grape varieties and cultivation methods suitable for the varied conditions of California. One of them, at Jackson in the Sierra Foothills, was abandoned when the university was compelled to stop research into wine grapes. It was “found” again in 1963 and, though overgrown and in a neglected state, researchers took cuttings from a Cabernet Sauvignon vine they found there and brought it back to Davis for testing and possible propagation. It’s thought the original cuttings planted at Jackson had come from Château Margaux. At any rate, the cuttings, made available to growers in 1969, gave wine remarkable for its deep color, intense aroma, and concentrated flavor allied to remarkable elegance and finesse. Its yields, alas, were small and barely economic. Though many growers planted it to add further personality to their wines, few could consider it as their principal clone. One of the largest plantings of it is in Andy Beckstoffer’s George III vineyard in Rutherford. (Anthony Bell, another alumnus of Beaulieu Vineyard but now proprietor of Bell Winery, makes a Cabernet Sauvignon that is pure clone 6, bought from Beckstoffer’s George III vineyard. The 2007 is a superb wine, delicious and astonishing in every way. To me, it is the apotheosis of Rutherford and Cabernet Sauvignon.) Lastly, there is clone 337, a recent arrival in Napa Valley from Bordeaux, in increasing favor for the much-prized, classic elegance of its wine. At Martin Estate, where I was before this digression on clones, there is no clone 8. Instead, the vineyard is about one third clone 337, and the rest is clone 4 and clone 6. Knowing this combination of Cabernet Sauvignon clones in the vineyard certainly helps understand the wine. Charles Thomas, the winemaker at Quintessa, described 2007 as a classic year for Cabernet Sauvignon. He told me that the short heat spell in early September was of little consequence to them, but the cool weather during the rest of the month and into October preserved in their fruit a bright, almost floral aroma supported by a fresh acidity.

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Quintessa is mostly Cabernet Sauvignon, with a little Cabernet Franc and, surprisingly, a touch of Carmenère—owners Agustin and Valeria Huneeus hail from Chile.

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The table at Rubicon Estate was reset, and we continued with the second flight of wines: Sawyer, another favorite, also showed good acidity in support of its intense fruit; Slaughterhouse, another fruit-driven wine but richer and even voluptuous (but then it was from a blend of clones 337 and 6, with a touch of violet-scented Cabernet Franc); Rutherford Grove, bright fruit, light texture, elegantly crafted; Provenance, concentrated, with smooth tannins and acidity well tucked in; Hewitt, sweet fruit, round and supple; Tres Sabores, impeccable, perfect balance, complete; Long Meadow Ranch, an expansive wine, but as is often the case with wines from organically grown grapes, in youth it is a little severe; Meander, another favorite, peppery on the nose, with good firm structure based on ripe tannins; Beaulieu Vineyard’s Georges de Latour, pure elegance, muted and complex fruit on the nose, and silky tannins on the palate; Rubicon Estate, another elegant wine but riper and more luscious than the Beaulieu; and Staglin, kept for last for good reason—ripe fruit, well-integrated tannins, a hint of oak, complete and stately. After the set flights, I was also able to taste the Bell Cabernet Sauvignon, described above; Whitehall Lane’s Millennium MM Vineyard, supple and graceful but showing, at present, a little too much oak; John Robert Eppler, another vibrant wine in which the fruit is well supported by fresh acidity; MCG Cellars’s Scarlett, all fruit and grace; Sequoia Grove, elegantly balanced, its dark-fruit tones backed by supple and discreet tannins; and DR Stephens’s Walther River Block Cabernet Sauvignon, a superb wine, with an intense blackcurrant nose and a long finish that seemed to unfold endlessly on the palate. Brad Warner of Sawyer Cellars told me he picked his 2007 almost vine by vine on taste alone, virtually ignoring the sugar. He was more concerned with acidity levels and skin ripeness. When I read the note he

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sent me, I was reminded of what I had been told years ago by the régisseur of Château Pichon Longueville Comtesse de Lalande in Pauillac. “To check whether grapes are ready,” he said, “I squeeze out the juice to avoid being distracted by the sugar. Then I just chew the skin.” Jeffrey Stambor of Beaulieu Vineyard told me that for Georges de Latour they have gone back to using an old-fashioned basket press, too, to avoid undue pressure. I remembered how impressed I had been by the Georges de Latour’s muted complexity and silky tannins and understood the impression they had made. Fredrik Johansson, of Staglin Family Vineyard, summed up the vintage by emphasizing yet again the small berry size that had allowed for good extraction of color and flavor without undue rigor. “In every decision I make,” he said, “however small, if there is a choice, I always go in the direction of elegance rather than power.” This year, particularly, that seems to have been true of every winemaker in Rutherford. Originally published as “Rutherford 2007 Cabernet Sauvignon” in The World of Fine Wine, Issue 29, 2010.

index

Abd ar-Rahman, 64 Abtsberg, 143 Acacia Vineyard, 203–4 acidity, 62, 138, 224; adjustments to, 73, 231; Carneros grapes, 195, 200; Edna Valley grapes, 224; in red wines, 93, 152, 163, 178; in white wines, 20, 35, 90, 105, 138, 140, 141, 158 age and aging, 24, 61, 138; Brunellos, 145, 150–51; Chablis, 72–73; Cortons, 90–91; Médoc wines, 80; Mercurey Rouge, 30; Mount Veeder wines, 235, 236, 237, 241; Muscadets, 51; Saar and Ruwer wines, 137–38; SaintEmilions, 60–61; sun aging, 99; Vega Sicilia wines, 165; Vouvrays, 17–18, 19, 20. See also barrel fermentation and aging Agnelli family, 85 Aiken, Joel, 252 Albariño grape, 157, 158, 159, 162. See also Rías Baixas Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau (TTB), 192 alcohol content, 62, 138, 250 Alderson, Bradley, 231

Alexander Valley, 174, 175 Alicante-Bouschet, 226, 229 Aligoté, 23, 25 Aligoté Doré, 31–32 Alión, 166, 168 All Saints Day, in Tuscany, 148 Altesino, 152, 153, 154 Alvarez, Pablo, 164, 166 Alvarez family, 166, 167; Alión wines, 166, 168; Tokays, 167, 168, 169. See also Vega Sicilia Ambonnay, 107, 112 American Viticultural Areas (AVAs), 184–85, 192, 193, 229; consumer and label recognition, 191, 192, 213, 222, 234; variety-site affinities, 185–86, 190. See also specific AVAs Amerine, Maynard, 223; WinklerAmerine study, 217, 223 Anderson (S.) Vineyard, 201 Anderson Valley, 244–51; Chardonnays, 249–50; geography, soils, and climate, 245, 246, 249; grape varieties and acreage, 244, 245, 249–51; history and setting, 244–47; map, 172; Pinot Noirs, 250–51; pioneering growers,

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262 Anderson Valley (continued) 245–46; Roederer estate, 246–47, 248–49, 250, 251; sparkling wines, 244, 246–47, 248–49; tasting at Apple Farm, 247–50, 251; typical wine characteristics, 247; vineyard practices, 250–51; winemaking methods, 249 Andrillat, Jean-Pierre, 44–45 Anjou, 16 Anselmi, Roberto, 131–34, 135 Antinori, 146 appellations: Bordeaux classifications and, 59; impacts on growers, 27–28, 98. See also American Viticultural Areas; specific regions and appellations Argentine Cabernet Sauvignon clone, 256 Athimon, Claude, 49 Auberge Road Vineyard, 256 Au Bon Climat, 214 Ausonius, 56 Auxerrois, 67, 68. See also Chablis AVAs. See American Viticultural Areas Avelsbach, 142 Avize, 107, 110–11 Aÿ, 112 Ayl, 142 Babcock Vineyards, 210 Banfi, 146, 152 Banyuls, 96, 97, 99, 100 Baranek, John, 188–89, 190 Barbera, 176 Baron Herzog Wine Cellars, 192 Barre, Paul, 13 barrel fermentation and aging: Brunello and other Montalcinos, 150–51, 153; Chablis, 70–71, 74–76; Champagne, 110; Côte Chalonnaise whites, 24, 26; Dry Creek Sauvignon Blancs, 179; Edna Valley Chardonnays, 225; malolactic fermentation, 42, 73, 249; Mount Veeder wines, 241; Muscadet, 51, 52–53; Rhône whites, 42, 43–44;

/ Index Saar and Ruwer wines, 141; Soave, 129–30, 133–34; Vega Sicilia, 165, 166 Bartolucci, Buck and Louis, 203–4 Beaujolais, 46–47 Beaulieu Vineyard, 195, 196, 198, 252, 253, 255, 257; Georges de Latour Cabernet, 258, 259 Beaune wine merchants/trade, 23–24 Beckstoffer, Andy, 255, 257 Bedford, Stephan, 214, 215 Belfrage, Nicolas, Life Beyond Lambrusco, 128 Bell, Anthony, 196, 198, 257 Bellerose Vineyard, 178–80, 183 Bell Winery, 257, 258 Bennett, Ted, 245 Beringer Vineyards, 193, 212, 221 Berkowitz, Zach, 199, 205 Bernstein, Arlene and Michael, 238–39, 240, 241 Bettane, Michel, 118 Bettencourt, Boyd, 211 Bien Nacido Vineyards, 214 Biondi-Santi estate, 152, 154; family, 146, 150, 151; wines, 151 Birba, 153 Bischöfliche Weingüter, 142 Blanc de Blancs, first use of term, 109, 111 Blanchot, 71, 72 Bodegas Lan, 161 Bogle, Chris and Warren, 189 Bogle Vineyards, 189 Bohier, Thomas, 17 Boivert, Jean, 83–84 La Bondue, Mercurey, 28 La Bonne Auberge (restaurant, Clisson), 51–52 A Book of French Wines (Shand), 8, 69, 70, 72 Boontling, 244 Bordeaux, 9, 10, 82; grape varieties, 56– 58; notable vintages, 63. See also specific regions, appellations, and estates Bordeaux et Ses Vins (“Féret” ), 10

Index Borgna, Pierluigi, 129–30 Borie, Jacques, 13, 14 Boscaini brothers, 131 botrytis: Edna Valley, 224; Saar and Ruwer, 140–41, 143–44; Sauternes, 224; Tokay, 167, 168, 169; Vouvray, 17 Bouchaine Vineyards, 193–94 Bougros, 71, 72, 73 Bourboulenc, 37, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44–45 Bourgogne Aligoté, 25, 32; Bouzeron, 23, 31–32 Bourgogne Blanc, 23 Bourgogne Grand Ordinaire, 24 Bourgogne Passe-Tout-Grains, 24, 25 Bourgogne Rouge, 23, 31 Bouzeron, 23, 31–32 Bouzy, 112 Brander, Fred, 213–14 Brander Vineyard, 213–14 Braudel, Fernand, The Identity of France, 198, 205 Bréjoux, Pierre, Les Vins de Bourgogne, 21 Les Bressandes, Corton grand cru, 86, 91, 93 Brinner, Linn, 243 Britain, French wines in, 44, 49, 77 Brown, Ken, 206 Brüderberg, 143 Brunello di Montalcino, 145–54; acreage and production limits, 146–47, 152, 154; denominazioni, 149–50, 154; geography and soils, 147, 152; grape varieties, 145–46, 147, 150, 153, 154; history and setting, 145–48; map, 124; producers and tastings, 149, 152–54; Riservas, 145, 150–51, 153, 154; Rosso di Montalcino, 149–50, 151; typical characteristics, 152; vineyard practices, 152; vintages, 145, 153–54; winemaking methods, 150–51, 152–53 Brunello grape, 145–46, 147, 150, 153. See also Brunello di Montalcino Buena Vista Winery, 197 Buján, Pablo, 160

/ 263 Burgundy, 24, 87–88, 200, 209; notable vintages, 86; red wines, 86, 102, 107; white wines, 43. See also specific regions, appellations, and estates Byron Vineyard & Winery, 206, 212, 215 Cabernet Franc, 57, 61; California, 179, 213–14, 215, 234, 239, 258; Fronsac, 11; Médoc, 57, 79, 80, 115, 116; SaintEmilion, 57, 61 Cabernet Sauvignon, 61, 98, 102, 120, 255; Alexander Valley, 174; in Bordeauxstyle blends, 57; California, typical, 178, 235; Carneros, 202; Clarksburg, 191; Dry Creek Valley, 176, 178–81, 182, 183; Edna Valley, 219; Fronsac, 11; Lodi, 226–27, 229, 234; Médoc, generally, 56–57; Montalcino, 153, 154; Mount Veeder, 235, 239, 240, 241, 243; Napa Valley, 185, 241, 253–54; Napa Valley clones, 256–57; outer Médoc, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84; Ribera del Duero, 164–65; Roussillon, 95, 97–98; SaintEmilion, 57–58, 61; Saint-Estèphe, 115, 116–17; Santa Barbara, 209–10, 211, 212, 214, 215; soils for, 80, 81, 116. See also Rutherford Cabernets Cabral, Frank, 233 Caesar, Julius, 37 Cahn, Deborah, 245 Cailbourdin, Alain, 104 caillottes, 102–3 Caiño Blanco, 158 calcium-rich soils, 209. See also chalky soils California: French wines in, 33; geological history, 253–54; soils and climate, 185, 208, 216 California viticulture and winemaking: attitudes about soils, 209; controlled fermentation, 237–38; economics of, 185–86, 195–96, 204, 205, 212; grape prices, 195, 206, 212, 230; impact in Europe, 152; natural

264 California viticulture (continued) pest management, 227; 1980s vineyard consolidations, 212; skin contact, 45, 241–42, 243. See also specific regions, appellations, and estates California wine business, 185, 190, 195, 212; economics of grape growing, 185–86, 195–96, 204, 205, 212; supply and demand, 226 California wine regions: heatsummation zones, 223–24; map, 172; Winkler-Amerine study, 217, 223–24. See also American Viticultural Areas; specific regions and appellations Cal Poly, 216 Calvarino/Calvaire, as vineyard name, 135 Cambria Estate Winery, 212 Canon-Fronsac, 11, 14 canopy management, 197–98 Canterbury Tales (Chaucer), 19 Caparzo, 151, 152, 154 cap management, 241–42 Carignane/Carignan, 98, 226, 229 Carmenère, 258 Carneros, 185, 193–205; acreage, 200; grape varieties, 195, 199–201, 202; history and setting, 193–96; land and grape prices, 195–96, 204, 205; Madonna Vineyard, 203–4; map, 172; Saintsbury, 201; Sangiacomo, 197, 201– 2; soils and growing conditions, 194, 196–97, 198, 200, 203; sparkling wine producers, 199–200, 205; Truchard, 202–3; vineyard practices and yields, 195, 196, 197–99, 202; wine characteristics and distinction, 195, 203, 204–5; wineries, 193–94, 199–200, 203, 205 Carneros Creek Winery, 195, 200–201 Carneros Quality Alliance, 204–5 Carreau, Pierre, 17 Cassagnac, Paul de, French Wines, 16 Castelgiocondo, 152, 153 Castle Rock Vineyard, 237 Cave de Buxy, 30–31  

/ Index Cave de l’Etoile, 99 Cave des Quatre Chemins, 38 Cave La Vigneronne, 44–45 Cazes, Maison, 98–99 Cazes, Bernard, 98–99 Le Central (restaurant), 220 Chablis, 24, 66–76, 89; appellation establishment, 68, 75; Chardonnay in, 68, 75; classification and vineyards, 71–73; geography, soils, and weather, 67–68, 69, 103; history and setting, 67–70; map, 6; production and prices, 68–70, 73–74; typical wine characteristics, 70, 71–73; vintages, 73–74; winemaking methods, 70–71, 73, 74–76 “Chablis,” outside France, 66, 189 La Chablisienne, 74–75 chalky soils, 87, 96, 209; Bordeaux, 60–61, 80, 116; Chablis, 67–68, 103; Champagne, 222–23; Montalcino, 147; Roussillon, 96; Santa Barbara, 209 Chalone Vineyards, 215, 219–20, 225 Chalon-sur-Saône, 23 Champagne, 107–13, 200, 246; Champagne houses in California, 199–200, 205, 246–47, 248–49, 250, 251; grape varieties and blends, 107–8, 109; history, 107, 109; map, 6; soils, 222–23; viticulture and winemaking, 110, 111, 112; wines and growers, 108–13 Chandler, Mark, 233 Chandon de Briailles, 86, 90, 91, 92–93 Chapman, Joseph, 207 Chaptal, Jean-Antoine, 35 chaptalization, 35–36, 73 Chardonnay, 209; Alexander Valley, 174; Anderson Valley, 244, 248– 49, 249–50; California, generally, 66, 133–34, 200, 222; Carneros, 185, 195, 199–200, 201, 202; in Champagne, 108, 109, 113; Clarksburg, 191– 92; Corton-Charlemagne, 88; Côte Chalonnaise, 23, 25–26, 27; Davis 108

Index clone, 200; Dry Creek Valley, 175, 181, 183; Edna Valley, 219–21, 224–25; Lodi, 226–27, 229, 234; Montalcino, 154; Mount Veeder, 236–37; Napa Valley, 185; Roussillon, 95, 98; Russian River Valley, 174; Santa Barbara, 206, 209, 210, 213, 214, 215; Soave, 132– 33. See also Chablis Charlemagne, Emperor, 10, 88 Charlemagne wines and vineyards, 88, 89. See also Corton-Charlemagne Charles Martel, 64, 88 Charloux, Guy, 85 Charmolüe, Anne-Marie, 114 Charmolüe, Jean-Louis, 114, 116, 117 Château Ausone, 59, 63 Château Beauséjour-DuffauLagarrosse, 59 Château Belair, 59, 63 Château Canon, 59, 63 Château Canon de Brem, 12, 13 Château Canon-Moueix, 11–12 Château Cheval-Blanc, 59, 61, 63 Château Clarke, 81 Château Corbin-Michotte, 64 Château Corton-Grancy, 90 Château Cos d’Estournel, 82, 116 Château Curé-Bon-La-Madeleine, 64 Château Dalem, 13 Château de Beaucastel, 42–43 Château de Chasseloir, 52 Château de Jau, 100 Château de la Dauphine, 11, 12 Château de la Rivière, 13, 14 Château de l’Hyvernière, 49 Château de Maligny, 75 Château d’Escurac, 83 Château Doisy-Védrines, 235 Château du Coing, 52–53, 54 Château du Gaby, 12 Château Figeac, 58, 59, 61, 63 Château Greysac, 79–80, 82, 85 Château Grillet, 37 Château Haut-Brion, 59 Château Haut-Faugère, 64

/ 265 Château La Cardonne, 84, 85 Château La Dominique, 59 Château La Gaffelière, 59, 62 Château La Grave, 13 Château Laroque, 59 Château La Tour de By, 80–81, 82 Château La Tour Haut-Caussan, 84, 85 Château Laujac, 82–83 Château Léoville-Las Cases, 59 Château Les Ormes-Sorbet, 83–84 Château Loudenne, 77, 78, 85 Château Magdelaine, 59 Château Margaux, 257 Château Mausse, 12 Château Mont-Redon, 36, 42 Château Montrose, 114–22; grape varieties and blends, 115, 116–17; history, 115; map, 6; vertical tasting, 114, 117– 22; vineyard practices, 116; wine characteristics, 116–17, 118 Château Moulin Pey Labrie, 13 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, 34, 36–37, 41–43 Château Patache d’Aux, 84–85 Château Pavie, 59, 63–64 Château Pétrus, 8, 12 Château Pichon Longueville Comtesse de Lalande, 259 Château Potelle, 242–43 Château Rouet, 13 Château Saint Estève, 43–44, 45 Château Saint-Roch, 40 Château Soutard, 64 Château Tertre-Daugay, 64 Château Trottevieille, 59, 64 Château Vieux-Robin, 81–82, 83 Château Villemaurine, 58, 64 Chaucer, Geoffrey, Canterbury Tales, 19 Chenin Blanc: Clarksburg and Merritt Island, 186, 189, 190–91, 192; Dry Creek Valley, 176, 178; Vouvray, 16–17, 20 Chéreau, Bernard, 52 Chevallier, Gabriel, Clochemerle, 26 Chianti, 145 Chiquet, Jean-Hervé, 111 Chouilly, 108

266 Christian Brothers, 189, 236, 237 Clairette, 37, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45 Clarksburg, 186–92; Chardonnay, 191– 92; Chenin Blanc, 186, 189, 190–91, 192; growers, 188–90; map, 172; setting, soils, and climate, 186–88 classifications: Chablis, 71–72; Médoc, 8, 58, 59; Saint-Emilion, 58–60 clay soils, 96; Chablis, 67–68, 103; Médoc, 80; Mount Veeder, 240; Saint-Emilion, 61–62; tannins and, 62, 87, 116 climat, Corton grand cru, 87, 89, 91 climate: acidity and, 138; California heat-summation zones, 223–24. See also specific regions and appellations Clochemerle (Chevallier), 26 clones: Cabernet Sauvignon, 256–57; Pinot Noir, 201 Les Clos, Chablis grand cru, 71, 72–73 Clos de la Sablette, 50–51 Clos de Paulilles, 96, 100 Clos des Cortons-Faiveley, 90, 93 Clos de Tonnerre, Mercurey, 29 Clos du Château de Montaigu, 28 Clos du Roi, Corton grand cru, 88, 91, 93 Clos du Val, 201 Clos Fourtet, 59 Clos Pegase, 201 Clos St. Jacques, Rully, 32 Códax (Martín), 159–60 Codorníu, 199 Col Baraca, 131 cold fermentation, 130, 237–38 Col d’Orcia, 152 Collioure, 94, 96, 97–98, 100 Colombini, Donatella Cinelli, 149 Colombini family, 146, 149 color: intensified by “bleeding,” 63; iron-rich soils and, 87 Les Combes, Corton grand cru, 91 Comité Interprofessionnel des Vins du Pays Nantais, 49 Concannon Vineyard, 256 Concours Général Agricole de Paris, 44

/ Index Condado do Tea, 157, 158, 161 Condrieu, 37 Constellation Brands, 234, 243 Cook (R. & J.), 189 Cook, Joanne, 189 Cook, Perry, 186, 189 Cook, Roger, 189 Cook’s, and Lodi, 234 Corbières, 98 Cordouan lighthouse, 78 Corton grand cru, 86–93; geography and soils, 86–87, 88; grape varieties, 88; history, 87–88; map, 6; reds, 88–89, 90–93; vintages, 90, 92–93; viticulture and winemaking, 91–92; whites, 88–90 Corton-Bressandes, 93 Corton-Charlemagne, 88–90 Le Corton (vineyard), 89 Côte Chalonnaise, 21–33; Bouzeron, 23, 31–32; Givry, 22, 23, 24–26; grape varieties, 23, 24, 27, 31–32; growers and vintages, 25–26, 27–30, 31–33; history and setting, 21–24; map, 6; Mercurey, 22, 23, 26–30; Montagny, 23, 30–31; Rully, 22–23, 32; wine characteristics, 24–25; winemaking methods, 24–25, 25–26, 30 Côte de Beaune, 21, 23, 86–87 Côte de Fontenay, 72 Côte de Léchet, 75 Côte de Nuits, 86–87 Côte des Blancs, 109, 110, 113 Côte d’Or, 21, 24, 73, 86–87, 90. See also Corton Côtes de Bourg, 7, 10 Côtes de Canon-Fronsac, 11 Côtes de Fronsac, 7, 11. See also Fronsac Côtes du Rhône Blanc, 45 Côtes-du-Rhône-Villages, 34 Côtes du Roussillon, 98, 100 Côtes du Roussillon Villages, 94, 97 Courrian, Philippe, 84 Cramant, 108 Crane, Eileen, 199–200  

Index Les Crayères, 112 Creedence Clearwater Revival, 226 critics. See wine ratings and rankings Cruse, Bernard, 82–83 Cruse, Herman, 82 Cuis, 108, 109 Dagueneau, Didier, 104, 106 Dagueneau, Louis-Benjamin, 106 Dallidet, Pierre Hippolyte, 218 Dambrine, Philippe, 79 Dauré, Estelle, 100, 101 Dauvissat, René and Vincent, 72, 75 Delorme, Jean-François, 32, 33 Delu, Alex and Kevin, 231–32 DeMattei, Bill, 210, 211 Desai, Bipin, 114, 167 dessert wines: Recioto di Soave, 134; Roussillon, 94–95, 96, 97, 99–101; Saar and Ruwer, 140–41, 143–44; Santa Barbara Rieslings, 214; Sauternes, 18, 100, 224, 235; Tokay, 167, 168, 169; Vouvray, 17 destalking, 24–25, 25–26 Deutz, 107 Diageo, 225 Dictionary of French Architecture (Violletle-Duc), 65 Dion, Roger, Histoire de la Vigne et du Vin en France, 68 A Directory of California Wine Growers & Wine Makers in 1860 (Peninou and Greenleaf), 207 Dizy, 111 Domaine Carneros, 199–200, 205 Domaine Chandon, 199 Domaine Comte Senard, 90, 92 Domaine Dauvissat, 72, 75 Domaine de la Folie, 32 Domaine de la Rectorie, 96–97 Domaine de la Renarde (Domaine Delorme), 32, 33 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, 31 Domaine Delorme. See Domaine de la Renarde

/ 267 Domaine du Meix-Foulot, 28 Domaine Font de Michelle, 42 Domaine Laroche, 75 Domaine Louis Métaireau Grand Mouton, 54, 55 Domaine Louis Michel, 75–76 Domaine Marcel Protheau & Fils, 27 Domaine Michel (Domaine MichelSchlumberger), 180–81, 183 Domaine Pélaquié, 38, 39–40 Domaine Ragot, 25, 33 Domaine Saier, 29–30 Domaine Sainte-Anne, 41, 45 Domaine Tollot-Beaut & Fils, 91, 92 Domaine William Fèvre, 75, 76 Donum Estate, 205 Dordogne valley, 11, 64. See also Fronsac Doré, Richard, 214–15 drip irrigation, 198–99 Droin, Jean-Paul, 73, 75 Dry Creek Valley, 173–83; Bellerose Vineyard, 178–80, 183; Domaine Michel, 180–81, 183; Dry Creek Vineyard, 174–76; Gallo, 182–83; geography and history, 173–74, 176; grape varieties and acreage, 174, 175, 176, 183, 185; map, 172; Preston, 176– 78; Quivira, 181–82, 183; reds, 176–77, 178–83, 185; soils and climate, 176, 177, 180, 181; typical wine characteristics, 174, 178, 180; Wheeler, 180, 183; whites, 175, 177–78, 179, 181, 182 Dry Creek Vineyard, 174–75, 189 Duckhorn Vineyards, 250 DuPratt Vineyard, 245 Durella, 128 Durup, Jean, 75 economics of wine. See wine business Edmeades, Deron, 245 Edmeades, Donald, 245, 249 Edmeades Winery, 245, 249, 250, 251 Edna Valley, 217–25; appellation, 222; climate and soils, 216, 219, 222–24; grape varieties and acreage, 219,

268 / Index Edna Valley (continued) 221–22; history, 217–22; map, 172; typical wine characteristics, 222, 224–25 Edna Valley Vineyard, 220, 222 Edward I of England, 56 Egly, Francis, 112 Ehrhardt Estates, 192 Emilion, Saint, 64 Enjalbert, Henri, 11 L’Envers du Décor (restaurant), 65 Eppler ( John Robert), 258 Espira de l’Agly, 96, 97–98, 99 Estrella River Winery, 212 Etude des Vignobles de France (Guyot), 39, 69 European Economic Community, 30, 158 European Union, 57, 66 Everett Ridge Winery, 183 Les Eyzies, 64 Faiveley, François, 90, 91, 93 Fattoria dei Barbi, 146, 149, 152, 154 Féret, Edouard, Bordeaux et Ses Vins, 10 fermentation. See barrel fermentation and aging; winemaking methods Ferry Plaza Wine Merchants, 252 Fèvre, William, 75, 76 finesse, 62–63, 91, 93, 96, 111 fining and filtration, 63, 239, 241, 242 Fiore, Vittorio, 151 Firestone, Brooks, 211 Firestone Vineyard, 210, 211, 213, 214 Fischer, Dr., 143 Fisher, John, 237 Flame Tokay, 228, 229 flint, 103, 104–5 Flood family, 214 Flora Springs, 255, 256 food: Edna Valley Chardonnays with, 225; in Galicia, 156, 161; in Montalcino, 154; with Mount Veeder Cabernet, 235; Roussillon with, 94; SaintEmilion macaroons, 65; shellfish and Chablis, 73; shellfish and Muscadet,

46; in Tuscany, 148, 149. See also restaurants Foote, Jack, 217, 219 Força Réal, 96 Forêt, Chablis premier cru, 72 Forstmeister, 143 Fourchaume, Chablis premier cru, 71, 72, 74–75 Fourmeaux, Marketta, 242–43 Foxen, Benjamin, 214–15 Foxen Vineyard, 214–15 Français, Marc, 43–44 Franceschi family, 146 Franciscan Winery, 240 Franck, William, Traité sur les Vins du Médoc et les Autres Vins Rouges et Blancs du Département de la Gironde (“Traité”), 8 Fredson, Chris, 175 Frei Brothers, 175, 182 Frei Ranch (Gallo), 183 Freixenet, 199 French Colombard, 185 French Laundry (restaurant), 248 French Revolution, 21, 22; property seizures, 8, 64, 88 French wine regions: map, 6. See also specific regions, appellations, and estates French Wines (de Cassagnac), 16 Frescobaldi, 146, 152–53 Frog’s Leap, 255 Fronsac, 7–14; appellations, 7, 11, 14; geography and soils, 10–11; grape varieties and acreage, 11; history and setting, 8–11, 12–13; map, 6; tastings and vintages, 12–14; typical wine characteristics, 8 Fumé Blanc. See Sauvignon Blanc Gaïk, Jérémie, 100 The Gainey Vineyard, 210, 213 Gaja, Angelo, 146 Galicia, 155–56, 160. See also Rías Baixas Gallo (E. & J.), 182; Dry Creek Valley, 175, 182–83

Index Gamay, 24, 47, 104. See also Napa Gamay Gard, 38–39; Rhône whites from, 38–43 Garetto, John, 193, 195 Garetto Winery, 193–94 Garganega, 127, 128, 130, 131, 133 Garramiola, Domingo, 164 garrigue, 40 Garvey, Sean, 256 Geiben, Peter, 141, 142, 143 George III vineyard, 257 La Gerla, 152, 153 German wines, 140, 141. See also Saar and Ruwer Gevrey-Chambertin, 107 Gewürztraminer, 249 Gier (Theodore) Winery, 237 Gigondas, 34 Gimonnet, Didier, 108 Gimonnet Champagnes, 108–9 Givry, 22, 23, 24–26 Glen Ellen Winery, 189–90 Gloria Ferrer, 199 Goldeneye Winery, 250, 251 Goss, Carolyn and Norman, 218–19 Gosset Champagnes, 112–13 Goulée (restaurant), 65 Graff, Richard (Dick), 220, 225 Grand Cru Vineyards, 186, 189, 190 Grand Mouton (Métaireau), 54–55 Grand Noir, 104 Granja Fillaboa, 160 Granoff, Peter, 252 grape prices: California, 195, 206, 212, 230; France, 68 grape varieties: economic factors in varietal choices, 185–86; field blends, 181–82; variety-site affinities, 80, 185– 86, 190. See also specific regions, appellations, and varieties gravelly soils: California, 176, 240; Médoc, 57, 80, 81, 83, 84, 116; Ribera del Duero, 164; Saint-Emilion and Pomerol, 57, 60, 61 Graves, David, 201 Green, Allan, 245

/ 269 Greenleaf, Sidney, A Directory of California Wine Growers & Wine Makers in 1860, 207 Greenwood Ridge Vineyards, 245, 250 Grenache: Southern Rhône, 36, 37, 40, 42, 43, 45, 49; California, 185, 226, 229; Roussillon, 94, 96, 97–98, 100 Grenouilles, Chablis grand cru, 71, 72 Grgich Hills, 201 Gruppo Italiano Vini, 129 Guilbaud, Jean-François, 55 gunflint, 102, 103, 104–5 Guyot, Jules, Etude des Vignobles de France, 39, 69 Hacienda Winery, 190 Handley, Milla, 246, 248, 249 Handley Cellars, 246, 247, 248, 249, 251 Harris (H. H.) winery, 256 Harrison (William) Vineyards, 255 Hart, Loren, 208 Haut-Médoc, 77, 81; map, 6. See also Médoc Hawley, Bill, 243 Hazan, Victor, Italian Wine, 128–29 heat-summation zones (California), 223–24 Heintz, William F., 176 Henderson, Alexander, History of Ancient and Modern Wines, 94–95, 100 Henriot, 76 Henriqués, Jean-Paul, 96 Hermitage Blanc, 41 Herrenberg, 142, 143 Herrera, Alonso de, 165 Herrero family, 164 Herzog Company, 188–89 Hess Collection, 237, 242 Hewitt Vineyard, 258 Hilgard, Eugene, 257 History of Ancient and Modern Wines (Henderson), 95, 100 Hoffmann, Peter, 137–38, 141 Hoggatt, John, 229 L’Homme Mort, Chablis premier cru, 72

270 Honig, Kristen Belair, 253 Honig Vineyards, 253, 255 Hôtel Plaisance, 65 Hôtellerie du Val d’Or, 26–27, 29–30, 33 Howell, David G., The Winemaker’s Dance, 254 Howell Mountain, 253 Hughes, Ed, 234 Huneeus, Agustin and Valeria, 240, 258 Husch, Tony and Gretchen, 245 Husch Vineyards, 245, 249 Husmann, George, 199 The Identity of France (Braudel), 198, 205 Inglenook, 253 irrigation, 198–99 Italian Swiss Colony, 245 Italian Wine (Hazan), 128–29 Italian wine law, 125, 132, 150 Jackson, UC experimental vineyard at, 257 Jackson Family Wines, 215 Jacquesson & Fils, 111–12, 113 Jadot (Louis), 91, 92 Jaja (Château de Jau), 100 Jayot, Dominique, 33 Jenkins, Bill, 241–42 Johannisberg Riesling. See Riesling Johansson, Fredrik, 259 Johnson, Randle, 242 Jordan, Rudolf, 237–38 JRE ( John Robert Eppler), 258 Juillot, Michel, 28–29 Jullien, André, Topographie de Tous les Vignobles Connus, 21, 38, 94, 134 Karlsmühle, 141, 142, 143 Karthäuserhof, 143 Kasel, 142 Keats, John, 117 Kendall-Jackson, 212. See also Jackson Family Wines Kennedy, Christi, Lodi: A Vintage Valley Town, 227

/ Index Kenwood Vineyards, 190 Kight, Peter and Terri, 183 Kimmeridgian clay (terres blanches), 67– 68, 102–3, 105–6 Kobler, Hans and Theresa, 245 Kramer, Matt, Making Sense of California Wine, 235–36 Krieger, Dan, 218 Krug, Henri, 108 Kunow, Eberhard von, 142 La Charité-sur-Loire, 103 Ladoix-Serrigny, 89 Lafayette, Marquis de, 79 Lafond, Pierre, 211 Lafragette, Jean-Paul and MarieClaude, 85 Lagar de Cervera, 160, 161–62 La Haye-Fouassière, 48 Lallier, André, 107 Lameloise (restaurant), 22–23 Landureau, Jean-Marc, 83 Lange, Brad and Randy, 231 Les Languettes, Corton-Charlemagne grand cru, 89 Lardière, Jacques, 91–92 Laroche, Michel, 75 Lascaux, 64 Latour (Louis), 92 Latour, Louis, 90 Laudun, 37–38, 39–40 Lauer, Peter, 143 Laumann, Eric, 190 Launay, Paul de, 28 Laurent-Perrier, 109, 113 La Val, 161 Lawrence, D. H., 139 Lazy Creek Vineyards, 245, 249 Lecanda Chaves, Don Eloy, 164 Lee, Michael, 190 Leloup de Chasseloir, Muscadet de Sèvres-et-Maine, 52 Les Maranges, 23 Lieff Wines, 256 Life Beyond Lambrusco (Belfrage), 128

Index limestone soils. See chalky soils Liutgard, Empress, 89 Lodi, 226–34; AVA establishment, 232; climate and soils, 227, 228; grape varieties and acreage, 226–27, 228, 229, 234; grower education and quality improvement programs, 230–33; history and setting, 226–29, 234; map, 172; Mondavi’s Woodbridge, 230–31, 234; reputation, 233– 34; vineyard practices, 231, 232–33; wines to watch for, 234 Lodi: A Vintage Valley Town (Kennedy), 227 Lodi-Woodbridge Winegrape Commission, 232–33 Lohr ( J.) Winery, 190 Loire: Chenin Blanc in, 16–17; Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé, 18–19, 102–6. See also Muscadet; Vouvray Long Meadow Ranch, 258 Longoria, Rick, 210, 213, 215 Longoria Wines, 215 Lorenzhöfer Felslay, 142 Louis XI of France, 88 Loureiro, 158, 161 Luca de Tena, Javier, 160 Lucas, David, 234 Lucas, Louis and George, Jr., 210, 212 Lucas Winery, 234 Macabeu, 99 Mâcon, 66 Mâcon Blanc, 35 Mâconnais, 24 Madonna Vineyard, 203–4 Magnani, Robert, 186, 190 Mahoney, Francis, 195–96, 200–201 Making Sense of California Wine (Kramer), 235–36 Málaga wine, 17 Malbec: Bordeaux, 11, 79, 80; California, 179, 183, 239; Ribera del Duero, 164–65 Malet-Roquefort, Leo, comte de, 62 malic acid, 105, 138

/ 271 malolactic fermentation, 42, 73, 249 Malvoisie, 99 maps, 6, 124, 172 Marey, Etienne-Jules, 32 Marsanne, 37, 41, 45 Martin, Marcel, 49–51 Martin, Saint, 16 Martin Estate, 255, 256, 257 Martinez, Antonio, 218 Martini (Louis) Winery, 194, 195, 238 Martini, Louis M., 194, 195, 200 Mas Amiel, 99, 100 Mas Blanc, 100 Masi, 131 Maury, 96, 97, 99, 100 Maximin Grünhaus, 138–39, 142, 143 Maxim’s (restaurant), 109 Mayacamas Mountains, 236, 254. See also Mount Veeder Mayacamas Vineyards, 236–37, 238, 241 McCaffrey, James, 207 MCG Cellars, 258 McGregor, Andy and Liz, 219 McGuire, Bruce, 211 Meander Cellars, 252, 258 Médoc, 8, 10, 56, 77–78, 255; classification, 8, 58, 59; geography and soils, 57, 60, 80, 81, 83, 84, 116; grape varieties and blends, 56–57, 80, 115; map, 6; Napa comparisons, 253; outer Médoc, 77– 85; typical wine characteristics, 57, 60, 178. See also specific appellations and estates Médoc, outer, 77–85; grape varieties and blends, 79–80, 82; growers and wines, 79–85; setting, 77–79; soils and terrain, 80, 81, 84; winemaking methods, 81, 82, 83, 84–85 Mellot, Alphonse, 105 Melon de Bourgogne, 47 Melon Musqué, 47 Méndez, José Luis, 161 Mendocino County, 244, 245. See also Anderson Valley Mendoza, 256

272 Mercurey, 22, 23, 26–30 Meridian Vineyards, 212, 221, 225 Merlot, 61, 98; Carneros, 202; Clarksburg, 191; Dry Creek Valley, 176, 179; Edna Valley, 219; Fronsac, 11; Lodi, 226–27, 229, 231, 234; Médoc, 57, 79, 80, 115, 116; Montalcino, 153, 154; Mount Veeder, 239; Ribera del Duero, 164–65; Roussillon, 95, 98; Saint-Emilion, 57, 61; Santa Barbara County, 212, 215 Merritt Island, 186–87, 188, 189 Le Mesnil, 109, 113 Métaireau (Louis) et Ses Vignerons d’Art, 53–55 Métaireau, Louis, 53–55 Métaireau, Marie-Luce, 55 Meursault, 51, 73, 75, 89 Michel, Jean-Jacques, 180–81 Michel, Jean-Loup, 75–76 Mokelumne Valley, 226, 227. See also Lodi Moller-Racke, Anne, 197, 205 Mondavi (Robert) Winery, 175, 201, 212, 234; Woodbridge operation, 230–31, 234 Montagny, 23, 30–31 Montalcino, 147–48. See also Brunello di Montalcino Mont de Milieu, Chablis premier cru, 73, 75 Montée de Tonnerre, Chablis premier cru, 71, 75 Monte Rosso vineyard, 238 Monthieu, Hervé, 79, 80 Monticello Vineyards, 255 Mont La Salle (Christian Brothers), 237 Montlouis, 18 Montmains, Chablis premier cru, 72 Montrachet, 89 Les Monts Damnés, Sancerre, 104 Mont St. John Cellars, 203 Morgadío, 161 Mosel-Saar-Ruwer, 136, 137. See also Saar and Ruwer  

/ Index Mosel wines, 137 Moueix, Christian, 10, 11–12 Moueix, Jean-Pierre, 10 Moueix properties, Fronsac, 10, 11–12, 14 Mounot, Xavier, 29–30 Mount Veeder, 235–43, 253; Cabernet reputation, 235–36; distinction and characteristics, 235–36, 236–37; geography, soils, and climate, 236, 240; history, 237–38; map, 172; producers, 239–43; typical wine characteristics, 240–41, 242, 243; vineyard practices and yields, 240, 242–43; winemaking methods, 239, 241–42, 243 Mount Veeder Winery, 235, 238–39, 240, 241, 243 Mourvèdre, 94, 98 La Moussière, Sancerre, 105 Mouton, Gérard, 25 Müller, Egon, Jr., 142, 143–44 Müller, Egon, Sr., 143 Müller-Scharzhof, 142, 143–44 Mumm Napa Valley, 199, 205 Muscadet (appellation), 47, 48 Muscadet (grape), 47, 50 Muscadet (region), 46–55; appellations, 47–48, 54–55; cru designations, 50, 54; grape variety and acreage, 47, 48, 50; growers and tastings, 49–55; map, 6; marketing of, 49–50; wine characteristics, 46–47, 48, 54; winemaking methods, 49, 50–51, 52 Muscadet-Côtes-de Grand-Lieu, 55 Muscadet des Coteaux de la Loire, 47, 48 Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine, 47–48, 52–55 Muscat, 47; Roussillon, 94–95, 100–101 Muscat à Petits Grains, 100–101 Muscat of Alexandria, 101  

Nantes, 48–49. See also Muscadet; Pays Nantais Napa Gamay, 176, 177 Napa Valley, 174, 184, 196, 206; Cabernet

Index clones, 256–57; Cabernets, 185, 241, 253–54; climate, 188, 194, 208, 224; geography and soils, 253–54; grape varieties, 185; history, 237; land and grape prices, 195, 204; Médoc comparisons, 253; Ortman’s consulting work, 220–21. See also Carneros; Mount Veeder; Rutherford Napoleon III, 79 National Institute of Appellations of Origin (France), 35, 48, 98 Navarro Vineyards, 245, 249 Netherlands, French wine exports to, 17, 47 Nicolay, Nadine de, 86, 90, 91, 92–93 Nielsen, Uriel, 210, 211 Niven, Jack and Catharine, 217, 219, 225. See also Paragon Vineyard Company Noble, Ann, 204–5 noble rot. See botrytis Noël-Bouton, Xavier, 32, 33 nouvelle cuisine, 19 Novello, Elio, 130 oak, 63, 74, 150–51. See also barrel fermentation and aging Oberemmel, 142 Ockfen, 142 Oger, 113 Olds, Lori, 243 Olmo, Harold, 200 Oremus vineyard (Tokay), 167, 168, 169 organic grapes, 258 Orizet, Louis, Les Vins de France, 17 Les Ormeaux, Mercurey Blanc, 27 Ortega land grant (Santa Barbara), 207 Ortman, Charles, 220–21, 222, 225 Ortman Family Wines, 225 Otto, Emperor, 143 Pagès, Marc, 80, 81 Palomino, 226, 228, 229 Paragon Vineyard Company, 219–21, 225 Parcé, Jean-Michel, 100 Parcé, Marc, 97

/ 273 Parize, Gérard, 25–26 Patina (restaurant), 169–70 Pauillac, 253 Payne, Fred, 180–81 Pays Nantais, 47, 48. See also Muscadet Pedroncelli, Jim and John, 173, 183 Pedroncelli ( J.) Winery, 173, 175, 178, 183 Peirano Estate, 234 Péju, 255 Pélaquié, Luc, 38, 39–40 Peninou, Ernest, A Directory of California Wine Growers & Wine Makers in 1860, 207 Peppercorn, David, 120 Pepperwood Springs Vineyard, 251 pergola system: Rías Baixas, 159; Soave, 126–27, 132 Pernod-Ricard, 205 Les Perrières, Corton grand cru, 91 Perrin, Jean-Pierre, 42–43 pest management, Lodi, 232–33 Petite Sirah, 176, 181–82 Petit Mouton (Métaireau), 54 Petit Verdot, 80; California, 179, 239, 255; Médoc, 79 Pezzi King Vineyards, 183 phylloxera, impacts of: California, 176, 193, 199, 218; Chablis, 69; Château Montrose, 115; Côte Chalonnaise, 22, 31; Roussillon, 95; Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé, 104; wine fraud, 48 Picpoul, 42 Pieropan, Leonildo, 131–32, 134–35 Pieropan, Teresita, 135 Pierrefitte, 64 pigeage, 26 Piña Cellars, 255 Pineau de la Loire, 17. See also Chenin Blanc Pine Ridge Vineyards, 192 Pinot Blanc, 27 Pinot Grigio, 154 Pinot Meunier, 108 Pinot Noir, 209; Anderson Valley, 244, 248, 249, 250–51; Carneros, 185, 195,

274 Pinot Noir (continued) 196, 199–201, 202, 204–5; Carneros clones, 201; in Champagne, 108, 112, 113; Corton, 88, 93; Côte Chalonnaise, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28; Montalcino, 154; Russian River Valley, 174; Santa Barbara, 206, 209, 210, 212–13, 214, 215 Pins, Hélène de, 195, 196 Piquemal, Pierre, 96, 97–98, 99 La Poderina, 152, 154 Poggio alle Mura, 146, 152 Il Poggione, 152 Pointe de Grave, 79 Poitiers, Battle of, 64, 88 Pomerol, 8, 10, 61–62 Pontigny, Abbey of, 67 Port, 99, 100; California, 228 Port Wine Institute, 100 Les Pougets, Corton-Charlemagne grand cru, 89 Pouilly-Fumé, 102–5; map, 6 powdery mildew, 69 Pra, Benvenuto, 131 Prats, Bruno, 116, 120 Predicate wines, 140. See also Saar and Ruwer Preston, Lou, 176–78 Preuses, Chablis grand cru, 71, 72, 75 Prohibition, impacts of: Anderson Valley, 245; Carneros, 193, 194; Dry Creek Valley, 175, 176; Edna Valley, 218; Lodi, 228; Mount Veeder, 237; UC viticulture research, 257 Puck, Wolfgang, 167, 168 Purity supermarkets, 217 Quintessa, 255–56, 257–58 Quivira, 181–82, 183 Qupé, 214 Rabelais, François, 15 Ragot, Jean-Paul, 25, 33 Ragot, Jean-Pierre, 25 Ragot, Nicolas, 33 railways, 48–49, 65, 69

/ Index Rancho Nuestra Señora del Refugio, 207 Rancho Sisquoc, 210, 214 Random Ridge, 243 Raveneau, Jean-Marie, 75 Recioto di Soave, 134 Rector, Bruce, 189 Regalia, Bruce, 250 Reh-Gartner, Annegret, 141 Reichsgraf von Kesselstatt, 141, 143 Les Renardes, Corton grand cru, 89, 91, 92 restaurants: Ayler Kupp, 143; Bonne Auberge, 51–52; French Laundry, 248; Hôtellerie du Val d’Or, 26–27, 29–30, 33; Lameloise, 22–23; outer Médoc, 79; Patina, 169–70; Restaurant Goulée, 65; round-robin Vega Sicilia tasting, 163, 166–70; SaintEmilion, 65; Lo Scudo, 135; Spago, 163, 167–68; Taillevent Château Montrose tasting, 114, 117–22; Valentino, 163, 168–69 Rhône blends and varietals, in California, 182, 214 Rhône reds, 34, 36, 38, 41 Rhône whites, 34–45; Châteauneuf-duPape, 36–37, 41–43; grape varieties and blends, 36–37, 40, 41–42, 43, 44, 45; growers and tastings, 38, 39–45; history and setting, 34–39; map, 6; market and prices, 34–35; terrain and soils, 40; winemaking methods, 35–36, 42, 43–45 Rías Baixas, 155–62; appellation establishment, 158; climate, 157–58, 159, 161; geography and soils, 157–58; grape varieties and acreage, 158, 159, 161, 162; history and setting, 155–57, 159, 160; map, 124; typical characteristics, 158, 159; vineyard holdings, 160–61; vineyard practices, 159; wines and vintages, 161–62 Ribera del Duero, 164–65, 166. See also Vega Sicilia

Index Ricard, Patrice, 84 Richard, Charles, 178–80, 183 Richelieu, Duc de, 8, 10 Riesling, 139, 157; Anderson Valley, 249; Santa Barbara County, 210, 211, 214. See also Saar and Ruwer Rimage, 100 Rioja Alta winery, 160 Rivesaltes, 94–95, 97, 98–101 RM Champagnes (estate-grown), 108 Roba, Didier, 81, 83 Roba, Maryse, 81 Roederer (Louis), 107, 246 Roederer Estate (Anderson Valley), 246–47, 248–49, 250, 251 Roman settlements and antiquities, 23, 78, 81, 137, 156; wine and viticulture, 37–38, 56, 137, 145 O Rosal, 157, 158, 161 Rossi, Sergio, 153 Rosso di Montalcino, 149–50, 151 Rothschild, Baron Edmond de, 81 Round Pond Estate, 255 Roussanne, 37, 41, 42–43, 45 Roussillon, 94–101; appellations, 96, 97–98; dessert wines, 94–95, 96, 97, 99–101; grape varieties and blends, 94, 95, 96, 97–98, 99; history and setting, 94–95; map, 6; terrain and soils, 95–96, 96–97; vineyard practices, 97; wines and growers, 98–101 Rouzaud, Jean-Claude, 246 Roy, Alain, 31 Rubenstein, Michael, 181 Rubicon Estate, 253, 258; Rutherford Cabernet tasting, 252, 255–56, 258–59 Rubissow-Sargent, 242 Ruiz (Santiago), 161 Rully, 22–23, 32 Russian River Valley, 174 Rutherford: climate and soils, 254–55; geography, 253–54, 256; grape varieties and acreage, 253; light and Cabernet Sauvignon, 255; map, 172; typical wine characteristics, 255

/ 275 Rutherford Cabernets, 252–59; acreage, 253; clones, 256–57; 1997 wines, 253; trends in, 252, 253; 2007 wines, 252– 53, 255–56, 257–59; typical characteristics, 253; vineyard practices and winemaking methods, 258–59 Rutherford Grove, 258 Ruwer wines. See Saar and Ruwer Saar and Ruwer, 136–44; dry wines, 141–42; grape varieties, 139; history and setting, 137; label regulations, 136; map, 124; recommended vineyards and estates, 142–44; soils and aspect, 139; sweet wines, 140–41, 143–44; typical characteristics, 137– 39; vineyard practices, 139; vintages, 139–41; weather and climate, 138, 139–40; winemaking methods, 141 Saarburg, 142 Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta, 186–88, 227. See also Clarksburg Saint-Andelain, 103 Saint-Andoche, Abbey of, 88 Saint-Emilion, 10, 56–65; classifications, 58–60; geography and soils, 57, 60–62; grape varieties and blends, 57–58, 61; history and setting, 56–58, 64–65; map, 6; notable vintages, 63; restaurants, 65; typical wine characteristics, 60–62, 63–64; wine ratings and, 62–63 Saint-Estèphe, 116, 120. See also Château Montrose Saint-Hippolyte, 64 Saint-Julien, 59, 253 Saintsbury, 201, 203 Saint-Victor-La-Coste, 38, 39, 45 Salgues, Michel, 246–47, 248–49, 250, 251 Salimbene, 70 Salnés, 157, 158, 159–60, 161 Salon, Eugène-Aimé, 109 Salon Champagnes, 109, 110, 111 Sancerre, 18–19, 102–6; map, 6

276 / Index Sanford Winery, 206 Sangiacomo Vineyards and family, 197, 201–2 Sangiovese, 145, 146 San Luis Obispo (city), 216–17 San Luis Obispo County, 212, 213, 217. See also Edna Valley San Luis Obispo Mission, 218 Santa Barbara Coast, 213 Santa Barbara County, 206–15; appellations, 213; award-winning wines, 206, 211; geography and climate, 207– 10, 212, 213; grape varieties, 209–10, 212–14; history, 207, 210–12; map, 172; Rieslings, 210, 211, 214; smaller wineries, 213–15; soils, 209; typical wine characteristics, 215 Santa Barbara Mission, 207 Santa Barbara Winery, 211 Santa Ines Mission, 207 Santa Maria Valley, 206, 208–9, 210, 212, 213, 214. See also Santa Barbara County Sant’Angelo, 146 Sant’Antimo, 154 Santa Ynez Valley, 208–10, 211, 213, 214. See also Santa Barbara County Santa Ynez Winery, 211 Santi, 129–30 Santiago de Compostela, 155 Sargent, Tony, 242 Sattui (V.) Winery, 249 Sautejeau, 49 Sauternes, 18, 100, 224, 235 Sauvignon Blanc, 50; Dry Creek Valley, 175, 176, 177–78, 179, 181, 183; Lodi, 226–27, 234; Montalcino, 154; Rutherford, 253; Sancerre and PouillyFumé, 102–6; Santa Barbara, 209–10, 213–14; Soave, 132–33 Sawyer Cellars, 258–59 Sazenay, Mercurey, 28 Scharffenberger, John, 248 Scharffenberger Cellars, 247, 248, 251 Scharzhofberg, 142, 143–44

schist, 96 Schmitt, Sally and Don, 247–48 Schubert, Carl von, 138–39, 142 Seagram Classics Wine Company, 199 Sebastiani, 189, 190–91; Lodi winery, 231–32, 233, 234 Sécher, Chablis premier cru, 72 Selosse ( Jacques) Champagnes, 110–11 Selosse, Anselme, 110–11 Selvaggio, Piero, 168, 169 Sémillon, 176, 178, 179 Senard, Philippe, 90–91, 92 Sequoia Grove, 258 Serres, Olivier de, 37 Serrig, 142 Serriger Herrenberg, 143 Shafer Vineyards, 201 Shand, Morton, A Book of French Wines, 8, 69, 70, 72 Sherry, California, 228 Shiraz, 102 silex, 103, 104–5 Silverado Vineyards, 201 Simon, Bert, 143 Simonnet-Febvre, 73, 75 Simonnet, Jean-Paul, 75 Simonton ranch, 199 Sinskey (Robert) Vineyards, 201 skin contact: Mount Veeder, 241–42, 243; Rhône whites, 43, 44–45; Soave, 130, 134 Sky Vineyards, 243 slate, in Saar and Ruwer Valleys, 139 Slaughterhouse Cellars, 258 Soave, 125–35; appellation establishment, 125, 126; grape varieties, 127–28, 132– 33; history and setting, 125–26; map, 124; Recioto di Soave, 134; reputation, 128–29, 130; Soave Classico producers and wines, 129–35; soils, 126, 127; typical wine characteristics, 127, 128; vineyard practices, 126–27, 132– 33, 134–35; winemaking methods, 128, 129–30, 133, 134; yields and production limits, 127, 132, 133, 135

Index Soave Classico, 126, 128, 129–35 Soave consorzio, 132, 133, 135 Soave Cooperative, 130–31 soils, 209; Cabernet Sauvignon and, 80, 81, 116; effect on tannins, color, and aroma, 87; terres blanches, 67–68, 102–3, 105–6. See also chalky soils; clay soils; gravelly soils; volcanic soils; specific regions and appellations Sonoma County, 173–74, 224. See also Carneros; Dry Creek Valley; specific wineries Soulac, 78–79 Spago, 163, 167–68 Spanish wines: Ribera del Duero, 164–65, 166. See also Rías Baixas; Vega Sicilia sparkling wines: California, 174, 199– 200, 244, 246–47, 248–49; Soave, 128; Vouvray, 17, 20. See also Carneros; Champagne Splichal, Joachim, 169 Spring Mountain, 253 Staatliche Weinbaudomäne, 137–38, 142 Staglin Family Vineyard, 258, 259 Stags Leap District, 253 Stambor, Jeffrey, 259 Stanly, John, 194 Stanly ranch, 194, 200 Stare, David, 174–75, 176 St. Clement, 201 Steinmaier, Alain, 41 Steinmaier, Guy, 40–41 Steinmaier, Jean, 41 Stephens (DR), 258 St. Helena, 188, 194, 208, 244 Suárez, Angel, 160, 161–62 sugar, 36; additions of, 35–36, 73, 110; botrytis and, 140; grape prices and, 195, 230; in Saar and Ruwer wines, 138–39; successful aging and, 138–39; sweetness in Vouvrays, 15, 16, 18, 19– 20. See also dessert wines Sullivan, Mary, 190–91, 233 Sullivan Vineyards, 255 sun aging, Roussillon, 99

/ 277 Suremain, Hugues de, 27–28 Suremain, Yves de, 27 Sutter Home, 233 Swinchatt, Jonathan, The Winemaker’s Dance, 254 Sylvaner, 214 Syrah: California, 176, 214; Roussillon, 94, 96, 97, 98, 100 Taillevent (restaurant), Château Montrose tasting at, 114, 117–22 Taittinger Champagne, 199, 205 Talenti, 152, 154 tannins, 24, 63; Brunello di Montalcino, 152; California Cabernets, 178, 180–81, 235, 241–43; Cortons, 92, 93; soils and, 62, 87, 116 tartaric acid, 105, 138 tastings: Carneros Quality Alliance, 204–5; Château Montrose vertical, 114–15, 117–22; for grower education, 231; Rutherford Cabernets (2007), 252, 255–56, 258–59; Vega Sicilia vertical, 163, 166–70 tasting terms, 30, 40, 99, 102, 133 Taylor, Jack and Mary, 238, 239 Tchelistcheff, André, 195, 196, 255 tendone system, Soave, 126–27 Tennyson, Alfred, 137 terres blanches (Kimmeridgian clay), 67– 68, 102–3, 105–6 Terret, 42 Terrier, Alain, 113 terroir: French attitudes about, 80, 84, 91–92, 110, 111; variety-site affinities, 80, 185–86, 190. See also specific regions and appellations Thomas, Charles, 257 Tietjen Vineyard, 255 Timothy, Brother, 236 Tinto Fino, 165, 166 Tokay, Hungarian, 167, 168, 169 Tollot, Nathalie, 91, 92, 93 Topographie de Tous les Vignobles Connus ( Jullien), 94, 134

278 Traité sur les Vins du Médoc et les Autres Vins Rouges et Blancs du Département de la Gironde (Franck, “Traité”), 8 Travers, Elinor, 239 Travers, Robert, 236–37, 239–40, 241 Trebbiano di Soave, 127–28, 131 Trebbiano Toscano (Ugni Blanc), 37, 44, 127, 128 Treixadura, 158 trellising, 126–27, 132, 159, 198 Tres Sabores Winery, 258 Trier, 137, 142 Trockenbeerenauslese, 140, 143–44 Truchard, Anthony and Jo Anne, 202–3 Truchard Vineyards, 202–3 TTB (Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau), 192 Tucki, Hervé, 74–75 tufa soils, 15–16, 126, 147, 223 Tuscany. See Brunello di Montalcino Ugni Blanc (Trebbiano Toscano), 37, 44, 127, 128 Ullman, Jacques, 246 U.S. Treasury Department wine label oversight, 184, 192 U.S. wine market: Albariño, 155; demand for California wines, 226; demand for French wines, 10, 35; Soave, 125; wine ratings and, 62 University of California, Berkeley, 256–57 University of California, Davis, 200, 204, 216–17; Cabernet clones, 256, 257; Winkler-Amerine study, 217, 223–24 Vaca Mountains, 254 Vaillons, Chablis premier cru, 72, 74–75 Valbuena, 165, 167–68 Valdicava, 152 Val do Salnés, 157, 158, 159–60, 161 Valentino (restaurant), 163, 168–69 Vallée de la Marne, 111, 112, 113 Valmur, Chablis grand cru, 71, 72

/ Index Vaucluse, Rhône whites from, 43–45 Vaudésir, Chablis grand cru, 71, 72, 73 Vaulorent, Chablis premier cru, 72 Vaupulent, Chablis premier cru, 72 Vega Sicilia, 163–70; geography and history, 163–64; grape varieties, 164–65; map, 124; Unicos, 163, 164, 165, 168– 69; Unico Special Reserves, 166, 169; Valbuenas, 165, 167–68; vertical tasting, 163, 166–70; winemaking methods, 165–66 Venice, Recioto di Soave and, 134 Verda, Jean-Jacques, 40 Vereinigte Hospitien, 142 Veronelli, Luigi, 132 vertical trellising, 198 Vigne-Philippe, 88 Villaine, Aubert de, 31–32 vineyard practices: Bordeaux, 84, 116; canopy management, 197–98; Corton, 91; irrigation, 198–99; natural pest management, 232–33; trellising, 126–27, 132, 159, 198. See also California viticulture and winemaking; other specific regions, appellations, and estates Vins de Pays, Roussillon, 97–98, 100 vins doux naturels, Roussillon, 94–95, 96, 97, 99–101 Les Vins de Bourgogne (Bréjoux), 21 Les Vins de France (Orizet), 17 “Vintage” designation, Roussillon wines, 99–100 Viognier: Clarksburg, 192; France, 37, 40, 41, 43–44, 45 Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène, Dictionary of French Architecture, 65 viticultural areas, American. See American Viticultural Areas; specific regions and AVAs viticulture. See vineyard practices volcanic soils: Napa, 237, 240, 254; tufa, 15–16, 126, 147, 223 Volnay, 107 Von Hövel, 142, 143

Index Vosne-Romanée, 244 Vouvray, 15–20; acreage, 15; appellation regulations, 18; Chenin Blanc in, 16– 17, 20; geography and soils, 15–16, 18– 19; history and setting, 15–19; map, 6; tastings and vintages, 17–18, 20; typical wine characteristics, 15, 16, 17–18, 19–20; winemaking methods, 20 Vrinat, Jean-Claude, 117, 118 Wagner, Dr., 143 Waldrach, 142 Walker ( John) & Co., 220 Ward, Richard, 201 Warner, Brad, 258–59 water, vine access to, 60, 61–62, 116, 198–99 Wathen, Bill, 215 Wawern, 142 Wendt, Henry and Holly, 181–82 Wente Bros., 189 Weyrich, Arnaud, 251 Wheeler, Bill and Ingrid, 180 Wheeler Vineyard, 180, 183 Whitehall Lane, 258 Williamson, Van, 250 Wilson, Dave, 190 Wiltingen, 142, 143 wine business: in France, 17, 22, 49. See also California wine business; U.S. wine market; wine prices wine competitions and awards, 206, 211 wine descriptions, 102; tasting terms, 30, 40, 99, 102, 133 wine law: AVA establishment, 184–85; EEC appellation standards, 158; Germany, 136; Italy, 125, 132, 150; U.S. labeling law, 184–85, 191, 192.  

/ 279 See  also American Viticultural Areas; appellations The Winemaker’s Dance (Swinchatt and Howell), 254 winemaking methods and decisions: acid adjustments, 73, 231; cap management, 241–42; cold fermentation, 130, 237–38; expressing terroir, 91–92; fining and filtration, 63, 239, 241, 242; impact of ratings and demand, 24, 62–63; skin contact, 43, 44–45, 130, 134, 241–42, 243; sugar additions, 35–36, 73, 110. See also barrel fermentation and aging; specific regions, appellations, and estates wine prices: California wines, 185, 201, 226; French wines, 9, 10, 24, 35, 49, 70, 82; Vega Sicilia, 163 wine ratings and rankings, 62–63, 81, 201; competitions and awards, 206, 211. See also classifications Winery Lake Vineyard, 204 Wing, Stalham, 237 Wing Canyon Vineyard, 241–42 Winkler, Albert, 208–9, 223; WinklerAmerine study, 217, 223 wood. See barrel fermentation and aging; oak Woodbridge, 230–31, 234 World War II, 67, 79 Zaca Mesa, 214 ZD Wines, 201 Zilliken, 143 Zinfandel: Anderson Valley, 245; Dry Creek Valley, 176, 177, 178, 181–82, 183, 185; Edna Valley, 219; Lodi, 227, 228, 229, 234; Mount Veeder, 243; old vines, 176, 177, 228, 234

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