Zinfandel Part I

I was introduced to the Zinfandel grape during the 1990s in the form of white Zinfandel wine. I have never liked that cloying sludge--though I should admit the last time I actually tasted a white Zin was during the Clinton administration. The pre-Lewinsky scandal Clinton administration, even. So who knows. But it gets a pretty bad rap and I've got no interest in trying it now. Anybody think I should?

My first taste of actual red Zinfandel occurred just a few years ago, again out in Napa, and I realized I had been missing something really good. In fact, I really like this varietal's balance of sweet and spicy. (Also, it's a great Z word.) For these reasons, and others, Thursday Night Tasting is presenting two separate Zinfandel events. The first occurred two nights ago and the second will take place next week. We'll be tasting a pretty representative sample of the grape, all from northern California, from where most Zinfandels hail.

But first, I've decided on a little structure for this 'blog. It's a two-part plan:

First, I'm going to take a tour through some of the major varietals, tasting probably a dozen or so. I've been inspired by the book I mentioned last week, Drink This: Wine Made Simple, by Dara Moskowitz Grumdahl, which examines nine grapes and the wines they produce. Her idea for tastings is to try representative types from each varietal so you get a full sense of their expressive capacities. The grapes she takes on include Zinfandel, Sauvignon Blanc, Riesling, Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah, Sangiovese, Tempranillo, and Pinot Noir. I'll most likely add Merlot and a few more marginal varietals. Romorantin, perhaps? Maybe Inzolia? The possibilities boggle.

And second, I'm going to spend 52 weeks, or however long it takes, tasting my way through French wines. Region by region. Bouteille par bouteille.

Why French wine? I grew up with the idea that French wines were the world's greatest wines. I probably imbibed this notion from television programs. After all, Jack Tripper wasn't just a chef--he was a French style chef who eventually opened the first "fancy" restaurant--"Chez Jacques"--that I ever really saw, real or fake, and for years, it exemplified to me the idea of fine dining. In any case, during the 1970s the very idea of Frenchness functioned as a trope for sophistication. French food was haute cuisine. French wine was elegance. As I got older and tried more wines from around the world, it seemed this was a shopworn cliche, though when it comes to wine, it really isn't. This isn't to say that other countries don't produce amazing and comparably brilliant wines, of course they do. But France produces some of the greatest wines. France is to the wine world what the fertile crescent is to Homo Sapiens. I'm going to taste my way through it.

But for now, back to plan A: the Tour through Varietals. I think we've done a nice job on the Cabernet Sauvignon already (thanks, all), so it's on to Zinfandel. We'll be tasting four Zins altogether: a mass-market, industrial cheapie; a single-vineyard mid-range wine; a "field blend, if we can find one; and a top-shelf, stellar Turley, regarded by some as the best Zinfandel in the world. More on these types as necessary.

And so, let's begin.

The wines:

2005 Havencscourt Lodi Zinfandel ($13)
2007 Captain's Reserve Zinfandel Rutherford ($28)

The players:

Greg, Brooklyn Heights
Me, Boerum Hill

This tasting was so simple: wine one, wine two. There's something elemental about paired tasting. It makes things very simple and direct. And in fact, "simple" and "direct" might be a good beginning description of Zinfandel itself. I like the wine, and it goes with food--and spicy food, too--and is eminently "quaffable," which in wine-ese means (I've just learned) drinkable, easy rather than complex, fun rather than intellectual. Zinfandel, even the top-shelf, more layered and maculate wine, is not the most complicated stuff. It's delicious, sure, and it can pop out and surprise and offer a lot of fun. But it's not deep. It's Warhol, not Vermeer.

In fact, I want to pause for a moment over that suspicious term, "quaffable." The very idea behind the term is that some wine is not simply for drinking, it's also for thinking. So, there are thinking wines and drinking wines, and they're both fine--but the term "quaffable" suggests that you probably want to have a few thinking wines during your time here on earth because they offer more than drinking wines. Drinking wines? They're merely drinkable--quaffable. Delicious, even, but just drinkable. It's a classic left-handed compliment.

This dichotomy reminds me of something deep within our culture--namely, American Puritanism's abiding suspicion of bodily pleasure. Mere pleasure is problematic. It serves no greater purpose. More than that, it may even detract one from serving a purpose. So it's empty and distracting, not good things.

This legacy of skepticism remains deeply etched in our collective soul, of course, but it pertains to this issue of quaffibility in a specific way. Wine that is merely "quaffable" is wine serving no greater purpose than bodily joy. Quaffable wine is not mindful wine. It's wine that can lead to disgrace--literally, a loss of grace. John Calvin, the Yoda of American Puritanism, explains that "the chief duty of man is to glorify God," and so wine for mere pleasure does not fit in very well. There is Biblical precedent for Calvin's idea, of course. "Be afflicted, and mourn, and weep: let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to heaviness." James 4:9. And nowhere does the New Testament suggest quaffability is a virtue, exactly. So to say that a Zinfandel is "quaffable" is to say: go ahead and sin. Indulge your appetites. Ignore your God.

Of course, the Bible is full of wine being consumed left and right. And the Puritans--Calvin aside--agreed that wine provided an acceptable respite from the world's daily difficulties. In fact, during the seventeenth century, the Puritans even upheld the sale of alcohol to "Indians" because they felt it unfair to deprive them of this divinely given balm. 

This American context is more relevant for Zinfandel than other varietals. The grape took off here in the mid-nineteenth century, and most Zins--and most good Zins--are made in northern California, in the vineyards around San Francisco. It's a truly American wine and it's most popular in the United States. It's incredibly popular, in fact, and has a devoted following.

And guess what? These devotees sometimes call themselves Zinfandel Infidels. Infidels! See what I mean about the Puritan angle?

Anyway, this is all to say that quaffability isn't inherently bad, even though our national psyche tells us it might be. Sometimes, you want a Coke.

Not that good Zins are like Coke.

OK, I think this has gone far enough. And so, the wines.

Havenscourt
I will keep this brief: this is not a good wine. It is hardly even quaffable. When I review the notes Greg and I took on this bottle, the words that jump out at me include, from Greg, "ammonia smell," "acidic," "sour," and "putrid," and, from me, the phrase "liking it less as I drink it more."  It has a thin mouth, was a little peppery at first though it smoothed out after breathing for a bit, and had clear overtones of sherry and cheap tawny port. It was hot, though it had only 13% alcohol. One of the interesting things here was that we could hardly detect any flavors. It was just mush in the mouth.

This is wine made by combining grapes from a variety of vineyards and so this detracts from its specific character. Also, it's important to know that Zinfandel is a grape that ripens unevenly. Some grapes grow fully ripe while others are still a touch green. A quality Zin maker will be careful about which of the grapes he uses. Discarding the "raisined," or overripe grapes will brace the wine up and provide a little more structure. Throwing it all in the mix will flatten out and juicify the stuff. I don't think there was a lot of discrimination here. This is dumpy plonk.

Captain's Reserve
Now this, we liked. Greg is a composer, and he made a brilliant analogy here. In music, he explained, an "envelope" of sound is one in which a tone, or set of tones, crescendos and decrescendos. It has an opening, a development, and some closure. This wine demonstrates just that: the flavor begins by opening with bright fruit flavors, round and discernibly sweet on the tip of the tongue, and then offers up some delicate spice before fading into a quick finish. After a few more sips Greg said the wine has "rhythm" and goes through its flavors in an organized way.

Ironically, this wine is warm rather than hot, thought the alcohol level is much higher--almost 15%. This means that the wine is much more balanced, and the chocolate, mint, and cherry flavors that we detected are bracing and holding up the greater potency, holding it back a little. Whereas in the Havenscourt we couldn't really detect separate flavors, here we found tea leaves and orange rind, pepper and leather. The flavor was "focused."

Next week we're going to be trying a Turley Zinfandel ($54), considered by many to be the greatest, richest, most complex Zin on earth.

I'm hoping for a little thinkability.