Thursday Night Tasting is currently on the road, in Munich, Germany. Tracy and I have just returned from Dachau, which is a few minutes by train from the center of the city. We saw the enormous central yard, where prisoners were forced to stand as punishment for a missing person at roll call, sometimes dying on the spot. We saw the camp's two crematoriums and the rebuilt barracks with their triple-stacked bunks. We saw the showers where prisoners were beaten with leather whips and the showers where they were to be gassed.
What does this have to do with Rioja? Nothing. But now, after a trip back on the S-Bahn, where we split a bar of chocolate and hazelnuts, I'm drinking a glass of it. We bought two bottles of Rioja, a red and a rosé at the supermarket about an hour ago. The small shops here close at 7:00pm, so if you don't get to the bakery, the wine store, or the pharmacy during the day your only real option is the supermarket. I'm drinking the red:
2008 Viñadel Asador Rioja (3 Euro)
It's OK. Lots of wine in Germany is sold at supermarkets, and it's surprisingly cheap. Some of it looks too iffy to consider or the blends are too weird, like Chardonnay-Riesling. In any case, this wine is light and thin, though with that kind of ferrous, almost metallic twang that gives it something half pleasing and half irritating. It's got wood notes but it's not oaky. It's not acidic but it I feel little needles on the tip of my tongue. Uncomplicated, simple, and really nice to have here at the kitchen table in our quiet neighborhood.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Chardonnays, Californian and French
The end of the semester + the beginning of summer = hard to log in Thursday night tastings. But they've been good recently, focusing on Chardonnays from the United States and France.
The wines were:
American
2007 Chalone Vineyard Monterey County Chardonnay ($20)
2007 Bedell Cellars Reserve Chardonnay ($35)
White Burgundies
2003 Beaue Gréves Domaine Jean-Marc Morey 1er Cru ($35)
2006 Auxey-Duresses "Les Hautes" Jean-Marc Vincent ($48)
The two American Chardonnays are instructively different versions of American style Chardonnay. In general, New World Chardonnays, and especially American Chards, are big yellow honeypots. One reason Chardonnay is so "big" here is the way it's vinified, which is, often, with lots of malolactic fermentation and long seasoning in new oak barrels. Malolactic fermentation is a process that turns the bitter malic acid present in grape must into lactic acid--the kind found in milk and butter. All that lactic acid is what gives Chardonnay that round buttery body. New oak, of course, adds flavors of vanilla and toast and (obviously) oak. A book could be written on the use of new oak in modern wine making. In any case, many U.S. Chardonnays are heavily oaked and malolactically fermented, and for that reason they have gained a reputation as big and bold--or obvious and tacky, depending on one's tastes.
What's interesting here is that the two Chardonnays are made differently: the Chalone is a big American without a lot of oak, and the Bedell is a big American with tons of oak. Both are produced with lots of malo. How do I know? Drinking them side by side can tell a lot.
Chalone is one of the west coast's most famous labels. Chalone's Chardonnay came in third in the famous Judgment of Paris, a 1976 wine tasting in France that established California wines on the global stage (George M. Taber's 2005 book Judgment of Paris tells the story in 336 pages). This bottle of 2007 was voted one of the top 100 wines of the year by Wine Spectator last year. Chalone Vineyard was also an early proponent of malolactic fermentation and brought Burgundian winemaking techniques to California wines back in the Ford and Carter years. The soil is said to be rich in granite and limestone, mimicking the terroir of places like Chablis. In short, this is a storied American wine. So unlike a Chablis, though, the wine is Americanly strong: rich and creamy with a depth of flavor (vanilla, pears, honey, flowers) and a muted nose. Barely any oak. While there is a lot happening in the glass, for my taste, this wine is simply too plush.
Bedell Cellars is not in California, where the great American Chardonnays are produced. Where is it? The North Fork of Long Island, never thought of as a true wine destination. Tracy and I took a trip there a few months ago and, at the tasting, got very enthusiastic about their pricey but boldly delicious Reserve Chardonnay. Tastings are not always the best indicators of how much you'll like a wine when you actually get home. You're out at a beautiful vineyard enjoying yourself and suddenly everything is delicious. This wine isn't bad in any way--it's really quite good--though it's ripe with oak and fruit and vanilla. I noticed that the colder it got, the more I liked it--which is perhaps a way of saying that I didn't like the lushness, as coldness keeps body and flavor in check. But tasting this next to the Chalone, it seemed that these two wines stood as good examples of American Chardonnay, milky and oaky and rich. The oak really pops out in the Bedell when tasted next to the Chalone, which restrains its wood flavors considerably.
The white Burgundies are dramatically different. In fact, the difference is not only great between the wines, but the actual styles of taste are of two separate characteristics altogether. That is, white Burgundy tastes like white Burgundy and American Chardonnay tastes like American Chardonnay. There are obviously exceptions to this, but in this case the differences between regions--and their similarity--was striking. The Beaue Gréves is a real 1er cru Burgundy wine, with layers of flavor and that depth and impressive range of flavor that these wines are famous for. It was full of bright toasty flavors, almost like a crispy piece of country bread. I also tasted that vegetal robustness many Burgundies display. This wine is rich and full, though without the more syrupy and dense mouthfeel of the Chalone and Bedell wines. The Auxey-Duresses was similar the the Beaue Gréves, though had a detectable whiff of forest mushroom along with all the other tastes. Beautiful, happy wines. One thing about great Burgundies is the color, which sparkles and glimmers, light and wry and rich and full at the same time.
Interestingly, these two white Burgundies are purveyed by two of the best-known American importers of French wine, Neal Rosenthal (Beaue Gréves) and Kermit Lynch (Auxey-Duresses). Both these importers ship their wines in cold storage to preserve the right cellar temperature during trans-Atlantic voyages. This is actually crucial to imported wines, which may sit in a ship's hold for weeks. Imagine wine headed to California, shipped through the Panama Canal, baking in the wicked Panamanian heat. Cold shipping adds a few cents to each bottle, but it most definitely worth it.
The wines were:
American
2007 Chalone Vineyard Monterey County Chardonnay ($20)
2007 Bedell Cellars Reserve Chardonnay ($35)
White Burgundies
2003 Beaue Gréves Domaine Jean-Marc Morey 1er Cru ($35)
2006 Auxey-Duresses "Les Hautes" Jean-Marc Vincent ($48)
The two American Chardonnays are instructively different versions of American style Chardonnay. In general, New World Chardonnays, and especially American Chards, are big yellow honeypots. One reason Chardonnay is so "big" here is the way it's vinified, which is, often, with lots of malolactic fermentation and long seasoning in new oak barrels. Malolactic fermentation is a process that turns the bitter malic acid present in grape must into lactic acid--the kind found in milk and butter. All that lactic acid is what gives Chardonnay that round buttery body. New oak, of course, adds flavors of vanilla and toast and (obviously) oak. A book could be written on the use of new oak in modern wine making. In any case, many U.S. Chardonnays are heavily oaked and malolactically fermented, and for that reason they have gained a reputation as big and bold--or obvious and tacky, depending on one's tastes.
What's interesting here is that the two Chardonnays are made differently: the Chalone is a big American without a lot of oak, and the Bedell is a big American with tons of oak. Both are produced with lots of malo. How do I know? Drinking them side by side can tell a lot.
Bedell Cellars is not in California, where the great American Chardonnays are produced. Where is it? The North Fork of Long Island, never thought of as a true wine destination. Tracy and I took a trip there a few months ago and, at the tasting, got very enthusiastic about their pricey but boldly delicious Reserve Chardonnay. Tastings are not always the best indicators of how much you'll like a wine when you actually get home. You're out at a beautiful vineyard enjoying yourself and suddenly everything is delicious. This wine isn't bad in any way--it's really quite good--though it's ripe with oak and fruit and vanilla. I noticed that the colder it got, the more I liked it--which is perhaps a way of saying that I didn't like the lushness, as coldness keeps body and flavor in check. But tasting this next to the Chalone, it seemed that these two wines stood as good examples of American Chardonnay, milky and oaky and rich. The oak really pops out in the Bedell when tasted next to the Chalone, which restrains its wood flavors considerably.
The white Burgundies are dramatically different. In fact, the difference is not only great between the wines, but the actual styles of taste are of two separate characteristics altogether. That is, white Burgundy tastes like white Burgundy and American Chardonnay tastes like American Chardonnay. There are obviously exceptions to this, but in this case the differences between regions--and their similarity--was striking. The Beaue Gréves is a real 1er cru Burgundy wine, with layers of flavor and that depth and impressive range of flavor that these wines are famous for. It was full of bright toasty flavors, almost like a crispy piece of country bread. I also tasted that vegetal robustness many Burgundies display. This wine is rich and full, though without the more syrupy and dense mouthfeel of the Chalone and Bedell wines. The Auxey-Duresses was similar the the Beaue Gréves, though had a detectable whiff of forest mushroom along with all the other tastes. Beautiful, happy wines. One thing about great Burgundies is the color, which sparkles and glimmers, light and wry and rich and full at the same time. Interestingly, these two white Burgundies are purveyed by two of the best-known American importers of French wine, Neal Rosenthal (Beaue Gréves) and Kermit Lynch (Auxey-Duresses). Both these importers ship their wines in cold storage to preserve the right cellar temperature during trans-Atlantic voyages. This is actually crucial to imported wines, which may sit in a ship's hold for weeks. Imagine wine headed to California, shipped through the Panama Canal, baking in the wicked Panamanian heat. Cold shipping adds a few cents to each bottle, but it most definitely worth it.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Gigondas
I just learned the word Gigondas about a month ago. Tracy said it. She told me how she tasted one once, years ago at a dinner party. What is it? I wondered. Sounds like one of Tolkein's elf kings.
Well, it's just a wine growing region in France. I'm focusing now on the southern reaches of the Côtes du Rhône. In the north reigns Syrah, but in the south it's primarily Grenache. This is the home of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, mostly Grenache but usually mixed with a variety of grapes. And so Gigondas, perhaps less well known, perhaps less iconographic as Chateauneuf, but in the same style and of the same land.
Last night, Tracy, Kristie and I tried a Gigondas and a regular Côtes du Rhône from nearby. In fact, these wines are from the same winemaker. They were:
2008 Domaine du Gour de Chaule Côtes du Rhône ($16)
2004 Domaine du Gour de Chaule Gigondas ($35)
I found both of these wines to be really satisfying and great, but in quite different ways. The first is friendly, warm, soft, and a little bit lush. It's an easy wine to drink, sunny and bright and approachable. The second, the Gigondas, is tight, dry, lithe, and canny. It's serious and noble. They're quite different wines, suitable for quite different moods. Like literary genres, neither style is, to me, inherently better than the other. Is a novella better than a renga? I may prefer reading rengas, but that doesn't mean they're better than novellas. It's just a matter of, er, taste.
And so the lesson from tonight: I think I'm learning that the French prize wine that's lean, light, tannic, serious, and restrained. Edgy wine. Wine with all its vertebrae intact. Wine with buttons and snaps. A wine in oils, not water colors. This is what counts as good in France. And maybe elsewhere, of course, though I feel like the French are taste-makers for the world of wine, or at least have been historically.
I find myself wondering if this hierarchy of taste really matters. I realize that the Gigondas is older, and probably represents a style of wine that's much more difficult to produce. These subtle, layered effects of the wry wine are simply more of a feat. It's hard to make, and less obviously announces its pleasures. And so, it's prized more highly. And yet, isn't that friendly Grenache the one I'd like to spend time with, too?
Côtes du Rhône
Soft, round, smooth, and balanced. Immediate pleasure. Flavorful without being juicy. An assertive tannic after-bite, mostly in the finish, which I feel in the front of the teeth and top of the palate. The body is lush and total, perhaps best described as a "wash" or "wall" (actually, the term "wash" is a water-color term; it refers to the effect of background layers of color that are evenly spread over the painted surface). It's a complete feeling to drink this wine. Tracy says this wine will braid your hair--I guess like a really good friend. I don't notice a lot of development on the palate over time--this wine is fairly stable, and doesn't really evolve in the glass as much as the Gigondas will . . .
Gigondas
This is developed wine. Have you ever had a friend who you liked because they taught you something? Someone you looked up to and respected? He is this wine. She is this wine. Or should I say, this wine is him? In any case, sizzling and light, dry and bouncy, this wine is lean with a lot of structure. What is structure? I take it to mean, here, that there is a burst of fruits--the typical dark fruits, which seem so characteristic of all these Rhone wines, plus the obvious berries--held in check by the brick-and-mortar of the tannins. Emerson called these quantities "power an form," both of which are necessary, both of which are present in any creative force. I notice that, over some time, the wine unwinds a little in the air and becomes rounder and smoother. The restraint, structure, leanness, and character of the initial sips is giving way to something more like the Côtes du Rhône--but not entirely. This wine keeps its coat on.
Well, it's just a wine growing region in France. I'm focusing now on the southern reaches of the Côtes du Rhône. In the north reigns Syrah, but in the south it's primarily Grenache. This is the home of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, mostly Grenache but usually mixed with a variety of grapes. And so Gigondas, perhaps less well known, perhaps less iconographic as Chateauneuf, but in the same style and of the same land.
Last night, Tracy, Kristie and I tried a Gigondas and a regular Côtes du Rhône from nearby. In fact, these wines are from the same winemaker. They were:
2008 Domaine du Gour de Chaule Côtes du Rhône ($16)
2004 Domaine du Gour de Chaule Gigondas ($35)
I found both of these wines to be really satisfying and great, but in quite different ways. The first is friendly, warm, soft, and a little bit lush. It's an easy wine to drink, sunny and bright and approachable. The second, the Gigondas, is tight, dry, lithe, and canny. It's serious and noble. They're quite different wines, suitable for quite different moods. Like literary genres, neither style is, to me, inherently better than the other. Is a novella better than a renga? I may prefer reading rengas, but that doesn't mean they're better than novellas. It's just a matter of, er, taste.
And so the lesson from tonight: I think I'm learning that the French prize wine that's lean, light, tannic, serious, and restrained. Edgy wine. Wine with all its vertebrae intact. Wine with buttons and snaps. A wine in oils, not water colors. This is what counts as good in France. And maybe elsewhere, of course, though I feel like the French are taste-makers for the world of wine, or at least have been historically.
I find myself wondering if this hierarchy of taste really matters. I realize that the Gigondas is older, and probably represents a style of wine that's much more difficult to produce. These subtle, layered effects of the wry wine are simply more of a feat. It's hard to make, and less obviously announces its pleasures. And so, it's prized more highly. And yet, isn't that friendly Grenache the one I'd like to spend time with, too?
Côtes du Rhône
Soft, round, smooth, and balanced. Immediate pleasure. Flavorful without being juicy. An assertive tannic after-bite, mostly in the finish, which I feel in the front of the teeth and top of the palate. The body is lush and total, perhaps best described as a "wash" or "wall" (actually, the term "wash" is a water-color term; it refers to the effect of background layers of color that are evenly spread over the painted surface). It's a complete feeling to drink this wine. Tracy says this wine will braid your hair--I guess like a really good friend. I don't notice a lot of development on the palate over time--this wine is fairly stable, and doesn't really evolve in the glass as much as the Gigondas will . . .
Gigondas
This is developed wine. Have you ever had a friend who you liked because they taught you something? Someone you looked up to and respected? He is this wine. She is this wine. Or should I say, this wine is him? In any case, sizzling and light, dry and bouncy, this wine is lean with a lot of structure. What is structure? I take it to mean, here, that there is a burst of fruits--the typical dark fruits, which seem so characteristic of all these Rhone wines, plus the obvious berries--held in check by the brick-and-mortar of the tannins. Emerson called these quantities "power an form," both of which are necessary, both of which are present in any creative force. I notice that, over some time, the wine unwinds a little in the air and becomes rounder and smoother. The restraint, structure, leanness, and character of the initial sips is giving way to something more like the Côtes du Rhône--but not entirely. This wine keeps its coat on.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Two Syrahs, One World
Tonight's wines are both Syrah (though in Australia they say "Shiraz"):
2004 Carlei Shiraz Victoria "Sergio's Blend" ($17)
2006 Crozes Hermitage Alain Graillot ($35)
A few months ago I said I'd be tasting my way through a number of varietals as a way to generally educate myself about wine. Tonight, I'll taste a couple of Syrahs, more or less ending the plan of moving through the central grapes that, at the time, I had read were the essentials: Zinfandel, Cabernet Sauvignon, Riesling, Tempranillo, Sauvignon Blanc, Sangiovese, Pinot Noir, Syrah, and Chardonnay. (In fact, I never tasted Chardonnays specifically, though over the course of these months have tried numerous pairings of white Burgundies, Chablis, California Chards of milky and non-milky varieties, dry and light Long Island Chards, heavily lactating ones, the oaked and the unoaked, and so on; no need for an organized sampling). In fact, now that I've focused on these popular grapes, I realize I'd like to try a few more varietals before moving on to my anatomy of French wine. Over the past months, I've read about grapes I had never heard of before--the Nebbiolo, for example, a tannic and rustic Italian hill grape championed by Neal Rosenthal. I've also had quick tastes of varietals that I'd like to know more of--Granache, for example, the rich base of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and a source for white wine (Granache Blanc) that I tried recently. In any case, tasting wine by tasting by grape has been an excellent pedagogy.
And yet paradoxically, during these months I've learned that grape DNA doesn't equal grape consistency. One of the most brayed about truisms regarding wine, the keyword in any defense of fine wine and its regional inimitability, is the concept of terroir. As I've been tasting types of grape from various corners of the globe, I've been tasting different terroirs, and the differences have been so great that I have come to wonder about the very idea of varietals. If terroir is so essential, to what extent is wine pressed from grapes the product of its genetic makeup?
To take the most obvious example, what does it mean that a William Fevre Chablis (tasted twice in Thursday Night Tasting)--a light, chalky, crisp, lemony bolt of a wine--is derived from the "same grape" as La Crema Chardonnay, an unctuous, luscious wall of creamy California hugeness? They're both "Chardonnays" but they're so very different it calls into question their categorical affiliation. So does it make sense to learn about wine by tasting varietals? The assumption is that grape, not land and climate, is the determining factor in any wine. While the case of Chardonnay is perhaps the marquee example, the question goes for any wine, anywhere.
Well, I don't know. I still like varietal tasting and think it's incredibly useful, mostly because we live in a global wine economy. If I'm going to drink globally (which I'd like to do), I should know how a Pinot Noir from South Africa shakes out next to an Oregon Pinot and a classic Burgundy. How can I begin to judge Rieslings from New York's Finger Lake region, which I keep reading is producing brilliant Riesling, without knowing not only about German, Austrian, and Alsatian Rieslings, but California ones as well? Wine is everywhere now being sold by varietal, from China and India to the tropics. Apparently, an emerging technology called Deep Ocean Water agriculture is beginning to allow for the growth of wine grapes in hot and steamy climates (it seems to work by pumping in cold water from deep pockets of sea adjacent to farmland as a coolant). How a particular grape performs in various places may be just the relevant way to begin tasting wine.
So I'm sticking with my plan: I'm going to taste a few more varietals along the way, focusing on regional and geographic distinctions, but move more immediately (after tonight, that is) into the nebula of French wine, hopping from region to region--from terroir to terroir. France is, of course, the source of the concept of terroir, and French wine reflects this--one buys a Burgundy, not a Pinot Noir, a Bordeaux, not a Cabernet Sauvignon. France organizes its wine into "appellations," or AOCs, designated wine growing regions that are carefully controlled in terms of how much wine they can produce, what types of grape(s) they can use, and how they may vinify their wine. In France, terroir trumps varietal.
As suggested above, perhaps this way of thinking is out of date. I just read in Lawrence Osborne's The Accidental Connoisseur that the French are the world's most provincial wine drinkers, importing just an astonishing 3% of their wine. That means that many French wine shops carry virtually all French wines. This is quite difficult to imagine for an American, used to wine shops organized nationally, with American and French wines up front, and wines from Australia, Italy, Spain, Argentina, and many other countries in back. To Americans, wine is grapes gone global; to the French, it's local land.
In any case, tonight we're being a little global, as usual. If any country represents to the traditional wine world the impact of emerging regions, it's Australia. In fact, one might say that Australian Shiraz symbolizes above any other wine how new places shape new tastes and shift global markets. Their big, approachable, fruity flavor bombs have either satisfied or created a lust for this kind of gargantuan oeneological experience. (I should say, I've not chosen a Shiraz from the Barossa Valley, where the most decadently profound juice missiles are made; the Victoria region, to the south of Barossa, produces lighter stuff). The other Syrah tonight is from Crozes Hermitage, a highly regarded appellation that produces more typically French wine--leaner, tighter, more densely packed. So:
Carlei
Plum colored, silky, and fat. Nose is full and round, almost palpable, as if someone soaked a towel in a bottle of wine and then hung it under your nose. Lush and luscious, big and juicy, ripe all over. Tracy used the word "loose," and that's right--this wine has lots of room about it. The flavors include all the dark fruits, maybe some black licorice too. I don't actually taste blood, but it seems bloody, somehow. Ferrous, though not really much in the way of tannins, not a lot of structure. Many might like this wine for sipping with low key foods. The phrase "picnic wine" comes to mind.
Alain Graillot
Muted color, rich still but more rose-like, the saturated rose petal color from inside the whorl. Noticeable leather in the nose, plus salt and hardwood. A tight smell. I guess I'm getting used to French wine being thinner, lither, and more bracing than other types. Here it is, again--focused, spiny, bright and even a little rigid. There's a nice, long taste toward the back of the tongue, a delectable finish. That saltiness mentioned above, it comes back upon repeated tastes--almost a residual of oyster-shell. This wine makes me feel like wearing suspenders--or rather, it makes me feel as though I am already wearing suspenders. Braced up. Perhaps it goes without saying that, unless I'm having pizza or moc duck pad see ew for dinner, I'd choose the Crozes Hermitage every time.
2004 Carlei Shiraz Victoria "Sergio's Blend" ($17)
2006 Crozes Hermitage Alain Graillot ($35)
A few months ago I said I'd be tasting my way through a number of varietals as a way to generally educate myself about wine. Tonight, I'll taste a couple of Syrahs, more or less ending the plan of moving through the central grapes that, at the time, I had read were the essentials: Zinfandel, Cabernet Sauvignon, Riesling, Tempranillo, Sauvignon Blanc, Sangiovese, Pinot Noir, Syrah, and Chardonnay. (In fact, I never tasted Chardonnays specifically, though over the course of these months have tried numerous pairings of white Burgundies, Chablis, California Chards of milky and non-milky varieties, dry and light Long Island Chards, heavily lactating ones, the oaked and the unoaked, and so on; no need for an organized sampling). In fact, now that I've focused on these popular grapes, I realize I'd like to try a few more varietals before moving on to my anatomy of French wine. Over the past months, I've read about grapes I had never heard of before--the Nebbiolo, for example, a tannic and rustic Italian hill grape championed by Neal Rosenthal. I've also had quick tastes of varietals that I'd like to know more of--Granache, for example, the rich base of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and a source for white wine (Granache Blanc) that I tried recently. In any case, tasting wine by tasting by grape has been an excellent pedagogy.
And yet paradoxically, during these months I've learned that grape DNA doesn't equal grape consistency. One of the most brayed about truisms regarding wine, the keyword in any defense of fine wine and its regional inimitability, is the concept of terroir. As I've been tasting types of grape from various corners of the globe, I've been tasting different terroirs, and the differences have been so great that I have come to wonder about the very idea of varietals. If terroir is so essential, to what extent is wine pressed from grapes the product of its genetic makeup?
To take the most obvious example, what does it mean that a William Fevre Chablis (tasted twice in Thursday Night Tasting)--a light, chalky, crisp, lemony bolt of a wine--is derived from the "same grape" as La Crema Chardonnay, an unctuous, luscious wall of creamy California hugeness? They're both "Chardonnays" but they're so very different it calls into question their categorical affiliation. So does it make sense to learn about wine by tasting varietals? The assumption is that grape, not land and climate, is the determining factor in any wine. While the case of Chardonnay is perhaps the marquee example, the question goes for any wine, anywhere.
Well, I don't know. I still like varietal tasting and think it's incredibly useful, mostly because we live in a global wine economy. If I'm going to drink globally (which I'd like to do), I should know how a Pinot Noir from South Africa shakes out next to an Oregon Pinot and a classic Burgundy. How can I begin to judge Rieslings from New York's Finger Lake region, which I keep reading is producing brilliant Riesling, without knowing not only about German, Austrian, and Alsatian Rieslings, but California ones as well? Wine is everywhere now being sold by varietal, from China and India to the tropics. Apparently, an emerging technology called Deep Ocean Water agriculture is beginning to allow for the growth of wine grapes in hot and steamy climates (it seems to work by pumping in cold water from deep pockets of sea adjacent to farmland as a coolant). How a particular grape performs in various places may be just the relevant way to begin tasting wine.
So I'm sticking with my plan: I'm going to taste a few more varietals along the way, focusing on regional and geographic distinctions, but move more immediately (after tonight, that is) into the nebula of French wine, hopping from region to region--from terroir to terroir. France is, of course, the source of the concept of terroir, and French wine reflects this--one buys a Burgundy, not a Pinot Noir, a Bordeaux, not a Cabernet Sauvignon. France organizes its wine into "appellations," or AOCs, designated wine growing regions that are carefully controlled in terms of how much wine they can produce, what types of grape(s) they can use, and how they may vinify their wine. In France, terroir trumps varietal.
As suggested above, perhaps this way of thinking is out of date. I just read in Lawrence Osborne's The Accidental Connoisseur that the French are the world's most provincial wine drinkers, importing just an astonishing 3% of their wine. That means that many French wine shops carry virtually all French wines. This is quite difficult to imagine for an American, used to wine shops organized nationally, with American and French wines up front, and wines from Australia, Italy, Spain, Argentina, and many other countries in back. To Americans, wine is grapes gone global; to the French, it's local land.
In any case, tonight we're being a little global, as usual. If any country represents to the traditional wine world the impact of emerging regions, it's Australia. In fact, one might say that Australian Shiraz symbolizes above any other wine how new places shape new tastes and shift global markets. Their big, approachable, fruity flavor bombs have either satisfied or created a lust for this kind of gargantuan oeneological experience. (I should say, I've not chosen a Shiraz from the Barossa Valley, where the most decadently profound juice missiles are made; the Victoria region, to the south of Barossa, produces lighter stuff). The other Syrah tonight is from Crozes Hermitage, a highly regarded appellation that produces more typically French wine--leaner, tighter, more densely packed. So:
Carlei
Plum colored, silky, and fat. Nose is full and round, almost palpable, as if someone soaked a towel in a bottle of wine and then hung it under your nose. Lush and luscious, big and juicy, ripe all over. Tracy used the word "loose," and that's right--this wine has lots of room about it. The flavors include all the dark fruits, maybe some black licorice too. I don't actually taste blood, but it seems bloody, somehow. Ferrous, though not really much in the way of tannins, not a lot of structure. Many might like this wine for sipping with low key foods. The phrase "picnic wine" comes to mind.
Alain Graillot
Muted color, rich still but more rose-like, the saturated rose petal color from inside the whorl. Noticeable leather in the nose, plus salt and hardwood. A tight smell. I guess I'm getting used to French wine being thinner, lither, and more bracing than other types. Here it is, again--focused, spiny, bright and even a little rigid. There's a nice, long taste toward the back of the tongue, a delectable finish. That saltiness mentioned above, it comes back upon repeated tastes--almost a residual of oyster-shell. This wine makes me feel like wearing suspenders--or rather, it makes me feel as though I am already wearing suspenders. Braced up. Perhaps it goes without saying that, unless I'm having pizza or moc duck pad see ew for dinner, I'd choose the Crozes Hermitage every time.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Side-Taste: California Pinot
Though I guess I think this bottle of Pinot Noir that I'm drinking--
2007 Rubicon Estate Captain's Reserve Pinot Noir "Carneros" ($29)
--this bottle is not really special. Take a look at the price tag: for such money, I should be getting a better wine. What's wrong with it? Nothing really. It's enjoyable, and I'm perfectly happy drinking it. But it's simply dull. First, the color. Pinot Noir is almost a different race of wine--typically, it's obvious as soon as the wine bubbles from the bottle's neck that a Pinot is a Pinot. The liquid is clear and sparkles in the light. It's bright and light and crisp and delicate, even to the eye. The Rubicon, however, has a heavy look, like it's just waking up. And the nose is full of generic oakiness. It's slight but noticeable, and reminds me of too many other wines, none of which really come distinctly to mind. The taste, I acknowledge, is pleasing--it's quaffable--but decidedly unremarkable. It's a little sweet, very full in the mouth, but it lacks the thing that great Pinot's have in barrelsful--fruit flavor without the fleshiness, complexity without the nuclear flavor. This wine is just a touch flabby. There's no structure. There's no identity. No character or grace.
Now, this is just one bottle of wine. But somehow, I feel that it does stand as an example of California Pinot. It's pricey (just look at that bottle, too, which is beautiful). It's from a vineyard--Rubicon Estates--that makes truly great, and truly Napa-Californian, Cabernet Sauvignon. Now that wine is delicious. Maybe I'll open a bottle of that some day soon.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Side-Taste: Chateauneuf-du-Pape and Cotes du Ventoux
2005 Cotes du Ventoux Chateau Valcombe ($15)
I have to disclose this fact: this is not an actual Chateauneuf-du-Pape. To be precise, it's a different appelation, Cotes du Ventoux. Still, it's a comparable wine from nearby Chateauneuf-du-Pape using Syrah, Cinsault, Mourvedre, and Carignan. This was a very nicely balanced wine, with lightness of body and flavor and what I tasted as cherry, plum, and a light spiciness. A really affable and considerate little glass of friendliness, but it didn't really prepare me for what was about to come, which was . . .
2007 Domaine Monpertuis Chateauneuf-du-Pape ($38)
Wow, I really liked this wine! It's my first Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and I don't know if I just like this AOC a lot or if this bottle was particularly good, but this was luscious, friendly, fruit-filled but round and restrained wine. The effect was of layers of taste, sweetness and dryness and light and muscle all splayed out and balancing perfectly on the whole tongue. Not just the tip or the back or the sides, the whole flat place. I just tipped over a little when drinking this wine, one of my true favorite bottles.
In fact, I liked it so much that I'm going to get another bottle soon to double check my impressions. Also, I'm going to pick up a few more Chateauneuf-du-Papes to expand my experience with the entire appellation . . .
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Chablis Chablis
2004 William Fevre Chablis Premier Cru "Fourchaume" ($38)
2004 Chablis Premier Cru "Montmains" Dauvissat ($39)
In the first Thursday Night Tasting all those months ago--in which we drank Burgundies red and white--we tried a William Fevre Chablis, though not a Premier Cru. The second bottle tonight, the Montmains, I purchased from Rosenthal Wine Merchants on East 84th Street. What a store. I'll be purchasing much of my wine from them from now on, if I can get there often enough. We all know what a Chablis is by this point, so:
William Fevre
This is more of a white Burgundy to me than a typical, mineral-laced Chablis. Not as crisp, light, or dry as the other Chablis I've had. It has a soft mouthfeel and a bright fruit flavor discernible on the tongue. There's also a faint muskiness that I have tasted in white Burgundies before, a little touch of loam, mostly in the nose. After aerating the wine in my mouth, some slight hints of white-fleshed fruit comes through, mostly pear and maybe apple. This is surprisingly not like Chablis I've tasted. It's somewhat heartier and more robust.
Montmains
Lighter than the William Fevre, with more of that Chablis minerality. There's a little more acidity, and a touch of citrus flavor here as well, lemony arcs of flavor batting this way and that. Though again, I'm finding that both of these Chablis are quite different from the others--richer, more wooly and aged, a little wiser.
These wines remind me, a little, of the white Burgundy from the last posting, insofar as that wine was a little richer and deeper and more complex than other white Burgundies I've tried. These Chablis just have more in the saddle than the sunny brightness of previous Chablis. Most delicious, in any case.
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