People often ask “How [...]]]>

Old vine garnacha in Rioja

I don’t even want to count the number of wines I tasted this week. Five tastings in three days is a bit much. But stacking grapes as disparate as zinfandel, pinot noir, and garnacha against each other on consecutive days allowed an unexpected common denominator to leap forth: Vine age matters.

People often ask “How old is old?” When it comes to vines, age is relative. They’re like dog breeds. A golden lab just isn’t going to live as long as a cocker spaniel. Likewise, nebbiolo isn’t going to be as productive after 60 years as sauvignon blanc or zinfandel, which at twice that age will continue to be happy workers churning out premium grapes.

That’s why it’s impossible to establish a definition for “old vine” that’s meaningful across the board. It’s got to be grape by grape. Australia is leading the way with its BAROSSA OLD VINE CHARTER. Home to some of the oldest shiraz grapes in the world, Barossa has established four tiers: Barossa Old Vine for vines 35 years of age; Survivor Vines for those over 70; Centurion Vines for 100-year-old vines; and Ancestor Vines for those 125+ years (like the 169-year-old Langmeil vineyard, planted in 1843 and still commercially active).

The rest of us don’t have such clarity. Here in the U.S., in fact, it’s good to raise a skeptical brow towards “old vine” labeling, since there’s nothing to stop abuse of the term.

PINOT NOIR

Interestingly, “old vine” usually isn’t advertised on the label when it comes to pinot noir. But at IN PURSUIT OF BALANCE, a tasting that spotlighted cool-climate California pinot noir and chardonnay, I was struck by the extra dimensionality that vine age provides. One example is the gorgeous Escarpa Vineyard Pinot Noir 2010 from CERITAS, a miniscule winery on the Sonoma Coast. Planted in 1978, these 34-year-old vines are some of the oldest pinots in the county, or so I was told. The result is layers of black cherry, minerality, and a pleasing tannic backbone in this lip-smacking pinot.

Pinot specialist Ross Cobb, of COBB WINES, laid out his own old-vine charter for me. “Up until seven years, it’s simple, primary fruit,” he said. “From 7 to 12, it’s showing its varietal character and acidity. From 12 to 25, that old-vine aspect is developing, giving the wines a more sappy, dark, dimensional character. Then from 25 years on, it’s at its peak.” That means that Cobb’s Emmaline Ann Vineyard Pinot Noir 2008 (my favorite at his table) will only get better with each vintage. It’s incredible now: subtle at first, then boom! An explosion of raspberry and cherry, flower and earth.

GARNACHA

This Spanish grape makes simple quaffers when young—all that one needs at a tapas bar—but turns out serious stuff when older. Unfortunately, many of Spain’s oldest garnacha vineyards have been ripped out, to the point where top Riojan winemakers are tracking down the survivors like frenetic bloodhounds.

In nearby Cariñena, old-vine garnacha is evidently alive and well. One standout at the SPANISH WINE CELLAR tasting was Torrelongares Garnacha Selección 50 2007, sourced from 50-year-old vines. Made by a 300-member cooperative, Covinca S. Coop, it’s a great argument for hanging on to those geriatric oldsters.

ZINFANDEL

Over at ZAP  (Zinfandel Advocates & Producers), old-vine zins were popping up everywhere. Like Shiraz, Zinfandel can remain commercially viable well past the century mark. In fact, California’s oldest producing vineyard was planted 147 years ago, in 1865: the Grandpere vineyard in Amador County.

At this tasting, the vines were younger—but only slightly. PEDRONCELLI’s delicious Mother Clone, Dry Creek Valley comes from a vineyard planted in 1903; a half acre remains of the original field blend of zin and petit syrah. At only $16, it was the best value in the room. Italian names crop up again at WINE GUERILLA, a boutique producer making 11 zins from sourced fruit. Winemaker Bruce Patch’s  Forchini Old Vine and Coffaro Old Vine from Dry Creek Valley both come from centurion vines. (Interestingly, his Conte Vineyard zinfandel is sourced from a new vineyard planted as a field blend, an approach that’s long gone out of fashion. Are we seeing the harbinger of a new back-to-the-roots trend?)

Several vineyards represented at ZAP were planted during Prohibition. That seems counterintuitive, until one recalls that zinfandel surged during this dry spell due to the fact that it could endure travel by train, thus was in demand by East Coasters making wine at home. One such case is KLINKER BRICK WINERY’s Old Vine Lodi (another great value at $18), dating to 1927. RIDGE’s Paso Robles vineyard, planted in 1922, is another Depression-era survivor. Ditto for GAMBA’s Old Vine, Moratto Vineyard, Russian River Valley 2009, planted in 1929. While coming from diverse parts of California, each of these Zinfandels was packed with such briary flavors and complex personalities that other zins seemed like juvenile pretenders in comparison.

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Like comedies at the Oscars, white wines at GAMBERO ROSSO’S TRE BICCHIERI awards are a minority class. They’re few in number and have to work harder to get some respect.

So I was thrilled the first time a Vermentino from Liguria make the cut. (In my debut column [...]]]>

Like comedies at the Oscars, white wines at GAMBERO ROSSO’S TRE BICCHIERI awards are a minority class. They’re few in number and have to work harder to get some respect.

So I was thrilled the first time a Vermentino from Liguria make the cut. (In my debut column for UNCORKED this week, I discuss Vermentinos from the whole maritime triangle of Liguria, Tuscany, and Sardinia.)

The Ligurian awardee that year, 2010, was CANTINE LUNAE, a producer I wasn’t acquainted with. But after sampling their lip-smacking Vermentino Colli di Luni at the Tre Bicchieri tasting in New York, I was so impressed that I promised Diego Bosoni, there pouring his family’s wines, that I’d pay them a visit the next time I was in Liguria.

I kept my word.

Lunae is surprisingly easy to reach. Unlike most Ligurian wineries, which are inconveniently located at the end of a torturous switchback up some mountain, Lunae is five minutes from the A12 autostrada. In easternmost Liguria just a few miles from the Tuscan border, it’s close to the ancient Roman port of Luni (Portus Lunae, or Port of the City of the Moon), from which it takes its name and logo, and from which Romans used to ship local products like white marble from Carrara, foodstuffs from Parma, and wine from the steep, terraced vineyards of Liguria.

Lunae’s tasting room was also a surprise. In a region of tiny wineries, it’s as big as any Chianti showroom and was crowded with Italian visitors on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Some were buying vino sfuso, filling up demijohns using gasoline-pump-style dispensers. Others were browsing the locally made jams and marmalades. Others were sampling exotic liquors crafted by Diego and the dozen wines made by his father, Paolo Bosoni.

Diego and his sister could both pass for Williamsburg hipsters: she’s a pixie with short purple hair; he’s sporting Converse sneakers, a plaid scarf, thick-frame glasses, and a straw fedora.

Their father is a different species. Now 64, the mustachioed Paolo is an old-style Italian, comporting himself like Giancarlo Giannini in 7 Beauties, kissing the cheeks every woman who enters the tasting room (which is decorated with a painted plaster statue of him, seemingly lifted from a pizzeria or BigBoy drive-in). After greeting me with multiple kisses, padre Bosoni steers me over to a wall displaying black-and-white photos of himself as an 18-year-old vineyard worker—though ‘worker’ seems an overstatement; he’s either glugging wine from a leather flask, popping grapes in his mouth, or posing with a rakish grin.

But work he did. For generations, Paolo’s family had run a traditional farm, with vineyards, fruit trees, olive oil, and animals. In 1966, Paolo decided to end all that and focus on the wine. “He understood that in this territory, there was the potential to express something more, something higher enologically,” says figlio Diego. History suggests that the territory had the right stuff. “Vine was produced here in Roman times—and of high quality,” Diego continues. “There are two important Latin writers who recount that in the Colli di Luni, close to the sea, there was wine of high quality that was transported to Rome by boat.”

Paolo tore out the fruit trees and planted more vines, then started to research and analyze the terroir and indigenous varietals. “Our DOC was born little more than 20 years ago, so my father preceded that,” says Diego. “At the time, there was no bottling, no labeling, no culture of wine.” Paolo Bosoni and three or four other pioneering producers laid the groundwork, with Vermentino their star grape.

A village in the Apuan Alps, overlooking the Lunae winery

“Over the years, this research has had interesting results,” Diego notes. “Every zone has its characteristics: From one kilometer to the next, the terrain and climate change. So our cantina has grapes with very different characteristics. There’s never a lot of quantity, because we don’t have much land. In Liguria, there’s so little space. But the characteristics of the territory, the climate, and the closeness to the sea allow a Vermentino that, over the years, has had notable success.”

Indeed, Lunae was back in the Tre Bicchieri winners’ circle in 2011 and 2012, and picked up a trophy from Decanter’s World Wine Awards 2011, among other honors.

Lunae makes more wine than most Ligurian producers, working with 60 hectares overall. The majority comes from its own 15 vineyards (45 ha) dotted throughout the Apuan Alps; the remainder comes from 150 tiny growers who are overseen by Lunae’s agronomist and enologist. That adds up to 450,000 bottles, 200,000 of which are Vermentino—enough to see Lunae imported into the U.S.

Their basic gray-label Vermentino Colli di Luni captures the freshness, minerality, and aromatics of the maritime macchia with a clarity second to none. The black label (the Tre Bicchieri winner) is a step up, with a rigorous vineyard selection, 36 hours of maceration on the skins, and long lees contact, which results in a rounder wine with deeper color and concentration. The rarer Cavagino cru, coming from a historic vineyard at high elevation, is even more precise and focused. Though 40 percent was fermented in used barrel, there’s no taste of wood, just a greater complexity and softness while retaining Vermentino’s refreshing acidity.

“I do believe that the marble in these hills influences our Vermentino, giving it a great minerality,” Diego muses. If Lunae’s flavors glisten, maybe it is due to the white marble veins of Carrara that have inspired so many: First the Romans, then Michaelangelo, now Paolo Bosoni. Not a bad lineage. Perhaps that’s what put the grin on his face.

Contact importer LAIRD & COMPANY to find Lunae locally.

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My mission this spring is to delve into the nebbiolo-based wines of northern Piedmont—not just Ghemme and Gattinara, regions that most Italophiles know by name, if not by firsthand. I’m also intrigued by wholly obscure regions like Bramaterra, Carema, Colline Novaresi, and Lessona. (I feel safe in saying “wholly obscure” when, [...]]]>

My mission this spring is to delve into the nebbiolo-based wines of northern Piedmont—not just Ghemme and Gattinara, regions that most Italophiles know by name, if not by firsthand. I’m also intrigued by wholly obscure regions like Bramaterra, Carema, Colline Novaresi, and Lessona. (I feel safe in saying “wholly obscure” when, at a recent WINE MEDIA GUILD tasting of nebbiolo from northern Piedmont, virtually no one was acquainted with the Bramaterra DOC, not even MW Mary Gorman. That made me feel better.)

So, what’s the attraction? First, they offer nebbiolo, Piedmont’s prized thoroughbred of a grape, at an affordable price—often in the $20 range. (Contrast with $30–80+ for Barbaresco and Barolo.)  Second, some of these northern nebbiolos are mind-blowingly good, as I’ve discovered almost by chance in the past year.

Strange as it may sound, I stumbled across Lessona wines while in Chianti. When visiting Isola e Olena, proprietress Marta De Marchi surprised my TUSCAN WINE TREASURES tour group by reaching for two more bottles after she’d walked us through their Tuscan line-up: “These are made by my son, Luca,” she said, pouring from bottles labeled PROPRIETÁ SPERINO. First came the Uvaggio Coste delle Sesia ($29), a beautifully perfumed blend of nebbiolo, vespolina, and croatina. Then came the more powerful Lessona ($60), a gorgeous duet of nebbiolo and vespolina. Both had the finesse and minerality of a good Langhe Nebbiolo, but possessed something more—a darker, juicier, more approachable fruit core. They were absolutely delicious.

I looked at the bottle: Lessona DOC. Never heard of it. Marta got out the map, pointing to a small zone on the alpine side of the Sesia River, about an hour’s drive north of Turin. Her husband, Paolo De Marchi, originally came from Lessona. He’d moved to Chianti Classico in the 1970s—a more reasonable place for an ambitious young winemaker. But now, having enjoyed tremendous success with Isole e Olena, Paolo wanted to rebuild the historic reputation of his hometown’s wines. He and his son dusted off the old family property at the Castle of Lessona in 1999 and harvested their first vintage in 2004.

That’s got me looking north of Turin for nebbiolo, both pure and blended, as the alpine versions are wont to be. And the Wine Media Guild tasting only confirmed my thinking: This region is surely the next big thing in nebbiolo for the price-conscious, explorative wine drinker. Hello, Millennials!

We tasted 16 wines from Ghemme, Bramaterra, Colline Novaresi, Carema, Boca, and Gattinara. Morgan Rich from POLANER SELECTIONS handed out an excellent map showing the jigsaw puzzle of tiny wine zones, each of which might contain only a handful of producers.

A basic way of sorting things out is to see which side of the Sesia River the zone falls on. Those lying west—Gattinara, Bramaterra, Lessona, and especially Carema—are truly at the foot of the Alps (Piedmont derives from piede or foot, plus monte or mountain). Here there’s glacial schist and volcanic porphyry, which heighten the wines’ aromatics and minerality. Cross the Sesia River and you’re on alluvial soil. Ghemme, Boca, and the Colline Novaresi all lie on this flatter, moraine territory. There’s less altitude, less wind sweeping off the Alps, and less hard rock, so the wines are a touch softer and fruitier than their taunt alpine counterparts.

Among these regions, the most historic is Gattinara. “The nebbiolo in Gattinara is a very old grape,” Cinzia Travaglini explained to the group over lunch, which was accompanied by her awesome 1995 TRAVAGLINI Reserva—just now, after 17 years, ready to drink. Planted by Romans, Gattinara was found on the tables of kings several centuries before Barolo was even invented. “It’s possible to read in history books about Cardinal Mercurino Arborio, a very important man in Gattinara—a marchese,” Cinzia continues. “He was chancellor to King Charles V of Spain, so they say he put the wine of Gattinara on the table of the Spanish king.” That, in turn, expanded its fame to European nobility. “So it’s a very historic wine.”

I’ve long known the Travaglini name, and it’s impossible not to recognize their oddly shaped bottle, which looks as though the hot glass drooped after coming off the forge. (Designed by Cinzia’s father, “it’s like a little decanter because the shoulder catches the sediment,” Cinzia explains.)

Completely new to me was VALLANA (pictured at top), whose Campi Raudii 2009 ($16) and Spanna Colline Novaresi 2008 ($17) I particularly liked, especially for drinking now. (Spanna is the local name for nebbiolo.) Both had scads of fruit-of-the-woods character, lively acidity, and nebbiolo tannins that weren’t too astringent, being sourced from younger vines.

“This Vallana Boca was just $5 when I was young—when the grandfather was alive,” wine writer  Tom Maresca commented to me during the walk-around tasting. As Maresca, who organized the tasting, explained, the Vallana label was “almost legendary” during its heyday under the guidance of winery founder Bernardo Vallana. But then it dropped off the map. After Bernardo died in his fifties, his son took over. But then he too died, tragically young. The estate went into limbo for almost a generation, while the widow raised her three children alone. Now those three kids are young adults, armed with degrees in enology and viticulture, and they’ve picked up the reins of Vallana. So we’ll be seeing more of these wonderful wines.

The Vallanas, the De Marchis—all this new blood spells great promise for the region. I’ll be on the outlook for these wines henceforth. Meanwhile, those dramatic alpine landscapes of northern Piedmont are beckoning. I think I feel a trip coming on.

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I’m a neophyte in Greek wine. Like most baby-boomers, my education started and ended with Retsina. A rustic tavern wine, Retsina is to Greek wine what straw-flask Chianti is to Italian wine: the plonk we drank before we knew any better—and before Greek and Italian winemakers stepped up their game.

Named [...]]]>

I’m a neophyte in Greek wine. Like most baby-boomers, my education started and ended with Retsina. A rustic tavern wine, Retsina is to Greek wine what straw-flask Chianti is to Italian wine: the plonk we drank before we knew any better—and before Greek and Italian winemakers stepped up their game.

Named after the pine resin that gives it its peculiar flavor, Retsina dates back to Greek antiquity, when winemakers slathered pine pitch inside clay amphorae to make them impermeable. Now that stainless steel has replaced clay, Retsina is made by placing porous bags with resin into the must to steep during fermentation, much like making tea.

I drank my share of Retsina in Chicago in the early 1980s, along with my friend Cecelia. Our idea of a culinary adventure was to head to Greektown and feast on flaming saganiki doused with lemon, heaping mounds of moussaka, and lamb with rosemary potatoes. We’d wash it all down with a bottle of pungent Retsina. It’s nasty stuff. With its penetrating aroma of pine resin, it was as inviting as floor cleaner. But we’d grimace and pour ourselves glass after glass.

Greek wine has come a long way since then. But I’ve only hesitantly dipped my toe into these waters. I’m a bit fearful of the geography (“Now, where’s Thrace? The Peloponnese? Santorini?”) and intimidated by the grape varieties (try pronouncing Agiogitiko or Xinomavro*). Even so, when I visit Cecelia these day, who’s now living in Washington DC, we often head to the sleek hotspot ZAYTINYA, where chef José Andrés’ offers delectable, contempo renditions of Greek cuisine. It has a great by-the-glass list, allowing me to get my feet wet with samples of bracingly fresh Assyrtiko (fabulous with grilled octopus) and quaffable, slightly chilled Agiorgitko (a medium-bodied red that plays well with spicy chickpeas or lamb kebobs).

But this week, I took the full-body plunge, attending the ATHENEE IMPORTERS Road Show, which was in town with 11 Greek estates pouring 56 wines. Overall, I was quite impressed with their quality and absolutely captivated by their diversity. Here’s my pick of the lot:

Emphasis Assyrtiko 2010, Ktima Pavlidis

Six months on the lees give this wine a soulful richness, while high-altitude vineyards mean mouthwatering acidity—a hallmark of the Assyrtiko grape. Though it originated on Santorini (an island between the mainland and Crete), Assyrtiko also thrives in northern Greece; this producer, Ktima Pavlidis, is located in the northernmost part of Drama, which is the northernmost wine zone within Macedonia in northeast Greece. So it’s north, got it?

Thalassitis 2011, Gai’a

“Greek wine is all about minerality,” says Yiannis Paraskevopoulos, winemaker at Gai’a, one of Greece’s star wineries. “And Santorini wines are the champions of minerality, with their volcanic soil and the saltiness of the sea.” This is a perfect example. Tasting of white grapefruit, the 100 percent Assyrtiko is fresh as a seabreeze. (“Best of class,” I penned in my notes.) It’s not for nothing that Wine & Spirits put Gai’a on its “100 Best Wineries” list every year from 2006 to 2010. I loved all their wines, including…

Ritinitis Nobilis Retsina NV, Gai’a

Retsina di Attica NV, Domaine Vassiliou

Yes, Retsina can be good! I particularly liked Domaine Vassiliou’s version, where the pine resin was just a background note rather than a full-blown chorus. “We’re trying to elevate the category,” says owner George Vassiliou, bless him. While the pine in Gai’a’s Ritinitis was more upfront, it was intriguing rather than off-putting. Suggesting rosemary and eucalyptus, it could easily pair with herbed chicken or even lamb. But both wineries have a tough battle ahead if they expect to change public thinking about Retsina. It’s still churned out all over Greece, so these quality-minded versions are a drop in the bucket. Making matters worse, “Retsina cannot list a vintage by law,” says Paraskevopoulos, “and that’s the trouble. After 10 months, it tastes like turpentine. But there’s no way of knowing how old the bottle is.” The safest guarantee is to stick to these two producers; they sell out fast.

Ode Panos NV, Domaine Spiropoulos

The only sparkler here was this Moschofilero. It’s a real winner, offering a delicious core of ripe apple with scents of hay inside a refreshing spumante fizz. Domaine Spiropoulos is Greece’s first certified organic winery, but its roots go back to 1870. It’s located in the archeologically rich Peloponnese, a large peninsula that’s the southernmost part of mainland Greece.

Malagouzia 2011, Domaine Porto Carras

Close to extinction, the Malagouzia grape is so rare it didn’t even make the “Grape Varieties” list in the importer’s catalog. But this wine is beautiful: aromatic and floral, redolent of jasmine and exotic fruit, with a hedonistic, fleshy body. It’s grown on terraced vineyards of the Cotes de Meliton, a finger-like peninsula in Macedonia. (That’s northern Greece, folks—part of the former Yugoslavia that borders Turkey.)

High Peaks 2010, Union of Winemaking Cooperatives of Samos

I’m always interested in trying a dry, still Muscat, and I liked this one quite a bit. Though made from the Muscat blanc à petits grains variety—the same as in Moscato d’Asti—this island wine is brimming with pink grapefruit rather than the honeysuckle and orange blossom I associate with Piedmont’s moscato. With 4 grams of sugar, there’s a subtle hint of sweetness, but it’s married to a bright acidity. As its name indicates, these vineyards are high up, and being fanned by cool winds sweeping off Samos’ mountains, they’re key to this perfect balance.

~~~

Happily, most of these wines retail for the everyday price of $12–17. “We only stock wines we like to drink on a regular basis,” says importer Andrea Englisis.

Did you notice I didn’t mention any reds? In fact, I was so smitten with the whites that the tasting closed down before I could start my second and third laps for the reds and dessert wines. Next time.

But I did manage to return to the Gai’a table for some quick advice from the affable Paraskevopoulos. “If you went to Greece for a vacation that combined winery visits and archeological sightseeing, where would you go?” I asked.

He took my map and pen. “You start with two days in Athens,” he said, scribbling. As a one-time art historian, I nodded in approval.

“Then you spend three days in Santorini,” he said, circling the tiny Aegean island. That was puzzling. Though I’d developed an affection for the zippy Assyrtiko grown there, Santorini seemed so tiny. What could be worth three days? “Go for the dining,” he replied with a broad smile.

He then circled the Peloponnese. “One week,” he insisted. “For the wine, the archaeology, the culture.” I noticed that Arcadia is there: home to Pan; an unspoiled paradise in countless Renaissance paintings; and source of that enticing sparkler, Ode Panos.

I’m onboard with that. Cecelia, are you listening?

* Agiogitiko = Ai-your-YEE-tee-ko

Xinomavro = Ksee-NO-ma-vro

Click to hear the pronunciation

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I’ve been MIA for some time, and I feel bad about it. Sure, it’s an occupational hazard of bloggers who have a life, but still, the guilt is there, nagging and wagging its finger at me.

While the dog didn’t eat my computer, I did suffer a concussion. If you’ve never [...]]]>

I’ve been MIA for some time, and I feel bad about it. Sure, it’s an occupational hazard of bloggers who have a life, but still, the guilt is there, nagging and wagging its finger at me.

While the dog didn’t eat my computer, I did suffer a concussion. If you’ve never had one—a bad one—it’s the pits. Imagine the worst flu symptoms possible, like when you can’t hold a thought and feel discombobulated, nauseous, and so profoundly lethargic that even a three-minute phone conversation sends you back to the couch, exhausted and depleted. Then imagine feeling this way and getting hit by a stun gun. It’s like that.

So January was my bad month. Then came February, a good, productive month. That’s when I went to the Symposium of Professional Wine Writers at Meadowood in Napa. I won a fellowship to attend—a nice feather in my cap. I got to mingle with the likes of New York Times wine critic Eric Asimov, blogger extraordinaire Alder Yarrow, Decanter editor Guy Woodward, National Geographic photographer Janis Miglavs, and about 70 other wine writers. I got inspired, praised, and hugely motivated. It was just the thing to restart my engines.

And out of that, I got a new gig. Soon I’ll be writing twice a month for UNCORKED, a wine magazine designed for iPads and iPhones and also accessible via the plain ol’ web. (Try an issue free.) It’s part of NOMAD EDITIONS, a fold of digital magazines started by a former president of Newsweek, Mark Edminston. Though edited by a Sonoma vintner (Segue Cellar’s Stephen Yafa), Uncorked isn’t for wine nerds or industry insiders; it’s a consumer magazine aimed at “the rest of us.” Should be an interesting ride. I’ll be writing about Italian wine in their “International Fermentations” column and will be posting links and article off-shoots here. So stay tuned!

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Unlike wine magazines, which focus on new releases (Wine Spectator, for instance, has some tempting book choices in the current Dec. [...]]]> Here’s a New Year’s Resolution for 2012 that I intend to keep: Read some wine books. Make it at least six. Pull together a specific list—and make it public (tah-dah!)—to guarantee success.

Unlike wine magazines, which focus on new releases (Wine Spectator, for instance, has some tempting book choices in the current Dec. 31 issue), my list is a motley collection of old and newish books. That’s because I simply raided my own bookshelves, pulling down long-ignored volumes that have been gathering dust over the years, despite my best intentions.

So, here’s my selection for 2012.

Au Revoir to All That: Food, Wine, and the End of France, Michael Steinberger (2009, Bloomsbury)

French wine is in crisis; French bistros are disappearing; Macdonald’s is doing gangbusters in France. What happened!? Slate’s wine columnist hits the road to find out what’s behind France’s ennui and ask, Is there any hope?

Corkscrewed: Adventures in the New French Wine Country, Roberto V. Camuto (2008, Univ. of Nebraska Press)

Back in 2008 at a tasting at Chambers Street Wines, I happened to meet Camuto, who was doing a book signing for Corkscrewed. I bought the book, but it sat on my shelf, untouched, for years. Recently I read his latest book, Palmeto, and found this a thoroughly enjoyable portrait of Sicily’s new generation of winemakers. So now I’m motivated to go back to Corkscrewed, the author’s tour of France’s neo-peasant winegrowers.

Families of the Vine: Seasons Among the Winemakers of Southwest France, Michael S. Sanders (2005, HarperCollins)

Sanders, a Maine-based writer, spent two years among winemakers in France’s rural Cahors region—eating, drinking, talking, listening and generally absorbing the wine culture there. Malbec is at center stage, and it looks like some good writing is too.

Judgment of Paris: California vs. France and the History 1976 Paris Tasting that Revolutionized Wine, George M. Taber (2005, Scribner)

I’ve started this book twice, then got sidetracked by work. But this time I’m determined to read uninterrupted Taber’s lively account of the California vs. France taste-off in 1976, now the stuff of legend. A former Time reporter, Taber was the only journalist there on the scene. He’s got the inside view and the reporting chops—a good combo.

A Short History of Wine, Rod Phillips (2000, HarperCollins)

I’ve dipped in and out of this book when researching various pieces of wine history for my articles and wine tours—reading how the Romans cut their wine with spices and salt water; tracing what civilization was the very first to vinify grapes. Now I intend to plow through all 365 pages (not so short, despite the title). Dense, but interesting reading by a professor of history at Carleton Univerisity, Ottawa.

Too Much Tuscan Sun: Confessions of a Chianti Tour Guide, by Dario Castagno (2002, Edizione Rasna)

As a tour guide, I would never write about our clients. But Dario Castagno did. My husband enjoyed his wicked descriptions of Americans on tour in Chianti—a new breed of Ugly American searching for a fantasy Tuscany. Since Castagno’s book is displayed by cash registers in wine shops all around Tuscany, it’s been on my “should read” list for some time.

Tuscany and Umbria: The Collected Traveler, ed. Barrie Kerper (2010, Vintage Books) – personal tour guide of Siena, Florence, Spoleto, Assisi

This compendium is fat—607 pages—but it’s just the thing I should read now that I’m thinking of spending a week or two in Umbria this year. Kerper has gathered interviews and essays from writers ranging from Erica Jong to Gourmet travel editor William Sertl to food writer Faith Willinger. “It’s like having your own savvy personal tour guide,” says the book cover. I’ll put that to the test this year.

The Vineyard at the End of the World: Maverick Winemakers and the Rebirth of Malbec, Ian Mount (2011, Norton)

This was one of my haphazard finds on the ELLE giveaway table, where I freelance copyedit. While I like Malbec, I was more inspired to grab the book because I’d recently met the smart and vivacious Laura Catena, whose father was the key player in the rise of Argentine wine and whose family figures prominently in this book.

Dear readers, pray tell: What wine books are you reading this year?  What have you already read that you’d recommend? Please add your comments! (at the top of this page)

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If wines had a Miss Popularity contest, PROSECCO would take the prize. Who doesn’t love this effervescent quaffer? It perks up any party, goes with any menu, and the $10 price tag is just right. There’s [...]]]>

If wines had a Miss Popularity contest, PROSECCO would take the prize. Who doesn’t love this effervescent quaffer? It perks up any party, goes with any menu, and the $10 price tag is just right. There’s no snob factor involved (a big plus in any popularity contest), yet it exudes an air of romance. We’re talking Venice, my friends! Gondolas, lagoons, Bellinis on St. Marks Square!

For me, Prosecco conjures up my first visit to Padua, a serene Renaissance city that was once under Venetian rule. Crossing a piazza one afternoon, I noticed a cluster of people milling about, all holding flutes of wine.  Drawing closer, I spied a storefront with a counter facing the piazza, like any gelateria on Italy’s busy streets. But this was an open-air wine bar. You walk up, get your wine, then stand around sipping from decent stemware, like an al fresco cocktail party on a Renaissance piazza. (Doesn’t’ every city need one of these?) I asked for the fizzy stuff that everyone else was drinking, and it was thus that I discovered Prosecco, with its sea-foam bubbles and fresh, fruity character. (Think crisp, juicy apples and lemon zest, rather than the toasty, yeasty character of Champagne.)

Italians consume 70 percent of all Prosecco production, which totals 170 million bottles per year. Though Italians are locavores by nature, Prosecco is the exception to the rule. It’s been embraced throughout the peninsula, much like tiramisu (another Venetian invention). Prosecco is poured in fancy restaurants as a liquid amouz-bouche. It’s the only wine you see Italians drinking at cafés before dinner (running second to neon-orange Aperol cocktails). And at holiday time, Prosecco corks can be heard popping all across bell’ italia.

For most American consumers, buying Prosecco is pretty easy. Just about every wine shop offers at least a few big brands—MIONETTO, ZARDETTO, BISOL—and, truth be told, any will do if you’re just looking for a casual but festive sipper.

But Prosecco is more complicated than that—in a good way, like the girl with a pretty face who reveals hidden depths of personality once you get to know her. So to truly understand Prosecco, you need to get beyond the surface and explore things like sweetness levels, vineyard sites, and evolving classification rules. Let’s drill down:

Sweetness & Sparkle

Call me Glera

Prosecco is by no means a sweet wine, but it does have varying levels of residual sugar hidden beneath those effervescent bubbles. The terminology follows the French system, with labels indicating Extra Brut, Brut, Extra Dry, Dry, Demisec, and so on, progressing from drier to sweeter. By far the most popular style—the one that runs freely at restaurants and bars, including my Padua watering hole—is Extra Dry. This (counterintuitively) means that it has a touch of sugar (12–17 g/l), which tends to give a fruitier character; it’s more of a crowd-pleaser. Personally, I prefer the drier Brut (less than 12 g/l), which is a bit cleaner, more minerally and austere. Try them both.

There are also different levels of fizz. Just eyeball the bottle: If it’s a big-bunted champagne-style bottle with mushroom cork, it contains a full-on sparkling Prosecco (labeled spumante). A normal wine bottle with a regular wine cork offers the gentler frizzante style, which is rare but gaining popularity among back-to-the-roots winemakers.

Lay of the Land

The town square in Valdobbiadene

Prosecco comes from the former Republic of Venice, an area that fans out towards the alpine foothills of the Veneto and into Friuli. It’s a stunningly beautiful region. Decaying Paladian-style villas line the back roads from Venice to Treviso—vast compounds encircled by walls topped with statues of graceful goddesses who stare blankly out to the road and pine for better days. These villas were built by wealthy aristocrats and merchants from Venice who fled the lagoon’s muggy summers and headed inland. Their exodus was in fact encouraged by the Republic of Venice after the once-indomitable maritime city-state started losing power. Feeling the heat from the Ottoman Empire on its eastern flank, Venice encouraged its citizens to buy land and grow crops that would help the Republic remain self-sufficient agriculturally. And so they did, building these elegant villas and planting grapevines along with the crops. (Some of these villas have been lovingly restored, such as the splendid VILLA SANDI, headquarters to the eponymous Prosecco winery and shared by the Geox shoe company, owned respectively by brothers Giancarlo and Mario Moretti Polegato.)

Vast oceans of Prosecco come from this broad stretch of land. That is what’s labeled Prosecco DOC (denominazione di origine controllata), and it’s the less expensive, simpler quaffer.

But the magic words for Prosecco are Valdobbiadene (VAL-doh-bee-AH-dee-ney) and Conegliano (Co-nel-YAWN-o). The most prized Prosecco comes from the ridge of hills that rises from Conegliano on the plain and runs 20 miles west to Valdobbiandene. This is the DOCG zone (denominazione di origine controllata e garantita), and it’s the steep slopes around Valdobbiadene where the glera grape does best. (Yes, you heard right: glera. But more on that later.)

Vineyards near Valdobbiadene

I’ve trudged up those hills when scouting a hiking tour in Valdobbiadene. And boy, are they steep— the kind that make your calves burn. I remember scrambling up one path and peering over the far side. There on a slope that plummeted down at a sharp angle were tight rows of vines hanging on for dear life. It’s a wonder the harvest workers could arrive without a funicular.

Later I learned this hill was Cartizze, the jewel in Valdobbiadene’s crown. Situated between the villages of S. Pietro di Barbozza, Santo Stefano, and Saccol, Cartizze is like a humpback whale rising to great heights over a sea of vines. Its steepness is its secret to success, providing good drainage and, more importantly, longer exposure to the sun due to the angle of the slope. Thus the grapes become more ripe, succulent, and sweet by harvest time, which results in Prosecco with more focus in its flavors and a higher degree of alcohol.

One million bottles come from this hill, and all proudly display its name: Prosecco Valdobbiadene Superiore di Cartizze. Which brings us to labels.

Labeling: The New Rules

Villa Sandi's Valdobiaddene Prosecco Superiore

In 2009, the official rules were rewritten for Prosecco. The impetus was to curtail the unchecked growth of imitators on the periphery of the zone and around the world. The upshot was the elevation of Prosecco from Valdobbiadene and Conegliano to DOCG status. Outlying zones were elevated from IGT (indicazione geographica tipica) to DOC, with a commensurate tightening of requirements for yield per hectare and so on. Beyond this delimited zone, the word Prosecco is off limits. Imitators now have to call their wine something else, like the name of the grape: glera.

Most wine encyclopedias list prosecco as the grape. They note that it was named after the town of Prosecco near Trieste, where the grape seemingly originated. (The ancient Romans were already using it to make wine here.) The good citizens of Prosecco, however, called their grape glera. And henceforth, so do we. In sum: Prosecco no longer a grape, but a precise wine-producing region.

What matters to the consumer is this: Under the new rules, Prosecco Superiore from Valdobbiadene and Conegliano doesn’t have to bear the word “Prosecco” on the label anymore. Instead, you’re just supposed to know. (And now you do.)

Another change: Cartizze isn’t the only hill that gets the glory. Other hills in the DOCG zone are being recognized with a new “Rive” specification. Rive is a dialect word meaning “vineyards planted on steep land.” Labels will say “Rive di…” and specify the commune or hill name. There are currently 43 Rive in Cornegliano Valdobbiadene. Expect to see more.

Who cares?

All these rules point to distinctions that Prosecco winemakers care about very much. You can’t go to a winery in Valdobbiadene without feeling like you’re discussing the cru of Barolo. That’s not quite the case, but it is fun to taste their line-ups and suss out the finer distinctions.

But for here and now, let’s keep it simple. Do you want some sparkle in your holidays? If so, pick up a Prosecco. It’s sure to bring good cheer.

This article by Patricia Thomson was first published in Tastes of Italia, December 2011

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Among your everyday wines, Castello Romitorio’s portfolio has a Rosso di Montalcino, which is done in a baby-Brunello style, and an easy Chianti Colli Senesi. Where does the basic Morellino fit in?

If I had to really simplify it, I’d say that my entry-level Morellino di Scansano, the so-called blue label, is a [...]]]>

Sandro and Filippo Chia, of Castello Romitorio

When researching an upcoming article on Morellino di Scansano, I wanted to get the perspective of a winery that was part of the Maremma Gold Rush—the massive influx of established Tuscan wineries into the MORELLINO DI SCANSANO DOCG zone that started in the late 1990s and ran until 2005, when the regional government put a cap on new vineyards.

So I tracked down Filippo Chia of CASTELLO ROMITORIO. I’d been to their winery in Montalcino several times before, an estate founded in 1984 by Filippo’s father, SANDRO CHIA, who is also a neoexpressionist artist. (Filippo is a wonderful photographer in his own right.) In addition to tasting their luscious line-up of Brunellos and more from Montalcino, I’ve also been able to try three wonderful wines from their newer coastal property in Scansano: Costanza, a refreshing vermentino/chardonnay 80/20 blend; a basic Morellino di Scansano, which blends sangiovese (called morellino in this region) with 15 percent cabernet; and a top-tier Morellino called Ghiaccioforte, which combines sangiovese and syrah from prime hillside vineyards.

Making Chianti, Brunello, and Morellino—all sangiovese-based wines—Filippo was in the perfect position to compare and put Morellino di Scansano in context. As it turned out, he was also able to offer a wealth of information on history, terroir, and much more. So here, I share the wealth:

THE MORELLINO GOLD RUSH

When did you buy the property in Scansano?

We bought it between 1998–1999 and planted the vineyards in 1999.

Why? How did you see Morellino fitting into Castello Romitorio’s portfolio?

I wasn’t in charge back then; my father was. I think it probably was a mixture of things. It was a perfect location, meaning we were close to the ARGENTARIO [peninsula], a visually pleasant place to be. And it was strategically located, being quite close to Rome—just 90 minutes—compared to Montalcino or Bolgheri

And the local media had built a very hopeful projection around the Morellino denomination, where they thought it might become something similar to a Brunello, in terms of being one of the last undervalued historical wines from Tuscany.

Also, the lire was changing into Euros back then, so it was a moment where we were considering things a good buy and were willing to take risks, both in terms of real estate as well as planting new varietals and new ways of planting.

And the local government was quite friendly to new investment.

So it was that formula—location, potential, and local government—mixed with the tradition and the history, which until then had been confined to the Argentario, meaning people who were coming from Rome on vacation would go buy a few cases of Morellino. That was the reality of Morellino until the mid-1990s. It was a local wine known by Roman tourists who went to the Maremma, so it was very much undervalued.

Who were the pioneers?

In its early days, the two market leaders were probably MANTELASSI [f. 1977] and Cecchi [VAL DELLE ROSE, f. 1996]. And the two boutique leaders were probably Elisabetta Geppetti [LE PUPILLE, f. 1978] and ERIK BANTI [f. 1981].

Since then, there’s been a newer generation of boutique producers. I consider myself one of them, along with FATTORIO DI MAGLIONO, POGGIOARGENTIERA, and ROCCAPESTA. There’s just a small handful of boutique guys trying to really finesse the wine, either by making a selection Morellino or a Reserva Morellino that can battle with any big wine on a global scale in terms of absolute quality.

MORELLINO-STYLE SANGIOVESE

Among your everyday wines, Castello Romitorio’s portfolio has a Rosso di Montalcino, which is done in a baby-Brunello style, and an easy Chianti Colli Senesi. Where does the basic Morellino fit in?

If I had to really simplify it, I’d say that my entry-level Morellino di Scansano, the so-called blue label, is a wine that’s very versatile, with very silky, almost nonexistent tannins. It can be served at cellar temperature or a little less; in Japan they serve it at 17ºC, just like a white wine. I hate to say it, but they do. It’s so versatile.

In comparison to the Chianti Colli Senesi, which would be my parallel, it’s modern. The reason why is because it’s fruit driven and has a slightly lower acidity than my Chianti Colli Senesi, which is 100 percent sangiovese from Montalcino. [The Chianti] has more transparent colors and a warmer red, because it doesn’t have the cabernet sauvignon in it. So I have my traditional entry-level and my modern entry-level. That’s the simple, simple explanation.

Is Morellino more fruit-driven because of its proximity to the sea and a hotter climate?

Yes. The more inland you get, the colder the nights get and the bigger the seeds get. The bigger the seeds, the more tannin you get. Instead when it’s hot and by the sea, the skin gets thick to protect itself, instead of the seed getting big. So you have much more color than tannins by the sea. That’s the general rule.

But tannins are also in the skin. If the skins are thicker, wouldn’t that produce more tannin?

Yes, but it’s the bitter tannin in the seed that dries your mouth and allows for a long-aging wine. What we do in Montalcino is try to have wines with big seeds, really thin skins, and very little pulp, so it’s very structured with lots of tannin, so you can age it for many years.

Instead, in Morellino di Scansano, you want very little stem, which also gives that green tannin. For wines you want to sell early, you want them to be clean, fruit-driven and not too tannic. That’s what Scansano does. And since the nights are a little less cold, the fruit naturally has less acidity than in Montalcino.

The red earth of Scansano (Photo: Filippo Chia)

LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION

Vinitaly’s recent Morellino tasting in New York showed up the two side to Morellino: the more powerful style you mentioned, but also the simpler style that’s done without oak, is released just a few months after harvest, and is utterly charming.

Almost like a Beaujeaulois Village.

Yes. But you don’t see these imported into the US so much.  Just as in Piedmont, there are simple, charming Dolcettos made, but you don’t see them in the States either. Instead, they tend to import the more structured—and more expensive—styles.

Absolutely. That simpler style is actually a return to old-school Morellino, a style that used to be consumed by Romans during the summer. It should never be too alcoholic. The yields were very high, so you were able to maintain an elegant, fresh, fruit-driven wine that should be drunk in the first three or four years.

Most people were farming in the valleys. Now what some of the boutique guys did was start going up on the hills, planting vineyards that are built to produce a little less yield. There’s 150 meters different, but on those hills there’s also prehistoric riverbeds and quite a different terrain.

There are three or four different earths in Scansano. One is the very famous black [volcanic] earth. There’s the red [clay] earth. There’s stony, riverbed earth, like you find in Rhone, where there’s only little round pebbles. Then there’s the very organic valley earth, which is where most people were planting before, because it’s harder to plant on the cliffs. On the cliffs, people were mostly planting wheat.

What we and others have done in the past 10 to 15 years is plant vineyards on those cliffs. So they have all the benefits of the warmer coastal climate and so forth, but it’s slightly cooler at night, which permits lower yields, therefore higher alcohol, therefore more structure, and therefore an expression to the maximum of what the territory can give.

Over the next 10 years [as the vines mature], we’ll see increasingly greater wines coming from those vineyards. At the same time, we’ll also have what I think should be considered the worldwide image of the Morellino, which is the lighter, stainless steel, clean Morellino.

Most producers should produce one line with high yields to be drunk quickly. Then, if they can, they should look to whatever cliffs or hills they have within their properties and try to develop those. That’s what we’ve done personally, and therefore we’ve pulled out two very different Morellinos.

Is your base Morellino grown on the plain?

My base Morellino is a clean, stainless steel, easy-to-drink, in-the-valley Morellino. It’s 15 hectares right next to the Albegna river, the sulfuric river that comes from Saturnia. It was once navigable to the point where we have our vineyards, so it was the site of many battles in Etruscan times. The [Etruscan] town of GHIACCIO FORTE, after which our wine is named, is actually an abandoned city—actually a tiny city state on top of the hill—right next to our house and cellar. That face that’s on the Ghiaccio Forte label is actually a statue we found in a tomb that our tractor fell through in the field next to the river. So that head is an original Roman sculpture left in the tomb, which we photographed and turned into that stamp.

THE PAST IS PRESENT

Castello Romitorio's top-level Morellino

The Etruscans were widespread throughout this area—in Volterra and the Colline Metallifere…

Exactly. There were 12 city states. The one that ruled Scansano was in Sovana. But there was Viterbo, Tarquinia…. Each one was a city-state under a confederacy that was broken by the Romans. So Scansano was always a super important place.

By the 1800s, the wine from Scansano already had a good reputation, correct?

It was. In fact, here there’s the culture of the cantina aperta after the harvest, which is a very ancient culture. In Montalcino, it did not exist. Even though Brunello di Montalcino was the first DOCG in Italy, it was noble people making wine for themselves. Whereas in Sansano, there’s a 400- or 500-year-old culture of making wine, especially for Grossetto [the regional capital].

During the period of malaria, Scansano was a summer fall-back, [a summer residence for] the town government of Grossetto and all the nobility. And nobody was going home without a barrel or two.

Some say there were even French negociants in Piedmont who would come down in the period of the September/October cantine aperte to buy the so-called ‘cut’ wines, or wines to perfect their blends. So there was a whole industry. You can see a structure for that industry today in these vaulted cellars facing the street. These were made for people to meander through the streets, taste the wines, and decide what lot to take home for themselves, to add to their wines or as a freestanding wine.

BLENDED VS. PURE MORELLINO

The "blue label" Morellino, artwork by Sandro Chia

Morellino di Scansano has to contain at least 85 percent sangiovese. Today on the market, you find both blended Morellino and those with 100 percent sangiovese. Would you say that the majority of Morellino is still a blend?

Yes, 99.9 percent is blended. That’s because the nights in Scansano are not as cold [as inland], so the wines are not as structured. If you were make a 100 percent sangiovese that would stand alone and distinguish itself, it would take a lot of work in the vineyards: how you plant, where you plant, what clone. It would take years to get to a monovarietal that’s really working in this climatic situation.

Let’s say that [in Scansano] sangiovese does very well—all the clones of it—in general. But to really fine-tune that, to make a Flaccianello or a Brunello or a great sangiovese—takes a lot more studying and a lot more homework than we’ve done so far.

Do you think the potential is there?

The potential is there. It’s about picking the right areas. For instance, sangiovese doesn’t like to be really close to the sea—the salty air.

The bottom line is, it’s the way the producer works: the way you take care of your fruit, how much fruit you leave on the plant, and what mother nature has done that year. I’ve seen sangioveses coming out of Scansano the past three years that are comparable to those of Montalcino.

What are you using in your Morellino blends: French or indigenous grapes?

My base Morellino is sangiovese/cabernet 85/15. The sangiovese is a valley sangiovese, so it’s 40-50 meters above sea level on flat lands. You farm higher yields; it’s really elegant, at 13.5% alcohol. It uses a nice, well matured cabernet, which usually comes in around 14% or 13.5% and does just stainless steel: really clean. People love it around the world. It’s a sushi wine in Japan, a steak wine in Argentina.

My top-end Morellino is called Ghiaccioforte. It’s sangiovese from one single vineyard on a slope. I do much lower yields—30 percent lower—and two to three passes for harvest. I take care of that vineyard like crazy. I also have another little patch with 1-1/2 hectares of syrah. So it’s 12/88 syrah/sangiovese. It got 5 Grappoli [the top rating from the Italian Sommeliers Association] this year. We’re hoping to get something above 90 pts from Parker this year. I’m trying to make it a big success. I’m trying to make one of the great wines of Scansano.

If Scansano reminds me of any other wine country in the world, it’s Australia. It smells like Australia. And our syrah is strong and peppery; it’s big syrah, not something you could leave by itself. You have to settle it down with the sangiovese. The wine is perfect with 88 percent sangiovese and just this little added spice.

And about Syrah: The Etruscans come from Syria. See what I mean? They come from Turkey, from Asia Minor. So probably, the grapes they were bringing with them were most likely syrah [which many researchers speculate originated in Syria]. There’s no data on this. But having put these thoughts together, I’m seeing if it works. This vineyard, now 12 year old, is yielding beautiful results. The Ghiaccioforte 2009, for which we just got the 5 GRAPPOLI, sold out in three months. The last one before was in 2006. We make it only in great vintages.

Even though the market for Morellino is currently as a chic alternative to entry- and mid-level Chiantis, it’s going to become a wine that’s looked to for its highest expressions, on a producer-by-producer basis.

HOME ON THE RANGE

The homestead in Montalcino

Is your father retired from the winery?

He’s a painter! So he’s in the studio. Before me, there was a manager who ran it for about 18 years before I took it over. I’m 28 years old, and I started at age 20. So I’m just learning!

In the past 10 years, [the Scansano estate] has given us so much satisfaction that we actually spend more time there than in Montalcino.  It’s a fun area to be. There’s horseback riding, there’s cowboys. It’s very much undervalued.

It’s also off the beaten track.

It certainly is, even though it’s just an hour-and-a-half from everywhere, except the sea [just 10 miles away].  But an eno-gastronomic tourism is starting to make its way there. There are lots of jewels mixed in, between the history, the art, and the towns. And there’s lots of beauty. Everything seems to be a slightly more vivid color compared to the rest of Tuscany. Especially Chianti. I was in Greve the other day, and it seemed so dark and shadowy compared to the Maremma, which is open to the sky, with rolling hills and valleys. There’s a luminosity to the light, and you can smell the sea. There’s something very special about this area.

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