Jane Lopes

Discovering Australia

2017-06-15T12:40:00Z

Ben Shewry moved from his home of New Zealand to Australia about 20 years ago. A young chef, he came to study, train, and learn. He was amazed by the flavors and textures of the native ingredients of Australia, and perplexed by the lack of interest Australians took in them. He became a great champion for these ingredients—fruits, vegetables, herbs, and spices with names like lilly pilly, desert lime, quandong, lemon myrtle, and gumbi gumbi. Marron, kangaroo, emu, wallaby, and jumbuck became his proteins of choice. He helped teach the world—and perhaps most importantly, Australians—that these ingredients could be just as grand and delicious as the international ingredients and techniques that had up until then defined fine dining.

In 2017, Ben Shewry hired a young(ish) American woman to run his beverage program at Attica. She had an experience with the country’s wine much like what Ben experienced years before with the native ingredients of Australia: excitement, amazement, and awe that these world-class wines were being made in Australia’s own backyard, and confusion as to why local sommeliers didn’t seem to care.

In November 2016, I was ready for a change. I had been at Eleven Madison Park for two years—two years of hard work and astounding growth—and it was time for something different. My original plan was to study for my Masters and work on a writing project, but soon after I gave my notice, I was offered an opportunity to work at one of the best restaurants in Australia. It came up casually at first, and both Jon, then my boyfriend and now my fiancé, and I laughed and brushed it off. Move to Australia? That’s crazy. But as the opportunity started to become more real, we decided the crazy thing would be not going.

I had a Skype interview with Ben Shewry and his business manager, and they seemed like good people committed to doing important things. I thought I would be offered the job, and I was now convinced that I would want to take it: an opportunity to be part of a significant restaurant, explore a new world of wine, and live and travel in a new locale. Jon came home from work late that night, sat down on the couch, and, without any conversation, said, “Let’s move to Australia.”

In New York, we drank European wine. Our home cellar (that is, wine fridge, under-the-couch shoe boxes, pupitre in the kitchen, wall-mounted shelves, and stand-up wine rack) was filled with Chablis, Chambolle-Musigny, Barolo, Côte Rôtie, and the Rheingau. We loved the humble and grand Sangiovese of Chianti Classico, the spritzy reds of the Jura, and the up-and-coming producers of Germany playing outside of traditional Prädikat levels. A few bottles from the New World dotted our shelves: often wines for blind tastings (Mendoza Malbec, Central Coast Viognier), a few older vintages of wines we were curious about (Littorai and Calera Pinot Noir, Kalin late-harvest Chardonnay), and a rare bottle or two of American wine we bought because we liked drinking it as much as European wine (Arnot Roberts Trousseau and Hermann J. Wiemer Riesling come to mind).

I had been on a few wine trips in Northern California and visited the Finger Lakes once, but American wine travel wasn’t a huge priority for me. To this day, I’ve never been to the vineyards of the Willamette Valley, Santa Barbara, anywhere in Washington State, and—probably the most embarrassing of them all—I’ve never visited the wine regions of Long Island. I chose to stay home, and drink European wine, rather than venture out in my own backyard.

I was excited to explore Australia's wine regions but did not anticipate actually liking the wines. I imagined visiting Beechworth, Yarra Valley, or Macedon Ranges, then returning home and enjoying a bottle of Barolo.

My first visit to an Australian bottle shop was a rude awakening. I walked down the aisles of my familiar favorites and did a double take. Bourgogne Rouge starting at $75, Chianti Classico no cheaper than $50, current-vintage German Spätlese starting at $60—and forget about buying a decent bottle of Bourbon! If I wanted a $30 bottle of retail wine, it was going to be either bottom-of-the-barrel European (bottles I knew would cost less than 5€ over there) or Australian. I left the wine store that day with bottles of Heathcote Nebbiolo, Adelaide Hills Pinot Meunier, and Strathbogie Ranges Riesling. I spent less than $100 on the three, but I was nervous about what I’d find in the bottles, and apprehensive of my wine-drinking future in Australia.

To my great surprise and satisfaction, all three were superb. The Nebbiolo was fragrant and lifted, graced by just enough VA, with the roundness of juicy red fruit upfront balanced by a drying finish. The Pinot Meunier was slightly hazy, garneted, and transparent, with a supple and velvety texture. And the Riesling deviated from the Australian norm of stinging acid and zero sugar, with about 10 grams per liter RS and singing aromatics.

The first weekend we got the chance, Jon and I rented a car and drove out of Melbourne. The options seemed endless: Yarra Valley, Beechworth, King Valley, Macedon Ranges, Geelong, Rutherglen, Mornington Peninsula, and Goulburn Valley were all within our range. It was Easter weekend, celebrated like Americans celebrate Labor Day as the last weekend of the summer. There was a big festival in Beechworth, so we decided to drive there. This was Jon’s first time driving on the left side of the road, and after several near-scrapes of the car and harrowing freeway onramps, we were on our way.

We had fallen into normal road-trip activities when Jon suddenly squealed with delight at a freeway sign: It’s Nagambie Lakes! I lit up, too. Nagambie Lakes was one of those things I had studied but never thought I’d see. We scurried across three lanes to make the exit, and as we drove into Tahbilk Winery, we felt a weight of historical significance. The cellar door, as Australians call the tasting room, was like an old Gold Rush saloon. We learned that Tahbilk is the largest landowner of Marsanne vines in the world (they have more Marsanne than is planted in all of Hermitage), tasted the wines, and ate lunch overlooking one of the lakes.

Back at work, my sommeliers were nonplussed by my weekend adventures. One of them, who tends toward the more “natural” styles of wine, could not believe I’d had lunch at Tahbilk and enjoyed sparkling Shiraz. We bantered playfully about how I gravitate toward “industrial wine,” and I countered with the fact that he enjoys the stench of bacterial overgrowth. But, when it came down to it, I think what he couldn’t believe was that I was taking so much pleasure in what he considered the simple and pedestrian wines of his home country. They were exotic and new to me, but to him they were old hat. I thought about the wines of my previous backyard, and how much better my new Australian backyard was.

The weekend after Jon and I got back from Beechworth, we had dinner plans with some newfound friends. We decided to do BYO Szechuan last minute and ducked into a dodgy bottle shop to grab a few wines. We ended up with (relatively cheap) Tasmanian Pinot Gris, McLaren Vale Grenache, and sparkling Shiraz—worth a shot, we thought. The Grenache ended up being a home run with the bold and spicy food. At 14.5% alcohol, it stood up to the flavors, with a kiss of residual sugar that licked some of the heat off the palate. I started to go on about how impressed we were with the wines of Australia and how American wines right now weren’t nearly as exciting.

Jon interjected. “There’s a lot of really great American wine.”

“Yeah,” I continued, perhaps a little too much wine under my belt, “but not like what we’ve had here. I mean, the diversity, the character, the value. It’s so much better here!”

Jon gave me a look that said he wasn’t done with this conversation but dropped it in the face of our new acquaintances. On the way home, he picked it up again. Hard. “I don’t know why you’re hating on American wine so much."

“I don’t know why you’re defending it so much,” I replied. “It’s not like we ever drank a lot of American wine. And we’ve been excited to drink Australian wine here.”

“Yeah, that’s only because we can’t afford Europe over here.”

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe you never gave American wine a chance!” Jon yelled, storming up to our apartment. I had no idea why we were fighting over something so stupid. We went to bed, backs turned to one another, no more words spoken.

The next day, Jon apologized. I did, too. It struck me that Jon missed America. Perhaps not the wines, but our friends, colleagues, and family that we’d left behind. My blind dismissal of American wine hit a nostalgic chord, and he lashed out. But I also realized he was right. I never really gave American wine a chance.

I was born in Napa and grew up in Marin. My first memories of wine were sniffs of my parents’ $7.99 California Chardonnay, which to me smelled of nail polish remover, marshmallow, and canned pineapple. I didn’t start drinking wine until I studied abroad in Rome during college. The trattoria wines were crisp, taut, and structured. They smelled like fresh fruit, balsamic vinegar, and concrete, miles away from the sense memory wine left in my youth. As I started working in wine, my great love became Germany’s long and sinewy dry Riesling. I went through a Chablis phase. I developed a love for Red Burgundy. I had a soft spot for the coconut-tinged reds of Rioja. But American wine was never anything but that cheap Chardonnay in my mom’s wine glass. I studied and tasted the wines for exams, but I never looked at them through a lens of excitement and curiosity. It took moving to Australia, and seeing someone else’s backyard through that lens, to show me I’d never afforded America the same chance.

The Biggest Pitfalls of Australian Wine

Though there are plenty of Australian wines with extreme alcohol and a shellac of oak, these are not my main complaints. These wines, though I may not enjoy drinking them, offer pleasure to many. My four main concerns derive from wines claiming to work in the name of balance, authenticity, and “Old World” style.

Underripe Picking

The US went through its IPOB phase, which resulted in a lot of fantastic wines as well as a lot of green, thin, unpleasurable wines. Australia seems to be enjoying a similar renaissance. Many are doing this with a deft hand, and delivering nervy, tense, and appropriately fruited wines. Others, however, are not so balanced.

Overuse of Stems

I have always loved a healthy degree of stem-inclusion in my Pinot Noir, especially when it’s from Burgundy. Stems can add a degree of complexity and structure without adding a gratuitously green note (think L’Arlot, Dujac, and DRC). A few Australians have mastered this concept (Joe Holyman’s Project X in Tasmania is the best example I’ve tried). The vast majority, though, are using high amounts of unripe stems, creating a strong stewed green bean and asparagus note that crowds out any pleasant fruit and other secondary aromas.

Underuse of Sulfur

This seems to be an epidemic worldwide. There are some regions that make sans soufre wines and still maintain a sense of grape varietal and place: Beaujolais, the Northern Rhône, and Loire Chenin come to mind. Most other places in the world, wines made without a little judicious sulfur taste like nothing but bacterial spoilage. In the name of authenticity and non-intervention, these wines often taste less of what they are. A few producers in Australia are using minimal sulfur with positive results (Jauma, Simha, Latta, William Downie), but even these are for a select audience.

Fear of Sweetness

Traditional Riesling in Australia is dry. Rip the veneer off your teeth, pucker your cheeks, make your eyes water dry. With total acids pushing 10 grams per liter and beyond, and residual sugars often clocking in below 2 grams per liter, these wines are punishing. Most consumers think they want dry wine—that’s what they ask for—but is it truly what they like? At Attica, I pour 2008 Egon Müller Braune Kupp Kabinett as my first pairing. I worried that the Australian market would find it too sweet, but guests go crazy over it. People don’t think they like sugar, but they do.

The Most Exciting Things in Australia Right Now

Italian Varietals

Palmina championed Italian varietals in Santa Barbara, but the trend has never become widespread in the US. There are numerous Australian wineries dedicated to Italian grape varietals, and even more who make one or two on the side. Pizzini in King Valley was one of the modern pioneers of these grapes in Australia, making precise and correct representations of everything from Brachetto to Verduzzo, Canaiolo to Barbara, and certainly Nebbiolo and Sangiovese. Castagna in Beechworth is another producer worth noting, with an epic, brooding Sangiovese from Brunello clones called La Chiave. Vinea Marson in Heathcote is making “Prosecco” from Glera and a white blend called Grazia from Pinot Bianco, Friulano, Picolit, and Malvasia that has all the oiliness and bitterness of a Friulian blend. Unico Zelo makes three Fianos, from Riverland, Clare Valley, and Adelaide Hills, each with a different (and varietally correct) expression of the grape. Luke Lambert, Giaconda, and Jasper Hill are all on the Nebbiolo train, cementing the legitimacy of the grape in Australia. These wines maintain the freshness and structure (and even VA) that Italy is known for, while adding a little bit of juicy, New-World fruit to the mix.

Pinot Meunier

Only Australians are making still Pinot Meunier with any sort of commercial viability. Best’s in Great Western is most notable, with Old Vine Meunier, a young vine cuvée, and a blend of Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier that ages well passed its 20th birthday. Mac Forbes in the Yarra and Murdoch Hill in Adelaide Hills also make fun, juicy, light versions with nominal price tags.

Riesling

Though Australian Riesling has its pitfalls (see above), many producers are beginning to accept the balance a little sugar can provide. Grosset has, in recent years, released its Alea Riesling, with about 10 grams per liter of residual sugar. It still tastes dry; it just has a bit more softness to it and is accessible much younger than their powerhouse dry bottlings. Mac Forbes’ RS10 has peeled back the veil on the relationship between sugar and acidity for Australians. People are starting to come around to the idea that Riesling doesn’t have to be absent of residual sugar to be dry. And often, like a proper dosage in Champagne, a little bit of RS helps these wines find balance and expressiveness of aromatics. To me, the only Rieslings that can get away with almost zero residual sugar are the ones with a lot of dry extract, power, and ripeness of fruit (and only then after 10 or more years of bottle age). Find a bottle of 20-year-old Grosset Polish Hill or Jim Barry Florita, and you’ll understand.

Local Spirits

In 2014, Tasmania’s Sullivans Cove took the world by storm when it was awarded the World’s Best Whisky Award in the World Wine Awards. It was the first time this honor was bestowed on a distillery outside of Scotland or Japan. Since then, the craft spirit movement in Australia has received more attention, and people have realized what a diverse and high-quality spectrum of spirits the country offers. Belgrove, also in Tasmania, is one of the few farm-to-bottle distilleries in the world, growing, fermenting, and distilling its entire output, including killer rye whiskey and, surprisingly, Pommeau. Loch, Applewood, and Four Pillars—among countless others—make exceptionally high quality gin, many using native botanicals like lemon myrtle and mountain pepper to flavor. MAiDENii, just outside Melbourne, is making exciting vermouth and amaro. I have a long list of other things I want to try, with plans to convert most of my cocktail and spirit list over to Australian producers.

Championing Our Own Backyards

My goal at Attica is to create one of the greatest Victorian wine lists in the world, featuring both the stalwart producers of the region and young up-and-comers. I believe this provides the best service to my guests and to the region in which we live—in both environmental and financial impact. And if we can’t support and foster the growth of wines in our own home turf, who will? It took moving across the world for me to understand this. There will always be European wines on the list at Attica, but they will be a select few to provide Old World counterpoints for the styles of Australia: to prove that the wines of Australia deserve to be spoken of in the same breath.

Reconsidering Chianti Classico

2016-11-19T16:10:00Z

The world of wine is always in flux. A mere 60 years ago, locals in Chablis could ski down Les Clos in winter without touching a vine and Diamond Creek’s Gravelly Meadow was a barren hillside. In Tuscany, it was only 25 years ago that Poggio di Sotto produced their first wine. Changes in trends, discoveries of plots, development of new techniques, and shifts in philosophy happen all the time. As sommeliers, we have a unique power to affect change in the wine world based on what we support and how we disseminate information.

It is easy to believe that our power rests solely in our ability to enable the success of existing wine. But we actually have the power to influence how wine is made, to encourage wine regions to make a fuller and more complete expression of what they have, and to promote greatness where it does not yet exist.

Enter Chianti Classico. A region with a dubious past and a serious image issue. A region that could sell a million $10 bottles of wine before it could sell one $100 bottle. A region that suffers from its relation to its motherland, with which it shares half its name. A region that has regulated itself in ways that run counter to the production of fine wine.

But fine wine Chianti Classico has. So here’s the argument: that Chianti Classico is the most underexploited fine wine region in the world. It has the potential to be developed in a monumental way, but it has yet to be realized—either in terms of discovery or actualization.

It’s not our fault, but there is something we can do about it.

The Challenges of Branding Chianti Classico

“I Ate His Liver with Some Fava Beans and a Nice Chianti”

“We need a few more Chiantis on the list.” ‘I’d like to order a bottle of Chianti.” “We were just in Chianti for a week.” Excluding final conclusions in blind tasting flights, when was the last time you said Chianti Classico? For decades in the US, the region has been lumped in with Chianti, which is known for cheap and cheery Italian red wine, most at home on a red-checked tablecloth with some spaghetti and meatballs. Having “Chianti” in its name has not done Chianti Classico any favors. Imagine if Barolo had been called Langhe Classico or Châteauneuf-du-Pape had been named Bas-Côtes du Rhône!

Chianti Classico and Chianti are separate DOCGs. Chianti Classico has stricter DOCG requirements for selection of grapes, time spent aging, and minimum alcohol than Chianti. But, more than anything, Chianti Classico is a region where the wines take on the characteristics of the place.

In 1932, the appellation boundaries for Chianti were drawn (and drawn widely) by the Italian government. The way many producers of Chianti Classico tell it, Mussolini wanted any Sangiovese produced in Tuscany to be called Chianti. While this statement is perhaps a myth of the region, it reflects the worldview of those in Chianti Classico: that Chianti is not necessarily a wine of place, but just a style of wine. It’s hard to argue with this. Exceptions exist, of course, but it tends to be the case, discounting Chianti from the world’s fine wine regions. Chianti Classico’s linguistic and historical ties to the region keep dragging it into the realm of Chianti, removing it in many people’s minds from the registrar of fine wine regions.

The Price Cap

Largely as a result of the aforementioned association, expensive Chianti Classico is hard to sell. Imagine a $300 Brunello di Montalcino on a wine list in New York City. This is pretty average, maybe even affordable, for the region. This bottle sells, and it sells well. Now imagine a $300 Chianti Classico on a wine list in New York City. Try. Try harder. Not only does this poor bottle collect dust in the cellar, it probably garners rude remarks like, “Three-hundred-dollar Chianti? Are you out of your mind?” The restaurant stops buying this wine, then the distributor stops buying it from the importer. It eventually goes on closeout so it can be sold next to its friends for less than $100. The winery gets news from the importer that no one is buying their high-end single-vineyard Chianti Classico (even in New York City!) and that it’s now being sold for $65 next to something that comes out of the cellar in a fiasco.

What’s that winery to do? Do they keep investing in this single vineyard? Keep the old vines planted, the yields low, the sorting meticulous? Do they vinify the wine lovingly and raise it for years in barrel and bottle in order to coax out the best possible expression, knowing that they can’t sell it for a price that will support their work? Or do they plant young vines, blend their native grapes with flashier Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, and get that wine on the market in a year’s time and under $20 wholesale? The usual choice is clear, and understandable.

Sins of the Past (and Present)

The wines from Chianti Classico that command the highest prices, the most respect, and the greatest critical acclaim are, alas, not labeled as Chianti Classico. Tignanello, Flaccianello della Pieve, and Le Pergole Torte could all technically be released under the DOCG Chianti Classico. They meet the requirements—but they haven’t always.

Antinori’s Tignanello set the stage for the Sangiovese-based Super Tuscan. The first vintage was 1971, but in those days it was made exclusively from Cabernet Franc and Cabernet Sauvignon. In 1978, when Antinori debuted Solaia (which is dominated by 80% Cabernet Sauvignon), Tignanello became a Sangiovese-based Super Tuscan, with only a minority use of Cabernet grapes (usually around 20%). Tignanello rode the success of the Cabernet Sauvignon-based Super Tuscan, and proved that Sangiovese could be just as sexy.

Others followed suit, some for different reasons. It wasn’t until 1993 that producers could make a Chianti Classico that was 100% Sangiovese. Before this, it was mandatory to blend in other red or white grapes. The producers who wanted to express a Chianti Classico that was 100% Sangiovese were not permitted to do so under the appellation. So instead, they released Super Tuscans, which already had a proven market. Montevertine first released Le Pergole Torte in 1977, Fontodi made Flaccionello della Pieve in 1981, and San Giusto a Rentennano had its first vintage of Percarlo in 1983. These wines proved that Chianti Classico is truly a fine wine region, demonstrating how exquisite the wines can be, how well they can age, and that they can command high prices. But without the name Chianti Classico on their labels, the rising tide did not lift any other ships. Instead, quality in the region became associated with a producer and a fantasy name, and not tied to any sense of regionality.

The sins of the regulation for Chianti Classico continue today with Gran Selezione. First initiated with the 2013 vintage, Gran Selezione has noble roots. The original idea was to offer a higher tier than Chianti Classico Riserva. These would be wines that spoke of their place of origin. They would be 100% Sangiovese and from a single vineyard, proudly displaying on their labels the communes from which they came (Greve, Panzano, Castelnuovo Berardenga, etc.). And perhaps one day, they would be established as such a beacon of quality for Chianti Classico that the likes of Pergole Torte and Flaccionello could be coaxed back under the wings of the DOCG.

Yet the execution of Chianti Classico Gran Selezione has fallen short of these lofty goals. Succumbing to political pressure, the Consorzio scaled back the requirements for Gran Selezione to allow wineries with unsellable high-end bottlings sitting in their cellars to retroactively label them as Gran Selezione in hopes of making them more attractive. The only requirements were that the wine spend 30 months aging before release (a mere 6 months more than Chianti Classico Riserva) and that all the fruit had to be estate grown. Commune of production could not be advertised on the label. Many quality producers are flirting with Gran Selezione, enchanted by the idea that the world could support a higher-end Chianti Classico, but many more don’t feel the category does enough or does the right things to help cultivate that support.

What’s a Sommelier to Do?

Divide and Conquer

First, stop conflating Chianti and Chianti Classico. Yes, it’s already three syllables, so adding three more seems laborious. And yes, we love abbreviating things in this industry: Why say Romanée-Saint-Vivant when you can say RSV? Why say Cabernet Sauvignon when you can say Cab?

But this is not an abbreviation: Chianti Classico refers to a completely different region, and when we conflate the two in our minds, in our speech, and on our wine lists, we do a disservice to Chianti Classico. So, if you need to abbreviate: CC. CCR can be Chianti Classico Riserva. CCGS is Chianti Classico Gran Selezione. Let’s get these into our vocabulary rather than always resorting to Chianti, and let’s describe the difference to our guests.

Talk about Terroir

Sure, terroir is a word that’s gotten overblown and deflated, now an impotent, saggy balloon in the wine industry. It’s been so overused that it barely means anything anymore. But we know what it signifies—a wine of a place—and we know this is important. Just as we must separate Chianti from Chianti Classico, we can go further and separate Chianti Classico into its many different terroirs. The difference truly is remarkable. From the dark-fruited wines made in Panzano’s Conca d’Oro, to the high-toned elegance of Radda, to plush and juicy wines of Castellina in Chianti, the region swings dramatically in topography, climate, and soil from one end to the other. As in any region, some of the communal delineations can be political, but there are undeniable distinctions across the region.

We must do for Chianti Classico what the villages of Beaujolais have done for themselves. To distance themselves from a region of insipid production (sound familiar?), these villages became appellations, making Morgon or Fleurie the largest word on the label, not Beaujolais. If Chianti Classico were talked about in terms of Greve, San Casciano, and Gaiole (and if one day they could go even further and put Lamole, Ruffoli, and Panzano on labels), the region could be thought about in terms of terroir, and not as just Sangiovese from Tuscany, as Chianti’s legacy implies.

Explore Older Vintages

Chianti Classico ages, as demonstrated by older vintages of Flaccionello, Pergole Torte, and Tignanello. But we rarely see older wines on the market labeled Chianti Classico. They are sold off young, usually at a low price, and there is no demand for wines with age. If we can approach our distributors for older vintages (they certainly exist) and show off to our guests and consumers how well these wines age, we can start creating the demand, and soon a secondary market.

With age, Chianti Classico becomes more savory and less harshly acidic, deeply expressive and seductively scented. A fascinating change occurs, even in the humblest of wines, with 8 to 15 years of age—and they are recklessly affordable.

Support Price Differentiation

No one questions a wine list that has a $500 bottle of Barolo next to a $100 one. Many factors could justify the first wine’s higher price: it comes from a single vineyard, it comes from a more prestigious vineyard site, it spends more time in barrel, it spends more time in bottle, it is from vineyards that see lower yields—and, of course, there is the allure of and demand for specific producers.

Chianti Classico has so long been associated with inexpensive and humble wines that this price discrepancy is surprising. People don’t flip to this page in the wine list for a bottle to splurge on, as they do for Barolo and Brunello. Chianti Classico offers a better value at both the low and the high end than either of these regions, yet most consumers look to it only for the low end.

It is our job to make Chianti Classico sexy again. Hand-selling unique and obscure wines has become part of the job for the modern-day sommelier. If you can hand-sell a $200 bottle of Corsican Nielluccio or Jurassic Savagnin, you can certainly sell a $200 bottle of Chianti Classico. And, no offense to either of these wines, odds are the Chianti Classico is going to deliver more for the money.

Identify Food Pairings

One of our most important jobs as sommeliers is to pair wine with food. Chianti Classico wants to make that easy for you. It makes everything taste better, and tastes better with just about any food you put in front of it. Think Cabernet Sauvignon is the best steak wine? Think Grüner Veltliner is the best pairing for crunchy and bitter vegetables? Think Greek wine is the best choice with olive oil-drenched cuisine? Think sheep’s cheese is best with the wines of the Roussillon? Consider Chianti Classico as well, for all of these pairings. The more we can suggest it as a pairing for specific dishes, the more Chianti Classico will be in the lexicon of fine wine and food pairing, and the more it will be in the canon of fine wine.

But Why?

Chianti Classico is a successful wine region, with a bustling economy sustained by the wine industry. There are castles and villas everywhere you look, with wine-centered tourism booming. It is truly one of the most beautiful places in the world, with excellent cuisine, luxurious lodgings, and an incredibly marketable name. Vintners may not be able to sell their wine at high prices, but they have no trouble selling their wine, and plenty of it, at lower prices.

The reason to support these wines, and to support them in a very specific fashion, is not to economically bolster the region, but rather to allow dozens of dedicated and determined producers to make the wine they want to make. It is in our interest as wine professionals, and it is a service to our guests and clients, to introduce more extraordinary wine to the world. We have the power to discover great wines hiding out of our view and, moreover, to encourage production of the masterpieces yet to be crafted.