Matt Stamp

Inglenook of Napa Valley

Matt Stamp — Thu, 20 Apr 2017 14:57:00 GMT

Undoubtedly there will be many things contained in these notes which will seem so much like self-evident truths that you may consider them commentary on my opinion of your judgment and perception, and for that reason I want to say, at the very first, anything included in these notes will be something I have found to be helpful to me…

- Letter from John Daniel Jr. to his sister Suzanne, dated March 30, 1942

Only a handful of properties in Napa Valley can count upwards of 100 vintages. Two short, early 20th-century periods of dormancy aside, Rutherford’s Inglenook has been making wine since 1882, putting it in a class of longevity occupied by Charles Krug, Beringer, and precious few others. Like so many of the world’s lasting winegrowing estates, Inglenook has seen its fortunes dim and prosper. The winery has endured successive waves of ownership changes, and each changing of the guard brought the dawn of a new era. In one, the estate produced over half a million cases of wine; in another, 20,000.

Wherever Inglenook went, so went the valley. Through its many iterations, Inglenook has run roughly parallel to—or as a predictor of—greater forces governing the Napa Valley and the corporatization of wine. Characters filter through its story, products of their time that would indelibly influence the larger region. Many gave years, and decades, to the cause of stewardship.

Today, sitting atop the bale loam soils of western Rutherford, Inglenook has returned to form. How did it get there in the first place?

How to Make a Small Fortune in the Wine Business

I have always considered Inglenook the first château, not Beaulieu.

- André Tchelistcheff, “Grapes, Wine, and Ecology”

Captain Gustav Ferdinand Nybom, born in Helsinki in 1842, first sailed into the San Francisco Bay on March 2, 1868, with a cargo of seal pelts worth three-quarters of a million dollars, bartered and bought from Aleut tribesman on the distant Pribilof Islands in Alaska’s Bering Sea. It was one year after Seward’s Folly, and Captain Nybom was poised to profit on the isolated new American frontier. Since the late 1850s, he had been working for the Russian-American Company, the de facto representative of imperial Russia’s authority in Alaska. He spent years exploring the cold Alaskan waters, learning the fur trade, and communicating with the indigenous people of the north. As the sale became imminent, so did the end of the Russian-American Company. Seizing his opening, Nybom transferred from his winter respite in Victoria to Sitka, Alaska, in the spring of 1867. There, he became a naturalized American citizen and bought a brig from his former boss, Russian-American Company Chief Manager Prince Dmitri Maksutov, who was preparing to oversee bulk liquidation of the company’s assets in Alaska. That autumn, Nybom set sail for St. Paul in the Pribilofs, four desolate islands of tundra halfway between the Alaskan Coast and Russia, home to the world’s largest fur seal breeding grounds. Nybom knew the islanders, and he gained access to the seal trade of the Pribilof Islands before Maksutov could unload the company’s now-vacant property on St. Paul. A legacy and lasting fortune would result.

By the end of 1867, the San Francisco-based Hutchinson, Kohl, and Co. outmaneuvered other bidders in Sitka to buy the Russian-American Company’s bulk assets and, by January of 1868, had successfully negotiated a purchase of the company’s interests in the Pribilof Islands as well. Hutchinson, Kohl recognized value in Nybom’s skills and experience in the region, and with an eye toward St. Paul and the Pribilofs, Kohl offered him membership interest in the firm. That first sealing season of 1868 produced lucrative profits, but Hutchinson, Kohl had only a jump start, not a monopoly, on the islands’ fur trade. Competing firms arrived, too. To extract real wealth from the Pribilofs, the partners hoped to eliminate competition through consolidation and secure an exclusive government lease to operate on the islands. So, in October of 1868, the firm of Hutchinson, Kohl merged with three other American sealing outfits to form the Alaska Commercial Company. In 1870, the Alaska Commercial Company secured a 20-year exclusive lease from the US Treasury Department to operate a seal fishery on the Pribilof Islands, cementing its role as the largest purveyor of fur seal pelts in the world. Nybom was one of the company’s 14 founders.

Those 20 years would generate immense wealth for the founders and investors of the Alaska Commercial Company. The US Treasury collected over $10 million in pelt taxes—that’s $250 million in today’s dollars—during the lifespan of the lease. The seal trade of the Pribilof Islands was the dominant economic activity in Alaska at the time, annually producing around 100,000 seal pelts. But public awareness of the company’s astronomical profit dovetailed with growing condemnation of inhumane practices associated with the trade. Seal population levels dwindled due to offshore poaching, which illegally targeted females and males alike. Reports suggesting abuse of Aleut islanders emerged. Several congressional inquiries and at least one official audit occurred. The company was repeatedly cleared of wrongdoing, yet years of bad publicity eroded trust. In 1890, the company’s lease was not renewed, and its fortunes rapidly declined. But for 20 years at least, Nybom made a lot of money—if the government collected $10 million in 20 years of taxing pelts, Nybom’s personal fortune surpassed that mark by 1880.

With the company’s operations fully underway, Captain Gustav Nybom took up residence in San Francisco, and in 1873, he married Susan Shingleberger and Americanized his name. Now Gustave Niebaum, the still-young captain looked for land. Inspired by the wineries of Europe and encouraged by California’s own nascent industry, Niebaum settled on a piece of land locked in the evening shadow of the Mayacamas Mountains in Rutherford, Napa Valley. And so, a Russian sailor arrived in Napa Valley, the world of Younts and Crabbs and Krugs and Lewellings, and entered the world of wine. (How do you make a small fortune in the wine business? You start with a large one…)

Captain Gustave Niebaum - Photo courtesy of Coppola/Inglenook Archives

Back then, everybody knew everybody. Everybody married everybody. Everybody bought their land from a Yount. It was a small valley. And it all started in 1836 with the Rancho Caymus land grant—more than 11,000 acres of prime valley floor land awarded to George Yount, the first American settler in Napa. Think of it like a giant Clos de Vougeot, just waiting for inevitable division after the monks are run out of town. In 1871, a Napa banker named William Watson bought a small farm west of Rutherford, nestled against Mount St. John in the Mayacamas, from a Gaspard Konig, who had originally acquired the property from Yount. For a short time, it was back in the family: Watson married Elizabeth Davis, granddaughter of George Yount and sister to John Davis. Watson founded a sanitarium on his property and planted 54 acres of Black Malvoisie grapes. (Was this Carignan?) Eventually, he produced a small makeshift cellar. In July of 1878, Watson hung a sign, dubbing his property “Nook Farm.” He sold it in 1880 to Judge Serranus Hastings, first Chief Justice of the California Supreme Court, who flipped it and found a buyer in Captain Gustave Niebaum.

The Early Years: 1880-1933

On November 19, 1880, the St. Helena Star reported the sale of two adjoining parcels of land in Rutherford to a member of the Alaska Commercial Company. For $48,000, Gustave Niebaum purchased Watson’s 78-acre Nook Farm from Judge Hastings and the 440-acre Ruhlwing Ranch next door. On February 4, 1881, the newspaper reported, “Capt. Niebaum has received 900 choice Sauvignon (Blanc) cuttings from San Jose,” with “several thousand” Jaquez and Mustang cuttings coming from Texas a month later. On August 26, the paper noted the Nook Farm property would henceforth be known as Inglenook. With the new name, meaning something like “cozy corner,” Niebaum added his own flourish. He hired Captain Hamden McIntyre, an associate from the Alaska Commercial Company with winemaking experience at New York’s Pleasant Valley Wine Company, to oversee operations, and in 1882, Inglenook produced its first documented vintage: 80,000 gallons of wine and a little brandy. Off to the races!

Over the next several years, the estate at Inglenook took shape. In 1882, Niebaum and McIntyre dug an experimental cellar into the hillside, taking advantage of the naturally cool ambient temperature offered underground. The following year, they began constructing a massive stone-and-iron château and winery, readying it in time for the 1887 harvest. The three-story edifice operated mostly by gravity flow, with redwood fermenters installed on the second level and Black Forest oak casks built for aging on the first. Meanwhile, the surrounding estate grew to 1,100 acres—300 acres of vines amidst white fig, walnut, chestnut, and olive trees—as the new winery provided capacity to produce over 200,000 cases a year. To promote his wares, Niebaum established what is widely credited as one of the valley’s first “sample-rooms” in 1889. The château, restored by Francis Ford Coppola in the 1990s, remains one of Napa Valley’s most historic and imposing landmarks today.

The famous Inglenook château - Courtesy of Coppola/Inglenook Archives

Niebaum believed his wines could be world-class and enacted standards to achieve that goal. In that first harvest of 1882, he sorted his grapes, to the bewilderment of friends and neighbors. He planted vineyards with densities mimicking Bordeaux rather than adopting the wider spacing common in California. Niebaum and McIntyre held winery cleanliness as sacrosanct in an era when hospital hygiene was still more or less controversial, two decades before The Jungle. Niebaum installed a sterile bottling line in 1889, when most California wine was sold in barrel and in bulk. He believed (correctly) that control of bottling would ensure greater consistency, and he affixed a Rioja-style wire cage and tamperproof lead seal to each bottle to guarantee authenticity. In retrospect, Inglenook pioneered estate-bottling in California almost four decades before Château Mouton-Rothschild took its entire production run mise en bouteille au château in 1924. Bottled wines carried vintage dates and a “Pure Wine” stamp, signifying compliance with an 1887 California law banning chaptalization and more egregious chemical additives. Niebaum strove to replace varieties like the lowly Black Malvoisie with higher quality grapes. He planted Cabernet Sauvignon; a clonal selection propagated from his original vines still thrives on the property today. By the end of the 1880s, his portfolio of wines included Zinfandel, Extra Fine Claret, Medoc type, Burgundy, Sauterne, Hock (Traminer), Burger (Chablis), Riesling (Johannisberg and Franken), and Chasselas. In Wines and Vines of California (1889), Frona E. Wait sums it up: “The reputation of Inglenook wines proves that, with perfect cultivation, a thorough knowledge of the soils, and the most rigid cleanliness in the vineyard and cellars good and drinkable wines can be produced in this state.” Well, if that isn’t the same shit wine writers have been saying for years!

With a commitment to quality in place, Niebaum endeavored to enlarge Inglenook’s audience. Historian William Heintz quotes the November 11, 1887, San Francisco Merchant: “Alfred Greenbaum & Co. have established an agency in New York for the wines of the Inglenook Vineyard, Napa county. These celebrated wines will be offered to the public in glass only.” In 1890, C. F. Oldham, a London wine merchant, visited Napa Valley and enlisted as Inglenook’s UK importer. Mexico received shipments of wine. Niebaum exported 10 barrels of wine to Japan in 1894 for transfer to a Russian naval vessel stationed offshore. Inglenook appeared in railway dining cars, and President Benjamin Harrison sampled the wines on a visit to San Francisco in 1891. Awards tumbled in from near and far, as Inglenook rose to prominence as one of the great American wineries of the 19th century.

The decade of the 1890s was overall a difficult period for California’s wine industry, and despite rising popularity and accolades, Inglenook suffered, too. Phylloxera had invaded Niebaum’s vineyards, requiring costly replants on riparian rootstocks. By the end of the century, Inglenook’s production dropped to about 25,000 gallons of wine. The brandy distillery closed. Amidst a national depression, bottling in glass on site was abandoned as an estate-wide practice, at a time when Niebaum’s focus may very well have been elsewhere (see: Bering Sea Arbitration of 1893). Yet Niebaum instilled in his employees a pursuit of perfection, a mantle another generation would pick up many years later, after Prohibition.

On August 5, 1908, Niebaum died without leaving any direct heirs, and his widow Susan closed the winery for three years. The man who would eventually claim Niebaum’s mantle and inherit Inglenook, his grandnephew John Daniel Jr., had only just been born.

Inglenook reopened in 1911 and maintained production until 1919. Management of the estate and winemaking responsibilities were in flux during this period, eventually landing in the lap of John Daniel Sr., an engineer from San Francisco. He was family: John Daniel Sr. married Gustave’s niece, and the couple had two children, Suzanne and John Daniel Jr. His wife died in 1914 when the younger John Daniel was just seven years old, and the family moved to Rutherford, where Susan could help raise the children. John Daniel Jr. was in line to inherit Inglenook—but not until after the winery emptied its casks and closed its doors in the hibernation of Prohibition.

The Daniel-Deuer Era: 1933-1964

Susan Niebaum and John Daniel Sr. kept the property afloat during Prohibition by selling grapes to Beaulieu for use in sacramental wines. With repeal, Susan Niebaum hired Carl Bundschu to restore the winery and the high standards her late husband maintained. The 56-year-old Bundschu, who managed Sonoma Valley’s Gundlach Bundschu with his brother Walter in the years leading up to Prohibition, brought on board an old colleague, John Gross, as winemaker. John Daniel Jr. returned to his family’s estate to learn the winemaking business after graduating from Stanford in 1933, and George Deuer, a German immigrant with experience at Christian Brothers and Beringer, arrived to assist Gross in 1935. The pieces were in place for a return to glory, and the remaining Niebaum fortune gave Bundschu—and soon, John Daniel Jr.—the license and luxury to reposition Inglenook as Napa Valley’s foremost quality wine producer.

John Daniel Jr., now in his twenties, studied the trade for three years under Bundschu. Bundschu became a mentor and faithful conduit for Niebaum’s philosophy of quality, one Daniel would later condense into three simple words: “Pride, not profit.” Despite marrying a Mormon teetotaler, Daniel discarded dreams of a career in aviation and threw himself into the wine business. In 1936, when Susan Niebaum died, John Daniel Jr. inherited the Inglenook estate and became general manager of the winery. (His sister and co-heir, Suzanne, had no interest in vineyards and moved to Lodi to raise horses instead.) Bundschu, fast approaching 60 years of age, shifted to a sales role and in 1939 left the winery entirely. John Gross retired after the 1942 vintage, and George Deuer succeeded him. A 20th-century golden age at Inglenook would span another quarter century, spurred by collaboration between John Daniel Jr. and George Deuer. In the years from 1936 to 1964, Inglenook’s focus was unparalleled in Napa Valley.

John Daniel Jr. - Photo courtesy of Coppola/Inglenook Archives

In the late 1930s, there were six premium wineries operating in Napa Valley: Inglenook, Beaulieu, Beringer Bros., Larkmead, Christian Bros., and Louis Martini. Inglenook separated from the pack with a relentless emphasis on quality, which started in the vineyard. “The miracle of Inglenook,” reflected the late UC Davis Professor Maynard Amerine after a 1935 visit to the property, “was that they maintained the Charbono, Cabernet, Pinot Noir, and Sylvaner vineyards through Prohibition.” This gave Inglenook an immediate advantage over Beringer, which had undergone extensive replanting and grafting to non-premium varieties during Prohibition. Beaulieu became a leader in premium varietal wine sales—particularly with the arrival of André Tchelistcheff in 1937—but altar wines and other bulk products were still a significant part of the product mix. Only Inglenook produced wines from premium grapes exclusively. To ensure only high-quality wines would bear the Inglenook name, John Daniel Jr. maintained Niebaum’s meticulousness and added his own innovations: a second label and bulk sell-offs. Less-than-perfect fruit or wine went into a second jug label, I.V.Y., launched in 1935 and sold out the winery door. Substandard juice he sold off entirely, sans the Inglenook name—a practice common among top Napa producers today but revolutionary at the time. He applied the classic Inglenook diamond label only to premium, vintage-dated, estate-bottled varietal wines, with fruit from his own vines or those of other reputable growers like J.J. Cohn and Schramsberg. Amerine sums it up: “John had the advantage that if he didn't like it, he just didn’t bottle it. It was a big advantage.”

Labels from the 1930s and 1940s - Courtesy of Coppola/Inglenook Archives

In the heart of Rutherford, Cabernet Sauvignon is Inglenook’s most important grape, and it forms the core of John Daniel Jr.’s legacy. By 1940, it was Inglenook’s principal variety, predating its ascendance in the larger valley by 50 years. The early Daniel-Deuer era Cabernet wines were typically blended with 8 to 12% Gamay, but from 1938 onward, they were single varietal wines whenever possible, always aged in large casks rather than barriques. Napa Valley, Then & Now author (and GuildSomm Senior Staff Writer) Kelli White reports on the wine’s evolution in bottle some 75 years later: “Though difficult to find and monumentally expensive, Inglenook Cabernet from the early 1940s, especially the 1941, are worth the hype. They are gorgeous, dense, and impossibly youthful and profound.” While the difficult years of 1945 and 1947 prompted Daniel’s refusal to bottle Cabernet under the Inglenook label, the 1950s and early 1960s produced strings of successful vintages. White notes 1958 to 1962 as an especially good run, with 1959 as the pinnacle. These are some of the greatest and longest-lived wines Napa Valley has delivered to date, documenting over two decades of Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon before the first Robert Mondavi wine rolled off the bottling line.

A 1974 George Deuer interview conducted by Bernard Skouda and a 1942 letter from John Daniel Jr. to his sister provide important insights into Inglenook’s winemaking approach. “Cabernets we usually picked the first week of October,” said Deuer, with the western hillside harvests occurring first. “The closer I went to the highway, the more acid I had and the less sugar.” Brix levels on the hillside could reach 25 to 26°, but the roadside vineyards rarely exceeded 20 to 21° by harvest. Fruit came in around three or four tons to the acre, a standard yield for dry-farmed vines at the time. Cabernet, inoculated with Burgundy yeast, fermented in redwood tanks and rarely stayed on the skins for longer than five or six days. Punchdowns occurred daily. Once rudimentary cooling arrived at Inglenook in 1941, Deuer set 85° F as the temperature ceiling for red wine fermentations. Inglenook Cabernet wines were almost wholly produced from free-run juice. The wines were sulfured, aged in large oak casks of 2,500 to 10,000 gallons for two or three years, topped off intermittently with small amounts of a more neutral red like Gamay or Carignan, bottled at the estate, and hand-corked. Daniel recognized the value of further aging in bottle: “Bear in mind that the Cabernets, Red Pinots, and Charbonos should be given the greatest amount of storage in glass in our bins, since they will benefit most from it.” Following Niebaum’s original standard, Daniel and Deuer held their Cabernet wines for four total years before release to the public. Beginning in 1949, Daniel bottled the best individual lots of Cabernet separately. These “Cask” wines, labeled by each lot’s specific cask number, constitute one of the early examples of a reserve line in Napa Valley.

Inglenook earned its reputation with varietal Cabernet but continued to present a diverse portfolio of other wines. Immediately after Prohibition, the winery produced varietal wines like Zinfandel, Traminer, Sylvaner, and Riesling, but still offered some generic wines too: Sauternes, Haut-Sauterne, Claret, and the fortified Angelica, Ruby and Tawny Port, and Sweet Sherry. There was an Inglenook White made from Schramsberg’s Green Hungarian and a red made from the property’s Gamay. These fell out of the book over Daniel’s tenure, but new varietal wines emerged. The red grape Charbono, first differentiated from Barbera in 1941 by UC Davis Professor Albert Winkler, made its debut on an Inglenook label in that same year. As an age-worthy red, Charbono maintained an enthusiastic, if limited, set of fans until the winery finally ripped it out in 1985. There was Red Pinot, made from Négrette (Pinot St. George) and a smattering of Black Chasselas and Abouriou (“Early Burgundy”). Grenache arrived at some point and made its way into “Navalle Rosé” wines by the late 1940s. Gamay appeared on red and rosé labels in the 1940s and 1905s. By 1954, Pinot Noir and Pinot Chardonnay were Inglenook’s most expensive bottlings, and in 1960, Daniel extended the Cask line to include the latter of these.

Frank Schoonmaker, one of the most influential American wine writers of the post-Prohibition era, toured California’s recovering wine regions in 1939 and selected only five producers—Wente Brothers, Fountain Grove, Paul Masson, Larkmead, and Inglenook—for inclusion in his otherwise French-dominated portfolio. What happened to them? Larkmead ceased to exist as an estate winery for several decades. (Its fruit went exclusively to Inglenook for much of the 1950s through 1970s!) Fountain Grove ended its run in the 1940s. Paul Masson is best known for kitchen brandy and drunk Orson Welles. Livermore Valley’s Wente remains family owned but churns out more than half a million cases a year for the supermarket shelf. Those that survived as brands underwent transformations, rendering them unrecognizable to an early fan. Inglenook was not an exception.

The John Daniel Jr. era ended in 1964, when he sold Inglenook to United Vintners. There were cracks in the foundation: by the early 1960s, Inglenook was aging—the equipment, the people, everything. Rumor was the winery hadn’t turned a profit since it reopened in 1933, and a once-vast Niebaum fortune was depleted. George Deuer was nearing retirement, and Daniel himself was almost 60, with two adult, married daughters—Marcia and Robin (Lail)—but no clear interested heir. His wife Elizabeth, a devout Mormon, despised the wine business. Speculation that Daniel was looking to sell buzzed through the valley. He found his buyer in United Vintners, the marketing arm of a growers’ cooperative called Allied Grape Growers. Founded by Modesto and Madera growers in 1951, Allied had steadily expanded its reach into the North Coast in a series of joint acquisitions with Louis Petri’s Petri Wine Company, including the Italian Swiss Colony and Napa’s own Larkmead. Petri Wine Company became United Vintners as it shifted focus to wine sales, and Allied bought United outright in 1959. Louis Petri stayed on as chief executive and picked Larkmead owner Larry Solari, who had been supplying fruit to Daniel for almost a decade, as his president. Reassuring Daniel that the reputation of Inglenook would be honored, the two men hastily negotiated a deal. United Vintners bought the Inglenook brand, Niebaum’s château, and 94 acres of vineyards between the château and the road for $1.2 million.

When Daniel inherited Inglenook, the Rutherford property comprised 1,654 total acres. This included Niebaum’s core holdings accumulated in the 1880s and an additional 330 acres next door, with vineyards, acquired from the estate of Charles Beerstecher sometime around the turn of the century. In 1946, Daniel purchased the 124-acre Napanook vineyard in Yountville, expanding the domain of Inglenook to its largest historical size. Once Daniel sold the brand to United Vintners, the saga of the Niebaum family diverged from that of the Inglenook brand and estate. United bought the name, the winery, and some of the land, but Daniel kept 1,560 acres on the back of the property and the Napanook vineyard until his death in 1970. His widow sold the remaining Rutherford land, including Niebaum’s original manor house, to a developer with golf courses on the brain, donating her profits to the Mormon Church, a last comeuppance against an industry she despised. Only the Napanook parcel remained for Daniel’s two daughters. In partnership with Christian Moueix, the sisters founded Dominus in 1982 with Napanook as its estate vineyard. Today, there are competing stories told by Inglenook’s current stewards and the lineage of John Daniel Jr. as to the source of his best Cask Cabernet—Rutherford or Yountville?

United Vintners & Heublein: 1964-1995

A reputation for quality is very difficult to build up, and once lost sometimes takes generations in the wine business to reclaim.

- Letter from John Daniel Jr. to his sister Suzanne, dated March 30, 1942

The sale sent shockwaves through Napa Valley, but the drop in wine quality was gradual at first. John Daniel Jr. and George Deuer both remained as active consultants through the 1965 vintage. After the sale, Larry Solari announced that Inglenook would continue the four policies that established its reputation: estate bottling, vintage labeling, displaying the Napa Valley designation of origin, and producing only varietal wines. The new owners planted more Cabernet, Pinot Noir, and other red varieties immediately. But bottling estate-grown grapes meant something entirely different when the estate owner was a massive grape-growing collective. Inglenook wines suddenly became a repository for the growers of United Vintners, and while some provided quality fruit (Charlie Wagner, Joe Cohn, Solari’s own vineyard on Larkmead Lane, Inglenook itself), others did not. Either way, Inglenook had to take the fruit because the growers ran the show. By the 1965 harvest, United Vintners dismantled the old redwood tanks and moved crush and fermentation to a facility in Oakville, although aging and bottling continued at the old château. New winemakers arrived: Philip Togni oversaw the 1966 vintage and Robert Stemmler followed in 1967. Deuer’s assistant, John O’Connell, was the only steady hand throughout the turnover. In 1967, Inglenook abandoned Solari’s promise to focus exclusively on premium varietal wines and introduced a new “Vintage Generic” line, including bottlings like Burgundy, Chablis, and Rhine. It was a move out of Gallo’s playbook. By the end of the 1960s, the slow decline became a rapid descent.

In March of 1969, the Connecticut-based Heublein Spirits purchased United Vintners. (This was the company that introduced America to the vodka category and made a household name out of Smirnoff.) Heublein’s sales and marketing team immediately delivered new marching orders for massive growth to the management at Inglenook. In 1969, the winery blended every varietal wine down to 51%—the minimum then required by law—so the variety could remain on the label while production expanded significantly. Tom Ferrell, who succeeded Stemmler as winemaker in 1970, looks back to 1969 as a watershed year:

Any pretext for quality wine disappeared when they blended everything down to 51%. They never believed in fine wine—they thought the wine we were making was “fine.” They had this San Joaquin attitude. I didn’t realize that until later. They wanted growth, they wanted good press, and they kept the cask-bottling and the estate-bottled line—but they didn’t really believe in quality winemaking. They didn’t understand that grape quality was key. They only understood formulaic winemaking.

The Heublein era brought winemakers in hardhats and a “big valley” mentality from Fresno and Bakersfield. Ferrell, a young winemaker in his first industry job, fresh out of UC Davis, battled the hegemony of United Vintners/Allied growers, who called the shots. “The day after Labor Day, they would start to show up. None of the growers checked sugar. And you had to take the fruit—I got a lot of Cabernet that first year at 19 or 20° Brix.” He crushed assortments of random grapes, some under-ripe and others likely mislabeled. “They said we need Charbono to the growers; well, suddenly a lot of Charbono appeared.” But growers weren’t the only problem: Ferrell’s battles for quality extended up the command chain, too. Heublein standards at the time demanded shelf-stable, sterilized wines. For a winemaker attempting to retain a semblance of the old Inglenook, these were the dictates of liquid-handlers. The chairman of Heublein once roused Ferrell on vacation, barking through the phone, “Your Chardonnay is sub-standard, and we are pulling it from the marketplace.” Ferrell, who had barrel-fermented the wine and bottled it without cold stabilization, sensed impending doom, but luck and good press interfered: “One week after I returned, [Los Angeles Times Wine Critic] Robert Balzer said it had broken new ground for California Chardonnay. He saved my job!”

In the 1970s, Inglenook ballooned into a seven million-case brand. A low-price “Navalle” line, named for a stream on the property but produced at the Asti plant in Sonoma County, debuted in 1971 to the tune of six million cases a year. Ferrell managed annual production for 600,000 cases of vintage wines and 75,000 cases of the premium estate wines. By 1973, the original winery bottled almost 20 different varietal wines, plus the Vintage Generic wines. The Inglenook name became a commodity, divorced from its original meaning, and most of the grapes that went into bottles bearing the name now came from fields nearer to Fresno or Bakersfield than the heart of Napa Valley.

For the Inglenook brand, the 1970s were a bleak period. Respect for the storied property and its historic buildings diminished. In 1975, Heublein erected a massive storage facility between the château and Highway 29, obscuring its view from the road and covering up some of Napa Valley’s most prized Cabernet Sauvignon ground with concrete. To locals, it was a symbol of blatant disregard for Inglenook’s legacy. Someone tagged it, spray-painting “K-Mart” in massive letters over the front of the ugly edifice. But Ferrell made the best wines he could, while shielding the estate-bottled line from the worst depredations of Inglenook’s new masters. After the blending fiasco of 1969, Ferrell convinced management to allow him to bottle pure varietal wines the following year. He hired vineyard managers to advise some 69 growers to sample for sugar and achieve better ripeness in their grapes. And he fought for—and finally got—hand-harvested fruit for the top wines. He set up one of the first winery labs in Napa Valley and replaced the ancient, tartrate-crusted oak aging containers installed back in Niebaum’s day with smaller barriques made of French and American wood. With the help of Darrell Corti, he introduced in-house tastings of competing French and American wines; uninspiring results gave him the leverage to push for more control over the top of the line. Personally, I’ve had good bottles of Charbono and Cabernet from the mid-1970s. Ferrell defends his time there: “Inglenook wasn’t the worst winery in the valley—some of the wines were right up there with the better wines in the valley.” In fact, he thinks his wines improved over the decade, even as the image of Inglenook continued to deteriorate. Ferrell left in 1981.

In the 1980s, under the management of Dennis Fife and winemaker John Richburg, there was cause for a little hope. Both men rose through the corporate ranks at Heublein before arriving at Inglenook, where they focused solely on Napa Valley operations, as the Inglenook Navalle brand was by now under totally separate management. Estate vineyards replanted in the 1970s were entering maturity. In a 1984 speech to the Vintners Club in San Francisco, Fife declared: “Today, our vineyards are closer to what they were at their peak in the 1940s than in any of the 1970s.” The team introduced a new wine, “Reunion,” which drew from all three Daniel-era fruit sources—the two Rutherford sectors and the Napanook vineyard—for the first time since the sale. They re-launched the Cask series in 1983. In the end, however, Inglenook’s long run as a Napa Valley wine came to an end, undermined by corporate apathy. The tobacco company R.J. Reynolds bought Heublein in 1982, and unloaded it five years later to Grand Metropolitan, a massive British conglomerate. Inglenook production in Napa Valley ceased by the end of the decade, and Fife was the company’s last president. Heublein eventually sold the brand in 1994 to Canandaigua Wine Company (now Constellation), completing its transformation into a jug wine brand totally independent of its Napa Valley origins.

Niebaum-Coppola & Rubicon Estate: 1975-2011

The golf course people’s development plans ran afoul of Napa County’s new Agricultural Preserve, and they never got their fairway. In 1975, they liquidated it, selling the 1,560-acre property to the young Hollywood talent Francis Ford Coppola and his wife Eleanor for $2.2 million. Coppola acquired the lion’s share of the Daniel property and the old Niebaum mansion—but not the château—and he set out to restore the original vision of Inglenook even as Heublein wringed its name dry next door. The Coppolas threaded a connection to the past by appending their name to that of the founder, establishing Niebaum-Coppola and opening a new, parenthetical chapter in the story of Inglenook. In 1976, Coppola hired Rafael Rodriguez, who had worked Daniel’s vines at Inglenook since 1952, to maintain his parcels and provide continuity to the original property. And in 1978, the Coppolas produced their first wine, a Cabernet-based blend called “Rubicon,” with winemaker Russ Turner. It was aged in a combination of large casks and barrels and released to the public in 1985.

Throughout the 1980s, Niebaum-Coppola and Inglenook operated in parallel. Coppola’s visions of a grand wine and a great estate took solid form on the hillsides and vineyards behind Heublein’s Inglenook at the front of the property. Coppola hired André Tchelistcheff in 1980 to consult and brought in new winemaker Steve Beresini in 1983. Vineyards were replanted and organic farming practices adopted. While Inglenook’s portfolio ballooned, Niebaum-Coppola kept a tight roster of wines: in addition to Rubicon, the estate added a Rutherford Cabernet Sauvignon in 1980, and with the 1988 vintage, a Merlot and the “Edizione Pennino” Zinfandel appeared. The 1980s-era Rubicon wines looked backward for inspiration; Tchelistcheff led the style more toward Bordeaux than Napa, with an emphasis on structure over fruit, aged for at least six years before release. But they are also a mixed bag, with some vintages remaining green, hard, and charmless. Scott Brenner of St. Helena’s Press Restaurant suggests the 1980, 1982, and 1984—they are fairly easy to find and relatively cheap on secondary markets today. (The wine was not made in 1983, and the late decade vintages of 1988 and 1989 were as disastrous here as elsewhere on the Napa Valley floor.)

In the 1990s and early 2000s, Niebaum-Coppola underwent a tone shift. New consulting winemaker Tony Soter arrived for the 1991 vintage to replace Tchelistcheff, and he brought Scott McLeod on as his assistant. Soter and McLeod added immediate fruit to the style of Rubicon with their first vintage and removed any remaining casks from the Rubicon cellar in favor of barriques. McLeod took full control in 1997, and he pushed the wine even further toward the prevailing style of the day—later harvests, riper fruit, showier oak, and softer tannin. During the McLeod era, Niebaum-Coppola added Cabernet Franc and Syrah to the portfolio of varietal wines, and in 1999, McLeod produced the estate’s first white wine, “Blancaneaux,” a luxurious and oak-driven, if sometimes uneven, blend of Chardonnay, Viognier, Roussanne, and Marsanne. (Both Chardonnay and oak disappeared from the blend by the late 2000s.) McLeod resuscitated Daniel’s Cask program with the 1995 vintage, producing a 100% Cabernet Sauvignon alternative to Rubicon, aged in large American oak casks. Despite paying homage with his Cask wines, the Rubicon wines McLeod produced by the early 2000s were a clear departure from the days of Daniel and Deuer: alcohol levels hovered around 14.5 to 15%, the wines were aged in 100% new French barriques, and pH levels sunk to the 3.7 to 3.85 range. They felt more immediately impressive but less like Inglenook.

Coppola’s greatest achievement at the Inglenook property in the 1990s was to restore ownership of the divided estate to a single owner—himself. In 1995, Canandaigua Wine Company put the remainder of Inglenook’s Rutherford vineyards and its famous château up for sale, and for $10 million, Coppola united the estate for the first time in three decades. The entire vineyard landscape between the château and the highway was replanted from 1996 to 2000. In 2002, Coppola expanded the estate, purchasing the neighboring J.J. Cohn ranch, a source from which John Daniel Jr. and United Vintners routinely purchased fruit for Inglenook. (Coppola immediately resold a small corner of the old Cohn vineyard to Bret Lopez; now it’s known as Scarecrow.) Also in 2002, winemaking returned to the château, and a new cave was excavated in 2003. In 2007, to much fanfare, Coppola knocked Heublein’s eyesore of a barrel-aging cellar down, restoring the grand château building’s visibility from the road.

Coppola self-financed all his films—profits from The Godfather allowed him to make the original purchase in 1975, and Bram Stoker’s Dracula afforded him the opportunity to take back the château in 1995. He likewise expected his wine business to be self-sufficient, hoping to balance pride and profit. To ensure quality remained paramount at the top, Coppola widened the range at the bottom: “Francis Coppola Presents” and “Diamond Collection” wines, produced from grapes sourced throughout California, flooded grocery stores in the late 1990s. Ironically, Niebaum-Coppola applied Inglenook’s famous diamond logo to some of its cheapest non-estate wines, echoing Heublein. Coppola earned his reputation in the world of 1970s American cinema for producing uncompromising films, but his name on a bottle came to indicate a more mass-market, generic appeal. Coppola wines were for the multiplex, not the art house. By 2000, Niebaum-Coppola was releasing 200,000 cases of wine per year under its various brands. The Coppola wine brand diluted, just as Mondavi’s premium image cooled with expansion into Mondavi Coastal and Woodbridge series labels.

By the early 2000s, Coppola’s efforts to create a grand wine suffered as his lower-tier brands gained recognition. Rubicon seemed lost amongst an increasingly crowded field of stylized cult Napa wines. In response, he separated the two tiers of his wine business in 2006, rebranding Rutherford’s Niebaum-Coppola as Rubicon Estate and moving the other Coppola brands to a new home in Alexander Valley. Personnel changes followed: Rodriguez departed and McLeod finished his tenure at Rubicon in 2010. Coppola brought on famed Bordeaux enologist Stéphane Derenoncourt to consult in 2008, and in 2011, he hired Philippe Bascaules to replace McLeod. With two decades of experience under Paul Pontallier at Château Margaux, Bascaules brought a mandate to retrench the style of Rubicon, to restore the terroir of Inglenook in the face of the last generation’s Napa bombast. And he would be able to do it under its original moniker: in 2011, Coppola finally acquired the rights to the Inglenook name, and Rubicon Estate became Inglenook, again.

Inglenook: 2011-Present

Terroir does not exist. You must invent it.

-Philippe Bascaules, speaking at a Napa Valley Vintners symposium at Inglenook, October 11, 2016

Philippe Bascaules, head winemaker at Inglenook from 2011 until early 2017, presided over another sea change in quality and style at the estate. He arrived in October, amid a difficult harvest—a cool, rainy year that terrorized valley growers but would have been comfortably average for a Bordeaux vigneron. Bascaules did not yet understand Napa Valley, but he knew that over-ripeness and high alcohol were not the best recipe for a sense of place. In that first vintage, Rubicon’s alcohol content dropped under 14% for the first time in almost 20 years, a sign of the vintage—and of the changing guard. Bascaules hoped, through better farming and winery practices, to restore freshness to the property’s wines. He moved pick dates up, added late-season irrigation, and raised yields to slow down ripening. To improve the overall quality of fruit, he paid harvesters hourly rather than by the ton—rewarding rather than penalizing sorting decisions in the field—and decreased the size of harvest bins. Ultimately, he aimed to achieve ripeness at lower Brix levels (24.5 to 25°) and lessened the focus on over-concentration and fully ripe, soft tannins—the end products of the phenological ripeness concept that drove his predecessor.

With new vineyard manager Enrique Herrero, Bascaules also embarked on a decades-long reshaping of the Inglenook vineyard—he needed 50 years to sustainably replant the entirety of Inglenook’s 235 acres of vines. To date, Bascaules has replanted about 20 acres of the Cohn Ranch with a massale sélection of Niebaum clone Cabernet Sauvignon—a clone of the original Cabernet Sauvignon planted by Niebaum in the 1880s, isolated by Foundation Plant Services in 1989—and other specimens. In 2011, he budded over 13 acres along the highway, where Deuer always had trouble achieving ripeness in Cabernet, with Sauvignon Blanc and a splash of Semillon. A few older plantings remain, including almost seven acres of head-trained Zinfandel, planted in 1973 and 1978 on St. George rootstock. (A Bordeaux winemaker with zero Zinfandel experience considered it a challenge and a potentially great wine.) While Bascaules embraced irrigation as a tool, he lowered vine canopies and limited shoots and leaves to make better use of groundwater left by winter rains. Over time, he hoped to decrease density. Organic farming practices, certified by C.C.O.F. since 1994, continued. In the beginning, Bascaules adjusted the picking date to limit over-ripeness, but by the end he concluded, “Pick date is a consequence of other changes; it is not the change. First you have to change the vineyard, and then it will ripen differently.”

In the winery, Bascaules made immediate adjustments. Under McLeod, half of Inglenook’s estate production was sold off in bulk, echoing Daniel, but Bascaules chose to incorporate more of the estate fruit by adding a third Cabernet-based wine in 2012, his first full vintage. Rubicon, Cask, and “1882” were released for the 2012 vintage. In 2013, the Cask moniker was dropped, and the lineup became Inglenook Rubicon, Inglenook Cabernet Sauvignon, and Inglenook 1882. For Bascaules, 1882 and the Cabernet became second labels, essentially, ordered in a hierarchy like the three tiers of Château Margaux rouge wines. He shortened the lengthy macerations McLeod employed and reduced the amount of new oak in Rubicon from 100% to about 75%. (The Cabernet sees 30 to 40% new oak each vintage.) The Bascaules style of Rubicon is still a generous wine, but it shaves off some of the density and weight of previous years in favor of more understated complexity. The mid-tier Inglenook Cabernet Sauvignon has suddenly become a standout for its price in Napa, encasing its core of fruit in a refreshing, slightly gruff tannic edge. It’s not really elegant—that’s not the hope for Rutherford, anyway—but there is freshness and an appealing herbal note in the wine. His Sauvignon Blanc, which debuted with the 2013 vintage, is graceful and taut. Rounding out the current Inglenook range are the “RC” (Roman Coppola) Syrah, the Blancaneaux white blend, and the Edizione Pennino Zinfandel, finished in French and American oak. The estate’s annual production is around 20,000 cases today—one-tenth of the winery’s output at the turn of the millennium.

Philippe Bascaules arrived at Inglenook as an outsider to Napa Valley but steered the style of Inglenook’s wines closer in line with legends of the past than anyone since 1964. The wines also reflect modern sensibilities and incorporate modern winemaking demands. They are generally free of Brettanomyces and the large old casks are gone. They are finishing at 13.8 to 14.5% alcohol instead of 11.5 to 12%. Yet a spirit is restored. And Inglenook seems, once again, to be driving a trend rather than chasing it. The name of Inglenook under the Bascaules regime should exist in the upper echelon of Napa Valley producers.

So, what happens now?

In late 2016, with the passing of Paul Pontallier, Philippe Bascaules accepted the position of managing director of Château Margaux. In a press release, Inglenook maintained that he would concurrently remain as director of winemaking. Coppola and the Inglenook staff remain committed to Bascaules’ 50-year plan to deliver the grand vin Coppola has been chasing since his first vintage of Rubicon in 1978. But realistically, the first growth will absorb most, if not all, his energy. When Bascaules departed from the valley in March of 2017, it was not hard to feel pessimism. Over 30 years of Rubicon were not the product of the same single-minded vision that John Daniel Jr. brought to bear; on the contrary, its focus changed with each new winemaking regime. How much of each shift in style resulted from changing desires at the top? In the years from 1964 to 2011, Napa Valley grew up; its landscape now teems with high-quality, world-class wines. Recognition, awards, scores, adoration—more and more voices and wines compete for finite attention. Pressure for stylistic changes may mount again if trends and tastes curve the other way. Or burdensome financial realities may sink their teeth in. In the meantime, a new generation of the Coppola family will inherit a treasure, Napa Valley’s first château, a wine dynasty returned to greatness.

Special thanks to the following individuals for their time, support, and research assistance: Kelli White, Tom Ferrell, Scott Brenner, Philippe Bascaules, Pierre Ribeiro da Costa, Courtney Garcia, and the entire team at Inglenook.

The True Story of To-Kalon Vineyard

Matt Stamp — Mon, 07 Sep 2015 12:52:00 GMT

Prior to the turn of the 20th Century, there was a winery in Napa Valley which used the name ‘Tokalon’… That winery was sold off in parcels during the first fifteen to twenty years of the 20th Century and use of the name was discontinued. Accordingly, although the name has some historical significance, it has no current meaning or significance in the wine industry.
-Robert Mondavi Winery, responding to the US Patent and Trademark Office in 1987, in the matter of the TO KALON trademark application.

Between Highway 29 and the western hills of Oakville, in the heart of Napa Valley, there is a vineyard called To-Kalon, “the place of highest beauty.” Two roadside signs signal arrival, but like all mythic places its exact shape is hard to define. Six entities claim a portion of the vineyard, without clear agreement as to what that vineyard is. Is it the place Hamilton W. Crabb once called Hermosa? Does it comprise all the lands amassed under the umbrella of To-Kalon Winery, the 19th-century Napa brand Crabb made famous from coast to coast? Is it a contiguous tract of abandoned vineyards left in Prohibition’s wake, snatched up by Martin Stelling and swollen in size in pursuit of the valley’s largest wine empire? Or is it just a trademark, first approved in 1906, forgotten, and resurrected by Robert Mondavi? If it can be a vineyard, is it 359 acres or 1,000? And are all acres within it created equal? Or was it just an old winery, engulfed in flames in 1939—its last smoldering remnants now just particles, strewn amidst Wappo arrowheads, the runoff of forgotten streams, and some of the best soils for Cabernet in the world.

The true story of To-Kalon Vineyard reminds us that there usually isn’t one. There are gutsy first steps brushed over and forgotten, legacies and records lost and found, imperfect memories, imagined tales told and retold until they become truth. There are interpretations. We sell stories, and with reverence usually reserved for religious texts we conflate ancient and profound—this is as true for To-Kalon as it is for Burgundy or Bordeaux. How does one really calculate a vineyard’s borders, anyway? What should be cut-and-dried becomes complicated with fame and rising market value. Even in Burgundy, where vineyards have been examined and mapped more thoroughly than anywhere else on earth, one can see almost 100 years of shifting boundaries, legal and otherwise, since the advent of the AOC system, which was designed precisely to maintain and protect traditional growing regions and practices. Grand and premier cru vineyards have grown in size, absorbing their neighbors to simplify labeling and mollify those once excluded. In Bordeaux, where single vineyards are secondary to brand names, the “vineyard” of a château expands or recedes with ownership. In To-Kalon both models, even if incompatible, are at work.

Facing east toward the Vaca Range in Mondavi's To Kalon I-Block

Beckstoffer Vineyards II v. Robert Mondavi Winery 
The 2002 To-Kalon Lawsuits

The trademark allows us protection on the term To-Kalon. It says it’s our right any way we choose to use it. In that context… we can use it for I Block Sauvignon Blanc or we can use it, if we choose, to bottle (it as) a wine from Nairobi. 
-Tim Mondavi, quoted in the December 26, 2002 St. Helena Star

In 1999, a number of Napa vintners released single-vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon wines sourced from five-year-old vines on Andy Beckstoffer’s 89 acres of To-Kalon Vineyard. They all bore the same designation: Beckstoffer Oakville. With the 2000 vintage, Beckstoffer convinced one of his clients, Schrader Cellars, to label the wine as “Beckstoffer Original To Kalon Vineyard.” Robert Mondavi Winery, which had secured trademark registrations for TO KALON in 1988 and TO KALON VINEYARD in 1994, promptly sued Schrader upon the wine’s release in 2002 for infringement and sought an injunction on sales. Schrader filed a counterclaim, and Beckstoffer immediately responded with his own suit against the winery, claiming that it misled the public by exaggerating the original dimensions of the vineyard and by downplaying its historic significance. Beckstoffer even argued that I-Block, the source of Mondavi’s limited and legendary “To Kalon I-Block” Fumé Blanc, was marketed deceptively—that it wasn’t part of the original To-Kalon! The parties settled out of court the following year. While the exact terms were never made public, Beckstoffer won the right to allow his clients use of the name “To Kalon” on their labels, subject to a maximum case cap. (A maximum, Beckstoffer admits, his vineyard would not likely reach anyway.) From 2003 forward, “To Kalon Vineyard” on a bottle of wine could have two very different implications: for Beckstoffer it is a vineyard designate and indication of geographic origin, subject to TTB rules on label language; for Mondavi it is trademark, theoretically free from TTB oversight. The vineyard name on a bottle from Beckstoffer’s plot signifies a minimum 95% of To-Kalon Vineyard fruit. “To Kalon Vineyard” appeared on Mondavi Reserve Cabernet for the first time in 2011—does it mean the same thing?

The Boss Vineyard 
Crabb Era: 1868-1899

Among all the wine producers of California none stand higher in public estimation than H. W. Crabb of Oakville…
-Pacific Wine and Spirit Review, May 4, 1891

Hamilton Walker Crabb, an Ohio native born on New Year’s Day in 1828, came to California in 1853 propelled by gold dreams but landed in the dirt instead. For a decade he worked orchards and grain fields in Alameda County, just east of the San Francisco Bay, before moving his family north to Napa Valley on the advice of a pioneering winegrower named John Lewelling. (Lewelling planted his first Napa vineyard in 1864, and his name, unlike Crabb’s, remains alive as St. Helena’s Lewelling Vineyards.) In 1868, Crabb purchased 240 acres of farmland from George Yount’s son-in-law, E.L Sullivan. This parcel, located north of Walnut Drive and west of Highway 29, was part of the original Rancho Caymus land grant awarded to George Yount in 1836, and it would become the core of H.W. Crabb’s To-Kalon Vineyard. Andy Beckstoffer and Robert Mondavi Winery are the principal landholders of this original parcel today.

In the 1860s, grape-growing and winemaking were new and still-negligible activities in Napa Valley. In The Vineyards and Wine of H. W. Crabb, Oakville, CA. and his “To-Kalon” Label (1980), historian William Heintz suggests that only a few hundred acres of grapes populated a valley of wheat country and pastureland. Yet Crabb, spurred by Lewelling, began to cultivate grapevines on his new property. Early efforts with table grapes netted uninspiring returns, so in 1872 Crabb built a winery and made his first wines under the banner of Hermosa Vineyards. By 1878 Crabb had 120 acres under vine, a distillery, and 225,000 gallons of wine reportedly produced in that year alone—almost 15% of Napa Valley’s total production. By the end of the decade, Crabb’s outfit was the third-largest producer of wine in the county, behind Charles Krug and Gottlieb Groesinger.

Like Sonoma’s Agoston Haraszthy, Crabb was an avid experimenter, importer of grapes, and nurseryman. By the end of the 1870s Crabb had curated the largest collection of vinifera grape varieties in the United States. In 1882, the St. Helena Star published his list, including Hamburg, Malbec, Semillon Noir, Pinot, Gamay, Grenache Blanch, Petite Sirrah, Chablis (Sauvignon Vert), Flame Tokay, Petite Verdot, Furmint, Missouri Riesling, Zinfandel, and Cabernet Sauvignon. There were almost 300 in total, including Crabb’s Black Burgundy, a coulure-sensitive variety later praised by critic Frank Schoonmaker as the best “Burgundy” of California. Long lost, Crabb’s Black Burgundy was not actually Pinot Noir; rather, an 1886 UC Agricultural College Report listed it as a synonym for the Italian Refosco. “Their respective modes of growth and the composition of their respective wines are indistinguishable,” wrote Dr. Eugene W. Hilgard. Hilgard’s comments were echoed by Dr. Harold Olmo in the 1930s, but we now know most “Refosco” in California was mislabeled Mondeuse. Was Crabb’s Black Burgundy really Mondeuse? For a century its identity was clear; now, with only a few faded photographs, tattered drawings, and cellar-notes to draw from, it is not.

Crabb's Black Burgundy

In the 1880s, Napa Valley experienced its first great viticultural boom. Heintz’s research estimates that county vine acreage expanded from 3,500 to 18,000 acres in the years from 1879-1889, and the number of wineries tripled, reaching 165 by the end of the decade. Crabb’s advice and vine cuttings were in high demand, and his winery and vineyards continued to expand. In 1873, Crabb planted vineyards for George Yount’s grandson John Davis, a neighbor whose land pressed westward from Hermosa Vineyards into the Mayacamas Mountains, and Crabb began purchasing Davis’ fruit in 1879 to increase his own production. In 1881 Crabb bought a second parcel of farmland, comprising an adjacent 119 acres south of Walnut Road and north of the Oakville Grade Road, for a sum of $12,000 from Eliza Yount. For Andy Beckstoffer, this second purchase cemented the historical boundaries of To-Kalon, and he offered this declaration in court: “My review of the official maps, property records, and Chain of Title Guarantees confirm that Crabb owned two parcels of land totaling approximately 524 acres. The first parcel was the approximate 359-acre To Kalon Vineyard (comprising the original 240-acre parcel and the 1881 119-acre acquisition), and the second parcel of land was the approximate 165-acre of land up in the hills west of Oakville.” It’s home to Harlan Estate today, but this southwestern parcel was not cultivated with vines during Crabb’s lifetime. Essentially, Beckstoffer argued the modern shape of To-Kalon should only include land owned by Crabb, planted during his lifetime, and used for the production of To-Kalon wines.

With his 2003 declaration, Beckstoffer left no uncertainty: supported by deeds of sale, county maps from the time, and William Heintz’s 1980 historical report The Vineyards and Wine of H. W. Crabb, Oakville, CA. and his “To-Kalon” Label, the 359-acre To-Kalon Vineyard stretched 0.7 miles west of the highway with the Oakville Grade as its southern border. But in Heintz’s report the historian marks the western border “more than one mile” to the west of Highway 29, where the valley meets the hillsides. If true, Mondavi’s 1945 I-Block, 1973 Z-Block, and Monastery Block—arguably the winery’s best tracts of vineyard—would actually be within To-Kalon’s boundaries, contrary to Beckstoffer’s assertion. Today these sections of vineyard, along with a small sliver of Opus One’s holdings and the parcels owned by the Detert and MacDonald families, all lie along the western side of Crabb’s 1868 and 1881 parcels. These were John Davis’ vineyards. Crabb planted the vines; Crabb purchased and used the fruit for To-Kalon wine.

Several years after the settlement, brothers Graeme and Alex MacDonald returned to their family’s 15-acre vineyard adjacent to the original 1868 Crabb parcel. In 2010, they began bottling a small amount of wine under the family name and meticulously digging through old records, deeds, newspapers, and other yellowed relics of the past. In a Napa County Reporter story dated January 25, 1873, the MacDonald brothers found proof that Crabb planted Davis’ first vineyards; winery sales receipts and an interview with Crabb’s winemaker Hans Hansen legitimized the claim that Crabb purchased Davis’ fruit for his wines. More importantly, they found an old deed of sale: in 1891 Crabb actually purchased the 650-acre Davis parcel and its 135 acres of vines. The modern I-Block, Z-Block, Monastery Block, Detert, MacDonald, Opus One… they were all incorporated into Crabb’s holdings in 1891! With the addition of this final parcel Crabb’s vineyard assumed its widest historical boundaries. From 1891 on To-Kalon exceeded 359 acres; the records exonerating Mondavi’s claim of “To Kalon I-Block” were there all along. Yet Mondavi still has the trademark and Beckstoffer still defines the vineyard’s shape and size, so the MacDonald and Detert wines—while satisfying Beckstoffer’s methodology—are unable to carry the “To Kalon” name today.

A page from the 1891 deed of sale, courtesy of Graeme MacDonald.

Meanwhile, Crabb was making moves. In 1886, he renamed his Hermosa operation To-Kalon Wine Company, and his wines soon began to accrue awards and recognition across the United States and throughout the world. From expositions in San Francisco to the World’s Fair in Paris, To-Kalon wines garnered praise and Crabb’s name elevated to the top echelon of American winemakers. His wines—Zinfandel, Cabernet, Sauterne, Burgundy, Claret, Riesling, and others—may have been the first American wines to gain fame and market share in the Eastern United States, too. The 1880s boom times led to bust as oversupply caused the local wine market in San Francisco to come crashing down, so Crabb looked elsewhere. By the early 1890s Crabb had set up To-Kalon sale depots in Washington DC, New Orleans, New York and elsewhere. In Chicago, he built a thirty-foot “wine fountain” to flow with To-Kalon for the 1893 Columbian Exposition, and he hired a woman specifically to market his wines to housewives. (Duh.) The To-Kalon Wine Co. itself employed nearly 100 people in Oakville throughout the 1890s. In Crabb’s own words: “The name To-Kalon… means the highest beauty, or the highest good, but I try to make it mean the boss vineyard.” For Crabb, the name To-Kalon unquestioningly represented his vineyard, but it also became his brand.

The 1880s were a decade of great hope and expansion for Napa Valley winemakers, but the industry faced peril by the turn of the century as phylloxera advanced. The Grape Phylloxera in California, Vol. 901-925 claims the insect first appeared in Haraszthy’s Buena Vista vineyards in Sonoma in the late 1850s, and Dr. E. W. Hilgard first documented its appearance in Napa Valley in 1877. While it no doubt spread in the interim, Napa’s vineyards began to rapidly succumb by the early 1890s. A late-1880s report on the devastation in the Yountville district cites 20 of Crabb’s 120 acres of vines as infected, with the John Davis property and other neighbors suffering as well. Crabb himself, in an 1894 address to the Board of State Viticultural Commissioners, cautions: “Fully one-half of the vineyards between Rutherford Station and the Bay have been destroyed by phylloxera.” As the first incidence of phylloxera in California predated its discovery in Europe, it most likely arrived alongside vines from the Eastern US, but the sheer number of European vine cuttings imported by Haraszthy, Crabb, and others in the late 1860s and 1870s may have provided steerage for the bug, hastening its spread. Crabb was nonetheless a vital player in the hunt for viable rootstocks in California. He replanted most of his vineyard to Lenoir (Jacquez) and V. riparia rootstocks, which fared almost as poorly as own-rooted vines, and experimented with Zinfandel as rootstock material. He even had V. rupestris St. George—the rootstock that would prove to be Napa’s salvation—in his collection, but it was George Schoenwald of Napa Valley and John Markley of Sonoma County who would successfully argue for its adoption. Despite Crabb’s great successes in marketing To-Kalon wines, his vineyard operations incurred sizable costs from the incursion of phylloxera and from his own grafting efforts, which failed to prevent its devastation.

By the end of the 1890s, falling domestic wine prices and potential yields ravaged by phylloxera forced Crabb’s hand. He sold off the third (1891) parcel and took out a $41,000 loan from the Goodman bank in Napa in late 1898. Four months later, on March 2, 1899, Crabb suffered a stroke and died. His family, unable to manage repayment of the loan, lost To-Kalon Wine Co. in that same year to E.W. Churchill, a bank officer who took possession through public auction. The Crabb era, and the glory days of the To-Kalon winery, ended with the century.

Hamilton Walker Crabb's original To-Kalon vineyard parcels and the Martin Stelling "extension."

Note: Crabb’s ownership of the 1891 parcel never appeared on any of the official county maps Beckstoffer brought as evidence. At the time, the survey maps were commissioned every 20 years or so, while Crabb’s control of the parcel he purchased from John Davis lasted less than a decade.

20th Century To-Kalon 
The Churchill Era: 1899-1939

E.S. Churchill followed Crabb to the grave in 1903, leaving control of the To-Kalon vineyards and winery in the hands of his widowed wife, Mary. Crabb’s winemaker Hans Hansen stayed on board into the Churchill era, and Crabb’s son-in-law continued to manage sales for the company’s Washington DC depot. Despite these threads of continuity, To-Kalon in the Churchill era diminished in national importance and brand recognition. The “To-Kalon Vineyard Company,” as Churchill’s 359-acre block was labeled on a 1915 Napa County map, closed its doors with the onset of Prohibition in 1920. Accusations of bootlegging surfaced during the 1920s, and the winery reopened briefly for bulk sales in 1933. By 1937 the Churchill family had sold off the remainder of To-Kalon’s dwindling stocks of wine, and in 1939 the winery brightened Napa’s night skies, ablaze, the victim of a mysterious fire Bottled Poetry author James Lapsley renders, “anticlimactic.”

During the Churchill era one of To-Kalon’s minor modern landowners, the government, moved in. The USDA took control of Crabb’s experimental plot and continued his rootstock trials. 20 acres in total transferred hands by 1922. This plot occupies the westernmost sector of the 1881 parcel; today it is UC Davis’ Old Federal Vineyard, the northern half of the Oakville Research Station.

While Crabb’s 1868 and 1881 parcels continued to contribute to To-Kalon wines under Mary Churchill, the 1891 parcel’s vineyards were ripped out entirely by its new owners. Railroad tycoon, steel baron and all-around enthusiastic “Capitalist” David Perry Doak eventually bought the third Crabb tract in 1911 and planted it to cherry tree orchards. Doak aspired to create a massive agricultural manor and an elaborate house to match, and in 1917 he acquired over 500 acres from the family of John Benson just south of the Oakville Grade, adjoining the southern border of the 1881 To-Kalon addition. (Benson was a winemaker too; he planted 84 acres of Muscat of Alexandria on his property in 1873, and in 1886 he completed his winery, Far Niente.) For the first time, a portion of Crabb’s original To-Kalon estate was joined in ownership with an adjacent but separate property. Further modern confusion over the boundaries of To-Kalon had been sown.

Doak died in 1921; he lived just long enough to see the Benson winery shuttered by Prohibition and the construction of his palatial mansion finished. Doak bequeathed his 1,700-acre estate to his second wife Frieda Vocke DeHaven, a former mistress he kept ensconced on an Oregon equestrian ranch until his first love got wise. After Doak died, Frieda promptly married Colonel John McGill. Her second marriage, like the first, was cut short by the colonel’s demise in 1929. The widow’s only daughter committed suicide in 1942. Amidst David Perry Doak’s elysian dreams, trammeled by inevitability and grief, Frieda Doak McGill sold her entire estate in 1944—including the 1891 To-Kalon parcel—to a San Francisco businessman named Martin Stelling Jr.

“New Oxygen” 
The Stelling Era, 1943-1950

In 1943, Martin Stelling purchased all but 110 acres of the 1868 and 1881 To-Kalon parcels from Mary Churchill. One year later, he bought the McGill Ranch, including the 1891 To-Kalon parcel. Most of Crabb’s original vineyard was now under Stelling’s control, while To-Kalon and the McGill Ranch joined other connected parcels on the west side of Highway 29 under a single owner for the first time since the fragmentation of George Yount’s Rancho Caymus. Stelling had assembled an estate comprising thousands of acres of pristine vineyard land. He was at the forefront of a new wave of winegrowers, the first real surge of new energy in the valley since repeal. He was an early and avid promoter of Cabernet Sauvignon, portending its incredible potential in the Napa Valley some 50 years before it became the valley’s most planted variety. André Tchelistcheff called him the “new oxygen” of Napa Valley.

Stelling did not waste time. He replanted his new acquisitions with mono-varietal blocks—a revolutionary practice at the time—of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Johannisberg Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir and others he considered superior. Stelling put Sauvignon Blanc in I-Block in 1945. He bought the old Sunny St. Helena Winery in 1946 from a man named Cesare Mondavi to serve as a co-op, and he wanted to transform the old Benson winery into a world-class château. He was named president of the Napa Grape Growers’ Association in 1947. And Stelling referred to his entire property—including part of the 1868 Crabb parcel, all of the 1881 and 1891 parcels, and the McGill Ranch—by the most famous and historic name associated with the western flank of Oakville: Tokalon Vineyards.

1950 Map of "Tokalon Vineyards," courtesy of Graeme MacDonald

Had Stelling finished his renovation of the old Benson winery and achieved his dream of building a super-premium brand, would he have labeled the wines “To-Kalon?” It’s an open question; like Doak and McGill before him, Stelling’s time on the property was cut short. On the evening of May 7, 1950 the 47-year-old Stelling rammed his car into a pole near Yountville. He died the next day. Stelling’s widow, Caroline, did not share his enthusiasm for Cabernet Sauvignon, for To-Kalon, or for wine. In any case she had estate taxes to pay, and thus the dismantling of Stelling’s property began immediately upon his death. She sold a house, 40 acres of cherry trees, and a few vines from Crabb’s 1891 parcel to Hedwig Detert. (This parcel became two sometime in the 1950s, divided between her son Gunther Detert and her son-in-law, Allen Horton—the latter is the modern MacDonald plot.) In 1951 Caroline Stelling sold another 450 acres, including 148.4 acres of Crabb’s 1881 and 1891 parcels and 156.6 acres of the McGill Ranch, to Italian Swiss Colony. The old Doak mansion went next, sold with 29 acres of the McGill Ranch to the Carmelite House of Prayer. The monks still reside on the property today; the mansion towers over Mondavi’s Monastery Block. By the mid-1950s, Stelling’s vast estate of over 2,000 acres was undone. By the end of the decade, Martin’s son Douglas retained only a sector of the McGill Ranch, including the modern estate vineyards of Far Niente.

Of course, there were two parcels of Crabb’s To-Kalon, measuring 110 acres in total, that Stelling never managed to acquire. One was the USDA’s 20-acre Old Federal Vineyard; the other Mary Churchill sold to Beaulieu Vineyards in 1943. It was known as Beaulieu Vineyard #4 until 1993, when Andy Beckstoffer bought 89 of its 90 acres. (The 90th, BV’s Madame de Pims had sold to build a house.)

Mondavi Moves 
The Mondavi Era, 1958-Present

In the early 1950s, Italian Swiss Colony was the largest wine producer in California with vineyards throughout the state, and it was one of the best known and distributed wine brands nationwide. It was, however, just a footnote in To-Kalon’s history. Italian Swiss Colony’s Crabb and McGill parcels sold to Ivan Schoch, a former Stelling foreman, in 1953. Schoch remained a grower, selling his harvests to the owners of Charles Krug, Cesare Mondavi and his sons Robert and Peter. But the Mondavi family wanted the land itself. In Harvests of Joy, Robert Mondavi recalls, “… in 1958, I think it was, we went even further. We purchased a 325-acre parcel of To Kalon for Krug, in the name of the parent company my father had formed: C. Mondavi and Sons.”

The story of To-Kalon, and Napa Valley, could have ended quite differently. In his book Mondavi refers to plans to transform the entire 2,000-acre Stelling estate into a luxury housing and resort complex. Bay Area suburban sprawl threatened to encroach, and the corporatization of the valley had begun. There were discussions of an international airport in Carneros. Large wine companies swallowed smaller ones. United Vintners bought Italian Swiss Colony in 1953 and Inglenook in 1964, tarnishing the latter winery’s sterling reputation for decades to come. Major spirits suppliers were also sniffing around. Connecticut-based Heublein Inc., sole distributors of Smirnoff Vodka and by 1970 the second-largest liquor advertiser in the country, acquired a majority share in United Vintners in 1968. (The following year, the company purchased Beaulieu Vineyards and brought an East Coast-based business analyst-turned-winegrower named Andy Beckstoffer out to California. He actually farmed Beaulieu Vineyard #4—To-Kalon—for Heublein 20 years before buying the parcel from BV.)

And of course, the house of Mondavi suffered its own split. Incompatible egos and long-simmering business disagreements between two brothers finally rolled to a boil and spilled over a mink coat. In 1965 Robert Mondavi was ejected from Charles Krug and left without vineyards or winery; one year later, with Ivan Schoch and Fred Holmes as partners, he purchased 12 acres still held by Douglas Stelling for his own, eponymous project—Robert Mondavi Winery. The winery building and visitor center today occupy these 12 acres, along the northeast corner of Crabb’s 1868 To-Kalon parcel. It was the first new winery constructed on the Napa Valley floor since Louis Martini opened his cellar doors in 1933. Mondavi expanded quickly—Seattle’s Rainier Brewing Company acquired Schoch and Holmes’ shares in 1968, and Mondavi used the jolt of investment to buy more land, adding 230 acres of To-Kalon to the estate in that year alone. But as Robert’s own enterprise grew, family relations decayed. There were lawsuits and countersuits between Robert Mondavi and Charles Krug Winery; Robert sued for uncompensated loss of equity while Krug trotted out antitrust allegations. At the conclusion of a long, dragged-out court battle that pitted brother against brother—their mother Rosa died midway through the proceedings; her ashes were scattered over To-Kalon—the judge sided with Robert and ordered the sale of Charles Krug. The brothers, however, arrived at their own settlement in 1978: Peter bought Robert’s remaining shares in Charles Krug, while Robert received enough funds to buy out Rainier and added Krug’s Oakville holdings to his own. For the first time in its history, Robert Mondavi Winery was a completely family-owned company, and its holdings in Crabb’s original To-Kalon Vineyard and the McGill Ranch were complete.

Robert Mondavi’s impact on the future of Napa Valley and interest in wine appreciation in America cannot be overstated. But his interest chiefly lay in promoting his own brand, not To-Kalon. “When I arrived at Mondavi, I remember them talking about To-Kalon. They thought it might have been an old Indian word.” recalls Nina Wemyss, a historian employed by the winery from the mid-1980s through 2004. She was part of a small but vocal group advocating a revival of Crabb’s legacy. Mondavi’s vineyard manager Charles Williams and the viticulturalist Ben Henry were interested. So was legendary Sacramento grocer and wine merchant Darrell Corti. And To-Kalon’s own Gunther Detert wrote a short amateur history on Hamilton Crabb in the 1970s, playing a pivotal role in resurrecting the name around the winery. Robert and his sons Tim and Michael were finally persuaded, and the winery applied for its first TO KALON mark in 1987. The vineyard name first appeared on white wines, making its label debut with the 1986 vintage of Fumé Blanc Reserve. In the 1995 vintage Mondavi released “To Kalon I-Block Reserve” Fumé Blanc, sourced from 5.29 acres of Sauvignon Blanc, in honor of the vines’ 50th anniversary. “To Kalon Reserve” Cabernet Sauvignon appeared for the first time in 1997 and was produced through the 2001 vintage.

The 1970s and ‘80s brought unbridled growth, but by the early 2000s the winery faced a troubled, uncertain future. Mondavi went public in 1993; amid an image watered-down by Woodbridge and Coastal, rising costs, sagging demand, and increasing criticism lobbed at its Oakville wines, Mondavi’s shares were plummeting in the first few years of the new century. In 2004 the family lost control of the board; by the end of the year they lost the company. Constellation Brands orchestrated a takeover of the winery and the vineyards. Nina Wemyss recalls cleaning out her office as Tim Mondavi emptied his—“You’ve got to focus on To-Kalon… I told Constellation that ten years ago.” Tim kept an ember aglow, using a majority of To-Kalon and McGill fruit for his first two vintages of Continuum, but amidst the noise of the Beckstoffer court drama and the company’s own internal implosion, Mondavi’s role in the To-Kalon story was suddenly marginalized. It wasn’t until the 2011 vintage—the same year Andy Beckstoffer predicted in the pages of the Wall Street Journal that "The vineyards are the next Robert Mondavi."—that the winery began bottling its flagship Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon with the words “To Kalon Vineyard.” In the post-Robert Mondavi era, Robert Mondavi Winery now employs its trademarks and trumpets the story of To-Kalon Vineyard more often and eagerly than ever before.

Opus One 
To-Kalon by proxy, 1979-Present

In 1978 Robert Mondavi shook hands with Baron Philippe de Rothschild and founded Opus One, a joint partnership and new prestige wine for Napa Valley that debuted with the 1979 vintage. In 1981, Robert Mondavi Winery sold the partnership its southernmost estate parcel, the 35-acre McGill Ranch Q-Block. Opus One added 100 acres on the eastern side of Highway 29 and, in 2008, finally acquired long-term leasing rights to Mondavi’s K Block, a 48-acre marquee parcel adjacent to Beckstoffer, Mondavi’s I Block, and the MacDonald Estate in the heart of Crabb’s To-Kalon. It stands in stark contrast to its neighbors—the Opus One parcel is planted in the high-density Bordeaux style, a sharp departure from the widely spaced, head-trained old soldiers of I Block. Perhaps the most recognized premium Napa wine in international markets, Opus One downplays the To-Kalon connection in its marketing materials. Direct comparisons with other wines from the vineyard are obscured, in any event, as much of Opus One likely originates across the street.

Opus One vines adjacent to I-Block. View is facing west toward the Mayacamas.

89 Acres 
The Beckstoffer Era, 1993-Present

Andy Beckstoffer is the most famous name in grape-growing in Napa Valley, if not all of California. Not a vintner, the lanky Virginia native moved to the valley in 1969 as an employee of Heublein, the spirits giant that counted United Vintners’ Inglenook and Beaulieu Vineyards among its wine acquisitions. Beckstoffer helmed Heublein’s Vinifera Development Corporation and managed the company’s vineyard farming prior to buying the division in 1973. He renamed it Beckstoffer Vineyards, and slowly began amassing a portfolio that now includes 1,000 acres in the Napa Valley AVA. The lustrous gem of Andy Beckstoffer’s “Heritage Vineyards” collection is undoubtedly his 89-acre parcel of To Kalon, purchased from Beaulieu Vineyards in 1993. From a pure soil perspective, he prefers his Bourn Vineyard in St. Helena for Cabernet Sauvignon—its gravelly soils are warmer and more well-drained—but in name recognition and historical importance To Kalon is the prime plot. Realm vintner Juan Mercado, who has purchased Beckstoffer To Kalon fruit since 2002, agrees: “I'm always looking for an excuse to drop the vineyard—it's so expensive! But it’s an amazing vineyard, and even the weakest sections produce some phenomenal wine. In poorer vintages you still get the opportunity to make great wine; lesser vineyards may give you great fruit in a year like 2012 or 2013, but not 2011. You get amazing concentration and density—almost like mountain fruit—but it has the roundness and big, rich character of valley floor. The raw material is insane!”

When Beckstoffer bought the property, he recalled Tchelistcheff’s advice—get diversity through clones of Cabernet, not through other varieties. The vineyard was dying then; with the high costs of replanting looming Beaulieu sold the prized but phylloxera-ridden parcel to Beckstoffer. He ripped out the Merlot and Petit Verdot and replanted his To Kalon in 1994 with various Cabernet Sauvignon clones, complemented by a few short rows of Cabernet Franc along its western border.

As of 2015, 20 buyers purchase fruit from Beckstoffer To Kalon Vineyard. All but one (Harlan Estate?) must produce a vineyard-designate wine from the property. And they are forbidden from adding Oakville AVA to their labels: “Vineyard designate is what everyone is going toward. You know who the grower is, where the ground is. You say Rutherford or Napa Valley, you get all sorts of stuff. The last peel of the onion is vineyard designate.” In preservation of that sense of place (and control over the economics of farming grapes), Beckstoffer strictly defines the vineyard practices: “We don’t let them tell us how to farm and we don’t tell them how to make wine.” Yields are left up to individual clients, but there is a minimum tons/acre that vintners pay for regardless of how much fruit they drop. And the per-ton price is sky-high. Estimating 63 cases/ton, Beckstoffer’s model sets the price per ton at 100x the retail price of the bottle and sets a minimum retail price of $175/bottle. Paul Hobbs sells his rendition for about $450. Do the math for 89 acres but don’t be alarmed; in our hunger for authenticity and terroir we’ve nearly sanctified the vineyard, so why be surprised when a grower understands the value of the ground underneath his feet?

Going to Market

Add good cheer to the Thanksgiving festivities with To-Kalon Wines—the choicest products of the best California vineyards—delivered to you just as they come from the winery in California, purity and quality guaranteed.
-To-Kalon Wine Company ad in the Nov. 24, 1903 Washington DC Evening Star

In his countersuit against Mondavi, Beckstoffer claimed that the winery misled the public (and the trademark office) by deemphasizing the historical significance of the To-Kalon name. But what was its significance? Today winegrowers who want to be taken seriously think in terms of vineyard über alles, but in the 19th century winery brand was a much more important motivator for sales and prestige. Think of the fin de siècle Champagne posters—beautiful women, flowers in their hair, society parties, inebriated yet genteel good times, nary a picture of a vine or vineyard—or the 1855 Bordeaux Classification. Korbel (or To-Kalon) Champagne. No one in Barolo dreamed of bottling an individual cru for the sake of vineyard expression. Domaine-bottling had yet to appear in Burgundy, but one can argue a Côte d’Or commune was more a brand than an appellation (which didn’t exist until the 20th century anyway) for the négociants. Yes, Crabb had an amazing expanse of vineyard land, but any historical significance his winery cemented in place was likely as much a product of his business acumen and his network of To-Kalon wine depots across the major markets of the United States. In one sense Mondavi and Beckstoffer are, equally, upholding the two sides of Crabb’s To-Kalon legacy.

The Last Families of To-Kalon Vineyard 
Detert and MacDonald

To-Kalon began as one man’s vision, but today it is very much a corporate enterprise. Mondavi and the TO KALON trademarks are now owned by New York-based Constellation Brands, the world’s largest premium wine producer and the biggest beverage alcohol company in the United States. Opus One is a joint partnership between Constellation and the Rothschilds. The state university controls its Old Federal Vineyard. Beckstoffer’s enterprise is family-owned, but with more than 3,600 acres of wine grapes in northern California this is not a mom-and-pop shop. There remain only two minor parcels within Crabb’s To-Kalon that operate on a small, family-run scale: the adjoining 25-acre Detert plot and the 21-acre MacDonald plot. Gunther Detert’s grandsons Tom and John Garrett and Bill Cover made the transition from grape-growers to winemakers in 2000 with the debut of Detert Family Vineyards, while Allen Horton’s grandsons Graeme and Alex MacDonald released their first wine under their own name in 2010.

Martin Stelling originally planted Cabernet Franc on the Detert estate in 1949, and from Gunther Detert forward the family kept the variety, even as the valley around them turned ever more monochromatic with Cabernet Sauvignon. Next door, the cherry trees were uprooted and Cabernet Sauvignon went back into the ground in 1954; one half-acre of these old vines still live on the MacDonald property. Robert Mondavi had long-term contracts with both vineyards, and the Detert and MacDonald cousins continue to sell the bulk of their fruit to the company.

Gunther Detert was instrumental in incubating interest in Crabb’s legacy at Robert Mondavi Winery in the 1970s and 1980s; today, Graeme MacDonald has inherited his curiosity and is as much historian as vineyard manager. He lives with his wife and newborn in an old, un-airconditioned, 650-sq. ft. cottage among the vines, a two-minute walk from Mondavi’s I-Block. He farms his vineyard by hand—himself—heeding his agricultural forbearers a generation removed, biodynamic principles, and the “do-nothing” farming teachings of Masanobu Fukuoka more than the flexible sustainability of his neighbors. In (exhaustively) performing the historical research necessary to protect the To-Kalon heritage, he is at once safeguarding and refining a story revived by Detert, William Heintz, Nina Wemyss, Robert Mondavi, and Andy Beckstoffer, while producing a wine that may never carry its name. Ironically, when used by Mondavi the MacDonald and Detert fruit is sold as aTo Kalon Vineyard wine, but for their own products Mondavi’s trademarks prohibit them from labeling it as such.

1954 Cabernet Sauvignon vines at the MacDonald estate

The Dumb Luck of Hamilton Walker Crabb

In the Wines and Vines of California (1889) Frona Eunice Wait lauds Hamilton Crabb as a winemaker without peer in California. Did Crabb, an Ohioan who first cultivated table grapes, oranges and chestnuts on his property in Oakville, also have a sixth sense for winegrowing? He was one of the first men in Napa Valley to produce a wine labeled “Cabernet,” half a century before Martin Stelling loudly promoted for its propagation up and down the valley floor. It was but one wine among many (Sauterne, Chablis, Sherry, Angelica, Blackberry Wine, Claret, Zinfandel Claret, Sweet Muscatel, Extra Dry Champagne, Riesling, Chasselas, etc.), yet his land was perfectly situated for growing the grape. It’s prime benchland terrain. The perimeter of his original vineyard—including the 1868 and 1881 parcels and the planted section of the 1891 plot—is remarkably consistent with modern maps of the alluvial fan beneath it. Again: the gravelly strata that fan out eastward from the base of the Mayacamas are almost completely congruent with and nearly identical in shape to the original To-Kalon Vineyard. The marine-derived sediment, once swept along the veins of seasonal creeks, grows finer toward Highway 29 and the Napa River. There are variations throughout To-Kalon—Beckstoffer cedes a little more gravel amidst otherwise uniform soils to the western end of his vineyard—but overall it is of very high quality for the late-ripening, warm soil-loving Bordeaux grape. Tim Mondavi remembers his father telling him that Louis Martini Sr. proclaimed it as one of the best areas in the valley for Cabernet. The biggest success during Crabb’s lifetime was (Crabb’s) Burgundy, but the future pivoted toward Bordeaux. Things change.

Addendum: The Oakville Research Station

“This might be the most important vineyard anywhere in the world,” proclaims Michael Anderson, emerging from a panoply of classic rock and the spartan garb of a dusty field office into the hard July sun to survey his surroundings—the UC Davis Oakville Station Old Federal Vineyard, a 20-acre parcel sandwiched between Mondavi’s Monastery Block, the Oakville Grade and Walnut Drive, at the heart of Crabb’s To-Kalon Vineyard. “But it was some of the poorer ground Crabb had.” Anderson explains: the vineyard, part of Crabb’s 1881 acquisition, was the site of his rootstock experiments. It’s full of poorly draining clay rather than gravel—a fact not likely lost on Crabb, who chose not to commercially cultivate on this patch of land. But where else in the world is an experimental plot located on an appellation’s most hallowed (and most expensive) ground? The rootstock experiments of the past have given way to more modern observations—microclimate irrigation trials, for instance, in which Anderson alters the amount and timing of drip irrigation for every single vine—but the vineyard’s legacy endures. Genomics inform a breeding program at the station, allowing scientists to look for desirable genes in new grape crossings immediately instead of waiting years for desirable physical traits to manifest. New clones of Cabernet Sauvignon and old heritage selections of Zinfandel are studied. In 2008, the widespread viral disease “red blotch” was first identified here, having long masqueraded as leafroll in vineyards from Texas to Canada. In the 1960s, Dr. Harold Olmo conducted many of his groundbreaking trials on Chardonnay clones at Oakville Station, and 30 years of his research into an old Cabernet Sauvignon selection from Kunde in Sonoma Valley culminated with the release of the “Oakville selection” (FPS 02) from this station in 1965. The original budwood for Martha’s Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon came from the Oakville Station, and many of the modern trellising techniques utilized in Napa Valley are likewise the product of UC Davis’ research here.

Of all the various experimental stations in the State, the one established at the Tokalon vineyard, Oakville, not many years ago, is the oldest and most extensive, and I am greatly pleased with the results obtained.
 -George Hersman (Husmann), Govt. Dept. of Viticulture  (Dec. 2, 1905 Pacific Rural Press)

Prior to E. W. Churchill’s death in 1903, the new proprietor of To-Kalon set aside the 20-acre Old Federal Vineyard for further use in rootstock trials managed by George Husmann and the USDA. The government continued Crabb’s viticultural experiments even through Prohibition, finally buying the vineyard outright from Mary Churchill in 1922. (Presumably on account of the sudden loss of legal income!) A 1930 vineyard map shows blocks of phylloxera-resistant mother vines and grafted direct producers dating to 1923, 1924, 1925, and 1928. By the mid-1940s, however, Napa vintners were petitioning Congress to donate the land to the UC Davis Department of Viticulture and Enology in order to propel research in the valley, but government inaction forced a search for alternatives. In 1947 the group of vintners, led by John Daniel Jr. of Inglenook, purchased another 20-acre slice south of the Oakville Grade from Martin Stelling and donated it to the university. Congress finally followed suit in 1955, entrusting the USDA vineyard to UC Davis. The modern Oakville Station therefore comprises two vineyards of 20 acres each: the Old Federal Vineyard, which was a part of Crabb’s original To-Kalon Vineyard, and the South Station, from Stelling’s McGill Ranch.

There are only a few rare examples of the Old Federal Vineyard’s fruit available in the market. Anderson sells Cabernet Sauvignon for around $7,500-8,000 per ton to select clients, including Silverado Vineyards, who produces an “Oakville Station” vineyard designate wine. In the 2012 vintage, Cornerstone Cellars introduced a vineyard designate Merlot.

Special thanks to the following individuals for their time, materials, and research assistance: Graeme MacDonald, Alex MacDonald, Nina Wemyss, Andy Beckstoffer, Carissa Mondavi, Tim Mondavi, Michael Anderson, and Mark de Vere MW. Additionally, without the written work and prior interest of William Heintz and Gunther Detert this account would not have been possible.

Mascarello vs. Mascarello, by the numbers

Matt Stamp — Wed, 15 Oct 2014 15:27:00 GMT

Despite unseasonal early fall weather reaching into the 90s, our core mission remained intact: drink a lot of Nebbiolo, a quintessential cold-weather wine, and wash it down with some home-cooked osso buco and polenta. Accepted, happily! Winemaker Dan Petroski (Massican, Larkmead), vintner Bob Bressler, and a crew of current and former Napa sommeliers—Jimmy Hayes, Dennis Kelly MS, Sur Lucero MS, Jason Heller MS, and yours truly—got together to taste, spit, gulp, slurp, and work our way through a lengthy flight of wines. The evening presented a rare opportunity: with two four-wine verticals of Bartolo Mascarello Barolo and one three-wine flight of Giuseppe Mascarello "Monprivato" Barolo, we could really drill down on vintage differences and contrast producer styles. (All while enjoying AMAZING wines.) With ETS Labs down the road we had the chance to back up our tasting with some real numbers: Dan ran chemistry panels (about $80 and a couple ounces of wine each) on all the wines, measuring SO2 levels, pH, TA, residual sugar, volatile acidity levels and alcohol. The results—in taste and analysis—raised some interesting questions...

Mascarello vs. Mascarello

It's often the contrasts that provide the best window into a particular producer's style. Tasting through eight vintages of Bartolo Mascarello Barolo was wonderfully illuminating in terms of just how different the individual wines were, but the overall style of Bartolo Mascarello became clearer and easier to comprehend once we started tasting through the Giuseppe Mascarello bottlings.

In TONG Magazine #16 Maria Teresa Mascarello, daughter of the late Bartolo, wrote a really detailed piece on her family's winemaking style. (The following is a summary to get us up to speed.) The Bartolo Mascarello estate produces one Barolo, blended from several vineyards: San Lorenzo, Rué and Cannubi in Barolo, and Rocche dell'Annunziata in La Morra. Maria Teresa stepped into her father's shoes after he died in the middle of the 2005 harvest, and she finished fermentation, aging and bottling in that vintage and has continued to make the wines. Grapes are 100% de-stemmed and fermentation occurs in concrete at ambient temperatures (26-30° C). Fermentations may begin naturally, but in warmer years she may use commercial yeasts to prevent stuck fermentations. Post-fermentation maceration lasts for 30-50 days (and sometimes even longer). The wines are then pressed and racked into large, neutral Slavonian oak casks, where they undergo malolactic fermentation the following spring. The Barolo is typically bottled in July of the third year after harvest and is sold after one additional year of bottle-aging. Given how deeply traditional these techniques are, it is not likely much has changed from father to daughter in the winery. But keep in mind—particularly as you inspect the data—that the '90s wines were made by Bartolo and the '00s wines were made by Maria Teresa. 2005 was the year of transition.

While B. Mascarello's Barolo is a blend of four sites, Giuseppe Mascarello "Monprivato" is an expression of one—a seven-hectare, southwest-facing site in Castiglione Falletto that has been under Mascarello's sole ownership since 1991. Mauro Mascarello, son of Giuseppe, has been making his family's wines since 1967 and is a living legend in the region. The winemaking style here is traditional as well. 30-day-long macerations (reduced from 60 in the old days) and aging in large Slavonian oak casks are the order of the day. Like Bartolo's vineyards, Monprivato is mostly planted with the Lampia clone of Nebbiolo, but there is some Michet as well. Michet is essentially a virused version of Lampia—according to research by ampelographer Dr. Anna Schneider, only 10% of Barolo vineyards planted with Michet are totally free of fan leaf virus. (Giuseppe Mascarello's "super riserva" Cà d'Morissio Barolo is a showcase for the Michet clone plots.)

In broad terms, the Bartolo Mascarello wines were a cut above, with a level of refinement and precision unmatched by Monprivato. Perhaps that's an unfair statement—reflecting differing provenance and sample size—but the Monprivato was "low-toned, all bass," to Sur Lucero, and as a whole the Monprivato flight seemed a little more disjointed, fuller, warmer, and chunkier. The split reflects the classic division: wines from Barolo/La Morra tend to be more perfumed and graceful whereas those from the eastern communes show more power, tannin, and structure.

Tasting a series of back-to-back vintages was an interesting reminder of the way that vintages have recently progressed as pairs in Piedmont, one warmer and the next cooler, and so on.

B. Mascarello 2008: Pure, nervy and expressive. My favorite of the young wines. "Like frutto di bosco, fruits of the forest—piney red, blue, black berries." — Dan. Incidentally, this is a great vintage for restaurants to invest in—the wines are overall pretty and aromatic, and will show well alongside classic foods from the region.
B. Mascarello 2007: Crushed and macerated fruit in comparison to the '08. Warmer and riper. "You can drink the '07s now." — Jason. "This is the wine of the flight for me; it has so much interest." — Jimmy.
B. Mascarello 2006: The most classic nose of the flight. Tar and licorice aromatics start to emerge. The wine had the best tannin/acid balance of the young wines but was also totally closed down. Likely a long life ahead.
B. Mascarello 2005: Leaning into oxidation with salt, licorice and earth character. "The fruit is baked, a little more cooked. Prematurely nutty." — Sur. The wine had a broad entry and good richness, but the finish evaporated. Likely not one for the long haul, but a good candidate for drinking now or in the near future. Is this more a result of vintage or of Bartolo's death?
B. Mascarello 1998: This was surprisingly the most advanced wine in the older flight. Soy and prune with melted tannins. Will the '05 age like this wine?
B. Mascarello 1997: Really ripe/dried on the nose but fresher and more savory on the palate. Bright acid and firm tannin. A really good bottle from one of the first hot modern vintages.
B. Mascarello 1996: Bone dry and really perfumed. A great wine.
B. Mascarello 1995: Alas, one bottle corked and another maderized.
G. Mascarello "Monprivato" 2008: Muddied nose. Difficult bottle. Will this gain clarity with some time in the cellar?
G. Mascarello "Monprivato" 2007: A much better bottle than the 2008, with sweet, baked fruit aromatics and plushness despite fine tannic grain.
G. Mascarello "Monprivato" 1997: A lot of discussion here. "Reductive, Syrah-like character." — Dan. The wine was smoky, big and monolithic but lacked the secondary tones one expects in Nebbiolo—except a lot of VA. A great bottle of wine. But great Nebbiolo?

We took a look at the chemistry reports (below) after tasting the wines, and a few questions came up.

The alcohols jumped by nearly 1% from the 1990s to the 2000s for the Bartolo wines. Is climate change to blame in such a short time or is this driven by winemaking and viticultural changes?
Why did unfermented residual sugars in 2005 and 2007 Bartolo wines increase by so much? This is below the threshold of perception for sweetness, but these two wines did show more supple fruit and richness on the palate than either the 2006 or 2008. Additionally, bottling with so much residual sugar can be an issue for volatile acidity: according to Dan, VA can "bloom" in bottle (like brett) and worsen over time. Brett, which carries on its work in anaerobic environments, produces acetic acid as well. And as Dennis said, "the wines I thought had higher levels of VA were not fully dry. The presence of sugar seemed to amplify the perception of VA, yet those wines did not necessarily show higher levels of VA in the technical analysis."
Why did pH drop so much in the younger Giuseppe Mascarello wines? One would assume that the '97 and '07 should be more in line here.
Have the young wines been acidified?
For most wines VA was under 0.6 g/l. For comparison, many Napa Cabernet VA values are above 0.6 g/l. UC Davis suggests the perception threshold for VA is somewhere between 0.6-0.9 g/l. So, is noticeable expression of VA really "classic" for Barolo or Barbaresco?

All wines tasted were opened but not decanted five hours prior to tasting. Pricing for both wines is fairly equivalent for current vintages: Rare Wine Co. is selling Monprivato 2009 for $110 and Bartolo Mascarello 2009 for $100. The Bartolo Mascarello wines, long been favorites of Antonio Galloni, took a recent price hike; one at our table suspected this came after Galloni started reviewing CA wines for the Wine Advocate—receiving Parker's "blessing," as it were—and his newly faithful followers started taking a closer look at the critic's older Piedmont reviews.

The 1997 Vintage and Modernist Nebbiolo

Upon its release, US critics anointed the warm 1997 vintage as the best thing ever. This vintage was hot but even, arriving at a time when the vanguard of modernism was sweeping over the Langhe. James Suckling called it "legendary" in 2007, but in shades of Napa Valley 1997 most critics are by now tempering earlier prognoses of greatness with doses of reality. A lot of wines from the vintage aren't showing well—and this may have as much to do with abandonment of traditional techniques and the unfamiliarity of new ones as anything else. We tasted two modern renditions of 1997 Barolo against the classics: Vietti "Lazzarito" and Aldo Conterno "Granbussia." Lazzarito is a 30-hectare cru smack in the middle of Serralunga d'Alba; Vietti is one of six core producers in the vineyard. Dan said it best: "Barrel-aged Manhattan in a wine bottle." It really did smell like a Bourbon cask, as Jason commented, showing vanilla, brown sugar, brandied maraschino cherry, and char on the nose. Faint tannins. (And not necessarily representative of modern Vietti Barolo bottlings.) The Granbussia suffered as well, even as it lacked the obvious new oak overtones of the Lazzarito. Burnished, baked fruit with caramel and loads of VA. Both wines were forward and pleasant, but neither really felt like Nebbiolo. We added two Barbaresco bottlings from 1997 to the mix, both from the 14-hectare Asili cru: Ceretto and Produttori di Barbaresco. The Ceretto "Bricco Asili," a pretty modern rendition, didn't show well—it had some of the most noticeable VA and brett in the group. The Produttori, on the other hand, was an excellent reminder of why this co-op remains one of the best values in the region. It was in a different class altogether—fierce tannins, sustained and lengthy finish, and power without dissolution that shows nimble winemaking in a warmer vintage. The traditionalists won the round for this vintage: B. Mascarello and Produttori "Asili" were the top wines of the flight.

Vintage	Wine	Free SO2	Total SO2	pH	TA	VA	RS	ABV
1995	Bartolo Mascarello	nil	nil	3.61	6.3	0.56	0.3	13.1%
1996	Bartolo Mascarello	nil	nil	3.52	6.7	0.57	0.1	13.1%
1997	Bartolo Mascarello	nil	nil	3.55	6.2	0.58	0.6	13.4%
1998	Bartolo Mascarello	nil	nil	3.61	5.6	0.47	0.5	13.9%
2005	Bartolo Mascarello	nil	nil	3.43	6.5	0.76	1.6	14.0%
2006	Bartolo Mascarello	4	12	3.48	6.1	0.77	0.3	14.0%
2007	Bartolo Mascarello	4	16	3.52	6.1	0.62	1.1	14.7%
2008	Bartolo Mascarello	2	8	3.48	6.4	0.52	0.3	14.5%
1997	Giuseppe Mascarello	nil	nil	3.63	6.7	0.68	1.0	14.4%
2007	Giuseppe Mascarello	7	37	3.4	6.0	0.41	0.8	14.6%
2008	Giuseppe Mascarello	9	49	3.36	6.1	0.49	0.6	14.1%
1997	Vietti "Lazzarito"	nil	nil	3.59	6.2	0.71	0.5	14.0%
1997	Produttori "Asili"	nil	nil	3.43	6.6	0.52	0.3	13.9%
1997	Ceretto "Asili"	nil	nil	3.62	6.0	0.92	0.7	13.8%
1997	Conterno "Granbussia"	nil	2	3.41	7.1	0.74	0.6	13.6%
1961	Gaja Barbaresco	nil	nil	3.36	6.4	0.91	0.2	13.3%

Free SO2: Measurement of SO2 available to bind to other molecules, like oxygen.
Total SO2: Measurement of total free and bound SO2.
VA: Volatile Acidity, measured in grams per liter. (The US legal limit for volatile acidity in red wines is 1.2 g/l.)
TA: Titratable Acidity, measured in g/l of tartaric acid equivalent.
RS: Residual Sugar, measured in g/l. Anything under 2 g/l is basically under threshold for anyone.

Takeaway

I discover very little about producer style by sampling a single bottle, but with an arc of vintages in front of me and another producer or several to contrast I can learn a lot in very short order. This tasting was a good reminder.

Overall, we were all a bit surprised by the numbers, particularly alcohol levels in the 1990s Bartolo Mascarello wines. 13.1%?? This could have been a very different tasting had we looked at the numbers beforehand—our perception of VA, acidity, and alcohol did not necessarily match what the numbers were telling us. In other words, the wines with the highest levels of alcohol did not uniformly feel the hottest, nor did wines with the highest TA values always feel the most acidic. VA seemed higher—and certainly perceptible—in a number of wines. It's easy to look at numbers beforehand and taste the numbers—just as other tasters can put words in your mouth (or smells in your nose) when describing a wine. Structural components do not live in a vacuum. "I had difficulty making good correlations between the wines I loved and the chemistry. Some of my favorites (Bartolo '96 and '07) were quite divergent in some of the categories we tested. Which suggests to me—unscientifically—that there will always be great intangibles in wine that cannot be measured." — Jimmy.

This was by and large a tasting focusing on two traditional producers, but the modern 1990s wines tasted here (and elsewhere) did not hold up. Are the recent DOCG aging changes—from 2 years to 18 months in oak for Barolo—a move in the right direction? Such a change seems to favor a "new" modernist perspective, or at least laissez-faire deregulation, but Sur is in favor: "The changes implemented a few years ago allow for a more pristine expression of fruit and a more precise structure." Jason adds: "I'm all for deregulation; it allows those willing to make a fine product to age the wines as they want. The true Barolo producers are going to continue to age for longer periods before release." I'm on the fence, personally. I think reducing time in oak creates something that may very much be Nebbiolo, but it might not be Barolo—isn't that what the Langhe DOC category is for?

Final takeaway? Our lives in the wine world don't suck. Thanks to everyone who generously contributed wines for this incredible tasting! Also, who brought that '61 Gaja? Not in theme, dude!

Santorini: The Volcano Island

Matt Stamp — Tue, 29 Jul 2014 15:31:00 GMT

Young Assyrtiko is relentless. It is a predator, and your palate is the prey. It puts you on your back and you throw your hands up. You have to submit!
-Yoon Ha MS

Put simply, Santorini Assyrtiko may be the best terroir value in the world. The wines generally retail between $15-30 in the US, a price point at which one can easily find good varietal quality, but real sense of place becomes a bit more elusive. Modern Assyrtiko has the potential to age alongside some of the great dry white wines of the world, and can—like good Riesling—develop a petrol note with time in the bottle. The average quality on Santorini may be higher than in any other wine region in the world. Consider the average value of Riesling or Pinot Noir, for instance, priced under $18/bottle wholesale! Buyer beware, right? Here, very few bottles are actually sub-par (although there are intermittent problems with oxidation among a couple of producers), and at least 50% of the producers on the island are highly recommended—a pretty good batting average in the world of wine.

Lava, Sun, Sea, Wind

Santorini is really an archipelago, a cluster of volcanic islands—two inhabited and three uninhabited—located on the 36th parallel in the Aegean Sea. It is southernmost of the Cyclades, a large island chain north of Crete and east of the Peloponnese. The crescent-shaped island of Santorini itself—known to the Greeks as Thira—is the archipelago’s largest, its center of population, tourism, and viticulture. Along with two smaller islands, Therasia and Aspronisi, Santorini forms the broken walls of a water-filled caldera: an eerily tranquil reminder of the active volcano underneath. Its last major eruption, in the 17th century BCE, was a cataclysmic event, blackening the sky and projecting a massive tsunami throughout the Aegean. That explosion cleaved Santorini and Therasia apart, and left its mark in the volcanic rock and soil of the island, which overlay lower strata of limestone and granite. Two black islands—Nea Kameni and Palea Kameni, the new and old “burn islands”—were formed through more recent minor eruptions, and sit at the center of the caldera.

The landscape of Santorini, sculpted by ancient lava flows, is dramatic: the black cliff interior walls of the caldera rise upward from the azure sea, capped by small villages. Fira—its name pronounced essentially like “Thira”—is Santorini’s capital and one of its largest settlements. Oia, however, is its most picturesque. Every building is a blinding white, reflecting unrelenting sunshine, accented by island tones of coral, sky and royal blues, and canary yellow.

The island’s climate, while perfect for tourists seeking summer sun, is fairly inhospitable to the vine. It is essentially a hot desert, with a paltry 12-14” (~350 mm) of annual rainfall and growing season daytime temperatures that regularly reach 35° C (95° F) or higher. Average annual temperature is 16.5° C (62° F). The summer sun is scorching and constant, and most rainfall arrives in the wintertime. There are no rivers on the island, nor any real source of underground water. (There are desalination plants on the island, transforming seawater into running water for homes and agriculture. The water, however, is not potable—residents and tourists alike only drink bottled water.) Winds act as the island’s air conditioning. The meltemia, a cooling northern wind that whips over the Aegean in summer, is vital for keeping grapes cool and fungus-free, and has an important effect on vintage character. Greek wine importer Ted Diamantis (Diamond Imports) recalls the 2012 season, when the winds never came: “The heat was intense, and few growers had enough manpower to harvest quickly enough, before sugars spiked.” Without the wind, Assyrtiko easily reached 14 or 14.5% in potential alcohol. Of course, the winds are also adversarial: their ferocity can be especially challenging during budbreak and flowering. The environment’s overall challenges—strong winds, little water, and implacable sunshine and heat—limit agriculture on Santorini to just a few hardy crops. Farmers harvest capers, and grow favas (split peas) and cherry tomatoes, but the vine is its most important cash crop—and has been for over 3,000 years.

Looking southward from Oia.

The Santorini Vineyard

Vineyards are the most obvious agricultural pursuit on the island, even if they have receded in recent decades with rising land values—at € 100,000 a hectare, a vineyard doesn’t really make sense—and the expanding tourist industry. There are roughly 1,300 ha of vines left on Santorini and Therasia, growing at all elevations, from 10 to 450 meters above sea level. The concentration of vines is greatest in Santorini’s southern sector, in an arc between the villages of Pyrgos, Megalochori, and Akrotiri. (About three-quarters of the island’s vines are cultivated around these three villages.) At first glance, these vines hardly resemble vineyards: without trellising or stakes, they are trained in the traditional kouloura (“basket”) shape, wherein the vine is a coiled wreath, kept low to the ground. The technique is ancient, and affords defensive advantages in Santorini’s stark climate. Fruit clusters hang under the canopy, shaded from the relentless summer sun—leaf removal is unheard of—and inside the basket, protected from the howling winds. Crucially, the shape keeps the vine close to the ground, where it can take advantage of what little moisture morning mists provide as recompense for the lack of rainfall. Irrigation is prohibitively expensive—and technically illegal—but young vines may be equipped with drip lines for four or five years. The mature plants fend for themselves, and capture most of the water they need from the humid air and morning mists. Domaine Sigalas trains a few hectares of Mavrotragano and Assyrtiko in a staked, vertical cordon system, but the kouloura system remains widespread. In fact, the EU is even paying growers subsidies to preserve it. In most modern winemaking regions, the style of vine training has evolved to maximize the quality of fruit; here, the traditional system remains intact, designed to ensure basic survivability of the vine and the harvest.

The root systems on Santorini are likely the oldest in the world. Santorini’s light soils—a mixture of white volcanic ash (aspa), pumice, sand, and basalt—are utterly lacking in clay, and completely inhospitable to phylloxera. All vines are ungrafted; furthermore, the root systems are often much older than the canopies themselves. According to Yiannis Paraskevopoulos (Gai’a), after 80-100 years of production yields reach unsustainably low levels, and growers may cut off the entire canopy to revive the plant. The root system will quickly regenerate the vine from a dormant bud—and this may occur four or five times during the vine’s lifespan. Santorini’s oldest living roots could plausibly be 400 or 500 years old! If one believes that root depth is a major source of complexity and/or minerality in wines, then this technique adds immediate luster: seemingly “young” vines may hide deep root systems, accessing various layers of soil and harboring diverse mycorrhizal populations—an under-explored suspect in the search for terroir.

Low vineyard densities likewise give root systems plenty of room to stretch—traditional vineyards have 1,400 to 1,700 vines per hectare. Mature kouloura vineyards often appear haphazard, as replanting has historically been conducted via the kataboladi technique—layering—in which a grower buries a cane from a living vine in the ground to generate a new plant. (It will soon sprout its own root system, at which point the cane is severed from the mother plant.) Layering is still the preferred method of replanting single vines, but entire new vineyards are planted with ungrafted cuttings, and aligned in rows. New vines are typically spaced 2.25x2.25 or 2.5x2.5 meters, as closer plantings would result in too little available water for each vine. This low vine density, combined with naturally limiting climate conditions, results in extremely low yields per hectare for the Assyrtiko grape. The PDO calls for a maximum 60 hl/ha, but average yields usually hover closer to 20-25 hl/ha.

A mature kouloura vineyard.

The Grapes

Assyrtiko, the most compelling white grape on the island, makes up about 75% of the total Santorini vineyard, and must comprise 75% of the dry PDO wines (and at least 51% of vinsanto wines). It is likely indigenous to Santorini, and it is likely one of the world’s oldest vinifera varieties, with ampelographic evidence placing it on the island as far back as the 16th century BCE. As befits such an ancient variety, Assyrtiko shows great genetic variability, and the first handful of 5-7 official clones may be commercially released as early as 2017. Preferred selections of the grape on Santorini are thick-skinned with loose bunches—attributes that, alongside battering summer winds and the dry, desert climate, render Assyrtiko nearly impervious to fungal diseases. Assyrtiko has the potential to develop high levels of potential alcohol, and for most wines producers typically harvest the grape in early to mid-August. In the not-too-distant past, harvests occurred in September and the wines easily achieved 16-17° of potential alcohol; nowadays, many producers aim to harvest Assyrtiko at 13-13.5°, although the grapes hang longer for some traditional styles (vinsanto and nychteri). Despite its rather robust alcohol, Assyrtiko retains incredible acidity: at Gai’a, for instance, Paraskevopoulos prefers 6.5 to 7 g/l of tartaric acid at harvest, with a maximum pH of 2.90 or less. When produced as a pure varietal wine, Assyrtiko pH is rarely much higher than this, as the amount of (acid-buffering) potassium in Santorini’s soils is negligible. Furthermore, malolactic fermentation is not a worry—there is hardly any remaining malic acid in Assyrtiko at harvest, and the low pH precludes its onset.

The remainder of the varietal blend for Santorini PDO dry wines may include two white varieties: Athiri and Aidani. Traditionally, the three varieties were—and often still are—interplanted, harvested, and vinified together, as field blends. Paris Sigalas (Sigalas Winery) was one of the first on the island to vinify Assyrtiko as a pure varietal wine. He accomplished this by actually paying growers more to harvest Athiri and Aidani separately, leaving only Assyrtiko in the field for another pass.

Athiri is ancient, and supposedly earned a mention in the 8th-century (BCE) works of Homer. Athiri, which derives from “Thira,” is today planted across the Aegean islands. According to Greek agronomist Konstantinos Bakasietas, wide variation and mutation among isolated selections has led to cases of mistaken identity, as some strains of Athiri are easily confused with other varieties, like Thrapsathiri. The grape, probably at its best in the higher-altitude vineyards of Rhodes PDO, is chiefly used on Santorini as a blending grape, designed to soften the blow of Assyrtiko and enable early-drinking white wines. Its acidity and potential alcohol levels are low in comparison, and it is semi-aromatic, with pleasant, ester-driven stone fruit and lemon aromas. Santo Wines produces a varietal Athiri, but most producers on the island seemed to tolerate, rather than express passion, about the grape. One flatly stated: “Athiri is not interesting on this island. It has beautiful aromas for six months, and then it dies.”

The thin-skinned Aidani inspires greater interest. It is starting to appear as a dry varietal wine under the banner of PGI Cyclades, and it is especially prized for vinsanto production, for its intense aromas and high levels of sugar. According to Haridimos Hatzidakis, who has tended an organic Aidani vineyard for nearly two decades, the grape is a “Muscat relative.” Its terpene-driven, floral, stone fruit aromas and lush palate are almost Viognier-like—yet it can retain moderate-plus to high acidity, bereft of the phenolic over-assertiveness that can plague some aromatic grapes. Check out Hatzidakis’ rich rendition, if you can find it—he only makes 900 bottles—or the Sigalas Aidani, given dimension through an earlier and later harvest, performed two weeks apart.

Santorini is a white wine island, and its winemakers have a defter hand with white grapes than red. However, every producer includes at least one red, dry or sweet, in their portfolio. For dry wines, the indigenous Mavrotragano (“black crunchy”) is poised to become Santorini’s trademark red. Characterized by small berry size, Mavrotragano usually sees véraison occur in early July, with harvest in early August. In fact, several producers harvest it before Assyrtiko. It is a highly tannic variety, with red fruit and fig character, but beyond that styles varied widely. The grape’s first champions—Haridimos Hatzidakis and Paris Sigalas—started producing dry varietal Mavrotragano in the late 1990s. Hatzidakis’ Mavrotragano is nearly elegant, whereas Sigalas produces a darker-colored, denser and more sophisticated version—the island’s most ambitious red, the product of a two- to three-week maceration and an 18-month élevage in 85% new, 500-liter oak barrels. Most other producers on the island have by now added a dry Mavrotragano to their range as well.

Assyrtiko, Aidani and Athiri are the most important white grapes on Santorini, and Mavrotragano is the most promising red, but winemakers on Santorini speak of over three-dozen grape varieties on the island, many of which may be indigenous. Sweet red blends frequently rely on a sizable percentage of Voudomato, despite its fairly low acid. (The name “Voudomato” means “bull’s eye,” a reference to its large berry size.) Hatzidakis makes a standout dried-grape version, clocking in at 300 g/l of residual sugar. Another winery, Canava Roussos, produces sweet reds with Mavrathiro, the “black” Athiri—assumed, in the absence of DNA evidence, to be a color mutation of the white grape, rather than a separate variety—and Mandilaria. Mandilaria, a tart and tannic red variety grown across Crete and the Aegean Islands, shows up in both dry and sweet applications on Santorini. Domaine Sigalas produces a pure, dry, refreshing Mandilaria rosé—the island’s best pink wine—at nearly 2% less alcohol than most of the estate’s whites! Other white grapes include Katsanó—a rare variety only produced commercially by one winery, Gavalas—and its even rarer blending partner, Gaidouria. Katsanó seems pretty neutral, without the searing acid of Assyrtiko or the aromatics of Athiri or Aidani. The vine itself was cultivated in the past for raisins rather than wine, and it is likely to remain a curious relic, rather than a star. Gavalas blends 15% Gaidouria—likely a parent or offspring of Assyrtiko, according to DNA analysis—into the winery’s varietal Katsanó to bolster its acidity. Platani, another close relative of Assyrtiko, remains on the island, but only in experimental vineyards. Rarer still is Asprouda of Santorini, a recently discovered, thick-skinned white variety on the island. Konstantinos Bakasietas claims only two vines on the entire island have been found!

Unique Wines of the Island: Vinsanto and Nychteri

Yes, vinsanto is Greek. Not Italian. Despite what the Italians may do/make/say/think about it. In the medieval period, the island(s) fell under Venetian control, and was renamed “Santorini” (Saint Irene) by Western Europeans. Vinsanto was not the “holy wine”—although it was often used for sacramental purposes—it was the “wine of Santorini.”

Of course, that’s what the Greeks have to say about it.

As a PDO wine today, vinsanto is produced from at least 51% Assyrtiko. Aidani and Athiri are permitted, as are small amounts of other white grapes, but in practice, only the main three grapes are used. After harvest, the grapes are dried in the sun for up to two weeks, during which period they must attain a minimum 370 g/l must weight from concentration. Historically, the grapes were crushed underfoot, and macerated for a short time prior to a rough filtration—often through a wicker basket! The ambrosial, super-sweet must ferments slowly, until the overindulgent yeasts finally die off, choked by sugar. The wines must be aged for a minimum two years in casks or barrels—but such a short period of élevage produces simple wines. The best examples of vinsanto on the island—from Argyros, Roussos, Gai'a, and Gavalas—spend many more summers in cask. They are incredibly sweet, often finishing in the 250-300 g/l range of residual sugar, and surprisingly tannic. Assyrtiko keeps acidity honest in these dessert wines. Most vinsanto is vintage-dated, although minimum age declarations can also be used on the label for blends of multiple vintages, provided the age statement is a multiple of four: four years old, eight years old, etc. Legally, vinsanto may be a vin doux naturel (fortified wine) rather than a vin liastos (dried-grape wine), but no one on the island currently practices fortification. Red dried-grape wines, a historic style, are still made by several producers, but they carry the PGI Cyclades appellation instead of PDO Santorini.

Modern nychteri, according to the Santorini PDO, is simply a wine of at least 13.5% abv, aged in barrel for at least three months. Traditionally, the meaning of nychteri runs much deeper, but it’s nearly impossible to get any winery or winemaker on Santorini to agree on what the classic nychteri style actually is, or why it developed. The word derives from the Greek nychta, or “night,” leading many sources to erroneously report that these wines were traditionally harvested at night. Instead, the grapes were typically harvested in the early morning, but crushed and pressed at night. According to Boutari’s Santorini enologist Ioanna Vamakouri, pressing after dark was pragmatic: the nychteri harvest occurred toward the end of the harvest season, when ripening reached a breakneck pace, and workers had to toil into the night in order to keep up. Hatzidakis and Roussos countered that nychteri fruit was pressed at night in order to limit oxidation of the juice. Whatever the rationale, nychteri has always been a product of late-harvested grapes; in fact, the grapes were generally brought in amidst the vinsanto haul, and—according to Diamantis—often reached 19° of potential alcohol! The wines were for personal consumption, left to age in large barrels, and without topping they regularly developed flor. No one is making flor-affected nychteri today, but the Hatzidakis and Canava Roussos styles align most closely with its traditional form.

Click here for the full rundown of PDO Santorini regulations.

The Producers

There are currently 11 producers of wine on Santorini. On our visit, we saw ten of them—the eleventh, a second winery named Karamolegos, provided a sample bottle but the (young) wine was oxidized. And there will soon be a twelfth: Nemea’s Tselepos is building a new winery on the island.

Santo Wines: The Union of Santorini Cooperatives, Santo Wines, accounts for 65% of the island’s production, and sources fruit from 1,200 growers. Established in 1947 in Fira, Santo Wines has supported viticultural activity—and other agricultural pursuits, as they also buy and sell tomatoes and favas—despite challenging economic conditions for growers. The cooperative (“union of cooperatives” is a bit of a misnomer; there is only one) actually pays growers more for the rarer Athiri and Aidani than Assyrtiko itself, and vinifies all three as varietal wines. Surprisingly, both the Athiri and Aidani tasted listed lower pH values than the PDO Assyrtiko—but the enologist did admit to acidifying. A highlight was a PGI Cyclades red wine, “Crescendo,” a blend of Mavrotragano, Voudomato, and Mandilaria. The wine’s cool carbonic fruit, intense tannins, and juiciness—particularly when served with a slight chill—made an attractive package for drinking now. The more serious end of the dry wine portfolio, including nychteri and “Grande Reserve” Assyrtiko, is less convincing; the wines are encumbered with oak and the fruits turn sweet. A traditional method sparkling NV Assyrtiko was added in 2013, and the producer feels confident that the Santorini PDO regulations will be updated in a few years’ time to include sparkling wines. Overall, the wines are serviceable and sound, but lack the excitement and distinction found among some of the top-flight producers. Imported by Diamond Imports.

The view from Santos Wines. Nea Kameni is the small island in the left-center; behind it is Therasia.

Hatzidakis: A former Boutari enologist, Haridimos Hatzidakis, purchased a small Aidani vineyard near Pyrgos in 1996 and founded his own winery the following year. Today he owns 10 ha, which provide one-third of his total 100,000-bottle production. He farms his own plots organically, applying only sulfur or copper sprays to combat the occasional appearance of mildew. Hatzidakis is an intense figure, and he may be the most talented winemaker on the island—and certainly the most unpredictable. His white wines are full-bodied, powerful, and savory; they pick up added aromatic dimensions from ambient yeast fermentation. The entire range is recommended, from his varietal Aidani wine to a surprisingly soft and elegant Mavrotragano, but his best efforts show in the single vineyard Assyrtiko de Mylos and nychteri wines. Mylos (“windmill”), from one hectare of 100-year-old vines owned by orthodox monks, is a domineering wine that almost exaggerates Assyrtiko’s bite, clocking in at 15% abv with a pH under 3! With his late-harvest nychteri, Hatzidakis aims to “make wines as they were made in the past.” Typically, the results are golden, phenolic, and oxidative in style, with slight but perceptible residual sugar levels and finished alcohol in the 14-15% range. His nychteri wines, aged for one year in untoasted oak vessels of various sizes, might call for braised lamb and artichokes at the table, or monkfish and mackerel.

Perhaps befitting his personality, Hatzidakis’ current winery is one of most spectacularly unkempt, disheveled, mold-crusted facilities one will every set foot in. He’s working on a new cave. Imported by Fredrick Wildman.

A vinsanto cask (maybe?) maturing in Hatzidakis' cave.

Domaine Sigalas: With his first vintage in 1992, Paris Sigalas has—almost single-handedly—put Santorini in the minds of American sommeliers. Most of the dry white wine range is recommended: from the Assyrtiko-Athiri blend (list this while waiting for the Assyrtiko to uncoil for a year or two) to “Kavalieros,” a leesy, concentrated Assyrtiko sourced from a high-elevation vineyard near Fira. It, like Hatzidakis’ Assyrtiko de Mylos and Argyros’ estate bottling, makes a statement: the most exceptional white wines on the island do not require oak to gain complexity, or to justify price. (At $35 suggested retail, it is one of the most expensive dry whites in the region.) That being said, the current barrel-fermented wines are solid, and new oak levels have been diminishing in recent years.

The vinsanto bottlings here are liquid sugar, likely to appeal to fans of cult-status sweet winemakers like Gerhard Kracher, but almost too intense. The “Apiolitis” (a sweet Mandilaria) and the PDO vinsanto both registered at or above 300 g/l of residual sugar.

Domaine Sigalas is the only winery located on the northern side of the island, near Oia. Imported by Diamond Importers.

Gai’a: Gai’a (YAY-uh), founded by Yiannis Paraskevopoulos and Leon Karatsalos in 1994, has two wineries: one on Santorini and one in the village of Koutsi in Nemea. Paraskevopoulos, a Bordeaux-trained enologist and former winemaker for Argyros, is something of a gatekeeper to Santorini: his English is excellent, with a wellspring of information to match. He readily admits that Santorini has undergone a metamorphosis in quality in the last two decades: “The wines were bad. But we haven’t changed anything in the vineyard; only in the winery.” Whatever Paraskevopoulos has changed has been for the better: the winemaking here is sophisticated, and his entire range is recommended. The “Thalassitis,” in both oak-fermented and unoaked versions, shows off Assyrtiko’s phenolic concentration and fresh yet neutral aromatics. The 2013 was bottled under synthetic cork—a closure Paraskevopoulos believes “preserves freshness without adding any taste or the reduction of screwcaps.” The most exciting wine here is the “Wild Ferment” Assyrtiko, aged in a combination of American and French oak, and acacia barrels.

Thalassitis means “one that comes from under the sea”; in 2009, Paraskevopoulos began experimenting with his own undersea élevage for a small lot of Assyrtiko. The first results will arrive on dry land this year. Imported by Athenee.

Best tasting room in the world? With Yiannis Paraskevopoulos at Gai'a.

Canava Roussos: The oldest producer on Santorini (est. 1836), Roussos recalls Lopez di Heredia and other staunchly traditional, seemingly time-forgotten wineries. Unlike Lopez, no one knows who Roussos is, and the wines are pretty cheap! The Roussos wines taste as though crafted by an old man—rugged, stubborn, and completely unbending to (or unaware of) fashion; yet content in their own skin, benefactors of the wisdom, or lassitude, of age. They may produce a basic yet very good PDO dry white—if they have excess grapes—but the focus here is on styles harkening to bygone times: nychteri, vinsanto, sweet reds, and “Caldera,” a remarkable, red Mandilaria-Assyrtiko (80%/20%) blend. The current release of “Caldera” is 2004; barrel-aged for three years and kept in bottle at the winery until 2013, the wine shows herbal and bay aromatics, and scents redolent of the tomatoes sun-drying in their backyard. It is a bit like old-school Tempranillo, driven by red fruit, tannins and oxidation. The nychteri will likely divide the room: barrel-fermented and aged for 2.5 years in 10-year-old French barriques, the wine displays significant acetate and aldehyde notes on the nose, but manages to maintain freshness in an almost Sherry-like fashion. At 14.8% abv, it might as well be…

“Canava,” incidentally, indicates a wine cellar in the local dialect. Cellars here, as elsewhere, were historically constructed in caves. Imported by Vingreco Wines (but actively looking for a better importer… hint, hint).

Argyros: Just down the street from Canava Roussos in Episkopi Gonia (about 6 km southeast of Fira), Argyros is among the island’s top producers and one of its largest vineyard estates. The winery owns about 40 ha of vineyards on the north side of the Profitis Ilias, Santorini’s tallest mountain, and contracts fruit from other growers in Pyrgos and Megalochori. This is an exceptional range of wines, from “Atlantis”—a refreshing, saline-scented PGI Cyclades Assyrtiko blend—to the PDO Santorini Estate Argyros, an incredibly concentrated, nearly tannic, pure expression of Assyrtiko. At only 13.5%, the 2013 gains weight and texture through a small percentage of wood fermentation in used 500-liter Demptos barrels. This was one of the best current Assyrtiko bottlings available on the island, although the word “estate” is misleading: it is the product of 150-year-old vines, but not all of them are actually owned by the winery. Argyros’ Mavrotragano and Aidani varietal wines are also worth checking out, but the winery’s treasure is its reserve stock of mature vinsanto. They have fifty-year-old wines still in barrel, awaiting release when the market is ready. The 1999 and 1991, sampled at the estate, provided promising glimpses of development. The ’91 was tannic and rich, with flavors of cumin, chocolate, and black walnut. VA, as should be expected, was evident, but added rather than distracted. 230+ g/l of RS.

Argyros was an early adopter of the DIAM closure. Imported by Athenee.

New Assyrtiko plantings at Argyros. (Notice the drip irrigation lines.)

Gavalas: Along with Roussos, Gavalas (remember to pronounce the “g” like an “h”) is one of the oldest wineries on the island. The winery is located in Megalochori, and preserves the artifacts of traditional winemaking, including a room designed for foot-crushing grapes, even if most of the winemaking today is essentially modern. The basic tank-fermented Santorini PDO wines are composed of 100% Assyrtiko, but they lack a little nerve and definition. (Plus, the blue-colored glass bottle has to go.) A better bet is the “Natural Ferment” Santorini, with its greater concentration, heightened acidity, and saline, firecracker aromas. Give it some time in the decanter. The nychteri here is a 50% new oak joint. Oddities include the Katsanó and a saignée rosé Voudomato. The best finds here are the older stocks of traditional vinsanto. Even today, grapes for vinsanto are foot-crushed and macerated for a day, then fermented and aged in old 1000-liter barrels from Russia. Current vintage is the 2006; the 1967—a current offering—was amazing, reminiscent of old Pedro Ximénez Sherry.

When Boutari got their start on Santorini, they purchased their first releases of vinsanto from Gavalas. Imported by Dionysos Imports.

Boutari: When Boutari arrived on Santorini in 1989, harvests were occurring in September. Assyrtiko wines were typically over 15% in alcohol, and often a bit sweet. Boutari revolutionized Santorini winemaking by pushing the harvest forward into early August—much to the chagrin of growers, paid by the kilogram—and reducing alcohol levels to 12-12.5%. Boutari gets—and deserves—a lot of credit for investing in Santorini and bringing the wines into the modern age, but the company is no longer on the cutting edge here. However, the 2013 Santorini was a good bet, despite acidity on the low side. It rang phenolic and dusty, with aromas of pumice stone. The winery presented only a small handful of white wines, including a back vintage of the flagship, oak-aged PDO Santorini reserve wine, “Kallisti.” It was 2006, but the wine was a deep gold and hopelessly, beyond-repair oxidized. Why would they still choose to serve it? When asked how the basic Assyrtiko from the same vintage, sans oak, would be holding up now, the enologist responded: “less golden in color, much fresher.”

Artemis Karamolegos: With a newly renovated winery and a brand new taverna, Artemis Karamolegos’ winemaking operation has a new public face. He’s been producing wines since 2003, and there are some hits here—but a lot of misses, too. The nychteri is interesting; its dominant oak notes give the wine a pine-scented, resin-like quality that almost recalls good Retsina. Choose carefully.

Today, Greek Wine Cellars buys Santorini Assyrtiko from Karamolegos, and releases the wines under the “GWC” label. Imported by Verity Imports.

Koutsoyiannopoulos: Located in Vothonas, this family operation has been making wine since 1870. The estate, which owns 9 ha of vines around the capital, also operates a “wine museum,” which will be of more interest to the casual tourist than the sommelier. The wines are a mixed bag. The PDO Santorini dry white, produced solely from Assyrtiko, can be a delicious wine—if less intense and fruitier than examples from Argyros, Gai’a, and Hatzidakis—but there is a lot of variation from vintage to vintage, and from bottle to bottle. The wine is held in tank, and bottled in several tranches upon order. The “Single Vineyard” Santorini Assyrtiko, produced from 70-year-old vines, provides the most promising, phenolic, mineral style. The vinsanto here seems to be an afterthought, and one of the youngest examples available on the island—Koutsoyiannopoulos was pouring 2010 during our 2014 visit. Imported by Frederick Wildman

Koutsoyiannopoulos WInery and Wine Museum. The fisherman silhouette is a famous image on Santoini: it was found on a fresco in the ruins of prehistoric Akrotiri, a town buried in the 17th-century BCE volcanic eruption.

All photos courtesy of Edouard Simon.

Lodi, Looking Forward

Matt Stamp — Tue, 06 May 2014 17:33:00 GMT

The mere mention of Lodi may conjure up images of massive wine factories, Woodbridge, Delicato, and 7 Deadly Zins, but there’s a hidden world of viticultural history and old-vine treasure chests out there—and winemakers throughout California have been sniffing around. Turley was one of the first premium “outsider” wineries to bottle a Lodi AVA wine (1996 Spenker Zinfandel), but in recent years others have followed, attracted to the region’s wealth of old-vine Zinfandel, “mixed blacks” vineyards (which usually contain a white grape or two, like Palomino), and even more adventurous stuff: Albariño, Mataro, Verdelho, Cinsault, and Alvarelhão. Is the last, now suspected to be synonymous with plain ‘ol Touriga Nacional in Lodi, rendered somehow more familiar by this fact? Does Mokelumne River AVA’s Bechtold Vineyard, source of dry-farmed and own-rooted Cinsault vines born in 1886, house the world’s eldest living specimens of the variety? Will the Lodi-by-way-of-Algeria grape Flame Tokay ever rise again? Peering between the cracks of industrial-scale vineyards—which are generally farmed competently, and often with pride by multi-generational agricultural families—one discovers all sorts of interesting things happening, or about to happen, in Lodi.

The Highway 12 Wine Route (and a Contra Costa detour)

Although the town of Lodi is less than a two-hour drive east of Napa, it might as well be on the other side of the moon for many local wine professionals. Curious winemakers—especially those without really deep pockets—might be scanning the area for fruit sources, but many Bay Area sommeliers haven’t made the trip, myself included. And why? Premium winemaking is still an emergent discipline in this farming community, and many of the best wines—or at least the most talked-about bottles amongst our profession—are produced by outsiders: Turley, Bedrock, Carlisle, Arnot-Roberts, Forlorn Hope, Scholium Project, Ferdinand, Odisea/Cochon and others. Many of the above source fruit from a historic, 20-acre vineyard called Kirschenmann on the east side of the Mokelumne (muh-CALL-uh-me) River AVA, owned by Turley/Sandlands winemaker Tegan Passalacqua and wife Olivia. As one of the state’s most passionate advocates for the preservation and expression of historic vineyards—whether up and down the coast, or further inland—Tegan’s covered a lot of ground in his decade-plus career as a vineyard manager and winemaker in California. We would cover a little more together: I hopped in his car to explore the current interest in—and future potential of—Lodi.

When one imagines the Highway 12 wine route, images of Russian River Valley, Sonoma Valley, and Carneros materialize; yet the highway traverses the Sacramento River and California Delta as it leads eastward toward the Sierra Foothills, running right through Lodi. We followed the 12 eastward, detouring through a grape-growing sector of Contra Costa County in and around Antioch. In the shadow of Mt. Diablo, Antioch—which earned the ignoble distinction of having one of the nation’s highest foreclosure rates in 2008—is a curious mixture of run-down and ramped-up: vineyards lie scattered among abandoned almond orchards, broken-down motor homes, tightly spaced McMansions, jalopies (El Camino is the favorite brand), and ancient, towering olive trees. All framed against a backdrop of migrant labor, meth addiction, and hard-core religion. “The wind here drives people crazy,” Tegan interprets, as we pull up to Evangelho Vineyard, a 40-acre site originally planted in 1889 and a component site for Turley’s “Duarte” Zinfandel. The vineyard, planted on deep wind-deposited, 40-foot-deep Delhi sands, is an example of mixed blacks—a blend of head-trained varieties in the vineyard, led by Zinfandel and supported with a mixture of other red Spanish and Rhône grapes, teinturiers, and the occasional white variety. Evangelho, for instance, is roughly 60% Zinfandel, with Mataro (Mourvèdre), Carignan, Alicante Bouchet, Palomino and perhaps another odd variety or two. Rarely is the identity of every single individual vine known beyond a shadow of a doubt in historic mixed blacks vineyards. And as one might suspect, in such sandy soils phylloxera is not an issue; in fact, Tegan speculates that Contra Costa County might hold one of the largest concentrations of own-rooted vineyards in California. Another champion of CA’s historic vineyards, Morgan Twain-Peterson of Bedrock Wines, is sourcing from this site, and Neyers makes an Evangelho-designate Mourvèdre. All of Antioch’s vineyards lie outside the boundaries of any specific AVA, amid its artifice of minimum-wage dreams and vacant potential. Evangelho, Salvador, Pato, Del Barba...the historic sites are only a mile or two removed from the delta, where winds and water moderate temperatures and relieve any worry of frost pressure. Organic farming in this sunny, windswept region is a fairly easy proposition—if the grower is on board—and most of the old-vine vineyards here are dry-farmed. Contra Costa County’s potential may as yet be untapped, and its (future) signature grape may surprise: “In Bandol they say head in the sun, feet in the water for good Mourvèdre. Contra Costa may prove to be the best area in California for the grape—once the farming improves.” With that, we’re back on track to Highway 12, and Lodi.

Tegan Passalacqua, Turley and Sandlands winemaker, amongst his own Zinfandel old vines in Kirschenmann Vineyard.

Zinfandel Country (Yes, but…)

Clearly, the grape most associated with Lodi today is Zinfandel. The region accounts for between one-quarter and one-third of California’s total Zinfandel harvest in any given year, and houses an estimated 2,000 acres of own-rooted, pre-Prohibition Zinfandel vines. In 2013, 177,738 tons of Zinfandel grapes were crushed in Lodi. The variety remains the most planted—and most loved—grape in the region, but Cabernet Sauvignon is catching up fast. Merlot is the third-most planted grape in the AVA, with Petite Sirah, Syrah, and Pinot Noir filing in behind it. Overall, red varieties comprise about two-thirds of Lodi’s 100,000* acres of wine grapes. Chardonnay is still incredibly important—it was second only to Zinfandel in 2013 tonnage—followed distantly by Pinot Gris, Sauvignon Blanc, and Viognier. Part of Lodi’s appeal, however, is in its growers’ willingness to experiment and explore untested varieties. More than 75 grapes are in commercial production today. Markus Bokisch, one of the region’s most respected grape-growers (as well as a former viticulturist for Joseph Phelps), has established a number of Iberian varieties in his 2,000+ acres of vineyards, including Albariño, Tempranillo, Graciano, Monastrell, and Rioja and Priorat clones of Garnacha. Others cultivate Portuguese varieties, Carignan, or Cinsault. Old-vine Zinfandel may be the premium icon of Lodi, but there is continuing potential for small production runs of interesting, unexpected varieties.

*California’s 2012 Acreage Report lists 71,351 acres of wine grapes in Lodi, but reporting is voluntary. The Lodi Winegrape Commission estimates approximately 100,000 acres.

Lodi: AVAs, Climate, and Vineyards Large and Small

Lodi AVA spreads out over 500,000 acres southeast of Sacramento, with its total acreage split between Sacramento and San Joaquin counties. The region achieved AVA status in 1986, yet writer Gerald Asher (The Pleasures of Wine) reports that Lodi received commendation from the US Government as a wine-growing “district of origin” as early as 1956, when Lodi’s then-current nickname—“America’s Sherryland”—emphasized the prevalence of sweet fortified wines among the region’s output. But that era passed, and with Robert Mondavi’s return to Lodi in 1979 to open the Woodbridge facility, Lodi has been increasingly identified as a reputable source of value-priced, varietal table wines. Industry titans like Woodbridge (now owned by Constellation), the newly expanded Sutter Home (Trinchero Wine Group), Delicato, and Gallo continue to buy the lion’s share of Lodi fruit, and by 2000 there were still only 12 wineries—the big guns included—operating in Lodi. Today, however, over 70 boutique producers and 750 individual growers—many of whom represent the fourth and fifth generations of local farming families—are based in Lodi. In 2006, as new projects continued to highlight the area’s diversity, the TTB approved seven nested AVAs within the Lodi AVA: Mokelumne River, Cosumnes River, Alta Mesa, Jahant, Clements Hills, Borden Ranch, and Sloughhouse.

Lodi AVA experiences a warm Mediterranean climate, with winter-dominant rainfall (average 19 inches, annually) and diurnal temperature fluctuations of up to 30° (F) or more. Located on the 38th parallel, Lodi is directly east of the Sacramento River Delta system, which feeds into the Suisun and San Pablo Bays. Although the town is 100 miles from the coast, it is aligned with the largest gap in California’s coastal range (the Golden Gate) and its warm growing season temperatures are moderated by cool sea breezes blowing inland. The wind helps to keep humidity low, and frost is rarely a problem in Lodi. The eastern side of Lodi is less impacted by the delta breezes, and therefore slightly warmer, despite a rise in elevation as one approaches the Amador and El Dorado county lines. The entire region is classified as Region III according to the Winkler Scale, yet overall it is much more moderate in temperature than the hot, bulk wine vineyards further south in the San Joaquin Valley. Western Mokelumne River AVA can actually experience a cooler climate than the northern Napa Valley floor.

Historic vineyard fans may find the most interesting dirt (or sand, as it were) in Mokelumne River, the largest, coolest, and oldest of the growing regions within Lodi. The town of Lodi itself sits within the Mokelumne River AVA, just a few meters above sea level, and neatly divides the appellation into eastern and western sectors. The entire appellation is phylloxera-free—a gift from the AVA’s sandy soils, known as Tokay fine sandy loam. On the eastern side, where the water table is lower, the sands are deeper, drier, and lighter in color. (“Water-logged soils are always darker in color; well-drained soils are lighter in color,” Tegan reminds me.) The largest concentration of historic Zinfandel vineyards in Lodi lies east of Highway 99 in Mokelumne River, where own-rooted Zinfandel vines in sand tend to retain acidity in the face of ripeness, and can express high-toned, white wine aromatics, like stone fruits (peach, nectarine) and heightened floral character—despite a slightly warmer overall climate than that of the western end of the appellation. In general, the east-side Zinfandel vineyards tend to show more spice and more structure—but lighter color—than west-side grapes, which produce rounder, darker, softer wines. Stuart Spencer of St. Amant Winery suggests that some west-side sites create a “more herbaceous, almost tea leaf character that can be more pronounced on sites with St. George rootstock.” (Is that green character driven more by rootstock than site? Tegan argues that Zinfandel’s famous problem/blessing of differential ripening is aggravated when the vines are grafted to St. George.) Tegan’s own-rooted, dry-farmed Kirschenmann Vineyard abuts a river oxbow on the eastern side, home to 15 acres of Zinfandel vines planted in 1915—intermixed with the occasional Carignan or Mondeuse vine—and an additional four acres of younger plantings, including recently grafted-over Chenin Blanc and other weirdness (Green Hungarian, Barbarossa, Lignan Blanc). With innate resistance to eutypa, Zinfandel survives longer than most, but it’s not the only game in town: respected grower (and VP of Michael David Winery) Kevin Phillips tends the 1886 Cinsault vines at nearby Bechtold. Is it the oldest such vineyard in the world? Certainly nothing in North or South America compares, and it’s unlikely that anything in Southern France is that old either. Turley makes a vibrant, 100% whole-cluster, neutral oak-aged red from the vineyard that immediately turns any longstanding assumption about the winery’s style on its head. Abe Schoener produces Scholium Project’s “Rhododactylos” from the site, and Randall Graham has taken Bechtold fruit for Bonny Doon in the past. Some interesting younger plantings are in play too: Markus Bokisch’s CCOF-certified “home” vineyard is located on the east side—where its densely planted, low-trained vines (Albariño, Graciano, Garnacha) look like something out of Burgundy, an alien approach amidst surrounding 10x10 ft. head-trained Zinfandel vineyards, old “Lodi ladder” vertical cordons, and high-trained trellis systems.

Clements Hills AVA, contiguous to the eastern border of Mokelumne Valley, is generally warmer, rainier, and slightly higher in elevation (90-400 ft.), as one leaves the broad, flat valley floor for the undulating, hilly landscape in the shadow of the Sierras. The volcanic-derived soils are much redder in Clements Hills, with higher iron and clay content. Cabernet Sauvignon destined for large-scale production performs especially well; it tends to quickly ripen out green elements, yet retain fairly moderate alcohol levels. While trellised, younger vines are more common in Clements Hills, there are a few prize parcels around, like Dogtown Vineyard, a 1944 Zinfandel plot farmed by Turley since 1997.

North of Clements Hills, Borden Ranch AVA is as much cattle pasture as it is vineyard land. Like Clements Hills, Borden Ranch is hilly and higher in elevation (75-520 ft.) than the western areas of Lodi, but the soil is stonier—amidst the red earth are myriad large granite rocks and small boulders, runoff from the rise of the Sierras in the east. The soil series here is called Tuscan stony loam. In Borden Ranch the average holding is much larger than in Mokelumne River, as the original ranch property was carved up and sold in 160-acre parcels. Markus Bokisch has two large-scale vineyards here, including Vista Luna, the source of Ferdinand Albariño, a Neyers Zinfandel, and Verdelho experiments from Scholium Project and Forlorn Hope. Most vineyards here, however, go to the big players: Gallo, Woodbridge, Delicato, Sutter Home. The Indelicato family (Delicato) owns Clay Station Vineyard on the AVA’s western side, a 1,250-acre vineyard that forms part of the company’s core holdings.

Sloughhouse AVA, along Borden Ranch’s northern border, is the highest of Lodi’s appellations, reaching nearly 600 ft. in elevation as it nears the Sierra Foothills. It also experiences Lodi’s warmest growing season. According to the original AVA petition, its name refers to an 1850s-era stagecoach stop—the Sloughhouse Inn—and the AVA, like Borden Ranch and Alta Mesa to its west, is cattle-grazing country today, with about 7,000 acres of vineyards interspersed throughout pasture land. John Kautz of Sierra Foothills winery Ironstone controls about half the AVA’s acreage, and perhaps the little-known, red wine-producing regions shares a common boldness of style with neighboring Amador County. But any real sense of regional distinction here may be a long way off, and not a single winery is actually located in Sloughhouse. Alta Mesa AVA (“high table”) is even less developed.

Moving away from the Sierras and toward the Delta, the cobbles grow finer in Alta Mesa and the clay becomes heavier—this is San Joaquin loam, one of the oldest soil types in Lodi and particularly well-suited to dry-farming due to its high water retention. Alta Mesa is the region’s second-warmest AVA, and is fittingly planted mostly to red varieties. Ron Silva owns 300 acres of grapevines in the AVA, and is responsible for introducing several Portuguese varieties into the region, including Verdelho and a full complement of red Douro grapes (Touriga Nacional, Touriga Franca, and Tinta Cão). Most of his acreage, however, is devoted to bigger sellers, like Zinfandel and Petite Sirah.

The final two Lodi AVAs, Jahant and Cosumnes River, are both—like Mokelumne River—windier, cooler, and lower in elevation (10-100 ft.) than those AVAs further east. Peter Jahant, a 19th-century French immigrant who came to Lodi in search of gold, lends his surname to the Jahant AVA—Lodi’s smallest in terms of geographic size—and its signature soil type, pink Rocklin-Jahant sandy loam. The appellation draws to a point at its western end, near the confluence of the Mokelumne and Cosumnes Rivers, which meet and feed into the Delta. Cosumnes River AVA, Lodi’s northwestern-most region, is only 20 miles south of Sacramento. Unlike its neighbors, white varieties are more important here than red grapes. The river’s name, like Mokelumne, provides a reminder of the original inhabitants’ occupations: Cosumnes means “salmon people” in a local Native American tongue, while Mokelumne translates to “fish netting.”

Lodi Rules

The Lodi Rules for Sustainable Winegrowing, a third-party certified sustainability program launched in 2005, is at once a stimulus for and a reminder of the fact that, according to Tegan, “Lodi grape-growers are among the most progressive in the state.” The system (adapted from the earlier Lodi Winegrower’s Workbook, developed in part by Steve Matthiasson) ranks vineyards in a number of areas, from soil health and air quality to water management and worker safety. Growers earn points according to their performance in different areas; Protected Harvest, a non-profit sustainability organization, inspects vineyards and awards the certification. In order to be “certified green,” growers must receive passing marks in both the Lodi Rules standards of practice and a linked Pesticide Environmental Assessment System (PEAS), which measures the annual impacts of pesticides—and sulfur applications—on environment and worker health.

Flame Tokay

Despite the fact that Flame Tokay barely gets a footnote in Jancis Robinson’s Wine Grapes (a passing reference on page 186), signs of this grape’s former glory in Lodi abound: at one corner, a truck marked “Tokay Heating & Air” idles, and a cursory check through the yellow pages reveals another two-dozen businesses named after the once-prized variety. Lodi’s two high schools, Tokay High and Lodi High, honor the grape’s memory—the latter, Robert Mondavi’s alma mater, fields its sports teams under the moniker of the Flames. The grape still wins prizes for “best” and “largest” bunches at the Lodi Grape and Harvest Festival, an annual event once billed as the Tokay Carnival. Yet forty-plus years of declining plantings have erased any real commercial significance for the variety today.

V. vinifera Flame Tokay arrived in Lodi in 1864, just four years after its introduction to the US, and became California’s number-one table grape by the last decade of the 19th century. Although Flame Tokay gained prominence as an eating grape, its sturdiness allowed Lodi’s growers to ship the grape across the country for the (un)stated purpose of home winemaking—alongside Zinfandel, Flame Tokay’s dependable durability in transit greatly reduced Prohibition’s impact on Lodi’s grape industry. With the passage of the 21st Amendment winemakers turned to the grape as raw material for sparkling wines, brandy, and fortified wines in the region. By the 1970s approximately 95% of the state’s Flame Tokay was grown in and around Lodi. As late as 1977, the Lodi News-Sentinel pronounced: “no other words in the language of agriculture are more associated with Lodi than ‘Flame Tokay.’” But fortified wines fell out of fashion, and tastes changed—Thompson Seedless surged to become America’s most-wanted table grape over the mid-century, while Flame Seedless, a 1961 crossing developed at Fresno, increasingly displaced Tokay after its commercial introduction in 1973. Today, only a handful of the Tokays (local slang for the vines) remain, and Lodi risks losing a symbolic and defining piece of its viticultural heritage and its culture forever.

Ampelographers suspect that Flame Tokay is identical to the black-skinned Algerian variety Ahmeur Bou Ahmeur, but in no other corner of the world—including vineyards just thirty or forty miles distant, near Sacramento—does it achieve the same brilliant, lantern-red namesake color that it gains in Lodi, where delta breezes keep the region’s heat from cooking its signature pigmentation out. The own-rooted vines are majestic; size and impressive trunk girth make the old Tokays appear almost as squat trees rather than grapevines. As a sign of its past importance, the grape lent its name to Mokelumne River’s defining, granite-based soils (Tokay fine sandy loam). A few stands of old-vine Tokays remain in Mokelumne River, and occasionally one finds a Tokay or two amidst a mixed blacks vineyard—where they were planted, much like the occasional Muscat vine in Beaujolais, to allow the workers a quick snack. The 2013 California Grape Crush Report noted a harvest of only 848 tons (all in Lodi, and a 50% decrease from 2012), and no one is making any serious quantity of wine from Flame Tokay. Jessie’s Grove has produced a sweet, white fortified wine from Flame Tokay since 2009, and Tegan Passalacqua indulges consideration of something similar in the future. But the door is closing: most Flame Tokay fruit goes to Gallo for brandy production, and many of the remaining Tokays are on land destined for development.

Natives, Now and Future

“Lodi Native” is a new, branded and collaborative project that debuted with the 2012 vintage. Six Lodi winemakers—Mike McCay, Stuart Spencer (St. Amant), Tim Holdener (Macchia Wines), Layne Montgomery (m2), Ryan Sherman (Fields Family), and Chad Joseph (Maley Brothers)—each produced a single-vineyard Zinfandel, fermented with “native” yeasts (and without enzyme or nutrient additions) and aged in used oak barriques. All six hail from Mokelumne River AVA, and attempt to provide a clearer picture of east/west character, absent winemaking sheen. The “Native” branding is a bit precious—Mike McCay interjected when a fellow winemaker referred to native-yeast fermentation as “natural” fermentation (“The word is native, not natural,” he exclaimed, driving the theme home). And in regard to the process, one has to take each winemaker at his word, as the project provides no policing of winery practices, but overall it provides an interesting look into the character and concentration of old-vine Zinfandel. The bottles sport one of Lodi’s best-looking labels, and the six producers involved are among the top homegrown names to watch in Lodi, a region whose best wines are produced by outsiders.

Lodi’s local talent has a number of challenges to surmount, including label design, winemaking technique, and consumer expectations. Frankly, many of the labels are just terrible—victims of really bad, outdated design. There remains a significant amount of local red wines produced with noticeable residual sugar—employing the 7 Deadly Zins recipe—and new oak usage can be clumsy rather than sophisticated. But remember: despite its lengthy history of grape-growing, this is still a very young winemaking region. As the growers continue to move from growing grapes—which they do remarkably well—to winegrowing, expect rapid improvements. Finally, local consumers tend to look for depth of color, body, and sweetness of fruit in red wines, and Lodi’s wines satisfy that appetite in spades. Both winegrower and wine consumer need to mature in order for Lodi’s producers to really take advantage of the viticultural treasures they have. The Lodi Native project is a good start.

“The Century Block” – Fields Family Wines 2012 (14%)
-Bright, east-side white-fruit aromatics (peach, nectarine) and floral tones, vineyard planted in 1905, soft uplifted, high-toned palate and good grip. Delicious and drinkable.

“Marian’s Vineyard” – St. Amant 2012 (14.5%)
-Braised fruits, boysenberry, sweeter fruits, pepper, lushness on the front palate, rounder tannins, 8.3-acre, own-rooted parcel of the Mohr-Fry Ranch, originally planted in 1901.

“Wegat Vineyard” – Maley Brothers 2012 (14.9%)
-corked

“TruLux Vineyard” – McCay Cellars ( 14.6%)
-Earthier and mushroom-scented, but still rich, much softer/less grip and tannin. Really sweet blue fruit but still balanced. The vineyard is younger than the others in the flight, especially as its density of plantings was increased—the original 10x10” spacing was doubled to 10x5”, so half of the vineyard's vines are of a much younger age.

“Soucie Vineyard” – m2 Wines (14.5%)
-Reductive, but with umami/hoisin character, and a little residual sugar. 4-5 grams? But there is acid to back it up. West-side fruit, from a vineyard originally planted in 1916. Very much Zinfandel.

“Noma Ranch” – Macchia Wines (15.8%)
-Overripe. Huge. Really dark flavors. Stressed fruit? East-side fruit and structure, but pushed. Big. Hot.

Head-trained Zinfandel old vines; the "Lodi ladder" vertical cordon training

Ribera del Duero: Six Profiles

Matt Stamp — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 09:38:00 GMT

Atauta

“This is one of the most desolate places in Europe; it’s more isolated than Finland, even.” In dying light, Dominio de Atauta winemaker Almudena Alberca and I sped along wintry, washboard roads, rugged and empty, in the backcountry of Soria province, some 50 kilometers from the Duero’s mountain headwaters. Here, along the far eastern edge of the Ribera del Duero DO, we explored small parcels of en vaso vines: scraggly, stunted little things, huddled close to the earth for warmth and water. At 1050 meters above sea level, 120-year-old ungrafted vines hold on. Spacing in this small gobelet-trained vineyard, known as Punto Alto, easily extends to two meters or more between rows and vines, and the pruned bush vines rise no more than a foot off the ground, a necessary precaution in this land of severe cold, drought and frost. The vineyard itself could hardly be a half-hectare in size, and yields, at fewer than 20 hl/ha, are miserly. Almudena and I visit several other vineyards—San Juan, La Roza, La Mala—of similarly venerable age and modest size, scattered along broad terraces, before returning to the old hilltop town of Atauta and its winery of the same name.

Dominio de Atauta premiered with the 2000 vintage, an accomplished age in the context of the region. When the Ribera del Duero DO debuted in 1982, nine wineries claimed the appellation of origin; by 2011 the number had grown to 267. The relative youth of wineries in Ribera is in deep contrast to vine age: over 30% of the 21,380 ha of vineyards are at least half a century old, and nearly 10% are 75 years of age or more. The old vines are universally trained en vaso, and typically planted at a sparse density around 2,000-2,500 vines per hectare. Espalier vineyards, Guyot-trained and trellised, began to appear in Ribera del Duero around a quarter-century ago, and are common today in the lower, more fertile soils nearest the Rio Duero itself, where vineyards destined for the production of rosado or joven wines may be more easily worked with machines. Today, the divide between en vaso and en espalier vineyards in the region is almost evenly split.

As in Burgundy, ownership is complicated; many plots have been in families for generations, divided and subdivided amongst heirs. Today the average size of parcels is 0.40 ha. Dominio de Atauta itself owns 15 ha, but controls a checkerboard of 40 ha in total, spread throughout 600 different parcels. The winery’s vineyards are a goldmine of ungrafted vines—a rarity in most of the Ribera del Duero but common here in the secluded, parallel Valle de Atauta. Even the winery’s “basic” Ribera del Duero bottling is produced from vines that are, on average, at least 60 years of age, and 90% of the winery’s entire vineyard holdings is ungrafted. Vines are not replanted with cuttings or clones; rather, Atauta’s growers typically replant in the traditional fashion, by layering—burying a neighboring vine’s cane into the ground to form a new plant.

Soria, Ribera del Duero’s easternmost area, is the least populated province in Spain and the highest, coldest area in the DO. Vultures circle in the February dusk; the elder inhabitants, fifty-odd, of Atauta village slow with each passing day. Almudena slows to greet two old farmers, pruning between the snows. Here in the Valle de Atauta we are over 100 kilometers from the fabled bodegas of “la Milla de Oro,” estates like the unparalleled Vega Sicilia, Hacienda Monasterio, and—beyond the DO’s western border—Mauro and Abadia Retuerta. But the next generation of fine wines in Ribera del Duero may lie in this inhospitable, high-altitude climate. Soria’s season is compressed and cooler in comparison to the climate in Burgos province (home to approximately 80% of the DO’s vineyards) and on Valladolid’s golden mile. In all of Ribera del Duero frost is a major hazard that can creep into early June and return to wreak havoc on the mid-October harvest; in Soria it is a source of existential nightmare, as ripeness often arrives 2 weeks later in Soria than in Valladolid. Nine months of winter, three months of hell? In Soria, like all of Ribera, August days can surpass 100° F, while nights can plunge down below 50°, freezing metabolic processes and preserving acidity. The entire DO qualifies as Region I on the Winkler Scale, but in Soria the narrowing of the growing season—coupled with a wealth of incredibly old, ungrafted vines—can create a balance of concentration, purity and freshness without the burliness of many wines produced further west. Dominio de Atauta’s range of single vineyard bottlings, each numbering in the dozens—rather than hundreds—of cases, shows off the lift of Soria fruit despite alcohol levels racing full-throttle past 14.5%, and offers some glimpse of the myriad, spartan soil structures of the valley: arenas (sand), arcilla (clay), franco (silt), and various permutations of each, against the shallow, white limestone bedrock. Herbal scrub notes drift between the fruit and oak.

These are, make no mistake, modern wines—there is no shortage of new French wood, nor is there any show of carelessness in the winery. Tannic structures are powerful, sustained and powdery. Ripeness is measured by full seed lignification, and Almudena waits until late October to harvest to ensure it—if possible. In 2010, an early October frost led to a difficult decision to harvest at the end of September, nearly a month before schedule. The weather remains a challenge: if western portions of the DO face inclement cold or unwelcome frost, then Soria will surely be battered with it. In this challenging climate, Atauta is in transition: the winery shot to stardom with the help of a young French winemaker, Bertrand Sourdais, who left to steer his family’s Chinon domaine in 2009. Today, Almudena has big shoes to fill; a “La Roza” 2004 tasted at the estate was compelling, with developed piquant, tapenade flavors and less sweet oak than the younger efforts—hopefully her vintages will age as gracefully, despite a seeming shift in style toward the heavier end of the spectrum. Meanwhile, Sourdais has returned to Soria with Antidoto, a wine that provides an elegant counterpoint to Atauta’s intensity. The 2010 Antidoto brims with lush, fragrant black and raspberry fruit, but it is surprising lithe and low in tannin in comparison to Atauta’s 2009 offerings. This is the acid I expect from Soria, although it may be an unfair comparison: the lively, bright fruit of 2010 zips right ahead of the liqueur and jam of 2009. Sourdais forgoes new barrels, preferring to focus entirely on fruit concentration from his own pre-phylloxera sources. Despite widening contrast, Atauta and Antidoto are harbingers, spearheading the discovery of a forgotten viticultural heritage and one of the largest concentrations of ungrafted vines—the Consejo Regulador loosely estimates 700 ha—in continental Europe. This is an area to watch.

Pre-phylloxera en vaso vines in Soria; Atauta's range

Viña Sastre and Pingus

Outside la Horra, a small township in Burgos hailed for its strong, brawny reds, Jesús M. Sastre Gómez chain-smokes cigarillos, barreling over hilltops and through vineyards on a particularly frigid morning. I bounce along in the passenger seat, breath crystallizing inside billows of puffed smoke. My Spanish is basically non-existent, and his English is not much better, so our conversation is fairly limited to occasional shouts of “frío!” and robust pantomime. The vineyards here are on the north side of the Duero’s banks and generally face south, with a forest of pines blocking the north winds. This is the hottest area in the appellation, and the wines can be ripe and rugged. Jesús stops the car to show off his most prized parcel, Pesus, a small plot of 80-year-old vines that gives birth to a wine of the same name. Viña Sastre “Pesus” is, alongside Pingus, one of the appellation’s most expensive bottlings, fetching prices at release that exceed even “Único”. At a later tasting, I remark that the wine—a 15% abv, 200% new oak joint—reminded me a bit of modern Right Bank wines, and his eyes lit up; this was the first wine of the trip that was not produced from 100% Tempranillo. In fact, it barely meets the DO minimum of 75%, with Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon filling out the remainder. Ambitious, classy and powerful, yet its sleekness takes it out of step with the other wines in Viña Sastre’s range. As some people resemble their dogs, so too do winemakers resemble their wines: Jesús, who ended the visit by offering shots of Ron Zacapa XO Solera Rum—at 11:00 AM—produces a range of wines that fit hand in glove with his bold, vital, spirited persona; “Pesus” in comparison seems so refined, so ambitious, that some of the charm is lost. For me, his “Pago de Santa Cruz”, aged for 18 months in American oak, is perhaps the best window into Jesús’ outsized zeal for life.

We stood atop an 850-meter-high hilltop and surveyed the landscape. In central Ribera del Duero, the lower areas nearest the river typically have the highest concentration of rounded, alluvial stones, sand, and marl; while the middle elevation vineyards show more calcareous clay and iron-rich red clay. The highest elevation vineyards have the greatest concentration of white limestone soils, containing both chalk and gypsum, similar to the albariza of Jerez. But there is upheaval: on this hilltop the topsoil was thick with river stones, and the lower areas around us were red with clay. On another vineyard jaunt with enologist Alvaro Maestro of Emilio Moro, we stood in the heavy, wet red clay of the winery’s Valderramiro vineyard, source of a single vineyard bottling in the “Malleolus” line, but a neighboring vineyard soil just 10 meters away was a white blanket of chalk. Dramatic shifts in soil, subtle shifts of slope, and the miniature size of parcels recall Burgundy.

Water regulation is an important factor in soil profile, and the humidity of clay is a benefit in an area where the climate is dry. Irrigation, while legal, is rare—only 5% of DO vineyards irrigate. The high permeability of clay allows the retention of water throughout the long growing season. As most of the region’s annual 17.7 inches of rain falling during the winter, the soil needs to retain as much water as it can. High elevation vineyards with white topsoils, on the other hand, are able to preserve acidity by amplifying Ribera’s naturally severe diurnal shifts. White soils reflect heat during the day rather than retain it to warm the vines at night, so vines planted in lighter-colored soils can quickly drop to the ambient summer evening temperatures of 50-60° F. Thus, the classic recipe for Ribera del Duero reds involves a balance of concentration, dark fruit and color, and still lively acidity. Both tannin and acid tend to be higher than in wines produced in Rioja, some 150 kilometers to the northeast and hundreds of meters lower in elevation.

Viña Sastre is La Horra’s most prominent producer, but the hills beyond this small village are also home to a 4.7-hectare stand of 80- to 100-year-old vines owned by Dominio de Pingus (the winery itself is located along a non-descript side street in Quintanilla de Onésimo, west of Peñafiel). Peter Sisseck debuted his garagiste icon in 1995, and it quickly rocketed into the firmament of Spain’s most celebrated reds. When I arrived in Pingus’ cellar, a new assistant (Yulia) proudly proclaimed, “Everything in barrel here is already sold.” “Pingus”, along with other Spanish reds like Alvaro Palacios’ “L’Ermita”, is sold entirely through en primeur sales in Bordeaux. Only 29 barrels of Pingus 2011 rested in the cellar, with the remainder allocated for “Flor de Pingus”, a wine produced from different La Horra vineyard sources, and a newer third label, “PSI”. The latter wine is actually purchased at a premium from a cooperative as newly fermented wine, and the project is designed to salvage low-density, old growth vineyards throughout the appellation that growers might otherwise be tempted to grub up and replant for higher yields and a higher return. “PSI” debuted with the 2007 vintage.

Dominio de Pingus is tiny. They release around 6,000 bottles of “Pingus” in a given vintage; in comparison Vega Sicilia released 40,000 bottles of their flagship “Único” 2002; and 70,000 bottles of the 2003. Dominio de Pingus feels highly personal and idiosyncratic in comparison; Peter Sisseck arrived in Ribera del Duero in the early 1990s to work with Hacienda Monasterio and wound up launching the region’s hottest red on the international stage. Vineyard work is biodynamic—Sisseck is a devotee of the late German farmer/researcher Maria Thun—and work in the winery proceeds in a very natural, yet obsessively hygienic, manner. Harvest typically takes place around 22-24° Brix, and “Pingus” fermentation occurs with ambient yeasts in oak vats without temperature control (“Flor de Pingus” fermentations occur in stainless steel). The winery maintains one markedly warmer barrel room strictly for malolactic fermentation, and a small cave underneath the complex for further barrel maturation. Darnajou and Taransaud are the coopers of choice, with the latter’s “T5” 228 liter Burgundy barrels especially prized. The wines, while prominently driven by oak in the past, are shedding some new wood: the 2011 “Pingus” is aging in approximately 50% new wood and the “Flor de Pingus” rests in 60/70% new wood; these numbers are changing with every vintage. Barrels are reused for 2-3 vintages and then replaced. We tasted several wines out of barrel, and the depth and concentration of “Pingus”, the product of century-old Tempranillo vines planted in red clay and harvested at less than 12 hl/ha, was compelling. Where “Pesus” grabs with power, tannin, warmth, and oak, “Pingus” maintains elegance around its incredible concentration and sweetness of fruit. Both are monumental wines, harvested from old vines planted in similar clay soils and tended in accordance with biodynamic principles, yet they evolve into very different expressions of la Horra Ribera del Duero.

En Vaso old vines owned by Viña Sastre; the changing patterns of soil in Ribera del Duero

Valduero

In Ribera del Duero, red wines may be produced in generic (joven), crianza, reserva, or gran reserva styles, although the latter three terms are losing relevancy in a modern market that views them as old-fashioned, and not often charmingly so. The producers of Ribera del Duero have not forsaken barrel aging for their red wines; rather, many simply market them in different ways. Neither the Atauta nor Pingus wines are labeled with aging designations, and Emilio Moro uses the “Malleolus” label for the estate’s top wines. At Monteabellón, a stylish project under the watchful eye of Isaac Fernández Montaña—nephew of legendary Vega Sicilia/Mauro winemaker Mariano García and consulting winemaker to nearly 100 properties in Spain—wines presented as “crianza” and “reserva” are actually labeled “14 meses en barrica” and “24 meses en barrica”. The wines are lighter in style, attractive flash and slick fruit, almost more akin to modern Vosne-Romanée than neighboring Tinto Fino. Meanwhile, joven wines—which will not actually read “joven” on the label—cannot be stereotyped; the “generic” category contains everything from pleasant, fruity everyday wines like Monteabellón’s “Avaniel” to serious works, such as the “Ángel” and “Maximo” bottlings from another Isaac Fernández project, Arrocal. Price is an obvious indicator of ambition and style in the joven category, and the upper tiers—crianza through gran reserva—are no longer sole indicators of increased quality, but rather professions of maturation and style.

Valduero, founded in 1984, is one of Ribera’s oldest and most traditional estates. A family-owned estate of 200 ha, Valduero is located in the village of Gumiel de Mercado, in Burgos, where the elevation is slightly lower than in Soria—800 to 850 meters above sea level rather than 950 or more—and the climate is a little (not a lot) more forgiving. Add a degree (Celsius) to average temperatures. Here, Yolanda García Viadero—one of Spain’s first female winemakers—has long championed the classic styles of crianza through gran reserva. The winery’s newly-constructed, massive, parallel rooms for fermentation, barrel, and bottle aging resemble darkened airplane hangars dug beneath the hillside, forgoing architectural form for pure function. 40 meters below the ground lies a kilometer of caves, wherein reserva and gran reserva wines continue their slumber, and the winery houses a special series of 300 barrels, sold as whole lots to wealthy Spanish elites.

In Ribera del Duero, red crianza wines must age for a minimum of one year in oak and one year in bottle. Reserva wines require at least one year in oak and two years in bottle, and gran reserva wines must age for at least two years in oak and three years in bottle. Valduero surpasses all of these: crianza wines age for 15 months in oak and 12 months in the bottle, reserva wines age for 30 months in the barrel and 18 months in the bottle, and gran reserva wines rest for four years in barrel and four years in bottle. In addition, the house produces the more concentrated “6 Años”, a wine aged for—obviously—six years, evenly split between barrel and bottle, and “12 Años”, which rests for 12 years, with six in barrel, prior to release. The current “12 Años” release is 1999. In a region where many marquee wines show marked dark fruit, alcohol levels of 14.5-15%, intense new oak tannin, and huge concentration, the wines of Valduero are more muted and cerebral, often showing tones of balsamic, dill, lavender, licorice, sandalwood, and sour plum. In general, the soft texture of long oak aging infuses the wines but the flavors of new wood are less obvious and opulent, perceived only hazily, as though peering through a veil of dust. In the cellars, there are 4,000 barrels from six different origins: French, American, Canadian, Hungarian, Bulgarian, and Spanish. Different toast levels, different coopers, and constant racking of wine from one to another enable the winery to produce aged wines with a complex, cedary wood tone, rather than simple toast and vanilla. Only 25% are renewed each year. This is a very good source for classically-styled wines, and well worth a visit. They cook a mean lechazo. Stay for lunch.

Fermentation tanks at Valduero; Monteabellón's Finca la Blanca vineyard

Aalto

As we drove toward Aalto in western Ribera’s Valladolid province, the ground lay thick with winter fog. Aalto is one of the top modern wineries in the region—and in all of Spain—and its current reputation did not come without superstar backing or serious funding. And with big bucks come new barrels—2000 of them—which are completely replenished every two or three years. The winery presented a good opportunity to contrast the impact of American and French oak in winemaking.

In 1998 Mariano García was abruptly fired by the winery he propelled to international fame over three decades of vintages; he transitioned to new projects (Mauro, etc.) and remains one of Spain’s most respected, authoritative winemakers. In 1999, he joined Javier Zaccagnini, former head of Ribera del Duero’s Consejo Regulador, to develop Aalto with the backing of the Osborne group. The project did not get off the ground without a hitch—García and Zaccagnini recalled their entire 1999 export shipment to the United States, fearing that the wine would not meet expectations. However, today the two wines (Aalto and Aalto “PS”) are extremely well made, polished examples of Ribera del Duero, achieving density and plush dark fruit in a “high expression” style. Of course the wines are made in the vineyard—other people’s vineyards, as the Aalto estate espalier vines are too young—but the winery here is certainly a frequent contributor as well. Aalto—particularly the “PS”, aged in 100% new French oak—demands attention from the international wine world, and gets it; 70% of the wine is exported. Unfiltered, powerfully tannic, toasty, tooth-staining, and easily in excess of 15% alcohol, these are not wines for the faint of heart.

How do American and French oak barrels shape a wine differently? Of course, barrel age, different toast levels and tonnelier styles have a great impact on oak’s presence in wine, but sommeliers often fixate on the question of oak origin as a signature determinant of its quality. While both French and American oak barrels are common in cellars, many producers have moved toward French oak, and view it as a more sophisticated vessel. Some producers, like Viña Sastre, may age crianza and reserva styles in American oak, but release their top bottlings after élevage in French wood. Price plays into this equation—American barrels are significantly cheaper—but style is certainly a prime consideration. With the exception of the Vega Sicilia and Pesquera wines, few of Ribera del Duero’s most celebrated wines see any new American oak.

American and French staves are taken from separate species of oak trees; one is sawn and the other is split; one is denser than the other. American oak-aged wines are usually described as smelling of coconut and vanilla extract, whereas French oak-aged wines are often less obviously sweet, showcasing spicier aromatics of nutmeg and clove. French oak is often said to contribute more tannin to wine. American oak contains more lactones—the source of coconut aromas—and French oak contains more extractable ellagitannins, which may play a role in wine structure as well as improve color stability. According to Zaccagnini, tannin contribution from American and French oak barrels at Aalto is essentially the same. He does believe, however, that French oak has a shorter lifespan: it tends to deliver every bit of flavor it has to offer in the first three years of its life, and American oak continues to impart aroma and phenols to the wine for seven to eight years before it becomes completely neutral. French oak is more porous—so there may be a slightly greater oxygen exchange—but the amount of oxygen entering the wine through pores in wood is so miniscule as to be irrelevant anyway. Beyond the bunghole itself, the stave joints are far likelier to permit oxygen ingress than the pores themselves. In terms of flavor, anyone who has tasted Penfolds’ “Grange” or the most sweetly oaked old-school Rioja can see a difference, but its not always so clear-cut. Provenance of wood, grain tightness, drying method, and other factors can complicate the picture. Barrel samples from “blended stave” French barriques had a saccharine vanilla character that seemed more in line with American wood than the François Frères barrels down the line.

Aalto “PS”—“Pagos Seleccionados”, the destination wine, as it were, made only in good vintages and twice the price of the standard bottling—is matured in 100% new French oak. The standard “Aalto” is split between French and American barrels. Online, tech sheets suggest that it is an even 50/50 split. At the winery, I received different answers to this question from every single person I asked. Sommeliers love to take numbers and percentages and time spent in this or that as immutable fact and logical rationale for the style of the wine, but really: is the winemaker sometimes just guessing? 2000 total barrels might make it pretty hard to do the math.

Mariano García and Javier Zaccagnini; fermentation vats and tanks for Pingus and Flor de Pingus

Vega Sicilia

With a release price for “Único” hovering around $450 per bottle, Vega Sicilia no longer produces Ribera del Duero’s most expensive wine, but it remains the appellation’s most iconic and renowned winery, seemingly in a class of its own. And, for this taster, the two mainstay wines—“Valbuena 5°” and “Único”—are still unimpeachable benchmarks of elegance and tradition in a region where many of the nuevo producers are veering toward burliness, power, and an inexhaustive sheen of new oak. Vega Sicilia is the elephant in the room: in the care of managing director Pablo Álvarez, the winery is regarded by many as Spain's finest. There is little to write or say about its history, style and ambition that has not already been written or said. Vega Sicilia was one of the original handful of wineries present at the birth of the Ribera del Duero DO in 1982; the winery was founded in 1864, and its two iconic wines date to the early 20th century—a grand old age for the region.

Appointments at Vega Sicilia in Valbuena de Duero are difficult to obtain, the gate is unmarked, and security suggests an unfriendly foreign embassy. The grounds are immense: over 200 ha of estate vineyards surround a recently renovated winery, a cooperage, offices, and massive barrel and bottle storage facilities. All fruit for the Vega Sicilia wines is grown on the estate. Vines used for “Valbuena 5°” are, on average, 25-35 years of age, whereas those used for “Único” are around 60-65 years old. The winery prefers to replant when vines surpass this, but new vines will not supply usable fruit until their tenth crop. En vaso Tempranillo makes up 80% of the vineyard, with a few other French varieties alongside it. Only Cabernet Sauvignon is grown en espalier.

In the past, “Único” was not released if quality did not support it. In vintages like 1988, 1992, 1993, 1997, and 2001, the winery did not release the wine. Prior to 2010, the winery fermented “Único” in 40,000-liter vats; if there was a smaller crop of quality that warranted the “Único” label there was no smaller alternative vessel for fermentation available. Vega Sicilia had to make at least 40,000 liters, or nothing. Beginning in 2010, Vega Sicilia installed a series of nineteen 8,000-liter wooden vats, renewed at a rate of 25% each year, allowing the winemaker to produce a lot of only 8,000 liters should vintage difficulties demand it. Given this new system of “microvinification”, it is unlikely that Vega Sicilia will fail to release “Único” in the future. “Valbuena 5°”, a younger wine released in every vintage, is fermented in stainless steel rather than oak.

Ambient yeast fermentation for “Único” begins after a short period of cold-soaking, complete destemming and a rigorous sorting. Must moves by gravity—aided by elevator—and fermentation reaches 32° C. Pumpovers rather than punchdowns are used to manage extraction, and the wine is pressed and moved into other tanks to undergo malolactic fermentation. At the conclusion of ML, “Único” is transferred to American and French barriques (50/50) for a period of 1-2 years, depending on the vintage. The French oak is 100% new, from favored coopers like Radoux and Saury. American oak barrels, on the other hand, are made in-house and are preferred after a year of use, remaining in the winery for 3-4 years. Despite a relatively luxurious treatment, “Único” is not dominated by tones of new oak; rather, the maturation process has only just begun. After its short time in barrique, “Único” is transferred to large, old oak vats for an additional 5 years or so, then transferred to bottle for another 3-4 years. There is no exact recipe, but “Único” does not leave the building with less than a decade under its belt. In the past, some vintages remained at the winery for 20 years or more before release. The current vintage is 2003. The result? A wine of soft, silky texture, resolved tannin, and muted tones of oak, with a seamless balance that will allow it to develop in the bottle for years, nothing coming unglued.

“Valbuena 5°”, in comparison, spends only 3 years in oak, its time equally divided between vessels large and small. It ages in bottle for an additional two years prior to release. The wine’s character is similar, featuring forest aromas, raspberry, cedar, cumin, and sweet dill against a frame of balanced alcohol and restrained tannin. While tasting at the winery, I sampled efforts from the group’s other wineries—Alion in Ribera del Duero, Pintia in Toro, and Oremus in Tokaj—but not Vega Sicilia’s priciest wine, the non-vintage “Reserva Especial”. Made from a blend of two to three different vintages of “Único”, the wine is modeled on a historical style popular in the region over a century ago. 15,000 bottles are released every year.

Wood aging, large and small, at Vega Sicilia

Madeira: A Time Capsule

Matt Stamp — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 13:16:00 GMT

“I never lift to my lips a glass of this noble wine without seeing faces that are gone, and hearing the voices and the laughter and the jests that are no more.”
-Silas Weir Mitchell, A Madeira Party (1895)

Great Madeira is a bulwark against corrosion and timeless amid our half-lives of gentle decay. It is inscrutable: to reduce it to tasting notes and the crude ephemera of snapshot opinions or scores seems crass. It will outlive you. It is a rummaging old ghost, an artifact from an era at once more genteel and barbaric. It brings to mind men racing toward the secrets of longitude or the shores of new worlds, it recalls corsairs and ornate antebellum dining rooms. It is an acid cutlass, born of the strange circumstance of its long ocean journeys. Heat, movement and oxygen crafted and mellowed its character, and fortification gave it strength to survive the months at sea.

Every other great wine of the world shows best the less it travels from the cellar of its birth, but for Madeira the opposite became true, and in the past markets paid top dollar for those wines labeled, by their voyage, “East India” or “West India”. In fact, for those vinho da roda that traveled halfway across the world and back, the vessel of transport became its own form of terroir. In Noël Cossart’s Madeira: The Island Vineyard, the author admires the palate of one 19th century Southern gentleman and Madeira dealer, William Neyle Habersham, whom he suggests, recounting an episode from the diary of one George DeRenne, could name the ship upon which a blind wine traveled. (This feat is accorded slightly less awe as Habersham, the authority of his day, was not above “recreating” certain famous wines for sale by blending wines from his own collection, and occasionally adding Sherry for good measure.) In the 18th and 19th centuries Madeira may have been named for the locales it traveled to—“East India”, and even “Japan”, famously carried to and from the country by Commodore Perry in 1854—or the vessels it purportedly traveled on, like Hurricane, Red Jacket, or Constitution. In colonial America and afterward, well-to-do households received pipes of Madeira annually, and the names of affluent New York, Boston, or Philadelphia families may have graced labels. Each bottle told its own story. For top Madeira today varietal labeling is preferred—it is the only wine in the world today in which the level of sweetness can be directly inferred through the name of the variety on the label—and the more fanciful and more evocative names of the past have been left behind. Nonetheless, it is difficult to taste a vintage like 1921, 1900, 1850, 1818, or 1760 simply to admire the wine, or to ponder how marvelous it is that a consumable product of fermented fruit could still be enjoyable after all that time. Instead, one’s mind conjures events flaring up far beyond the confines of one little island: in 1921 America’s noble experiment is just beginning; in 1900 the first zeppelin takes flight; in 1850 Los Angeles and San Francisco are formally incorporated; in 1818 Chile claims independence from Spain; in 1760, Abu Dhabi is founded. The wine is a time capsule.

Romance aside, for those pragmatists among us, one of the greatest joys of old Madeira derives from its relative value. This stuff is cheap! At the Old Blandy Wine Lodge in Funchal, I paid €15 (approx.. $20 USD) in total for two glasses of 1977 Terrantez and 1984 Boal. Price listings at D’Oliveira’s lodge for vintages dating back to 1850 are basically criminal. For the opportunity to try old wines while essentially eliminating the risk one would assume on similarly old bottles of Bordeaux or Burgundy, Madeira is incomparable.

Our Fair Country. Pass the Freedom Fries.

IN ITS AMERICAN HEYDEY, founding fathers clinked glasses of Madeira to toast nearly everything in the National Archives, and George Washington drank his body weight in the stuff every couple of months. According to Cossart, Francis Scott Key slurped it down while composing the Star-Spangled Banner, and Betsy Ross sipped Madeira wine while sewing the first flag. More legend than fact, perhaps, but useful stories that hammer the point: Americans love booze, and Madeira was a big deal in our fair country, for a very long time! Our market was incredibly important during the colonial period and afterward, but it contracted during our Civil War. Madeira had its own struggles with the arrival of oidium in 1851—which reduced yields by 98%, but did not totally kill the vines—and phylloxera in 1872, which did. Prohibition finally put the nail in the coffin for what Cossart describes as Madeira’s “oldest and finest market.” Long gone is the era of drunken presidents, Habersham’s reigning palate, and fancy Madeira parties; today, the US has fallen behind France, the UK, Germany, and Belgium in sales. Madeira exports over a million liters of wine annually to France alone—much of which is, granted, bottled and labeled for cooking—while the US imported only 136,000 liters in 2009. Yes, we all know that fortified wine is a hard sell in these enlightened times, but fellas, let’s get to work! This juice is our birthright!!

Clockwise from top right: levada snaking through a pine forest; an array of wines; a Verdelho vineyard in São Vicente; and vegetables growing on poios

The Island(s)

The Madeira archipelago includes two inhabited isles: Madeira itself and the smaller Porto Santo, a 20 minute flight (or 2 hour ferry) northeast of Madeira proper. Three uninhabited Desertas Islands complete the chain; the largest of the three, Deserta Grande, is visible from the Bay of Funchal. The rocky, isolated Selvagens (“savage” islands) are administered by the government in Madeira, but they make up a separate archipelago and are actually closer to Tenerife in the Canary Islands than Madeira itself. The climate in Madeira is subtropical and humid, unlike the more arid Canaries, with more rain and moisture in the island’s mountainous interior and on its north side. Lush, green vegetation—cultivated or otherwise—is everywhere here, from ancient laurel forests to the tropical banana plant. The “isle of woods” is just that.

A sleek, modern highway system links the capital of Funchal, its other coastal areas, and the interior. Journeys that once took four hours by car have been reduced to under one, as roads tunnel through mountains and cliffs rather than winding upward and over the peaks. There is little flat land in Madeira beyond the airport runway; even Funchal slopes downward into the sea. As one speeds along the coastal highway, Madeira rises high above; its nearly vertical inclines are stepped with poios, the basalt stone terraces, carving out a few square meters here and there for bananas, sugarcane, sweet potatoes, apple trees, cabbages, and yes, even the occasional vineyard. Some of Europe’s tallest and most impressive sea cliffs are located on the Madeira coastline, including the nearly perpendicular, almost 600-meter tall Cabo Girão—visitors to Barbeito brave an unending series of upward switchbacks and dizzying turns to reach the winery’s huge new facility atop the cliff. Take importer Mannie Berk’s advice: hire a driver (I did not). Running down the mountains, from sources high above in the clouds, are the levadas, a 2,150 km network of cement irrigation canals. “Levada” has no direct translation, but it derives from the Portuguese verb for “to take”—literally, the levada “takes” rainfall to farmers, including grape-growers, for agricultural use, and provides energy to the island through hydroelectric plants. Visitors to the island are strongly encouraged by this author to spend a day taking a guided levada walk, without a doubt the best way to see the island.

Vineyards are planted all along the north and south coasts of the island, but they are concentrated in two major concelhos (municipal zones): Câmara de Lobos on the south side and São Vicente on the north. Together, the two concelhos account for two-thirds of the island’s production. In general, Malvasia and Boal fare better on the island’s southern coast, whereas Sercial and Verdelho, which develop a lower degree of potential alcohol, perform better on the cooler north side of Madeira. Tinta Negra grows everywhere vines are cultivated. Most vineyards on the island are trained in pergola systems—called latadas locally—and cannot be tended by machine. Rarely, one may encounter an espaldeira (espalier) system of upright rows. Barbeito, for instance, has a couple of experimental rows just outside their facility trained in this fashion, and Henriques & Henriques owns 10 hectares of espaldeira vines. The island’s humid climate results in constant fungal pressures, and organic farming has made little inroads in Madeira: only two producers, Justino’s and Barbeito, currently hold a few casks of wine labeled “Biologico”. Of course, a Madeira wine could not be truly “Biologico” unless the fortifying spirit is also certifiably organic—Justino’s is looking toward this possibility in the future.

TUFFACEOUS! Noël Cossart describes four major types of volcanic soils for the vine on the island: saibro (a decomposed red tufa), cascalho (stony soil), pedra mole (sandy yellow tufa), and massapes (literally, “foot-thump”, a clay of decomposed dark tufa). In an 1851 work entitled A Sketch of Madeira, Edward Vernon Harcourt categorized the same four types of soil in very similar terms; however, since “tufa” indicates a calcareous soil and “tuff” indicates a volcanic soil, it is likely that both authors actually mean the latter. Only on Porto Santo can one find calcium carbonate, a building block of the island’s white sandy beaches—a feature absent on Madeira itself. At any rate, Madeiran soil is volcanic, highly fertile, and highly acid. Locals suggest—and tasting confirms—that all Madeiran fruits have an unexpectedly high degree of acidity due to the volcanic soils, from bananas to passion fruit to grapes. The bananas are small, too: until recently, the EU barred Madeiran banana producers from selling their wares in member nations as the fruit was too small. Point: Chiquita.

Funchal at night

Wine and Food on Madeira

In Funchal, Madeira wines are not usually consumed throughout the meal; rather, they are served at its start and finish. Dry Madeira is often a complementary aperitif in local restaurants, and medium dry styles are recommended with soups and some starting fish courses, like atum (tuna) or the ever-present espada, a locally-caught scabbard fish baked and typically finished in a sauce of passion fruit and banana.

Islanders eat a lot of beef, despite the lack of cattle on the island. With espetada—grilled beef skewered on laurel wood—locals typically recommend reds from the mainland, and return to sweet Madeira wines with cheeses or desserts like bolo de mel, a treacle cake best crumbled by hand rather than cut with a knife.

Sercial, with its blinding acidity, is a surprisingly good after-dinner wine, as it refreshes and awakens the palate. Luis D’Oliveira, who currently presides over the business end of his family’s winery, recommends that lovers of Madeira savor Frasqueira wines at room temperature—regardless of the level of sweetness—and without food, as befits serious wines of meditation. Cossart, with an Englishman’s flair, pairs good old Madeira with Havana cigars and “intelligent conversation”.

Espada with Passion Fruit and Banana; some advice from Blandy's Wine Lodge

The IVBAM

The Madeira Institute of Wine, Embroidery and Handicrafts oversees the production of wine on the island and, as one could guess, the production of handmade embroidery. Those tablecloths are expensive! And if you visit Madeira and decide to bring mom something crafty back, the real embroidery is sold with the IVBAM’s holographic seal; everything else is just machine-made garbage for tourists. In wine, the IVBAM authorizes planting, sets harvest dates, recommends (rather than mandates) grape prices, regulates the purchase of wine alcohol for fortification, and oversees the estufagem process. During the heating period, the IVBAM actually seals the estufas and the temperature controls for a minimum of three months. In addition, producers receive grant money from the EU for aging their wines a minimum of five years in cask; in such instances, the IVBAM will place its seal on the cask for the duration. Any aging designations that a producer wishes to include on a label (5 Year Old, 20 Year Old, the declaration of a vintage, etc.) must be documented and checked by the institute. An official, five-man institute tasting panel, including two revolving spots for representatives from the production companies (currently Ricardo Barbeito and Juan Teixeira, Justino’s winemaker), must approve all Madeira wines prior to bottling. Finally, the IVBAM maintains a cooperative winemaking facility in São Vicente. Here, they produce unfortified Madeirense PDO wines, and in 2012 they began work on a first experimental vintage of fortified Madeira as well.

In the absence of a bottling date on a Madeira wine, one can roughly approximate by looking at the seal on the neck:

JNV: From 1937 to 1979 the Junta Nacional do Vinho controlled the production of Madeira. Wines with a paper or wax seal marked “JNV” were bottled during this period.
IVM: From its founding in 1979 to 2006, the Institute was known as simply as the Madeira Wine Institute, and seals from wines bottled during this period carry the initials “IVM”.
IVBAM: In 2006, the wine and embroidery institutes were merged. Newer bottles read “IVBAM” on the seal.

Canteiro cask sealed by the IVBAM; neck seals from the JNV, IVM, and IVBAM eras

Where you cannot call a Vintage a Vintage, and other Truth in Labeling or the Lack Thereof

You can doctor your Rainwater with caramel coloring, you can buy your aguardente from France, and you can call a 5 Year Old baby a “Reserve” selection, but you can’t use the word “vintage” on a label. Thank you, Port lobby. Hence: Frasqueira.

AND I DIGRESS: The most planted variety in Madeira, Tinta Negra (yes, once Tinta Negra Mole, but “soft” is such a pejorative adjunct, and anyways it is not the same “Tinta Negra Mole” that one finds in Algarve) cannot be claimed on a label. So…it is HIGHLY LIKELY that every bottle of Madeira you encounter—ever—without a variety on the label is a Tinta Negra solo act. The beautiful thing about this grape: it’s frankly not all that bad, and it is the only grape on the island which can deliver across the entire spectrum of sweetness, from Dry to Rich. But you still won’t see it on a label. Justino’s has been making rock-solid Colheita wines with Tinta Negra since 1996—the first year for the “Colheita” category in Madeira—allowing the wine to mature in barrel for a minimum of 10 years prior to bottling. Also, those mysterious old casks and bottles you occasionally encounter that are simply labeled “Old Wine”? Delicious. And likely Tinta Negra.

Making the Wine: Receiving the Harvest

On the island, harvest typically occurs from late August through mid-October, with sweet varieties coming in before the dry varieties. At the time of our visit in 2012, during the last week of September, the harvest was 95% complete, but growers acknowledged that it was a very early year.

Madeira’s production companies purchase the grapes from small growers, who own one-third of a hectare on average. God forbid, as a grower, that you bring your harvest in during lunch hours, or over the weekend in this most debt-ridden sector of Portugal, as the production companies typically do not work these hours. Under the watchful eyes of the IVBAM, purchasers measure the must weight of incoming grapes with a refractometer. Higher sugar content at harvest nets higher prices per kilogram of grapes, and grapes under 9% potential alcohol must be rejected.

With such small holdings per grower, the number of growers a producer must rely on is quite large. Justino’s, the largest of the eight production companies, utilizes fruit from over 700 different sources. Some growers may sell fruit to multiple houses, and in the absence of long-term contracts fruit sources may change, but longstanding handshake agreements usually prevail. In 2009, 1,304 growers sold fruit to the major production companies. Henriques & Henriques is the only producer that actually owns vineyards but their dozen or so total hectares are not nearly enough to satisfy production.

Tinta Negra grapes in the latadas of São Vicente; harvesting

Making the Wine: Crafting Young Madeira via Estufagem

Three Year Old Madeira (a category every house makes, but not an official aging designation) is likely born as a ripening Tinta Negra grape somewhere in the latadas of São Vicente. After the harvest is received, potential alcohol is measured, and the grapes are paid for, the production companies go to work. Following are typical steps of production for a basic, three year old wine, often labeled "Finest":

De-Stemming and Crushing: 100% of the harvest is de-stemmed.
Addition of SO2 and pectolytic enzymes: SO2 prevents oxidation and discourages unwanted bacterial activity, and pectolytic enzymes aid in the extraction of color and aroma, particularly if fermentation will not occur on the skins. Not all houses use enzymes.
Pressing: Generally, Tinta Negra destined for dry or medium dry styles of Three Year Old Madeira is pressed prior to fermentation, whereas grapes intended for sweeter styles are pressed during fermentation.
Fermentation: Fermentation occurs in large temperature-controlled stainless steel tanks. All houses rely on ambient rather than cultured yeasts. If fermentation occurs on the skins, a production company may choose to manually pump-over or the house may rely on autovinifiers to perform the task automatically. Fermentation temperatures for Tinta Negra range from a cool 68° F to nearly 90° F, depending on the house style.
Monitoring Residual Sugar Levels: Depending on the desired sweetness of the final wine, the winemaker may allow fermentation to continue for a day to a week or more. During this period, the winemaker keeps careful watch over the level of remaining sugar by measuring density with a hydrometer.
Fortification: Once the wine achieves the desired level of sugar the winemaker adds wine alcohol (96% abv) to fortify the wine to at least 17% abv. Generally, producers add alcohol directly to the fermentation tank to fortify the wine. The range of sugar in “dry” wines can range from 25 to over 60 g/l, depending on the company.** Blandy’s Three Year Old “Duke of Sussex” Dry Madeira, for instance, weighs in at 50 g/l of residual sugar. Sweet wines may range from 100 to 140 g/l or more.
Clarification: After fortification, the wine is fined (usually with bentonite) and it may be filtered as well.
Estufagem: The fortified, clarified wine is now placed in an estufa for a period of 3 months. The estufas resemble stainless steel fermentation tanks, but they incorporate an interior heating element (either hot water coils or a heating “jacket”). During its time in the estufa, the wine heats to 45-50° C (113-122° F). The estufa process dates to 1794 and has earned a pretty bad rap, but the modern machines are sophisticated, and they keep wine circulating and temperatures even. The heat caramelizes sugars in the wine over time, and causes color to precipitate. Some houses may add tannins and enzymes to the wine in order to stabilize color.
The Cool Down: At the conclusion of the estufagem process, the wine must cool prior to being exposed to air, or severe oxidation and excessive volatile acidity may result. The wines typically cool to ambient temperature within 3 weeks, at which point they are clarified again. Justino’s, for instance, will often fine the wines at this point with a mixture of bentonite, silica gel, and gelatin. Sugar and alcohol levels may be corrected.
Following the cool-down, the wines are usually transferred to neutral casks of varying sizes to rest for the next 2-3 years.
Blending: Once the wine has rested, the winemaker will assemble a lote, or blend, on a small scale. Samples will be analyzed, tasted, corrected, and finally performed on a large scale. The blended wine rests for approximately 6 months. For a young Madeira, the blend may include some older wines to add complexity.
Cold Stabilization: The wine is transferred to a cold stabilization tank and held at -8° C (17.5° F) to remove tartrates prior to bottling.
IVBAM Approval: Prior to bottling, the IVBAM will taste and analyze samples of the finished wine. If approved, individually numbered seals will be issued for the wine.
Bottling: The wine is bottled within 6 months of the IVBAM’s approval. Bottling may not occur until 12 months after the conclusion of the estufagem process. No Madeira wine may be sold prior to October 31 of the second year following the harvest.

**For those looking for the numbers, there are some old regulations floating around that list residual sugar levels for each style of Madeira (i.e. Dry has 18-65 g/l, Medium Dry has 49-78 g/l, Medium Sweet has 78-96 g/l, Sweet has 96-135 g/l), but it is worth noting that the DOP regulations today do not stipulate exact grams per liter, but rather Baumé ranges (Dry <1.5°, Medium Dry=1-2.5°, Medium Sweet=2.5-3.5°, Sweet>3.5°).

Estufas and a new Robotic Lagar at Barbeito; an example of an anonymous producer's price list for grapes

Making the Wine: Crafting Canteiro Wines for the Long Haul

Every production company on the island reserves some Tinta Negra and all noble white grapes—Sercial, Boal, Verdelho, Malvasia, and Terrantez—for canteiro aging. Winemaking through fortification is in many ways identical to the steps outlined above, except that the noble grapes are generally pressed prior to the start of fermentation. Barbeito actually uses a robotic lagar and skin maceration for Malvasia, and Justino's is experimenting with similar skin macerations for the grape, but such treatment is uncommon. After fortification, the wines are transferred to neutral casks. Casks vary in size and origin, depending on the producer. The Madeira Wine Company and D'Oliveira use only American oak casks, the traditional wood used for Madeira barrels, as they believe it lends the wines better color and complexity. When asked how he might acquire additional barrels—i.e., who are you buying your used barrels from?—Luis D'Oliveira acted as though he did not understand the question. Justino's uses a mixture of American, Portuguese, and French oak--the latter in the form of used Cognac barrels. At Justino's, casks range from 300 liters to 650 liters—the traditional size—to immense 40,000 liter wooden vats. Barbeito uses only French oak.

Legally, Canteiro wines may be released after only two years in wood, but producers generally reserve this method for 5 Year Old, 10 Year Old, 15 Year Old, 20 Year Old, and vintage styles. Wines mature much more slowly in the canteiro method than in estufas, and often take a minimum five years to show an inkling of complexity. Sercial is often the slowest to develop, needing seven or eight years in cask before its character becomes apparent. During this lengthy cask aging, the island's warmth and humidity affects the wines, and canteiro rooms are often designed to naturally intensify heat, through large windows or specially designed roofs. The canteiro rooms usually get into the high 80s and low 90s during the summertime, with humidity levels around 70-90%. Evaporation accounts for a loss of around 5% each year; as the wines age sugar, alcohol, and acidity are concentrated. Blending processes for the 5, 10, 15, and 20 year old wines are similar to those outlined above. These age designations are averages rather than minimums, and some older and younger wines may be incorporated into each. If they carry a variety on the label, it is still likely that a little Tinta Negra is present, as regulations permit up to 15% of other grapes in the wine—a concession not afforded to vintage-dated varietal wines.

Regardless of the harvest outlook, a wine only reveals its potential for Frasqueira or Colheita quality after a lengthy period of aging. Unlike Port, Colheita (vintage-dated) wines may be released after only five years in cask, but few producers choose to produce this style with less than seven years of aging. True vintage Madeira, the Frasqueira, requires a minimum of twenty years in canteiro, but it may remain in cask for a century or more prior to bottling. Some producers choose to transfer certain old stocks to glass in order to halt the aging (and evaporation) process, but others will leave the wines in cask until the amount is so minimal as to be lost entirely to the angels' share in a few years.

As wines age slowly in cask, fruit gives way to oxidative flavors. Sotolon, a lactone produced through oxidation processes, is a powerfully aromatic compound responsible for some of the aromas of Sherry, Vin Jaune, and mature Madeira. The aroma of sotolon can be likened to curry (fenugreek) or maple syrup. Color darkens as sugars caramelize and the wines oxidize. Volatility is common. As the wines age for 20 or more years in cask, varietal differences begin to give way to a common universe of complex tertiary aromas.

When purchasing and drinking vintage wines, remember that they often remain in temperatures well into the 60s and 70s throughout their lives. Storage in a cool location is ideal, but these wines do not need to be kept in a 52° cellar. At home in Napa, I leave my bottles standing upright in my liquor cabinet, which rarely gets above 70° F. 64-68° is probably ideal. And do not drink them too cool, either. The storage temperature is ideal for enjoyment of vintage wines. Young wines, particularly dry styles, should be chilled.

Clockwise from top right: Tinta Negra cask sealed until 2014; Barbeito's Canteiro room; Complexa in barrel at one of D'Oliveira's Canteiro rooms

And Now, Some Ephemera:

At D’Oliveira’s public lodge in Funchal (one of three they use for aging) we sat down to an impressive flight of nearly 20 vintage wines, plus several basic 3-, 5-, and 10-year old selections, which are not imported. Big thanks to Luis d’Oliveira for his time and generosity, and to Mannie Berk at Rare Wine Company for setting up our appointment. We tasted all five noble white varieties, but could only stare longingly at barrels in the back labeled “Complexa”, “Triunfo”, and “Bastardo”. Some standouts are below. I detest scoring wines. Scores are out of five possible stars.

1989 Sercial: Amber-colored, with Scotch-like notes of tar, turpentine, hay, malt, and iodine. Assertive style of Sercial, with serious acidity. ***

1977 Terrantez: Bottled in 2010, copper-colored with a rich body yet a refreshing, medium dry finish—somewhere between Verdelho and Sercial—and heady nose of citrus, passion fruit, and bitter almond. Volatile acidity apparent. ****

1971 Sercial: Dark amber color, with sassafras, licorice, herbs, grass, and lemon rind notes. Concentrated, full, and sky-high acidity. ****

1937 Sercial: Burnt caramel color with a green rim, hot tar and sweet caramel on the nose, toffee candy and lemon sours. Long, nutty and sheer on the finish. ****

1932 Verdelho: Mahoghany color, light-framed but age gives it concentration, dried flowers and savory spice on the nose, white pepper, botanical notes, prune, finish is driven by acidity. *****

1912 Verdelho: Sweet attack but dry on the finish, razor-sharp, beautiful and vibrant aromatics of sassafras, geranium, lemon, butter praline. ***

1907 Malvazia: Burnt amber color with a yellow rim. Sweet cereal grains, nougat, oxidized apple and walnut, fruitcake, and hay. Sweet but mellow, with a delicate yet long finish. ***

1875 Moscatel: Coffee-colored, this is a different animal altogether, with markedly lower acid than other Madeira varieties. High concentration of savory, textural umami notes, sautéed porcini and sweet soy, corn chip. The palate is liquid chocolate, fig and raisin. Huge. Sweet. Powerful. *****
*D’Oliveira is the last firm on Madeira with stocks of Moscatel, and 1900 is their last remaining vintage.

1850 Verdelho: Coffee-colored, utterly seamless. Incredibly intense on the nose. Finish is totally dry, with walnut, cedar, tobacco and black cherry flavors. A testament to longevity and the concentration of age, but I preferred the 1932. ****

All photos courtesy Kali Stamp --lovely wife, photographer, fellow traveler and imbiber of wine

Acid-Tripping in the Pfalz

Matt Stamp — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 17:19:00 GMT

Germany established its first tourist “wine route”, the Deutsche Weinstrasse, in 1935 in the Pfalz. The road officially spans 85 km, beginning just south of Worms and ending at the “Wine Gate” (Deutsches Weintor) in Schweigen, at the French border. The Pfalz’s most historic wineries and best-known vineyards are located in the region’s northern sector, the Mittelhaardt. Life appears to move quietly along in pleasant little townships like Forst, Gimmeldingen and Deidesheim; these picturesque villages, marked by church steeples, sleepy town squares and other bygone charms, are a far cry from the industrialized Rhine River Valley a few miles to the east. The winemaking towns of the Mittelhaardt nestle into the gentle eastern flank of the Haardt hills in a tidy line and look outward over the broad, flat expanse of the Rhine River Valley. The eastern edge of the Palatinate Forest marks the crests of the Haardt hills—which rarely rise higher than 500 meters—and acts as a barrier to wind, casting long evening shadows over those vineyards closest to the ridge. The southern portion of the wine route, the Südliche Weinstrasse, had long been casually disregarded due to the indifferent quality of its wines, but a few select producers—Ökonomierat Rebholz, Friedrich Becker, Dr. Wehrheim and Herbert Messmer—have launched the reputations of villages like Birkweiler, Siebeldingen, Schweigen, and Burrweiler.

Looking eastward toward Forst and the Rhine Valley from Kirchenstück

With 22,734 ha of vineyards, the Pfalz is the second largest anbaugebiet in Germany and the country’s largest producer of Riesling. Over a quarter of Germany’s 20,627 ha of Riesling vines are located in the Pfalz—in fact, the region has more acreage devoted to the grape (5,567 ha) than the entire country of Australia (4,256 ha), or the nations of France (3,350 ha) and Austria (1,643 ha) combined! From these thousands of hectares, the Pfalz produces a fuller-bodied style of Riesling with a higher degree of alcohol than its northerly counterparts. The wines reflect the region’s uniformly sunny and dry climate: the Pfalz’s 1289 sunshine hours (April to October) and 21 inches of rain annually are among the highest and lowest, respectively, of Germany’s regions famous for Riesling. Of course, Riesling is not the whole story. Like its northern neighbor Rheinhessen, the Pfalz has a wide variety of grapes in production, including Spätburgunder, Grauburgunder, Weissburgunder, Dornfelder, Scheurebe, Müller-Thurgau, and Portugieser. Sauvignon Blanc is gaining ground as its popularity increases domestically, and one can even find a little Sangiovese hiding amidst the region’s vineyards. Underneath this myriad of grapes is a complex layering of soil and bedrock formed over the uncountable years of geological time.

Soil and Riesling

Some 250 million years ago, primordial rivers swept alluvial sediment—sand, clay, and silt—into the vast plain that would one day become the Pfalz. Compacted over eons and colored by iron oxide, red sandstone today provides the foundation for the Palatinate forest and the Haardt hills. Additionally, volcanic activity pushed magma to the surface of the earth’s crust, resulting in layers of basalt, and some 50 million years ago tectonic activity and the rise of the Alps caused the Rhine basin to collapse. The Haardt hills on the west and the Black Forest on the east rose sharply as the land between them sunk and filled with seawater. Over time, the area dried up again, but traces of the sea remained: calcareous deposits from this period of submersion formed limestone (kalkstein). As millions of years passed slowly by, water, erosion and wind filled the Rhine basin with sand, gravel, and loess—the latter is the Pfalz’s youngest soil, arriving after the last ice age. During that glacial age, rivers of ice advanced into Europe, grinding primary rock beneath them into pulverized, fine grains. As the glaciers retreated with warming temperatures, this dusty combination of pulverized rock and other small sediments—loess—was unleashed upon the winds, and much of the soil settled beneath the Palatinate Forest in Pfalz. Once covered by vegetation, the loess held firmly in place; today it is one of the few truly arable soil types still cherished for wine production. Sandstone, limestone, basalt, loess, loam, gravel, red slate, clay—the Pfalz, like Alsace, its neighbor to the south, has an incredibly abundant wealth of soils and strata. VDP producers in the Pfalz and elsewhere often label a middle tier of Riesling wines by soil type, trumpeting its importance to the consumer. The relationship between Riesling and the patchwork maze of soils beneath it is suddenly layered with meaning: can the soil supersede the climate?

The refrain from scientific quarters has been pretty loud: you can’t taste rocks. This, of course, leaves sommeliers, who make a living pretending to taste rocks (and occasionally licking them too, for good measure) look rather silly. And there is no grape in the world that is more associated with the soil beneath it than Riesling. Think about the last time you blinded German Riesling: just how automatic was that “Slate!” minerality call? Some relationship between the soil and the vine, something beyond the simple control of vigor, had to lie underneath. If the focal point of the VDP’s Grosse Lage/Erste Lage category is site specificity, rock had to matter. So the German scientists went looking for terroir. In a seminar at the 2012 Mainzer Weinbörse (VDP Fair), Dr. Ulrich Fischer spelled out his results from years of study on the subject: the type of bedrock seems to make a significant impact on the sensory qualities of Riesling. While the relationship is perhaps not direct—a wine grown in chalk may not actually taste like chalk—it is definable by the presentation of acidity and aromatic components in the wine. For instance, Riesling grown in alkaline soils like limestone and chalk will generally produce a wine of higher pH and lower perceived acidity than Riesling grown on sand or slate. Even though calcium and potassium compete for space in the soil, alkaline soils in Germany tend to be higher in potassium content than acidic ones, and both calcium carbonate—the building block of limestone—and potassium act as a buffer to acidity in wine. In fact, a method of natural de-acidification used by Riesling producers is a pre-fermentation cold soak, during which the must leaches potassium from the grape skins. Potassium and tartaric acid will then precipitate out of the must as potassium tartrate. Heck, calcium carbonate is widely used to relieve heartburn. Are these findings applicable beyond Riesling? In Burgundy, Sancerre or Champagne vignerons may scratch their heads, and promote the opposite view in regards to their calcareous soils. In fact, most French (and other) sources regard alkaline soils as a propeller of acidity in wine; Germans winemakers seem to unanimously disagree, at least in regards to Riesling. Perhaps the buffering effect of calcareous soils, measured against slate—which does not buffer acidity at all—is just as marked as the difference between limestone and clay in the Côte d’Or. Most agree that heavier, wetter clay soils produce wines of higher pH. Like Dr. Fischer, Dr. Peter Böhm of the Terroir Hessen project in Germany is conducting an ongoing series of research into the relationship between Riesling and soil. His studies seem to confirm the buffering effects of calcium carbonate in calcareous soils, and show that loess, marl and clay soils tend to reduce the perception of acid in the finished wines as well. Sandy soils, like slate, emphasize acidity, as they do not have any significant buffering effect on pH. As Dr. Fischer proposes, “Acidity might be the most significant indicator of terroir.” But is it the only one?

Dr. Fischer conducted a number of winemaking trials focusing on different soil compositions within a single region. The Pfalz presented an obvious opportunity: in one trial, Bassermann-Jordan vinified dry vintage 2004 wines from two vineyards, Deidesheimer Kieselberg and Forster Pechstein, in exactly the same fashion. The main variable was the soil composition: Kieselberg rests on sandstone (buntsandstein) soils and contains a high proportion of gravel, whereas Pechstein is characterized by a basalt bedrock and loam. The two sites, only a mile apart, yielded pronounced aromatic differences: Pechstein gave the impression of exotic fruit (passion fruit, mango and cantaloupe) and grapefruit, whereas Kieselberg produced a wine of less intense aromatics, more vegetal notes, harsher acid, and a generally harder mouthfeel. On the other hand, a second experiment compared Riesling from Ürziger Würzgarten (in the Mosel) and Birkweiler Kastanienbusch (in the southern Pfalz). Both sites share similar bedrocks of red slate, or rotliegend, yet they are over 100 miles apart. Despite the Mosel’s cooler climate, perception of aroma and acid between the two wines was remarkably similar. The major difference in taste—a more substantial bitterness in the Pfalz Riesling—could simply be attributed to its higher alcohol content, as ethanol enhances our perception of astringency. Further experiments were conducted in warmer years—2005 Rieslings from Kieselberg and Pechstein were less dramatically different—and across vintages. Whether produced in the Mosel or elsewhere in Germany, wines from blue slate delivered common apple, citrus, vegetative and metallic characteristics, yet Würzgarten maintained a more vibrant sweetness and cantaloupe fruit, akin to the wines of the Roter Hang. A relationship between floral character in Riesling and sand emerged as well. Sandy soils are unable to retain water, encouraging premature leaf senescence. Leaf yellowing and loss subjects the grape clusters to sunlight, and increased solar radiation promotes the development of terpenes—the root of floral aromas—in the grapes. On the other hand, Dr. Fischer and Dr. Böhm both commented on sand’s tendency to produce Riesling of lower fruit intensity and lessened overall aromatic character. Is a simultaneous heightened development of terpenes and lowered intensity of aromatics for a single soil type a contradiction in terms?

Dr. Fischer’s study sheds light on the importance of bedrock, and gives a corresponding nod to the importance of vine age and root depth. In the Roter Hang, famous throughout the wine world as the classic zone of quality production in the Rheinhessen, the red slope is reputably composed of slate, yet a walk through the vineyards reveals seemingly fertile, if very red, clay. Rotliegend slate is the bedrock underneath the clay, into which the vine roots anchor. In Westhofen to the south, Klaus Peter Keller has grafted a vineyard block of 70 year-old Silvaner vines in Morstein over to Pinot Noir. In Morstein the topsoil is clay, but by grafting the Keller estates hopes to retain the nearly 50 meter-deep root system, which digs into the weathered limestone strata beneath. If bedrock can profoundly influence the aromatic qualities and acidic shape of a wine, then wines from single sites should and will undergo metamorphoses in character as their roots bore through the topsoil and into the rockier layers underneath.

Soil color also plays a part in shaping the wine. The color of soil correlates to the amount of organic material it contains and its ability to retain water—darker soils tend to hold water longer, and contain more organic matter. An old viticultural maxim dictates that red varieties grow best in red soils, and white varieties grow best in white soils. This may hold true: Dr. Hans Schultz, Director of the Geisenheim Institute, suggests, “Soil color determines the amount of energy reflected back into the fruiting zone and the amount of energy kept in the soil. It indirectly determines thus fruit temperature and soil temperature. The spectral signature of the light reflected depends on soil color and triggers the activity of certain enzymes in the fruit – for example those involved in color formation.” Red soils encourage the development of pigment. In addition, the darker the soil, the more it tends to retain—rather than reflect—heat. Thus, vines planted in the blue-black Hünsruck slate of the Mosel receive far less direct solar radiation during the warmest months of summer than those planted in red clay, loess, or chalkier soils; but the slate keeps the vines warmer at night. Lighter soils, on the other hand, encourage more photosynthesis throughout the growing season as they intensify the sunlight hitting the canopy.

What does any of this really mean? Soil science as it relates to viticulture might as well be a discipline in its infancy; I often think that the scientists who conduct these trials may never actually understand the spirit of wine; conversely we sommeliers usually make only a halfhearted attempt at grasping the underlying science. We worry that science cheapens the art and often make only basic inquiries. In our wines we tolerate the lack of absolutes but we require them when we attempt to understand the viticulture. This is the effect of this climate, or of that type of soil. We try to reduce everything to a single canned answer, in the way we often memorize grape varieties or synonyms or sub-regions, and go crazy when we hear conflicting answers to seemingly straightforward questions, such as, “What is the effect on wine acidity in limestone soils?” Do the French argue that chalk and limestone promote acidity because their grape-growing regions most notable for these soil types tend to be in the north, anyway? And what about clay, for that matter? It reduces acidity, unless it prevents the grapes from ripening fully, which is what heavy clay tends to do…. Maybe the scientists should revisit Occam. Or should we resort to a mad lib, courtesy of sommelier Steven Grubbs: "I'm not a chemist, but___________although____________and____________unless_________. Who knows, though?" Was it Fitzgerald who remarked that the mark of a first-rate mind is the ability to hold two contradictory ideas at once?

Dry vs. Sweet

All of this brings us back to the Pfalz, Germany’s most diverse geological landscape, and another question: is dry Riesling the best lens through which to view terroir? 2007 marked the first year in modern times in which dry German Riesling supplanted those at the sweeter end of the scale in quantity of production. Nowhere is the focus on dry Riesling clearer than in the Pfalz. In 1996, the region launched the VDP’s “Grosses Gewächs” concept; among the best producers today—with the notable exception of Müller-Catoir—sweet wines have become an afterthought. Do sugar and ripeness obscure the vineyard? At Geisenheim, scientific studies suggest that the distinctions of “terroir” are muted at Öchsle levels above 100°, an argument that dovetails nicely with Dr. Fischer’s research on reduced sensory differences in hotter, shorter growing seasons like 2005. Even if true—and we often argue that ripeness and minerality are on a see-saw—this certainly does not preclude classic Spätlese or Auslese. Producers can pick for the latter category at 92° Öchsle in the Pfalz. Dry “GG” wines are harvested at Spätlese level anyway, and one producer in Kallstadt, Koehler-Ruprecht, harvests every trocken wine the estate releases at Auslese ripeness, and sorts out the Prädikat labeling in the winery. Must weights are skyrocketing in general in the modern, hotter Germany. In the Pfalz, the growing season is twenty days longer than it was two decades ago—Riesling harvest dates may be earlier as a result, but must weight is increased. Average acidity for Riesling in the 1980s clocked in at 15.5 g/l, whereas in a modern high acid vintage like 2010 we only see seven, eight, or nine g/l of acid in the Pfalz. Does the wine still need the sugar for balance? Dry Riesling has become the choice of the German consumer, but sommeliers and wine professionals in Germany’s biggest export market—the USA—are not wholly convinced. Paul Grieco, James Beard Award Winner and “Summer of Riesling” evangelist, considers Spätlese to be the best conveyer of terroir, and Terry Theise has been a vocal critic of dry German Riesling for some time. If the definition of terroir includes a historical component, as it must, then one may argue that the current crop of dry Rieslings has an antecedent dating back to before the Second World War. Conversely, the most penetrating criticism is the question of age: will anyone be enjoying the new Grosses Gewächs bottlings a half-century down the road? In the cellars of Bürklin-Wolf, we tasted a magnificent 1971 Riesling Auslese from Leinhöhle, a small vineyard in Deidesheim sandwiched between the more prominent sites of Langenmorgen and Kieselberg. The current owner, Bettina Bürklin, switched the estate’s focus to dry wines when she took over the estate in 1992. While top dry bottlings in recent vintages showed well, it was difficult to imagine the young wines holding on like the 1971. On the other hand, Bettina seemed a shade dismissive of the Leinhöhle, calling it, in a word, “sweet”.

Top Producers and Sites in the Pfalz

Collectively, Bürklin-Wolf, Bassermann-Jordan and Reichsrat von Buhl are the “3 Bs”, long regarded as standard bearers for quality in the Pfalz. These are not small estates: Bürklin-Wolf holds 85 ha of vineyards, Bassermann-Jordan has 49 ha, and von Buhl maintains 55 ha. Yes, a thick air of commercialism hangs over all three—tours are likely led by export managers or other salesmen, trotting out the usual buzzwords—but their contributions to the historical development of the Pfalz as a premier wine region is not in doubt. Mid-tier efforts from Bürklin-Wolf, a recent convert to biodynamic viticulture, remain reasonably distinctive, and wines from their top sites, like Forster Pechstein and Forster Kirchenstück, can be exemplary. The 1828 Royal Bavarian Land Registry, a principal source for the VDP’s current classification, marked Kirchenstück (“Church Parcel”) as the Pfalz’s top vineyard. It is certainly the warmest. When we arrived at Kirchenstück on the first day of May in 2012, flowering had already begun; at Rüdesheim in the Rheingau budbreak had only occurred about ten days beforehand! Even in Forst itself, just a short walk east of the vineyard, almond trees often flower two weeks after a single tree within the vineyard itself blooms. Only eight producers—including all “3 Bs”—have a slice of this treasured 3.7 ha vineyard, and Bürklin-Wolf’s bottling is perennially among the top wines of the Pfalz. While we were not offered an opportunity to taste the wine while visiting the estate, we did have an opportunity to compare all three producers’ efforts from Pechstein. For me, the Bürklin-Wolf 2009 Pechstein “GC”—Bürklin Wolf labels their top wines with shorthand for “Grand Cru” rather than “Grosses Gewächs”, a practice tolerated by the VDP—came out on top. Pechstein, a southeast-facing, languid slope comprising 12 ha, sits on basalt bedrock and red sandstone. There are volcanic rocks closer to the surface here too: workers in the past actually carried dark basalt stones from further afield into the vineyard in an effort to improve the soil’s capacity for heat retention. Bürklin-Wolf’s bottling displayed the character attributed to Riesling grown in basalt: mineral grip, spice, exotic fruit, and powerful concentration. Bassermann-Jordan’s 2009 Pechstein showed fuller fruit notes, plunging headlong into pineapple and passion fruit, but perhaps lacked some of Bürklin-Wolf’s nerve. Von Buhl’s Pechstein 2009 also had a luster of forward fruit, but tied it together with a fiery mineral finish. At this level, all three estates can make excellent wines, but if there was a period during which the “3 Bs” had a lock on premier quality in the region, that period is over.

Inside the cellars at Büklin-Wolf. One hundred years ago, an inch of water would have covered the floor, but the water table in Pfalz has receded.

Ascendant producers in the Pfalz include A. Christmann. From his family’s estate in Gimmeldingen, Steffen Christmann—current head of the national VDP—is crafting concentrated, dry wines that are among the best the Pfalz has to offer. Christmann firmly believes that dry Riesling is the modus operandi for the region, and he produces clean, botrytis-free wines with little residual sugar—never more than 5 g/l—hoping that this will give voice to his vineyards. Christmann’s 2010 Grosses Gewächs Reiterpfad (a Ruppertsberg site) seems at odds with Dr. Fischer’s suggestion that vineyards planted in sandstone should produce Riesling of harsher acid and tighter aromatics; the wine seems rather lush and full, showcasing tropical fruits and elderflower aromatics. The acid, however, was off the charts and completely in line with the suggested lack of buffering in sand. A Königsbacher Ölberg 2011 bottling seemed rounder and more giving—was this the presence of calcium carbonate in the soil rearing its head, or simply the gesture of a more forward vintage? A neighboring site, Idig, is the source of Christmann’s finest wines and a near-monopole for the estate. We tasted a decade’s worth of Riesling vintages from his 5 ha plot: its creamy, custard-like palate develops slowly over time in the bottle, and notes of lemon oil and something akin to thyme flowers seem to remain consistent throughout the young wines. The wines’ acidities remained electric despite a presence of chalk in Idig’s marl soil, but flesh and weight balanced the nerve. These wines are as clear a testament to the quality of dry wines in the Pfalz as can be found. For me, there is only one other grower currently producing dry Pfalz Riesling with this level of skill, albeit with a more austere approach: Rebholz.

As we approached Ökonomierat Rebholz’s winery in Siebeldingen, we crossed a piddling brook called, rather hopefully, the Queich River, which marked the French border from the mid-1790s until the first Napoléon’s final defeat in 1815. Hansjörg Rebholz—whose grandfather Eduard held the honorary title “Ökonomierat” (agricultural counselor) and positioned the winery toward its current natural approach, eschewing chaptalization and süssreserve—poured a flight of Grosses Gewächs Riesling, Weissburgunder, and Spätburgunder from the winery’s best sites: Kastanienbusch and Im Sonnenschein. The Rebholz Riesling style showcases extraction, depth, and concentration, yet the wines display remarkable mineral austerity. Yellow fruits, smoke, and saline flavors are a common undercurrent. All of the 2010 wines displayed the characteristically high acidity of the vintage, yet there were differences from site to site. Rebholz bottles both a “GG” Riesling from “Ganz Horn”, a small vineyard integrated into Im Sonnenschein in the 1971 wine law, and a Riesling from the larger vineyard. In most of Im Sonnenschein, a shell limestone known as muschelkalk predominates, but in Ganz Horn (“horn of the goose”) the limestone gives way to sedimentary layers of sand and gravel. In tune with the German rationale, the acidity in the 2010 Ganz Horn Riesling is much more energetic and sheer, whereas the 2010 Im Sonnenschein, grown just a stone’s throw away, is rounder overall.

The Im Sonnenschein wines are excellent, but Rebholz’s most cherished plot lies in the 86 ha Kastanienbusch (“chestnut bush”) vineyard outside Birkweiler. Enclosed by folds of the Haardt hills on all sides, the vineyard itself is like a hidden viticultural treasure, earmarked as a superior site in the 1828 Royal Bavarian Land Registry but dormant in quality until its resurrection by producers like Rebholz and Wehrheim in the last decade of the 20th century. It faces due south. The 30° slope is brick-red with slate and sandstone; Rebholz’s 2 ha of vines, replanted from 1988 to 1992, lie halfway up the hill. The dry wines from this site age well over the short term—a 2001 tasted at the winery displayed almost Mosel-like filigree, with sweet herb, spearmint, lemon marmalade, honey, and candied fruit notes. As we sipped the wine, Hansjörg relayed a common analogy in Germany for the trajectory of Riesling: at three years or less, Riesling is in its youth and the aromas are dominated by simple esters; at four to five years the Riesling enters a rather uncomfortable adolescence of petrol; and from five years on the Riesling matures into manhood as terpenes in the wine finally reveal their potential. Does Rebholz believe that sweet Spätlese might offer a better view of his vineyards in the glass? Hardly. In the winery’s marketing literature, Hansjörg writes, “With our wines, we choose to counter the outdated fashion for sweet wines and indifference toward terroir,” suggesting that sweetness and terroir are almost an inconceivable union.

Rotliegend soil from Kastanienbusch

Looking north toward Kastanienbusch

Rebholz uses cultured yeasts in his production, but others ferment their wines “spontaneously”, relying on ambient yeast populations. Andreas Hütwohl, Assistant Director at Von Winning, a winery in Deidesheim under the same ownership as Reichsrat von Buhl and Bassermann-Jordan, explained how the winery prefers “natural” yeasts and oak, stipulating that the weaker ambient yeasts require the interplay of oxygen to be effective. Rainer Lingenfelder in Grosskarlbach echoed the necessity of air for successful spontaneous fermentation, but achieves this result by using an old basket press to introduce oxygen into the must during a cold-soak, rather than utilizing casks for the actual fermentation. Dr. Schultz of Geisenheim and others downplay the “natural-ness” of ambient yeasts, arguing that they are winery—not vineyard—yeasts, and therefore they obscure rather than augment the natural projection of the terroir. On the other hand, some of Germany’s great estates—J.J. Prüm, Keller, Schäfer-Fröhlich, Wittmann, Bürklin-Wolf, and the talented newcomers of Thörle—indulge in the practice. Whether ambient yeasts inhibit or encourage terroir, the wines seem generally less fruity and more sulfuric. Ambient yeast populations actually produce sulfur as a byproduct of fermentation, according to Schultz. For Von Winning’s more everyday wines, released under the Dr. Deinhard label, they use tried-and-true cultured yeasts and stainless steel; for the estate’s top wines, the producer employs spontaneous fermentation in a moderate proportion of new oak barrels, an uncommon site in Riesling cellars. When Von Winning’s management argues that wood is a traditional medium for aging Riesling, they are correct, but the vessels of choice historically were larger, neutral casks—the viertelstück (300 liters), halbstück (600 liters), stück (1200 liters), and doppelstück (2400 liters), not new François Frères barrels. Strangely, Hütwohl insisted that “GG” Riesling in recent vintages sees only a small proportion of new 500 liter barrels, while simultaneously pulling a barrel sample of Kalkofen Grosses Gewächs 2011 out of a 225 liter barrique for us to taste. Spontaneously fermented or not, Riesling aged in small new wood barrels is just not to my taste.

Some Final Questions

Riesling is not the only game in town—Rebholz’s Weissburgunder can be revelatory with bottle age, Becker’s Spätburgunder is among Germany’s most highly lauded, and Lingenfelder produces excellent examples, both dry and sweet, of the “son of Riesling”, Scheurebe—but Riesling is the grape by which the Pfalz can be most clearly judged. We love Riesling because it is transparent. As producers label mid-level Riesling wines by soil type—kalkstein, buntsandstein, rotliegend, muschelkalk—bedrock is pushed toward the consumer, demanding that we notice and discern the subtle differences in limestone and basalt, slate and sand. Is this just marketing, or do the Germans believe that the wine-buying public can achieve this level of sophistication? Are we looking for a thread among the dozens of producers throughout Germany who bottle a "kalkstein" Riesling where one simply does not exist? What difference does a slight natural buffering of pH make against a larger framework of techniques—bâtonnage, barriques, cold soaks, de-acidification, higher levels of residual sugar, etc.—employed in the service of rounder wines? Perhaps substituting "9 g/l of residual sugar" for "kalkstein" on a label might be a little more meaningful, if less poetic. Besides, I believe that we are only beginning to understand the soil's potential to buffer acidity and affect aroma. As there is little agreement on the buffering capacity of calcium carbonate outside Germany, I think that a "grand unified theory" approach is perhaps misguided. We may find totally different results for the same fundamental soil types throughout the world. Different grapes may behave differently. The German studies may turn out to be true, but only in relation to German soils and Riesling. Alsace's Clos Ste. Hune vineyard is composed of muschelkalk—I wonder what opinion Trimbach might have to offer regarding calcium? If and when a grand unified theory of soil and wine acidity emerges, it will probably take up more than a single 3x5 notecard.

A Quick Guide to Tax and Deductions for the Wine Professional

Matt Stamp — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 12:51:00 GMT

IMPORTANT NOTE: This article was written in 2012, and the US Federal tax laws changed significantly in 2017—especially with regard to individual deductions. We highly recommend that anyone who has a sole proprietorship or corporation, or is itemizing deductions, see a tax professional in their state. No consideration is made in this article for other countries' tax laws.

Many sommeliers, at some point or another in their careers, begin to earn personal business income from various consulting projects. Some sommeliers earn most or all of their income from a personal business—i.e., one in which you are not employed by another, but rather working for yourself, submitting invoices or other billing to clients. In such situations, the sommelier is personally responsible for paying all state and federal taxes on his or her business income. Uncle Sam’s share can get hefty, particularly when you realize that you not only have to pay your typical share—the amount that would normally be automatically withdrawn from a paycheck—but you have to pay the employer’s share too, since you don’t have one. We recommend that all sommeliers who expect some amount of consulting or other self-employment income not including taxed wages, salary, or tips) seek the advice of a professional accountant in order to set up a business entity—Corporation, Unincorporated Business, Partnership, or Limited Liability Company—under which you can report annual income and claim deductions. When reporting against 1099 personal business income, you can claim expenses as full business deductions. On the other hand, employees receiving W2 income may only claim expenses as itemized deductions, which are subject to some reduction. Following are some general pointers on what you can and cannot claim as a tax deduction, and simple tips on making this whole process a little easier. Also, keep in mind that the following advice applies to federal tax returns; most states follow the same guidelines but some differences may exist.

1. KEEP METICULOUS RECORDS! This should go without saying, but be sure to keep copies of everything: client invoices, receipts, bank records, and any and all other documents relating to either business revenue or planned deductions. Keep a detailed ledger detailing your business revenue—an Excel sheet is pretty handy for this—and make sure all planned deductions are itemized: who, what, where, and for what business purpose are the standard questions an auditor will ask for any claimed expense. Records may be kept as hard copy or in electronic storage, but if you take the latter route be sure to regularly back up files. Generally, business records must be kept on hand for seven years, and these will be absolutely necessary in the event of an audit by the IRS.

2. KEEP BUSINESS AND PERSONAL FINANCES SEPARATE! This will really just make things easier for you in the long run. Separate bank accounts are a wise decision, particularly as your consulting business income grows. Consider keeping a separate credit card for the sole purpose of business expenses.

3. YOUR HOME OFFICE MAY BE ELIGIBLE FOR A TAX DEDUCTION. If you work out of your home in any capacity, you may be able to claim a deduction for your home office, but guidelines and requirements are pretty strict. In order to claim this deduction, you must typically use a section of your home regularly and exclusively as your principal place of work. A separate room (an office or study) is the best bet, but a portion of a larger space may be claimed as a home office if it is not used for any other living purposes. For instance, I do an awful lot of work at my kitchen table, but alas, I also eat, so no home office deduction for me. The home office deduction can apply to either rented or owned properties. If you are an owner, know that claiming a home office as a tax deduction may cause part of any gain on the sale of your home to be subject to income taxes. In addition to the home office tax deduction itself, you should be able to deduct a proportionate amount from any utility or internet bills. The proportion is determined by the size of the office in comparison to the overall home.

4. TRAVEL EXPENSES MAY BE ELIGIBLE FOR DEDUCTION. Since we often use our own cars for business travel—conducting paid tastings, meeting with clients, etc.—the mileage to and from our office is considered business mileage, and is tax deductible. The amount of the deduction per mile is computed annually by the IRS; for 2012 the published rate is $0.555 per mile. Alternately, you could claim a deduction based on the cost to operate the car, computing expenses for fuel, repairs, insurance, and depreciation; but this gets tricky if you are also using the car for day-to-day life. Claiming mileage is simple in comparison; just be sure to keep a log of your trips, detaling miles traveled, the actual mileage of the car, and the purpose of the trip. I keep a little log book in my car, and make it a point to quickly jot these details down before I leave the car. If you are employed, the cost of travel between your home and your place of work is not deductible.

5. BE CAREFUL WITH MEALS AND ENTERTAINMENT! If there is a demonstrable business purpose for a dinner out or another form of entertainment, you may claim a deduction, but only for 50% of the total cost of the meal or other expenditure. Auditors love to look closely at things that seem like they might be a little too much fun and too little business, so detailed record-keeping is again a must here.

6. WINE PURCHASES CAN BE A TAX DEDUCTION. For sommeliers, many wine purchases should be tax-deductible regardless of whether you are employed or in business for yourself, although the amount you are able to deduct may be less if you are employed. An auditor will look closely at any purchase of alcohol—keep the receipts and be very clear with the business purpose. Certainly, wines purchased to serve at a tasting are deductible, but so are wines that we purchase simply to maintain our skills and provide our clients with expert guidance.

7. HEALTH INSURANCE CAN BE DEDUCTIBLE. Deductions for health insurance and contributions to a retirement plan are deductible, but the manner of deduction depends on the entity in which you conduct your business.

8. OTHER DEDUCTIBLE BUSINESS COSTS. Other standard business expenses are deductible, provided the records are there. Office machinery, paper, tools of the sommelier trade, and other standard business expenses can be deducted against 1099 consulting income.

9. EXAMS AND OTHER FEES. Fees for professional exams (like the Court of Master Sommeliers examinations) should be deductible by all sommeliers regardless of whether they are employed or in business for themselves. Professional organization fees (like the Guild of Sommeliers’ annual membership fee) are deductible. Costs for seminars, tastings, or other educational events designed to keep your skills sharp are deductible as well.

The above guidelines apply to sommeliers and other wine professionals. If you are employed in a wine and food establishment, some of the above expenses may be deductible as an itemized deduction (employee business expense). Keep in mind, these are just some basic guidelines. Seeking the advice of a professional to help prepare your taxes is highly recommended.

The author's father, Wesley Stamp, is a Certified Public Accountant and contributed to the above article.

Italy's Adriatic Coast (Part 2): Marche and Abruzzo

Matt Stamp — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 12:11:00 GMT

Marche and Abruzzo

Verdicchio, Castelli di Jesi and Matelica

Driving south from Verona along the Adriatic Coast, the land flattens as we pass through the fertile plains of Emilia-Romagna only to rise up again, jutting and carving upwards into the sky. The coastal areas in Veneto and Emilia-Romagna are unremarkably level, but in the Marche the land becomes mountainous and hilly; the central Apennines push out toward the sea before the chain veers westward in southern Italy. We arrived in Ancona, the regional capital of Marche, some four hours after departing Verona. Founded by Greeks—“Ancona” is derived from the Greek word for “elbow”, a reference to the shape of its curved coastline—the city and its harbor served as an important Mediterranean port under Imperial Roman rule. After the fall of Rome, Ancona fell to barbarians prior to the arrival of Charlemagne, King of the Franks, who conquered the region in the last decades of the eighth century. During the Carolingian period, the term marca—a frontier region—appears, and the region’s modern name derives from the “Marches” of Ancona, Fermo and Camerino. Ancona today is a leading port for Italy’s fishing fleet, and many types of pesce arrive at its docks daily: branzino, red mullet, scampi, turbot, monkfish, clams, sea bream, sardines, cod, hake, and more. It is fitting that, so near to such an abundant catch, one of Italy’s most distinctive white grapes grows.

The Castelli di Jesi, a series of fortified medieval hilltop towns (rather than castles) connected by wheat fields, olive trees and the Verdicchio vine, are a 30-minute drive south and inland from Ancona. The DOC Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi requires a minimum 85% Verdicchio for the wines—the better producers tend to make pure varietal wines—and with lowered yields and a minimum eighteen months of aging the wines may qualify for DOCG Riserva status from the 2009 harvest onward. DOCG wines are bianco tranquillo, but DOC wines may be still, spumante, or passito in style. Classico and Classico Superiore wines are produced in towns along the southern bank of the Misa River, which cuts through the appellation on its path toward the sea. There are about 2500 ha of vineyards and 200 producers in the DOC, but ten large houses make nearly 80% of the wine. Contrast this to the Verdicchio di Matelica, a DOC (DOCG for Riserva) zone further inland, near the Umbrian border. There are 323 ha of vines in the appellation, and only fourteen total producers, including Belisario (the co-operative) and Bisci, the largest private estate in Matelica and the standard-bearer for quality. Matelica experiences a more continental climate than the Castelli di Jesi, and it inhabits the only valley—the Esino—in the Marche that runs parallel to the coast, protected from maritime influence. The vineyards in Matelica are generally higher in elevation (320-400 meters versus 200-350 meters in the Castelli di Jesi) and they experience a greater diurnal temperature variation. In the hottest days of August, daytime temperatures can reach 40° C (104° F), but they plummet down to 20° C (68° F) at night. In the vineyards of the Castelli di Jesi, August temperatures are more consistent from day to night, rarely extending beyond the 30-35° C (86-95° F) range. Harvests in Matelica often begin ten days or more after workers start picking Verdicchio in the Castelli di Jesi. In general, Verdicchio harvests in the Marche begin in late August but may continue through mid-November, as producers look to coax added weight, intensity, and ripeness from the grape.

A strong argument exists for the inclusion of Verdicchio as a classic white wine grape of Italy, and it is without question the leading wine of the Marche. Despite the recent revelation that Trebbiano di Soave and Verdicchio are one in the same, the grape displays more aromatic definition and mineral precision in the Marche than in Veneto. The wines can be brilliantly green in color, even with age, and they have an elevated level of viscosity and weight underpinned by razor-sharp acidity. Alcohol levels can reach 14% with ease, particularly in the more serious bottlings. Good renditions show sour citrus and stone fruit aromas, and signature secondary aromas of watercress, romaine nibs, aniseed and bitter almond. The impression of minerality is high, especially in wines grown in the highly calcareous soils of Matelica. Common wisdom holds that Verdicchio di Matelica is fuller, tauter and more intense, whereas Castelli di Jesi offers softer, creamier, earlier-maturing wines; however, good Verdicchio from both appellations shows real potential for longevity—an attribute that sets it apart from many of the other autochthonous white grapes of Italy. In recognition of its distinction and qualities, Verdicchio enjoys increasing commercial success both in Italy and abroad, and one can expect to see and hear more about these wines in the future. Verdicchio will probably never experience the skyrocketing commercial success of 1970s Soave or 1980s Pinot Grigio, but one can expect that it will remain a mainstay of trendy Italian restaurants in major American markets for some time to come.

In the Castelli di Jesi, we visited the estates of Sartarelli and Bucci, both of whom are located in the Classico zone. Sartarelli, situated near the cooperative Moncaro between the townships of Poggio San Marcello and Montecarotto, has 60 ha of Verdicchio vineyards planted on a higher ridge in the appellation (300-350 meters above sea level). The estate produces approximately 300,000 bottles of Verdicchio annually, in four interpretations: the base Classico bottling, “Tralivio”, “Balciana”, and a passito dessert selection. The best and most classic expression is the “Tralivio” Classico Superiore—superiore requires a minimum 12% abv, rather than 11.5%—a powerful yet razor-sharp wine, nearly pea-green in color. The high amount of dry extract, coupled with over 14% alcohol, gives the wine a full body, but the persistent acidity cuts through any heaviness and leaves the wine feeling fresh, almost aloof. “Balciana” Classico Superiore, harvested as late as mid-November—when some of the grapes are likely affected by botrytis—pushes past 15% abv and has a spicier, rounder, slightly sweeter impression with intense aromas of licorice. In the weight, spice, and texture of the wine comparisons to Alsace might not be misplaced. Bucci’s wines, on the other hand, land with a softer and more elegant approach. Villa Bucci, in the commune of Ostra Vetere, is a working family farm with 30 ha of vineyards, and produces an almost Chablisienne style of Verdicchio. The “Villa Bucci” Riserva, aged for two years in large old botti, is the flagship wine of the estate: an understated yet high acidity and saline mouthfeel meet finely etched aromatics of tart green grape and green plum, almond and lemon balm. From 2010 forward, the wine will carry the DOCG seal. We tasted the 2007 at the estate, and the wine (while on point now) has a decade ahead of it, lending endorsement to the argument for the grape’s ageworthiness. So does Bisci’s “Vigneti Fogliano” 2007, a cru Verdicchio di Matelica we tasted out of magnum over lunch at Il Colle del Sole, a traditional agriturismo-ristorante in the hills above the appellation’s namesake commune. Bisci produces about 13,000 bottles of this heady yet precise wine. The wine is taut and modest in comparison to the 2008, a more expansive and almond-toned wine, but it is poised to deliver over the long run. Irregularly, Bisci produces “Senex”, a riserva bottling from the Fogliano vineyard, but unlike the “Vigneti Fogliano” 30% of the wine is aged in two- and three-year-old barriques for eight months. 1998, 2003, and the unreleased 2009—with the latter set to carry a DOCG seal—are the only vintages the estate has produced. Bisci intends to produce the “Senex” in the future without any wood, and at both Bucci and Sartarelli there was a noticeable—and refreshing—absence of new barrique. So many producers of white wines in Italy seem to succumb to the general temptation of adding new wood as a means of adding complexity and “reserve” price points for grapes that do perfectly well without; thankfully, estates in both the Castelli di Jesi and Matelica seem to be moving in the other direction, releasing reserve wines as vineyard selections that focus on the intrinsic quality, concentration, and transparency of the fruit itself.

Montepulciano in Conero, Piceno, and the Teramo Hills

Just a few minutes south of Ancona, the massive limestone promontory of Monte Conero rises high above the surrounding coastline, protruding 572 meters upward from the azure waters of the Adriatic. Monte Conero creates the “elbow” shape that gives its name to Ancona. The promontory’s steep, verdant flanks are dotted with corbezzoli, a type of strawberry tree known as the komaròs to ancient Greeks, who named the mountain in deference to its emblematic flora. Viewed from the seaside square of nearby Sirolo, a small coastal town and vacation destination that had emptied out for the winter, the state-protected parklands of Conero provide sharp contrast to much of the Adriatic Coast of Italy: Monte Conero, along with the Gargano Promontory in northern Puglia, is one of the highest points on this otherwise low-lying, sandy coastline. While producers throughout much of the eastern Marche can produce DOC Rosso Piceno—a Montepulciano-Sangiovese blend, and the red DOC wine offered by Verdicchio producers like Bucci and Bisci—here in the proximity of Monte Conero winemakers are fiercely proud of their varietal Montepulciano wines, and one hears time and again passionate (if slightly rehearsed) pleas for its inclusion among the great red grapes of Italy. Rosso Conero DOC and Rosso Conero Riserva DOCG wines are produced from a minimum 85% Montepulciano, grown within the confines of Conero’s national park—where viticulture is limited to smaller producers farming a few hectares here and there—or further inland in the communes of Offagna, Castelfidardo, and Osimo. In total, the Conero appellation includes about 400 hectares. We visited two estates within the nature reserve, Lanari and Fattoria le Terrazze. Both are members of the I Vignaioli del Monte Conero, an association of thirteen producers committed to the production of estate-grown and bottled wines. On the eve of the 2008 American presidential election, the association rolled out their “Yes, we Conero” marketing campaign. Hope springs eternal, I guess.

The comfortably disheveled Antonio Terni, proprietor of Fattoria le Terrazze in Numana, has about twenty hectares of vines in the shadow of the mountain, about half a mile from the coast. Montepulciano is the primary grape and the sole component for his DOCG Rosso Conero Riserva “Sassi Neri”, but the estate also farms Syrah, Merlot, and even a bit of Chardonnay—additions, Antonio assures us, prompted in the 1990s by the marketplace success of the “Super Tuscan” phenomenon. His base Conero DOC “Praelludium” is a rustic, softer style produced from 85% Montepulciano and 15% Syrah; at the DOC level any non-aromatic red grape suitable for production in the area may be incorporated for blending, but at the DOCG level the only authorized blending grape is Sangiovese. Le Terraze’s DOCG “Sassi Neri”, aged for one year in a mixture of new and used barriques and for an additional year in bottle, displays earthiness and bitterness in addition to sweet fruit and spicy oak. In general, the wines lie somewhere between rusticity and the modern. Perhaps this is a reflection of his own personal façade: one cannot help imagining him, probably unfairly, as that aging hippie embracing the commercialization of once-unimpeachable ideals. Terni confesses to having attended over 100 Bob Dylan shows in his life, and gained some publicity with his 2002, 2003, and 2004 releases of “Planet Waves”, a supple and fruit-forward Montepulciano-Merlot blend produced in conjunction with the musician. He wears Bob Dylan T-Shirts. In certain vintages he releases a second DOCG wine, “Visions of J”. The estate’s website plays Bob Dylan audio tracks. This is a total superfan. He might even give Self Portrait a pass. Or the Traveling Wilburys. Alas. Back on target.

Chardonnay vines at Fattoria le Terrazze, with Monte Conero in the background

Montepulciano is a highly tannic grape, with sweet fruit flavors tending toward the red, blue and dried end of the spectrum. Balsamic, blue plum, mulberry, cherry, purple flowers, game and bitter roots (chicory) are classic aromas for the wines, and the grape, which is naturally high in anthocyanins, can produce a densely colored, purple wine. In the color and fruit character, riper examples of Montepulciano can be misleadingly similar to Malbec. Acidity is moderate, with alcohol levels rarely retreating below 13.5%, and often reaching 14.5-15%. The high level of tannin, mid-palate bitterness, and a tendency toward reduction lead many producers to embrace modern winemaking techniques and new oak to sculpt a rounder shape to the wines. New barrique is de rigueur in Conero and for serious Montepulciano in general, and the ripe, polished wines at the top of the range are squarely aimed at three glasses from Tre Bicchiere and 90+ points in American publications. The top wines of Luca Lanari, who bottled his first commercial vintage in 1993, are exemplars of the modern style: classy and polished Montepulciano emphasizing chocolate, plum, spice and licorice notes—but the personality of the wine risks being lost under the weight of the oenological team. Lanari’s top two DOCG Conero Riserva efforts, “Fibbio” (a single vineyard wine) and “Aretè” (a barrel selection), see 30% and 100% new French oak, respectively, and are awash in sweet fruit and powdery tannin. The 12 ha estate follows a fairly traditional model of post-fermentation maceration—nearly 20 days—extracting what it can from the grape. But even with a decade of age, when the aromatics of Montepulciano really shine—we tasted the “Fibbio” 2003 at the winery—the tannins remain unresolved. This was a recurring theme: good Montepulciano can take a pretty long time to come around, and with an unformed reputation for quality, is anyone willing to wait? On the other side, is there any producer who is willing to hold back even a small portion of stock until the wines are ready to drink?

In the cellars of Emidio Pepe, the famed Montepulciano d’Abruzzo vigneron holds a stock of every single vintage the winery has produced, dating back to his first commercial release in 1964. In those days, very little Montepulciano in Abruzzo was even put into bottle, and Emidio’s commitment—and foresight—to holding back the wines for sale later is laudable and all the more astonishing. He, alongside his friend and contemporary, the late Edoardo Valentini, was one of the first to bottle Montepulciano and sell it to the outside world; Pepe remains a benchmark for quality—and for revealing the inherent possibility—in Abruzzo. Pepe’s winery is located just south of the Tronto River, which marks the region’s northern border with Marche, in the small commune of Torano Nuovo. The area is known as the Teramo Hills, and it is home to Abruzzo’s sole DOCG, the Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Colline Teramane. Emidio, clad in an old Yankees jacket, is of now of venerable age; two daughters, Daniele and Sofia, manage the business and winemaking at the storied estate. The family took us in: we tasted vintages of Montepulciano dating back to my birth year (1977), we sat down to supper with Pepe’s extended family while the eldest granddaughter, Chiara, graciously translated throughout the meal, and we stayed overnight in the family’s agriturismo. “Are my wines the best in Italy?” Pepe asks, with a seriousness that could be mistaken for grave hubris from anyone else. But these are successful, world-class wines at the highest level. They are also, in every current sense of the word, “natural” wines. The estate’s twelve hectares are farmed organically, without any use of chemicals. The oldest Montepulciano vines date to 1970. After the harvest, the Montepulciano is gently de-stemmed by hand, and it undergoes whole berry fermentation in glass-lined cement tanks. There is no temperature control, nor does the estate use any cultured yeasts. The normale wine ages for two years in these tanks prior to bottling, and the riserva ages for four. “Glass is the ideal habitat for wine,” Pepe intones, while Sofia explains that the affect of wood on the flavor is undesirable, and that stainless steel creates static electricity, which causes movement in the tank and prevents natural settling and clarification. Wines are neither fined nor filtered; instead, Emidio’s wife, Rosa, decants each and every bottle to eliminate sediment prior to sale. This is the only point during the wine’s life thus far in which it is exposed to oxygen. Furthermore, the winery has never used SO2 during any part of the winemaking process—over dinner, Sofia firmly rebuked wines produced with added sulfur as indigestible. Of course, not all of the vintages we tasted were exemplary; some were a little long in the tooth and one in particular was downright flawed with serious brettanomyces issues. The riper vintages—1983, 2001—seem to fare better over time, maintaining more integrity than the cooler vintages, like 1984. As the back vintages releases fetch top dollar in the American market, knowledge of vintage character can be key in making good buying decisions. In general, however, Pepe provides the rare example of an ageworthy “natural” wine—perhaps due to the fact that the wines often remain in the estate’s cellar for many years, or decades, prior to release—and must be considered as one of the great winemaking estates of Italy. What about that DOCG? Requirements state that the wine must be aged for at least one year in oak, prohibiting Abruzzo’s greatest Montepulciano estate from getting a pink seal.

Emidio Pepe: A Tasting Retrospective

Montepulciano d'Abruzzo
2005: ripe blueberries, purple flowers, sweet earth, meaty, concentrated, a touch of brett; still very much a baby, but the wine is developing an awkward combination of ripeness and funk
2003: ripe and soft with miso-like umami flavors; round and ready to drink in the medium term
2001: tannic, with dried fruits and a savory palate, soy and balsamic; shy now but demonstrating incredible aging potential (drawing comparisons from Emidio to his favorite vintage, 1975)
2000: really bretty, with sour pickling spices, sage, animal and meat aromas; the brett inhibits the finish and leaves the wine bitter
1984: a leaner style that is probably on the downward trajectory; gritty underripe fruits, sour cherries, watermelon gum, slightly sour and faded in color
1983: the best wine of the flight; a riper style with highly expressive porcini mushroom and truffle character on the nose, richly tannic but impeccably balanced; this wine is in its prime
1977: after one hour, the shy and faded wine started to express itself with delicate aromas of tomato leaf, strawberry, and dill; a lighter style with the sweetness of old Burgundy and a slight sour note detaching from the wine; good but past its prime

Pepe’s wines are powerful, but they have a moody feel of restraint and elegance in place of the sheer tannin and weight on display in most other Montepulciano wines we tried in both Marche and Abruzzo. Given Pepe’s status, it is perhaps surprising that other producers are not following his model—of course, Pepe is not about to allow outside philosophies to change his estate’s style, either. The Pepe estate is fiercely committed to Emidio’s methods, and they only turn inward for inspiration. At dinner, as we discussed with Chiara the virtues of working a harvest elsewhere in the world to gain perspective, her mother Daniele passionately disagreed. Had we reopened an old wound? A third daughter, Stefania, returned to the estate after training in Bordeaux with the mindset of an oenologist, but now operates a separate, smaller azienda agricola down the road.

Emidio Pepe’s neighbor, Dino Illuminati, has about 130 hectares under vine and produces over one million bottles each year. Dino—an honorary Texan—was one of the Colline Teramane DOCG’s most outspoken proponents, and the estate releases two reds, “Pieluni” and “Zanna” under its banner. “Pieluni” spends two years in 50% new Vosges oak, and shows an incredible intensity of dry extract. Aromas of iodine, sassafras, balsamic, tomato paste and celery seed arise in the 2000—produced prior to the elevation of the region to DOC—and the palate is candied, jammy and rich at about 3.5 grams per liter of residual sugar and nearly 15% abv. The 2007 “Zanna” is a more classic—but still ripe—interpretation, undergoing two years of aging in 25 hl Slavonian botti and an additional year in bottle. We traverse the estate’s Montepulciano vineyards, framed by the majestic mountain Gran Sasso and the Adriatic Sea, as our host, Stefano Illuminati, relates a favorite saying amongst the Abruzzi: one can ski the slopes of the Apennines in the morning while gazing out at the sea, and swim in its currents by midday. The “Zanna” vineyard is among the winery’s oldest, and the Montepulciano vines are trained in the low-density tendone system, wherein canes grow overhead along a pergola, and grape clusters hang high off the ground, shaded by greenery. This is the traditional vine-training technique for the grape, favored by producers like Pepe. In this system, grapes can struggle in cooler years. For “Pieluni”, the estate uses younger, low-trained cordon vines planted at a much higher density, a common move for producers of lush styles of Montepulciano. In general, Illuminati’s reds will appeal to fans of bolder, intense, rich reds; but they maintain the grape’s astringent tannic bite. Texans will be proud.

Montepulciano vines trained in a pergola system at the Illuminati estate

Illuminati produces a whole line of wines—white, red, sparkling, and passito—as Controguerra DOC, which overlaps with the Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Colline Teramane DOCG in northern Abruzzo. However, one of the most unexpectedly delicious wines we tried at the estate was a lowly rosato: Cerasuolo d’Abruzzo DOC “Campirosa” 2011. Il Feuduccio, an estate located further south in Orsogna, also produces a refreshing, bright Cerasuolo brimming with stony, strawberry yogurt flavors. Both wines undergo short macerations on the skins—never more than 16 hours—but the heavily pigmented Montepulciano still acquires a robust color. “Cerasuolo”, Italian for “cherry”, received DOC status in 2010: it is the only DOC in Italy that solely mandates rosato production. Both wines clock in at 12.5% alcohol, and they wear it well.

We left Abruzzo, the Green Heart of Italy, venturing back into the southern Marche to visit one final Montepulciano producer. We met Marco Casolanetti of Oasi degli Angeli just after dusk, cramped around his small dining table and crowded in by the consumed trophies of days gone by: Selosse, Dagueneau, Soldera, DRC, Montevertine, and other old, empty bottles cluttered every available shelf and space in the room. Oasi degli Angeli is an old family property but a newcomer to wine production. The estate first produced its flagship wine, “Kurni” Marche Rosso IGT, in 1997. An immediate hit with Tre Bicchieri, the wine is 100% Montepulciano, and is a hypermodern, highly polished example of the grape. We tasted the 2009 and the 2004 at the estate, and both wines are stylish, extracted, concentrated, liqueur-like, sweet—Casolanetti swears that both have no more than 2 g/l of residual sugar—and thoroughly international. With the added age, the 2004 starts to show soy, coffee and more complex notes of spice and dried fruit. If this were Spain, this man would have a DO Pago and a dispensation to plant whatever he wants. In fact, the estate makes a Garnacha—known as “Bordo” in the Marche and “Tocai Rosso”, or “Tai Rosso” in the Veneto—under the nome di fantasia “Kupra”. For fans of modern Grenache styles, the wine is full of minty, eucalyptus, stewed plum, and strawberry jam notes; it is as well made as anything in the style from Spain or Australia. Both wines clock in at over 15% abv and Casolanetti treats them to a luxurious couple of years in 200% new French oak. Around 500 bottles of “Kupra” are released each year, and the estate produces less than 5,000 bottles overall from 1.4 hectares of vines. Fans of Dal Forno, cult Napa Cabernet and modern “prestige cuvée” styles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape will find a lot to admire in the wines of this address.

Other Red and White Grapes of the Marche

Vernaccia Nera, the grape of Marche’s other red wine DOCG, the spumante Vernaccia di Serrapetrona, can be exciting in still versions as well. Antico Terren Ottavi, one of two producers making I Terreni di Sanseverino DOC wines, offers a varietal version labeled as “Pianetta di Càgnore” with spicy, plummy dark fruit, rustic tannins, and piquant acidity. This is great salume wine. Unlike the sparkling wines of Serrapetrona, Ottavi’s Vernaccia Nera does not undergo any drying prior to fermentation. “Pianetta di Càgnore” ages in used barrels for about 20 months and offers more quality than most Montepulciano wines we tasted within the same inexpensive price range. Vernaccia, like Trebbiano, is a name loosely meaning “local”, and covers a set of dissimilar grapes. For its part, the Trebbiano d’Abruzzo is actually the Puglian grape Bombino Bianco, not Verdicchio (Trebbiano di Soave) or Ugni Blanc (Trebbiano Toscano).

Much of the current interest in Italian wines among sommeliers lies in the discovery of new, indigenous, unique varieties. As genetic research into the origins and identities of grapes moves forward, we may discover that there are actually far fewer unique varieties and many more synonyms for the same grapes. Regardless, “international varieties” like Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, and Merlot are often the last thing to elicit excitement, but these grapes have a long history in the Veneto. We found excellent examples of the latter two at the small Selvagrossa estate near Pesaro in the northern Marche. Alberto and Alessandro Taddei grow Sangiovese in addition to Merlot and Cabernet Franc in the cool clay soils of his 4 ha vineyard near the sea. The standout wine here is the Marche Rosso IGT “Poveriano”, a 100% Cabernet Franc effort aged in new Allier and Tronçais oak barrels for fourteen months prior to bottling. The wine is ripe and generous—yet refined—and it retains hints of Cabernet Franc’s herbal wildness. Fans of Le Macchiole’s “Paleo Rosso” might look further east. This may have been the most surprising find in the Marche, particularly as the estate is located north of Ancona, where there is very little in the way of DOC wine, and no DOCG zones. In addition to three reds, Selvagrossa makes one white wine, a Bianchello del Metauro, from purchased Biancame grapes. The wine, like most from the appellation, is simple and quaffable.

One favorite DOC north of Ancona is Lacrima di Morro d’Alba. Lacrima is an intensely aromatic red grape, like Sicily’s Frappato or Piemonte’s Ruchè, and produces a singular style of soft, medium-bodied, floral, and utterly delicious red wine. The DOC zone overlaps the northern area of Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi, and stipulates a minimum 85% Lacrima. Passito and superiore versions are authorized. Although we were unable to visit any producers while in the Marche, we enjoyed a bottle of Luccheti 2010 Lacrima di Morro d’Alba over dinner on our last night in the country. Mario Luccheti, alongside other quality estates like Badiali and Luigi Giusti, is making a pleasant, perfumed, and feminine style of wine that could win a lot of fans over with overt aromatics and an appealing, easygoing structure.

Finally, two native white grapes of the southern Marche have received DOCG status. Pecorino and Passerina—the latter means “little sparrow”—may be produced as varietal wines in the new Offida DOCG. The commune of Offida, a stone’s throw from the Adriatic, is located in the provinces of Ascoli Piceno and Fermo; the DOC and DOCG zones of Offida are entirely contained within the larger Rosso Piceno DOC. Both white varietal wines tend toward heaviness and alcohol, but Pecorino retains more acidity. Pecorino can fumble with oxidation, and shows creamy apricot and apple notes. Passerina is rarely produced in any compelling fashion, and even the DOCG’s own producers may scoff at its mention, and its inclusion in the legislation. We visited one estate producing Offida whites, Poderi San Lazzaro, a new winemaking project dating to 2003. Winemaker and proprietor Paolo Capriotti showed us his white wines, but clearly the focus was on his Rosso Piceno. Why, when the Rosso Piceno Montepulciano-Sangiovese blends are the serious efforts, did Offida achieve DOCG status and Piceno did not? There was simply too much resistance to more stringent quality controls among the larger, more commercial enterprises of Rosso Piceno; for Offida, on the other hand, there was no one to complain about heightened restrictions. Go figure.

Italy's Adriatic Coast (Part 1): Veneto and the DOCG

Matt Stamp — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 19:50:00 GMT

The Ministry Official: To comply with the regulations, you must produce your wine solely from the single local variety. This is to preserve the integrity of the appellation, to preserve the terroir.

The Italian: No! You stifle my creativity; you deprive me of my freedom! You are heartless and sterile, and your watch is cheap! I am not a German!

The Ministry Official: Fine. You can add 15% of anything else you want. Just nothing too aromatic.

The Italian: Mountebank, scoundrel, villainous purloiner! You steal my artistry! How can I paint my masterpiece?! Oh, soulless bureaucrat, you have put me in a box! I am not a fish in a bowl! I must express myself!!

The Ministry Official: Yes, yes. Very well. Just put 50% of the local grape in the blend, and you can add 50% of Viognier and Riesling, for all I care. But please put it in wood for a year, so we are sure of its quality.

The Italian: Piss off. I go outside the appellation! Viva la tavola!!

Over the last two years, rumor, criticism, and disbelief coalesced around the Italian appellation system. Declarations of its self-evisceration multiply. The DOCG is dead, and Italy killed it. However, the steady drumbeat of new entries at the top level of Italy’s quality hierarchy is quiet now, and what remains is the urgent need for producers in Offida, Suvereto, Castel del Monte, etc. to quickly rise to the occasion. This seems unlikely, as the wine-drinking public still waits for the prescience governing other admissions of the last decade, like Conero Riserva or Morellino di Scansano, to manifest. Perhaps the curtains close on the DOCG just as the system proves its irrelevancy. According to sources in Italy, there will be no future additions to the category: DOCG is a category without a place in the new framework of EU-wide reforms. Of course, economic conditions could lead Italy out of the EU in the future, and open the doors to DOCG once again, but for now the matter is settled. Fin.

Geoff Kruth MS and I arrived at the Marco Polo Airport in Venice early in January 2012, amid few tourists, wintry conditions, and the relative quiet of an Italy on holiday. Our travels took us through Valdobbiadene, Conegliano, Gambellara, Soave, Negrar, and further south; we visited Castelli di Jesi, Matelica, Conero, Piceno, and the Teramo hills of Abruzzo. In the DOCG wines of Prosecco, we found surprising age-worthiness and class, and Amarone della Valpolicella’s late entry into the DOCG tier seems as puzzling as ever, given the high quality of the appellation’s best wines. Soave remains a cautionary tale: producers of Champagne eager to expand their borders to satisfy demand should take note. In Abruzzo, the leading producer in Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Colline Teramane DOCG produces wines outside of the appellation. Likewise, in the Marche some of the top red wines carry the IGT Marche Rosso on their labels; yet the respect accorded Verdicchio is genuine: the two DOCGs for this grape may, in time, prove to be the only Marche appellations worth the extra letter.

When one travels through the Italian countryside, the country’s fractured identity reveals itself, in folds of mountains, crags, hills and valleys. Dialects and cultures vary as frequently as the landscape. Historic dishes and “regional” specialties, such as the Stoccafisso all’anconetana (Ancona stockfish) of Marche’s capital, and risotto prepared with IGP-protected Vialone Nano Veronese rice in Veneto’s Isola della Scala, may be the product of a single commune, with techniques changing from town to town. As the bird flies, Rome may be only a few hundred kilometers from Pescara, but the spires of the Apennines separate Lazio and Abruzzo; in this way the relative poverty and remoteness of the latter, so close to the capital, is understandable. One cannot generalize with Italy.

When we study wine, we tend to create lists. Lists offer conformity and order. Lists create the illusion of equivalent value. Lists are associative. An Italian, Umberto Eco, once wrote “we like lists because we do not want to die.” Maybe he was just suffering from a fit of compulsive irony, but associative thinking is at the heart of our ability to communicate and relate. “Lambruschi is totally the Raveneau of Liguria! Renardat-Fache is like the Chave of Bugey-Cerdon! Dude, Pepe is the DRC of Abruzzo.” Perhaps this is not the right way to approach Italy. Some of the best Italian estates have been making wines in a condition of relative isolationism for years. Italian wine is, first and foremost, the study of individual, idiosyncratic, stubborn producers; these men make great wines despite themselves. Perhaps, to really start to understand Italian wine culture, one has to acknowledge that it will be a lifelong study, and that any rote memorization of the appellation system is only worthwhile inasmuch as it feeds the understanding of producers both inside and outside of that system. This seems self-evident, but all too often our goals in study are backwards. It is important to understand, for instance, the laws of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Colline Teramane DOCG, if only to understand why Emidio Pepe doesn’t release his wines under the appellation. A producer of Offida DOCG, which overlaps Rosso Piceno DOC, is more excited to show his reds. Another irreverent Italian, upon having his own wines rejected as faulty for the DOCG seal, slapped his label on some co-op bottles and passed it through. Understanding the law is in service to understanding of the wines, but it is not an end in and of itself. On the other hand, Many DOCs (and some DOCGs) have only a couple of producers, like Carema in Piemonte, or I Terreni di Sanseverino, a Vernaccia Nera-based DOC near Serrapetrona in the southern Marche. The appellation system in Italy, which appears overwhelming at first glance, becomes manageable when one realizes that many DOCs have only a handful of producers. If you need to create lists, create effective ones.

Without further ado: some lists. Following is a collection of our thoughts on producers, grapes, styles, and trends in the Veneto. Stay tuned for our notes on Marche and Abruzzo next month.

Veneto

Soave, Gambellara and Garganega

Garganega, the traditional white grape cultivated in the hills between Verona and Vicenza, is a late-ripening, thick-skinned variety characterized by loose clusters and a high concentration of tartaric acids. The grape’s thick skin and loose clusters deter mold growth and ease the movement of air, making it a good candidate for the appassimento process. Producers selectively harvest ripe Garganega for Recioto di Soave and Recioto di Gambellara in mid-September, prior to grapes intended for dry wines, and rest the clusters in drying rooms for about five months before pressing and vinification in February. Traditionally, the appassimento process occurs in naturally ventilated drying rooms, wherein the grape clusters shrivel on large bamboo mats called graticci, or hang to dry on picai. The development of botrytis is inevitable during this period, and, depending on producer and vintage, the amount of botrytis may reach 25% of the total Recioto harvest.

Garganega cluster drying for recioto

The best Soave and Gambellara dry wines are crisp (moderate + acidity) yet textural, with light floral aromatics, saline minerality and tones reminiscent of cherry blossoms, apricot and almond. Alcohol levels in the 12-12.5% range are common, and Gambellara wines are typically slightly lighter in style. The DOC wines of Soave and Gambellara are composed of a minimum 70% and 80% Garganega, respectively, with Trebbiano di Soave as a supporting actor. Both disciplinari also permit the inclusion of Chardonnay and Pinot Bianco. Recent genetic studies confirm that Trebbiano di Soave is none other than the Marche’s Verdicchio, and a shared streak of electric, malic acidity is apparent—Lugana DOC, straddling the Lombardia-Veneto border, provides a good look at varietal Trebbiano di Soave. Pliny the Elder first mentioned the vinum trebulanum grape in his “Natural History”, published in the first century AD, and today “Trebbiano” represents a family of grapes rarely connected by more than name alone. Growers rushed to plant the inferior Trebbiano Toscano (France’s Ugni Blanc) during Soave’s heyday of commercial success, but the grape is no longer authorized for production in Soave DOC wines.

A massive hilltop fortress dominates the landscape of Soave, and its high walls embrace the original medieval town. Built in the tenth century, the privately owned Soave Castle is a reminder of another age: crenellated battlements, portcullises, a massive donjon and the general panoply of stone, iron and granite combine to exude a sense of the insurmountable. The castle is interminable, but Soave’s best wines are just beginning to shake off a decades-long reputation for poor quality. Between the two world wars, producers labeled wines from Soave as “Petit Chablis”, a reminder that Europeans were for many years just as guilty of the sin of appropriation as anyone in the New World; but also a portent of the mineral, textural appeal that these wines, when crafted with care, could show. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, sky was the limit for Soave: wines from the young DOC were incredibly popular abroad, and producers sought to capitalize on their successes by expanding production. To do this they needed to enlarge the zone’s boundaries. Originally, Soave wines came from the volcanic soils of a single stretch of hill—the 1,500 ha Classico zone—that extended from the commune of Soave to Monteforte d’Alpone. The Consorzio supported an expansion that quadrupled the DOC’s size, and Soave bloated to include a vast, flat alluvial plane. Co-operative production trumped the quality-minded producer—the Cantina di Soave still produces nearly half of Soave DOC wine today. While the Consorzio del Soave cheers its status as “Europe’s largest vineyard”, one sees Rome burning in the background. A few houses tried to maintain an emphasis on quality, but with so much low-end Soave in the marketplace, premium pricing was difficult to justify. The movement for the distinction of a DOCG culminated in 2002 with the establishment of Soave Superiore. Pieropan, the oldest family-owned estate in Soave, argued that the new DOCG should restrict the area of viticulture and bottling to the original Classico zone, raise minimum extract levels and eliminate Chardonnay. The Consorzio did limit production of the DOCG wine to the hillsides, but drafted boundaries beyond just the Classico zone. Ultimately, detractors suggest that alcohol level became the final assurer of quality in the new DOCG. Only superiore wines could be DOCG, and only DOCG wines could be superiore. Consequently, many of the region’s top producers do not bottle a Soave Superiore DOCG wine, and the best dry wines from the area often carry the “lesser” designation of Soave Classico DOC.

The Soave DOC. Soave Classico is colored green, and Colli Scaligeri is shaded purple. For a high resolution download of this Soave cru map, click here

View of the Soave Castle from Pieropan's "La Rocca" vineyard, located within the Classico zone

Like many of its top peers in the Classico zone, Pieropan, a winery located within the castle walls, has chosen not to use the DOCG. Pieropan was one of the first producers in Italy to offer single vineyard bottlings, releasing the inaugural vintage of the consistently superb “Calvarino” in 1971. When “La Rocca” debuted in 1978, from a hillside cru vineyard overlooking the castle, Pieropan became the first in Soave to employ new oak. Today, both wines are produced annually. “Calvarino” is the real gem of the estate: a mineral, saline, fine-textured wine from a 7 ha cru. “La Rocca”, aged in both 500-liter tonneaux (20% new) and larger botti, takes on creamier notes of honey and apricot and has a more rounded, fatter impression. Burgundy is clearly the model here, but the estate is most successful with the former wine. At the base level, the estate produces Soave Classico and Soave. While all of the estate’s vineyards are located in the Classico zone, and the juice for both is the same, Pieropan bottles its Soave DOC wines with a screwcap. Classico wines in Italy must currently be bottled under cork, so the estate declassifies. The estate usually produces its sole DOCG bottling, Recioto di Soave “le Colombare”, in two out of three vintages, when the season permits. As a producer, Pieropan has enough status and quality to raise perceptions, but many still hold the producer in high regard despite its appellation, rather than reshaping opinions on the potential quality of Soave itself. As a new generation discovers the great producers of Soave Classico—Pieropan, Inama, Gini, and Prà—old stereotypes may slowly ebb. Inama, Prà, and Pieropan have severed ties with the Consorzio and founded the Vignaioli del Soave, an organization of independent producers dedicated to “returning dignity to Soave as a denomination.” Member producers emblazon their capsules with a trademarked “FIVI” logo.

While the Pieropan family remains attached to the name of Soave despite a failure to affect desired quality controls for the new DOCG, another star of the region has abandoned it entirely. Roberto Anselmi relinquished the Soave appellation, preferring to release his white wines, sourced from the Foscarino and Croce cru vineyards deep within the Classico zone, as IGT instead. Anselmi, located in Monteforte d’Alpone, produces wines in the fatter, more masculine style that typifies the commune. Monteforte, to the east of Soave, receives greater morning sun and warmth, and Chardonnay is more common in wines from the area.

Gambellara is a smaller appellation to the east of Soave in the province of Vicenza. Zonin and the Cantina Sociale di Gambellara dominate production, but one small producer stands in big contrast to its neighbors. La Biancara di Angiolino Maule is among the vanguard of the natural wine movement in northern Italy and the founder of Vin Natur, an association of independent producers committed to eliminating chemical treatments in the vineyard and to promoting “non-interventionalist” practices in the winery. While the estate likely satisfies fans of the aesthetic it will do little to quell the criticisms of those who see the movement as a justification of bad winemaking. Some of the wines can be really worthwhile, whereas others have re-fermented in the bottle. Some wines are bottled with SO2, and some are not—even within the same vintage and bottling. I have actually tasted better bottles of Maule’s wines back home than at the winery—usually the reverse is true with natural wines. “I Masieri” 2010 Gambellara hits sherry and lambic notes, with the slight impression of skin contact. “So San” 2008, an IGT red produced from Tocai Rosso—not the last variant of Grenache we would taste on our trip—tips the scales at nearly 16% alcohol, with liqueur-like fruit and 5 g/l of residual sugar. In contrast to the fresh, primary “le Colombare” Recioto di Soave from Pieropan, Maule’s Recioto di Gambellara is an intensely oxidative style, with Madeira-like color. The wine checks in at 195 g/l of residual sugar. Ultimately, Maule’s most impressive strides are in the vineyard: the family’s steadfast and laborious approach to natural viticulture is refreshing in a region of Italy dominated by more commercial agricultural practices. This is a model to be praised. Francesco himself admits that winemaking under the lofty pillars of such idealism is not without struggle and defect, and in 2009 his entire lot of red wine turned to vinegar. In fact, the “So-San” bottling takes its name from the nearby village of Sosano, a town known for the quality of its vinegar. But in the local dialect, “So San” is an expression, meaning “I’m healthy!”

Valpolicella and Amarone

We traveled westward from Soave to the valleys of Valpolicella, eager to visit the two international icons of Amarone, Dal Forno Romano and Giuseppe Quintarelli. The soft spires of the Monte Lessini and the little Dolomites cut across the northern horizon, and the locals like to think of the mountains as a “hand”, from which the “fingers”, or valleys of Valpolicella extend. Nearest the Adige River—the appellation’s western border—is the Classico zone, comprising three valleys and the communes of Negrar, Fumane, Marano, San Pietro in Cariano and Sant’Ambrogio. The Valpantena “cru” region lies in the center of the DOC territory, and includes the valleys of Mezzane and Squaranto. East of Verona, The broader valleys of Illasi and Tramigna cross the western boundaries of Soave DOC. Dal Forno Romano’s palatial winery would be more at home along Napa’s Highway 29 than the flat, sparse valley floor of Illasi, and the prevailing impression is of immensity, in both style and ambition. Quintarelli, on the other hand, is less of an architectural marvel and more of a cluttered, working winery, perched atop a hillside within the frazione of Cerè di Negrar, within the Classico zone.

Valpolicella represents a collection of appellations—Valpolicella DOC, Valpolicella Ripasso DOC, Recioto della Valpolicella DOCG, and Amarone della Valpolicella DOCG—and an equally broad range of styles. Corvina is the premier grape of the region, often supported by Corvinone, Rondinella, and Croatina. The acidic Molinara, once widespread, has fallen out of favor, but plantings of the rare Veronese grape Oseleta are on the increase, as winemakers add judicious quantities of its highly pigmented juice to darken their wines. Cabernet family grapes, common in the area, may creep into some of the top wines in small proportions. The appassimento process, in which Corvina and its brethren are dried and soft-pressed prior to fermentation, is one of the defining characteristics of style at all levels. Corvina, the first indigenous grape of Italy to have its entire genome sequence decoded, does not simply dehydrate in this process, but undergoes a series of biological changes which create some of the trademark aromas of Amarone, such as licorice. Basic Valpolicella wines may include some proportion of dried grape wine, or they may be produced in a ripasso style, in which the winemaker adds the pomace of an Amarone or Recioto fermentation, still high in sugars, to a young Valpolicella wine to ignite a second fermentation. Some dry a percentage of grapes specifically for ripasso. Many producers use some variation on the ripasso process without actually labeling the wines as Valpolicella Ripasso DOC. Even Masi, who “invented” the technique and trademarked the term for their “Campofiorin”, today releases the wine as IGT without any indication of ripasso on the label. Ultimately, basic “Valpolicella” encompasses everything from thin, fresh cherry-scented reds to dense, high-alcohol, Amarone-like wines. Foreknowledge of the processes employed by individual producers is helpful, but price may be a clear indication of technique as well. In the case of Dal Forno, the estate treats its Valpolicella and Amarone wines almost identically, from the drying process to the cellar.

Michele Dal Forno, one of Romano’s three sons, highlighted the spotless winery’s technological innovations on our tour. From the stainless steel fermentation tanks and high-powered pressure washing systems to the futuristic, temperature- and humidity-controlled drying room, where mechanized towers of orange fans slowly orbit the room, everything in the winery is automated and state-of-the-art. This is hypermodern, obsessive winemaking at its finest. Oxidation is an enemy here, and Dal Forno employs vacuum technology to ensure that the racking and movement of wine is not an aerobic process. When sampling out of barrel, Michele compulsively sprays a layer of inert gas into each opened bung before sealing it back up, tight as a tomb. The massive underground cellar—recently expanded, as the winery plans to triple its production of Amarone in the coming years—is somber and church-like, the reverent air matching the world’s regard for the wines. These are exemplary wines, but classic and typical they are not. In one sense, Dal Forno completely embraces a most ancient winemaking technique—appassimento, a concentration method pioneered by ancient Romans—but is otherwise completely modern in style.

Michele Dal Forno

Dal Forno Romano’s Amarone and Valpolicella Superiore wines are sappy, chewy, powerful, oaky, extracted, raisinated, viscous, and tannic. Vine age and the length of the drying period mark the only major differences between them. Dal Forno dries the entire harvest for Valpolicella and Amarone production—grapes destined for Valpolicella dry for one and a half months, and grapes destined for Amarone dry for almost three. In order to remove any trace of mold-affected fruit, Dal Forno sorts the berries by hand at the conclusion of the appassimento process. Following fermentation in tank and pressing, both wines age in 100% new barriques for three years. The Amarone ages in bottle for an additional three years afterward, whereas the Valpolicella Superiore ages for one. From 2001 through the 2011 harvest, the estate utilized American oak exclusively, although they purchased it from French coopers. The Amarone typically contains 60% Corvina and Corvinone, blended with Rondinella, Croatina, and Oseleta—Dal Forno harvests much of their fruit from the 12.5 ha estate in Illasi, but supplements with purchased fruit. The Valpolicella Superiore DOC wine generally includes a slightly higher percentage of Corvina. While the style of both wines is firmly international, Dal Forno does not incorporate any international grapes.

Giuseppe Quintarelli, on the other hand, has famously planted a number of “foreign” grapes, including Cabernet Franc, Merlot, and even Nebbiolo—not a common sight in the Veneto—but the estate’s vinification methods remain staunchly traditional. The old master died five days after our visit to the Negrar estate, on January 15, 2012. His grandson Francesco Grigoli shepherded us through the cramped, dark spaces, abuzz with activity—a world apart from the gleaming, sterile, and monumental forms of Dal Forno—and guided our tasting through their lineup of wines. The estate, which dates back over a century, was still drying Corvina and Corvinone for 2011’s Amarone production when we arrived. Although a few fans punctuated the room, the ventilated chamber was crude in comparison to Dal Forno’s technological marvel, yet results were seemingly similar, at a fraction of the cost and energy. There is very little barrique in this cellar; old Slavonian botti, oval-shaped to take advantage of vertical space, are the aging vessels of choice. Quintarelli’s Amarone sleeps in these massive casks for up to eight years prior to bottling. The 2003 hit the bottling line during our visit, and the 2000 is the current release.

The Quintarelli family crest adorns an old cask filled with Amarone della Valpolicella

Quintarelli releases one white wine, the IGT “Bianco Secco”. Sold as “Ca’ del Merlo Bianco Secco” in the US, the wine is principally a blend of Garganega, Sauvignon, and Chardonnay; it is fermented in stainless steel and has a fresh, persistent, aromatic character. The spectrum of reds starts with “Primofiore”, an IGT blend of Corvina and Cabernet Franc in equal proportions. The Corvina is dried for just under a month for this bottling. We tasted the 2007; Cabernet Franc’s pyrazine-laden aromatics dominate the nose but the cherry and tart raisination of Corvina take over on the palate. The Valpolicella Superiore 2003, released in 2011, is mostly Corvina and Corvinone, and 50% of the clusters were dried for two months. Quintarelli vinified the other 50% in late September, immediately after the harvest, and then “re-passed” the wine over the spent Amarone lees and pomace to add richness and glycerine. Unfortunately, the wine had been open for some time, and was oxidized. The best and most emblematic wines of the estate followed: “Rosso del Bepi” 2002, Amarone Classico 2000, and the Recioto della Valpolicella 1997. The IGT “Rosso del Bepi”—“Bepi” is a diminutive for “Giuseppe”—is declassified Amarone. In 2002, a hail-stricken and terrible vintage, Quintarelli produced this wine instead of their benchmark. The drying and aging processes are identical—four months of drying and eight years in botti—and while slightly lighter, the wine is still of very high quality at a much lower price. The Amarone Classico ‘00, swinging in at 16.5% abv, and the Recioto della Valpolicella ’97 (15.5% abv) are heavyweights, and exemplify Valpolicella. At 7 g/l of residual sugar, the Amarone is basically dry with tremendous fruit concentration, and tones of mulberry, date, and coffee. The wine wears its alcohol and savory tannins well, and maintains firm acidity. The Recioto is ashen, smoldering, and port-like, with 110 g/l of residual sugar. These are signature wines for an estate, and for their respective appellations. The Quintarelli estate has seen ups and downs, and the wines have had problems with oxidation and volatility—“rusticity” is the usual backhanded compliment—but now, at the moment of the old master’s death, the benchmark wines are better than ever. The only wine that fell short of expectations was the IGT “Alzero” 2000. A blend of 40% Cabernet Franc, 40% Cabernet Sauvignon, and 20% Merlot, the wine was conceived by the American importer Robert Chadderdon, a long-standing personal friend of Giuseppe, and launched in 1983. The Alzero is produced in almost every vintage, unlike the Amarone, which was declassified and released as “Rosso del Bepi” in three years (1994, 1996, and 1999) during the 1990s. The grapes are dried, albeit for about half the duration of Corvina destined for Amarone, and the wine is aged for two or three years in 500-liter tonneaux—not in smaller barriques, as is commonly reported. Additional aging of four to five years occurs in larger casks. At 20 g/l of residual sugar, the plummy impression of the wine is richer and sweeter than the Amarone on the palate, and the cultish adoration this wine receives in America is not hard to imagine. 96 points from Parker!

Ultimately, in comparison with their peers in Soave both Francesco and Michele seem happier with—or at least ambivalent to—the new Amarone DOCG, which limits production of the wine to 60% of the total DOC harvest. Both, however, made the effort to raise an eyebrow at the neighboring Bardolino Superiore DOCG. It will be some time before the DOCG seal graces a bottle of either Quintarelli or Dal Forno, due to the extended aging each wine receives. The DOCG applies from the 2010 harvest forward.

The story of Valpolicella neither begins nor ends with Dal Forno and Quintarelli. Even the category of Amarone itself offers a spectrum of styles, from the traditional, medium-weight wines offered by Bertani and Bolla, pioneers of the style in the 1950s; to the richer, sweeter, denser liquids of Allegrini and Bussola. Pieropan has a new Valpolicella/Amarone project (Ruberpan) in the Illasi hills above Dal Forno, and naturalistes can look for Monte dall’Ora, which comes highly recommended by both Maule and Valdobbiadene’s Casa Costa Piane. Some are more suitable for the table; others are strictly wines of meditation. What food pairs best with Amarone? Pastissada de Caval, the traditional Veronese horsemeat stew, made with paprika and Amarone. Does it really taste like beef? Oh well. In the immortal words of a fellow Master, “F—k it. I don’t eat horse.”

Clockwise from top left: Dal Forno's state-of-the-art drying room, Maule's Garganega grapes hang to dry,
Pieropan's Garganega drying on bamboo graticci in an open attic, Corvina drying for Amarone production at Quintarelli

A Final Word on Veneto's Newest DOCGs

In the end, our visit to Veneto reaffirmed, to some extent, the classic wines of the region and their reputations. But the other side of Veneto's story lies in the surge of recent DOCG approvals: Veneto has now surpassed Toscana, trailing only Piemonte in sheer number of DOCG zones. Amarone della Valpolicella may well be justified, but is Piave Malanotte? Who knows? The only example of Rabosa we tried during our visit was a victim of poor restaurant storage. And what of the new "Super-Venetian" appellation Montello Rosso, whose DOCG recipe mandates Bordeaux grapes? We stopped for dinner at a highly recommended, wine-savvy restaurant on the Via Montello, between Conegliano and Vicenza, in the heart of the young appellation. The wine list was serious, spanning every single major style of Venetian wine, from Prosecco to Valpolicella to Lugana to Bardolino. The sommelier had never heard of it. We shared a moment of mutual confusion, shrugged, and ordered a bottle of something classic.

Torrents of Black Water: The Abridged Travels of the Coffee Bean to the Far Ends of the Earth!

Matt Stamp — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 16:48:00 GMT

Did you know: Berry Bros. and Rudd started out as a coffee shop? A single living tree may have sired every coffee plant in the Western Hemisphere? German coffee-drinkers disgrace the national pastime of beer? French coffee is terrible? Read on!....

The Origins of Coffee

In the beginning, the Coffea arabica tree grew wild on the mountainsides of Abyssinia (modern-day Ethiopia) but the precise moment that man ascertained its appeal and transformed bean into beverage is unclear. One popular legend offers a story of serendipitous discovery: Kaldi, a 9th century Abyssinian goat-herder, was one day dismayed upon encountering his herd, for they were uncharacteristically spirited—dancing, frolicking, drunk with newfound delight! The observant goat-herder noticed that his animals had been eating the bright red berries of a nearby shrub, and, filled with curiosity, Kaldi tasted a few of the berries himself. Feeling bolder, he chewed on the bitter seeds within the fruit. Filled with a swell of exuberance, he ran home to report his finding to his wife, and together the pair—in the clarity and haze of history’s first deliberate caffeine intoxication—ran off to inform the local monks and share their discovery. Unmoved, and surely seeing the devil’s work at hand, the monks threw the fruit into their fire. It was only moments before the beans within were cooking, and the sweet, robust smell of roasting coffee filled the air. The monks realized their error, and quickly pulled the beans from the fire, dousing them with water to cool and preserve them. The rest, as they say, is history. Or so this folktale, penned as late as 1671, would suggest. Many variations exist. Another old story ascribes the discovery of coffee to Hadji Omar, an Arab Sufi Dervish, or religious ascetic. Sometime in the late 13th or 14th century, his superiors exiled the Dervish from his home in the seaport al-Mukha to the remote desert, for “moral remissness”. At a place called Ousab, Omar and his followers faced slow starvation, save for the coffee cherry, which grew wild around them. They boiled the fruit in water, and drank the concoction to ward off hunger. A local doctor noted coffee’s beneficial and restorative powers, and Omar returned in triumph to al-Mukha—known to westerners as Mocha—where the grateful populace built him a monastery and made him a saint. Other versions of this story attribute coffee as the cure to a plague that nearly claimed the king of Mocha’s daughter, and suggest that birds of marvelous plumage and mellifluous voices led Omar to his tree. All of this lore suggests that the discovery of coffee and the development of the roasting and brewing processes essentially occurred simultaneously, but it is likely that man enjoyed a form of coffee long before he learned to infuse the roasted, ground bean in hot water. This process, signaling coffee’s most rudimentary modern form, may not have developed until the 15th century.

The stories of Kaldi and Omar serve to reinforce two generally accepted theories: the discovery of coffee and its intoxicating properties occurred in Abyssinia/Ethiopia, but the development of the beverage of coffee as we know it and the first culture of coffee sprang up in Arabia Felix, now Yemen. In Abyssinia, coffee was known as buna, and the various forms of extracting caffeine from the plant included chewing the beans, boiling leaves and coffee cherries with water, grinding the beans into compressed balls of animal fat and butter, and fermenting the fruit. The Oromo tribes of Abyssinia revered coffee as the buna qala—tears of their sky god. In modern Africa, buni indicates coffee, and its homophone Mbuni characterizes a low quality Kenyan coffee. The coffee tree may have migrated across the Red Sea to the Arabian Peninsula in pre-Islamic time, perhaps during a brief period of Ethiopian rule over Yemen in the 6th century. The Arabs called the coffee cherry bunn, and it is unclear whether buna is a derivative of bunn, or vice versa. References to a related beverage, bunchum, occur in the medical writings of two Persian physicians, Rhazes and Avicenna, who lived a century apart from one another. Rhazes, who died in 922 CE, is thus often cited as the first to mention coffee as a form of beverage in print, although conflicting evidence suggests his bunchum concoction was the product of a root infusion, unrelated to the similar-sounding bunn. Some scholars have found circumstantial evidence of coffee drinking in Arabic scriptures dating to the 10th century; others have even claimed the appearance of roasted coffee in the Old Testament of the Bible, as a peace offering to King David of the Jews. Some theorize that coffee composed the “black broth” of the warlike Spartans of ancient Greece; others find coffee among the medicines with which Helen of Troy returned from Egypt. From somewhere amidst all of this conjecture and uncertainty, coffee would emerge, first as a medicinal and religious broth, and finally as a social beverage, to be consumed in the Arabian kaveh kanes: the world’s first coffeehouses.

As with most other aspects regarding the early history of coffee, the etymology of the word itself is in dispute. “Coffee” could be derived from “Kaffa”, a region of Ethiopia, or kafta, an Arabic drink produced from qat leaves, an indigenous intoxicant. Some suggest Qawwa, the Arabic word for “power”, as an antecedent to “coffee”. Upon their own eventual discovery of brewed coffee, English-speaking Europeans nicknamed it the “Wine of Araby”, and so it is perhaps most attractive to view “coffee” as a corruption of qahwa—the Arabic word for wine.

The Arabian historian al-Jaziri, in a 16th century work on coffee, credits a Sufi holy man named Gemaleddin with the introduction of coffee brewing in Aden, a town in Arabia Felix, during the mid-15th century. Gemaleddin, inspired by Chinese tea-brewing, discovered the coffee tree and the invigorating effects of its fruit and seeds while abroad in Abyssinia. Author Antony Wild theorizes that Gemaleddin, an alchemist, decided to roast the bean as a means of transmuting it, as an alchemist might hope to transform lead into gold. In its original form, alchemy was intimately tied to religion: alchemists viewed gold as the solid form of fire, and the soul as an igneous substance. A parallel transformation of the coffee bean through fire thus takes on religious connotations, and through the consumption of coffee the Sufis found, quite naturally, that they could remain vigilant and awake throughout their evening prayers. The Sufi Dervishes soon carried their ritual use of coffee to nearby Mecca and Medina. As the technique of brewing roasted coffee spread outward from Aden, its use soon became secularized. By 1510, the Dervishes introduced coffee to Cairo, where by mid-century there were nearly a thousand coffeehouses. Coffee reached Damascus in modern-day Syria by 1530. In 1536, Ottoman Turks invaded Yemen, and the coffee trade commenced in earnest throughout their empire. The first coffeehouse in Istanbul, capital of the Ottoman Empire and the second largest city in Europe at the time, opened in 1554. Coffee was on the move.

As coffee expanded in popularity, it gained a reputation for fomenting trouble and discontent. Like every other intoxicating beverage known to man, coffee has its share of critics who condemn it as a source of moral decrepitude, yet the coffeehouse—unlike the tavern—poses the added threat of lucid political discourse and, presumably, dissent. One can argue that the coffeehouse has, throughout its history, played a role in stirring political disobedience, from quelled rumblings of sedition in the first coffeeshops of the Ottoman Empire, to the revolutionary fervor incubated in French coffeehouses of the latter 18th century. In late 1960s and 1970s America, “GI Coffee Houses” sprang up as bastions of liberal discontent and gathering places for US soldiers opposed to the Vietnam War. Authorities in nearly every serious coffee-consuming county have, at one point or another, attempted to shut down or restrict the coffeehouse in some way. In 1511, the first such ban occurred, in Mecca. The governer of Mecca, Khair-Beg (Kha’ir Bey) believed the newfangled substance, like alcohol, to be prohibited by the Qu’ran and ordered the city’s coffeehouses to be shuttered, abruptly putting a stop to the sale of the bean. Despite his enthusiasm for such strict interpretation, the young governor failed to take into account the coffee habit of his superior, the Sultan of Cairo, who quickly reversed the ruling. The following year, Khair-Beg found his own virtue wanting, and was tortured to death after the Sultan’s court found him guilty of extortion and embezzlement. Authorities in Mecca levied a second short-lived ban on coffee in 1524, and the Ottomans tried to enforce prohibition several times throughout the 16th and 17th centuries, but the “Wine of Araby” was by this time firmly entrenched in the societies of the Middle East. Coffee continues to be an important social beverage in Islamic societies, where the consumption of alcohol is forbidden.

Coffee Arrives in Europe

In the 16th century the Ottoman Empire was ascendant: as the preeminent power in Eastern Europe and Western Asia, the Ottoman Sultan controlled a vast territory ranging from North Africa, the Middle East and Asia Minor to much of Eastern Europe, including modern-day Greece, Hungary, Ukraine, Romania, Bulgaria, and the Balkans. Coffee flowed to every corner through the empire’s veins of trade. Despite continuing efforts, both religious and secular in origin, to ban coffee and coffeehouses, its popularity soared. The Turks considered refusal to provide coffee to one’s wife as legitimate grounds for divorce. A Persian myth of the time ascribed the invention of coffee to the Angel Gabriel, who delivered it unto the Prophet Muhammad as a restorative. The Prophet, for his part, reputedly asserted that, after taking his coffee, he could “unhorse forty men and possess forty women”—a legend recalled by Mark Pendergrast in his history of the coffee trade, Uncommon Grounds. Feeling perhaps ecumenical, the Roman Catholic Pope Clement VIII later gave his blessing to the brewed beverage, against his advisors’ wishes. In an unsubstantiated story, certain priests feared that coffee—the Wine of Araby—was a brew of infernal origin, and warned the Pope against its charms, but he found its taste too agreeable to condemn, and “baptized” the bean instead. Although this tale of baptism is likely apocryphal, by Pope Clement’s death in 1605 coffee was beginning its encroachment into Western European society.

Coffee entered Western Europe after both cocoa and tea, in the hands of the Turks and the Venetians. The Republic of Venice, in the 16th and 17th centuries, competed with the Ottoman Turks for economic and military control of the eastern Mediterranean, and held sway over coastal territories in northeastern Italy, the Balkans, and Greece; and islands such as Crete, Cyprus, and Santorini. As maritime tradesmen, the Venetians may have first carried the coffee bean home to Venice in 1615, predated by a description of the coffee tree and prepared beverage in Italian print some twenty-three years prior. While acquacedratajo—street lemonade vendors—may have peddled coffee in the mid-17th century, the first Venetian coffeehouse, or caffè, did not open until 1683. In 1720, the Caffè Florian opened in Venice’s historic Procuratie Nuove, and over the years attracted to its tables luminous personalities, from Stravinsky to Charles Dickens. Today the Caffè Florian is the oldest coffeehouse in continuous operation in Italy.

The Turks, meanwhile, introduced coffee into France through diplomacy and into Austria through war. In 1669, a Turkish ambassador to Paris and Versailles, Suleiman Aga, brought exotic Turkish style and the exotic Turkish drink—coffee—with him from the east. When not discussing with King Louis XIV their mutual distaste for the Austrian Habsburgs, Aga was busy introducing the elite class of Paris to the wonders of caffeine. An Armenian named Pascal opened Paris’ first café two years later, and in 1686 a Florentine lemonade vendor opened the Café Procope—the oldest café still in operation in Paris. In the 18th century, Voltaire, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and Benjamin Franklin would sip coffee at François Procope’s landmark establishment, and the café would count Robespierre, a chief architect of the revolution, among its customers. In 1710 the French improved on the Turkish method of coffee brewing—boiling ground coffee and water together—by creating an infusion, wherein they suspended the ground coffee in a cloth pouch, and poured boiling water over it. Coffee in France exploded in popularity, in both salon and café, and the French took to adding milk, sugar and flavorings such as cinnamon and clove to the otherwise bitter drink.

In 1683—the same year that Venice’s first caffè opened—the Ottoman Turks amassed a huge army to expand their empire further into Habsburg-controlled central Europe, and laid siege to Vienna in Austria. The Austrian alliance, victorious against the Turks, had employed a Ukrainian Cossack named Franz Georg Kolschitzky to move through enemy lines, risking life and limb to pass messages to the nearby Prince of Lorraine, who stood ready to intervene on behalf of the Viennese. After the siege lifted, Kolschitzky received as reward for his service money, property and many bags of “camel fodder”—the hundreds of pounds of green coffee beans the Turkish army left in its wake. Kolschitzky became Vienna’s first kaffee-sieder, or coffee-maker, opening his “House under the Blue Bottle” shortly after war’s end, where he served sweetened coffee with cream to grateful Austrians, and acquired the fraternal nickname bruderherz—“brother heart”. As with much coffee lore, the truth is probably a more complicated and less rewarding story: it is likely that coffee was really introduced to Vienna by a Turkish ambassador some twenty-odd years prior; it is likely that several other coffeeshops preceded the Blue Bottle; and it is likely that Kolschitzky himself, rather than a brotherly figure and selfless hero, was in fact a model of shameless self-promotion, self-aggrandizement, and greed. Nonetheless, by 1714 Vienna’s coffee-makers were numerous enough to form their first trade association, and the city’s coffee-drinkers enjoyed their new beverage with a new pastry: the kipfler, precursor to the French croissant, baked in the shape of the Islamic crescent—a daily reminder of victory against the Turks in the 1683 Battle of Vienna. Today, the legacy of Kolschitzky lives on in the form of the San Francisco Bay Area’s Blue Bottle Coffee, one of America’s best modern artisan roasters.

In the first few years of the 17th century, English travelers and explorers from Sir Francis Bacon to Captain John Smith, founder of the Jamestown colony in Virginia, referred to coffee in print. The first coffeehouse in England predated similar arrivals in Italy, Austria, Germany and France. Oxford’s first coffeehouse opened its doors in 1650, and London’s first café followed in 1652. By 1700, coffeehouses throughout London—nicknamed “penny universities”—numbered in the thousands, and ensconced all manner of political, philosophical, and artistic discourse. Lloyd’s of London, the British insurance market, actually got its start as a coffeehouse: in 1688, Edward Lloyd opened “Lloyd’s Coffee House”. The establishment soon became a magnet for seafarers, a hub of shipping news, and a market for underwriters, offering insurance to cover long ocean voyages. The London Stock Exchange similarly evolved from a list of commodity prices published in “Jonathan’s Coffee-House”. The Royal Society, the world’s oldest scientific academy in continuous existence, emerged from the “Oxford Coffee Club” in the mid-17th century. In 1698, Britain’s most venerable wine and spirits shop, Berry Bros. & Rudd opened its doors—as a coffeehouse. Samuel Pepys, who famously admired the “good and most particular taste” of “Ho-Bryan” wine, was just as devoted to his coffeehouses—he offered (scathing) criticism for the 1668 theatrical satire Tarugo’s Wiles or The Coffee-House, one of the first European dramatizations of the lively goings-on in the cafés. Coffee in the latter half of the 17th century found its share of detractors in England, including kings and female upholders of pious behavior—the former tried to ban it outright, and the latter claimed it made men slothful and impotent—but the hot brew tempered, to its credit, the legendary and rampant alcoholism that pervaded England at the time. Coffee’s popularity in England in the 17th century, however rapid and vibrant, would lose some of its steam in the 18th, as the British Empire became enamored with another vessel of caffeine: tea.

The first printed mention of coffee in Western Europe appeared in a German work, written and published in 1582 by Leonhard Rauwolf, following his return from Aleppo, a city in modern-day Syria. In a thorough description of the customs of the city, Rauwolf writes:

….They have a very good drink, by them called chaube that is almost as black
as ink, and very good in illness, chiefly that of the stomach; of this they drink in the morning…as hot as they can. (Ukers, p. 25)

Despite Rauwolf’s 16th century news of chaube (coffee), the drink itself did not reach Germany until about 1670, and an English coffee merchant opened the country’s first coffeehouse in Hamburg in 1679. By 1777, the German populace was so enamored with coffee that King Frederick the Great issued a proclamation reminding his subjects that the royal family was raised on beer, and any soldier who preferred coffee to the traditional brew of Germany was unreliable in wartime. Four years later, the king monopolized the roasting of coffee under the German crown, raised prices, and in effect shuttered the poorer classes from the enjoyment of the drink. Despite a total lack of caffeine, roasted chicory root, cereal grains, corn, and dried fig appeared as affordable substitutes. Chicory, particularly, would serve as a poor but widespread replacement for coffee into the 20th century, whenever the real thing was prohibitively expensive or simply unavailable. In 1804, Napoleon Bonaparte of France turned to chicory when his Continental System essentially cut off continental Europe from the trade of coffee, and the American South relied on chicory for coffee when the Union blockaded southern ports during the Civil War. In the latter half of the 19th century, unscrupulous American coffee men adulterated their wares with chicory to inflate their pocketbooks. Today, chicory remains a popular coffee flavoring in France and areas of French influence, such as New Orleans.

New Coffee Growing Regions Emerge

The Dutch East India Company, chartered in 1602, was the world’s first corporation and one of the first companies to act on a truly global scale. The Netherlands-based company monopolized the spice trade in the Far East, and by 1614 the Dutch tradesman expressed interest in the coffee of Aden. In 1616 they transplanted a living coffee tree from the Arabian Peninsula to Holland. Records indicate the Dutch East India Company’s robust trade of coffee between Mocha and other ports on the Arabian Sea as early as the 1620s. A commercial shipment of beans reached Amsterdam by 1640, and in 1663 the company began regularly importing coffee into Holland from Mocha. It is likely that the introduction of coffee into the states of Northern Europe arrived not with Ottoman diplomats or soldiers but with traders such as these. Meanwhile, the port of Mocha in Yemen held, in these early years, a virtual monopoly on the trade of coffee. Whether cultivated in the nearby mountains, or shipped from nearby Ethiopia, Mocha coffee moved throughout the Ottoman Empire—whose sultans counted Yemen as a territory—and poured into the Far East in the hands of European traders. The “Mocha” bean became synonymous with quality coffee, and in modern America one can order a café mocha—an espresso drink made with milk and chocolate—at just about any corner coffeeshop.

The acceptance of coffee by the societies of Europe created a great divide between coffee-producing countries and coffee-consuming countries, a separation that continues to exist in an even more exacerbated form today. Coffea arabica prefers warm tropical or subtropical climates. After several failed attempts to grow the tree in Holland and France, entrepreneurial Europeans looked to the possibilities of cultivation in their new colonies across the globe. From the single living tree in Holland, the Dutch took seeds to Ceylon (Sri Lanka), and by 1658 they had established the island’s first coffee plantations. In 1696, the Dutch introduced coffee to Java—an Indonesian island with which the beverage is now synonymous—and in 1699 developed the island’s first permanent coffee farms. Accounts differ as to whether the coffee seed entered India in 1600 or as late as 1695, but the story remains: a Muslim pilgrim from Mysore on India’s southwestern Malabar Coast returned to his native land from Arabia with seven hidden coffee seeds strapped to his belly. Although coffee production in India did not begin in earnest until 1840, it was supposedly a seed from Malabar that provided the first material for Java’s plantations. In 1714, the Dutch made a gift of a living coffee tree to King Louis XIV of France. Such gifts were rare, as living specimens were difficult to ship and could not often survive the continental climate of Europe. This tree, the progeny of a similar specimen in Amsterdam of Yemeni origin, thrived in a greenhouse in the botanical gardens of Paris and was, legend suggests, the sole ancestor to all coffee plants in the Western Hemisphere.

In 1723, the French Captain Gabriel Mathieu de Clieu sailed from Nantes to the French colony of Martinique in the Caribbean Sea. Braving Tunisian corsairs, tempests of hurricane-like proportions, and other furies of the sea, the noble captain risked his life and limb, and shared even his pittance of water rations with his most valuable passenger: a single coffee tree, spawned from the specimen in Paris. From this lone tree, successfully transported to Martinique soil, did the whole of Central and South American coffee descend. Alas, the romance of de Clieu’s tale is lessened by the fact that coffee was already elsewhere in the New World: in 1718 the Dutch introduced coffee to Dutch Guyana (modern-day Suriname), and in 1715 the French themselves commenced the cultivation of coffee in Hispaniola. In 1722, a French criminal named Mourgure may have escaped French Guyana for the neighboring Dutch territory and returned, repatriated, with stolen coffee seeds. Once both French and Dutch Guyana possessed coffee, neither would allow its export—it was too invaluable. In a story that recalls de Clieu’s single tree, a Brazilian diplomat named Francisco de Mello Palheta in 1727 bedded the wife of the governor of French Guyana during a border dispute between the French and Dutch colonies. In return for his “services”, he received from the governor’s wife a bouquet of flowers, within which she concealed several ripe coffee cherries. He returned to his native home of Pará in northern Brazil and planted the seeds. From these beans, perhaps the entirety of the Brazilian coffee industry sprang. More likely, coffee cultivation was introduced into the country in stages from various sources, arriving independently in southern Brazil as late as 1774. In the tales of de Clieu and Palheta, one might draw parallels to the stories of modern American winemakers and their “suitcase clones”, and wonder similarly about their veracity.

By the end of the 18th century, coffee grew throughout most of the European colonies of Central and South America. The British introduced coffee to Jamaica in 1730, and in the coming decades the Spanish brought coffee to their colonies in Cuba, Puerto Rico, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Guatemala, Venezuela, and Mexico. The development of coffee production throughout the colonial states of Central and South America is intertwined with that of sugar and the inhuman enterprise of the slave trade. As the infrastructure of sugarcane plantations already existed, the mechanism of production could be easily adopted for growing and harvesting coffee. African slaves provided the manpower to run these huge estates. By 1788, Saint-Domingue—the western half of the isle of Hispaniola—produced half of the world’s coffee, on the backs of African slaves. In 1791, however, the Western Hemisphere’s first and only successful national slave revolt dampened coffee production in Saint-Domingue—known as Haiti after the declaration of independence from France in 1804—and signaled decades of colonial upheaval in the region. The loss of Haiti, paralleled by English naval dominance, inspired Napoleon to develop his Continental System in an attempt to make continental Europe economically self-sufficient. Chicory made a poor coffee substitute, but a chief success of the system—the use of the European beet crop for sugar—greatly impacted the sugarcane industry of South America. Brazil, which declared independence from Portugal in 1822, shifted from a sugar-based economy to one based on the coffee bean, and emerged in the 19th century as the world’s center of coffee production.

Brazil, which remains the largest coffee-producing country in the world, achieved this position through the environmental catastrophe of rainforest devastation and an utter reliance on slavery. The coffee plantation arose principally in the mountains of the Paraiba Valley, located within the southeastern states of São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, where the coffee growers burned countless miles of virgin forest to make way for their fazendas (plantations). Brazilian coffee grew vigorously in the terra roxa clay soils of the subtropical Paraiba Valley, but it was generally not a high quality bean. Due to slave labor, however, it was extremely cheap to produce, and it could be colored with lead sprays or arsenic to resemble superior beans from elsewhere in the world. The slaves—imported from Africa until 1850 and “home-grown” afterward—toiled on the fazendas under intolerable conditions, dying after an average of seven years in the relentless sun. In 1888, Brazil was the last country in the Western Hemisphere to ban slavery, due in large part to the vocal resistance of the coffee industry, which was by the early 20th century responsible for 90% of Brazil’s exports. In 1880, a Brazilian parliamentarian put it most succinctly: “Brazil is coffee, and coffee is the negro.” (Wild, p. 173)

The coffee men of Mocha had for years attempted to maintain their monopoly on the trade. Although the Dutch were able to abscond with living coffee trees as early as 1616, the Arabs generally forbade Europeans from leaving with living plants or fruits, and may have even attempted to sterilize the coffee seeds through boiling or partially roasting them prior to export. If the men of Mocha thoroughly dried the beans before sale, using them as seeds would have been a moot point regardless. Nonetheless, the floodgates of coffee opened, and the era of Mocha’s stranglehold on the trade drew to a close. As C. arabica spread westward to the Americas in the early 18th century, the Dutch East Indies—particularly the islands of Java, Sumatra, Celebes (Sulawesi) and Bali—emerged as a major supplier of coffees to Europe. In 1712 Dutch traders sold their first shipment of Java-grown coffee in Amsterdam. The Yemeni seedling that ended up in Louis XIV’s greenhouse two years later traveled by way of Java. The Dutch loved coffee; unlike every other coffee-consuming society in the world, there is no suggestion of intolerance to the beverage in the history of Holland. By the end of the 19th century, Holland consumed more coffee per capita than any other in the world, and the Dutch grew the great majority of the coffee they drank on their island territories in the Far East.

The Dutch East Indies, a sphere of influence for Dutch traders throughout the 17th and 18th centuries, became a fully-fledged colony of the Netherlands in 1795. From this point forward, coffee production was essentially a monopolistic enterprise on the part of the Dutch government, who used the island’s native population as indentured servants. Francis Thurber, in his Coffee, from Plantation to Cup, regards the treatment of native workers as “better than slaves…they cannot be punished by whipping, and are free to come and go as they please”, yet he concedes that they are “miserably poor…and degraded.” The government required every native family to maintain anywhere from 500 to 1000 coffee trees, and deliver the processed beans to their coffee-brokers for a paltry return. Natives in Java’s Sunda district, the original home of coffee on the island, bore the largest burden of cultivation. After the harvest, Dutch sailing vessels carried fresh coffee over lengthy voyages to the markets of Europe and America. In a process that recalls the torna viagem of Madeira wines, the beans “sweated” and mellowed in character during their passage through warm equatorial waters, and ship captains received a premium for beans delivered in such a condition. The widespread adoption of steam-powered ships in the first part of the 19th century shortened the voyage, and the Dutch government began aging the beans in godowns (storehouses) to replicate the “sweating” process. Beans dried, browned and mellowed for two years or more, shrinking in weight and increasing in price. “Old Government Java”, the oldest and most premium coffee, was highly prized among the coffee connoisseurs of the late 19th century, but the process of bean aging—often compared to the cellaring of fine wines by its admirers—has been disavowed by many coffee enthusiasts in modern times.

Hemileia vastatrix, Robusta, and the Resurgence of Coffee in Africa

The island of Ceylon, where the Dutch had established coffee plantations by 1658, first shipped coffee to Amsterdam in 1721, at a higher price than Java coffee. It is possible, even, that Arab sailors introduced coffee cultivation to the island prior to the arrival of the first Europeans in 1505. However, coffee growing remained a smaller enterprise in Ceylon until the British took control of the island at the beginning of the 19th century. From the 1830s onward, the British increased coffee production on the island dramatically, as they had done in neighboring India a decade earlier. A half-century of frenzied expansion occurred; by 1877 there were nearly 275,000 acres of European-owned coffee plantations in what is now Sri Lanka. The coffee industry’s quick rise in Ceylon would encounter a similarly spectacular demise, in the form of Hemileia vastatrix, a fungal disease that kills the C. arabica tree by destroying its leaves. Just as the vintners of Europe fell victim to the ravages of Phylloxera vastatrix, H. vastatrix decimated the coffee plantations of Ceylon. Vastatrix derives from the Latin vastare, meaning “to lay waste”, and from its initial appearance in 1869 to the end of the century it did exactly that—by 1900, the coffee tree essentially disappeared from the country. Like the root louse, the fungus responsible for coffee leaf rust was not content in isolation: H. vastatrix soon spread to nearby India and Indonesia, and laid waste to all of the coffee fields of Asia in the last decades of the 19th century. The sudden scourge afflicting Asian sources of coffee paved the way for Brazil to dominate the global trade, and growers in Ceylon and the Dutch East Indies planted tea in dead coffee fields. Ceylon would soon become a serious tea producer, but it would never again be a major exporter of the coffee bean. The Indonesian islands and other areas of Asia, however, found salvation from the disease in a lowly relative of C. arabica, discovered deep in the heart of Africa.

Robusta, banned and decried by the New York Coffee Exchange in 1912 as “a practically worthless bean,” (Pendergrast, p. 142) produces coffee of coarse and crude quality. Whereas good Arabica is nuanced, aromatic, and distinguished by its acidity, 2004 World Barista Champion Tim Wendelboe describes Robusta’s character as “bitter and vulgar, like burnt popcorn.” Yet Robusta would have an enormous impact on world coffee production in the 20th century, and today nearly one-third of all coffees produced are Robusta. Robusta is a variety of Coffea canephora, which grows at lower, warmer altitudes than Coffea arabica, produces more fruit and matures sooner, and is—above all else—resistant to the ravages of H. vastatrix. The slightly larger Arabica coffee beans contain more sugars but less caffeine: Robusta beans may contain up to 4% caffeine content, whereas Arabica beans hover around 0.8-1.4%. Both plants developed caffeine levels as a form of natural insecticide; the evolution of higher caffeine content conforms to the Robusta trees’ preferred tropical environment, where the climate is warmer, wetter, and more insect-rich. In 1862 Europeans first encountered C. canephora in Uganda, where natives smeared the bean with blood during tribal ceremonies of brotherhood, and chewed it before battle. A Frenchman named Emil Laurent rediscovered it in the Belgian Congo in 1898, and a Belgian firm responsible for its initial cultivation gave it the name “Robusta”, signaling its full body and powerful caffeine kick.

Plantation owners in the Dutch East Indies and India turned to Robusta coffee in droves. By 1920, Robusta beans accounted for over 80% of Java’s coffee crop, despite the fact the Robusta could not legally be sold as “Java” coffee, according to United States labeling laws. The New York Coffee Exchange ended its ban on Robusta in 1960, and many of the big-name, mass-produced American brands turned to the cheaper bean for both instant and ground coffees. A generation of coffee drinkers suffered as a result. By World War I Robusta composed the majority of Holland’s imported coffee, and the French—despite enviable advancements in other areas of food and wine appreciation—took a liking to the beans, following their previous (and equally misguided) embrace of chicory as a perfectly acceptable coffee substitute. In French Indochina (modern-day Vietnam), the French first planted coffee near Hanoi in 1887. The colony exported nearly all of its coffee back to France, and the growers in French Indochina cultivated the Robusta variety almost exclusively. Throughout the 20th century, Vietnam was a small player in the international coffee trade, but production surged in the 1990s. By 2000, Vietnam overtook Indonesia to become the world’s largest producer of Robusta, and charged past Colombia to become the second largest producer of coffee in the world. Although Vietnam now produces approximately 10% of the world’s coffee, one will not often find beans of Vietnam origin in better coffeeshops, as the Vietnamese cultivate the cheap, inferior Robusta in 95% of their farms.

Until Vietnam’s sudden rise in the late 20th century, the world’s most prominent growing regions for Robusta coffee were not located in Indonesia or India, but in the tree’s native home: sub-Saharan Africa. Despite the fact that both Arabica and Robusta originated in Africa, European colonizers were slow to convert their African possessions to coffee production. Africa lagged far behind other coffee growing areas of the world in railroad development and transportation infrastructure: coffee was “re-introduced” to Africa in the early years of the 18th century, but it remained difficult to take the bean to European markets. In 1715, the French imported Arabica coffee from Mocha to an island off the coast of Madagascar, the Ile de Bourbon (Réunion). This was not the first coffee on the island—settlers discovered wild coffee trees in 1711—but the new trees thrived, and the island lent its name to one of the great sub-varieties of Arabica. Coffee production commenced in earnest in nearby Madagascar in the 1820s, and spiked significantly after the French annexed the island in 1896. The British, who were by then more interested in tea, introduced coffee cultivation to their territories in modern-day Malawi in 1878, and to modern-day Kenya and Uganda near the turn of the century. In the same year, the British imported Arabica coffee into Ethiopia—its ancestral home—from Réunion and Jamaica. Thus, over hundreds of years Arabica coffee traveled from Ethiopia to Yemen to other corners of the globe and back again, yet it was the Robusta strain that truly conquered the new African coffee farms. H. vastatrix attacked the coffee lands of Africa not long after it hit Ceylon and Java, just as many African regions were finding their footing. Uganda adopted its native strain of Robusta coffee, as did most areas under French control at the turn of the century, including the Ivory Coast, the Congo and Madagascar. The majority of coffees from Angola and Cameroon—then and now—are Robusta. By 1954, Robusta accounted for over 80% of total African coffee exports. Ethiopia and Kenya managed to remain dedicated to Arabica, and are today universally regarded for the quality of their single-origin coffees. The countries of Burundi, Rwanda, and Tanzania also remained committed to Arabica; nonetheless, today Robusta composes nearly three-quarters of the African coffee harvest.

In Brazil and other coffee-growing states of the Americas, Arabica remained dominant. For many years, Brazil banned the import of Robusta seedlings, fearing that spores of H. vastatrix would travel with them. The coffee leaf rust did not actually arrive in Brazil until 1970, and from 1976 forward the country began to export a small degree of Robusta. By 2010 Brazilian Robusta climbed to 15% of the total green coffee export, and nearly 30% of the actual production. Colombia, the world’s third largest producer, still cultivates Arabica exclusively, but in neighboring Ecuador, Robusta represents 40% of the crop. Some scientists and industry experts warn that the extreme weather patterns associated with climate change may spell disaster in the coming years for the more fragile Arabica, and the future of coffee may, sadly, rest on the shoulders of the hardier Robusta.

Coffee Advances. Sort of.

In the years leading up to World War I, Holland led the world in per capita consumption, and Europeans in general drank more coffee per capita than their American counterparts. However, in the latter years of the 19th century the US emerged as the world’s largest consumer of coffee, and by World War I Americans consumed over half of the world’s coffee—a position that they would maintain until 1970. Per capita consumption in the US grew to thirteen pounds per person by the 1930s. Today, we still drink a hell of a lot of coffee. Whether drinking it in the form of a triple grande nonfat skinny vanilla frapa-cappuccino amounts to more than a lateral pass in quality on the Robusta-heavy instant coffees of the past is debatable, but Americans like to think we care about good coffee. We want to care about the quality; we just sometimes don't actually like the taste. Hopefully, we simply graduate to better coffees as our tastes mature. This will not be a new progression for those whose drinking days began with Natty ice and Tropical-flavored Mad Dog 20/20.

Americans consider coffee a birthright, available at every corner Starbucks and gas station. We have perhaps been fooled by its omnipresence into forgetting the incongruity of its availability in our northern climate, or the arduous journey it takes to get here. The immense and frequent social and political upheavals in coffee-growing countries, the bloodshed in coffee fields, the inequalities between producer and consumer: the story of coffee is alight with real human difficulties, and a cup of coffee represents a westward path some 500 years and thousands of miles in the making. It is in one sense an appreciation of the struggle involved that we should take the time to reflect on the articulation, flavor, aroma, and terroir of a good cup of coffee, unadorned with milk or sugar, every now and again.

A note on the above text:

This history of coffee attempts to produce, culling from as many reputable sources as possible, a general timeline of the discovery and evolution of coffee, as both bean and beverage. It should be noted that, throughout scholarly works on coffee, there emerge many discrepancies in this history, and thus many dates below can best be viewed as approximations. In many cases, the lore of coffee has been repeated so many times as to masquerade as fact.

Works consulted for historical detail include the following:

Coffee: Its History, Cultivation, and Uses (Robert Hewitt, published 1872)
Coffee, from Plantation to Cup (Francis Beatty Thurber, published 1881)
All About Coffee 2nd Ed. (William Harrison Ukers, published 1935)
Coffee: Botany, Cultivation, and Utilization (Frederick L. Wellman, published 1961)
The Book of Coffee & Tea, 2nd Revised Ed. (Joel, David, and Karl Schapira, published 1996)
Coffee: A Dark History (Antony Wild, published 2004)
The Global Coffee Economy in Africa, Asia and Latin America, 1500-1989 (W. G. Clarence-Smith and Steven Topik, published 2006)
Uncommon Grounds: A History of Coffee and How it Transformed our World 2nd Ed. (Mark Pendergrast, published 2010)

Adventures of the Wine-Butler, or Dining with Deinhard

Matt Stamp — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 11:01:00 GMT

Amidst stacks of old books and lore at Hanzell Vineyards, a few old mid-century magazines have gathered dust, yellowing over time. The Wine-Butler, the "official organ" of the Guild of Sommeliers, published through the 1950s and 1960s--I do not know when the last issue hit the stands--is a trove of insights into the British wine trade of the time, and the minds of sommeliers. Like us, the sommeliers of the time struggled to make sense of a growing world of wine, and paged eagerly through each issue hoping to glean new information. The publication served both the British Guild of Sommeliers and the American Society of Bacchus, and there were monthly comminiqués from the Irish Branch. Ads showcased a silhouetted, aristocratic couple, lost in each other's charms, and implored the reader to "discover the sunshine!" in a glass of Australian wine. In these days, Blue Nun could "go right through the meal!" and a cru classé Bordeaux estate, Château Olivier, actually had to bother with print advertisements.

Following are a few of my favorite advertisements and some print excerpts from issues published between 1960 and 1963. A collection of magazines, available as digital pdf files, is available here: "The Wine-Butler" Archives

June 1961:
"America is--I exaggerate slightly--in the minds of millions of Europeans, a country full of sky-scrapers. This, of course, is not so. There are multitudes of country towns and small villages, wonderful little hamlets around which agriculture on large and small scale is carried on, and in some parts of the States, vineyards have been planted. And I can assure you that the American Vintner takes as much pride in his products as his brethren in Europe."

September 1961:
"The vineyards of the Gironde are making normal progress, but optimism is tempered by the prospect of not more than half a normal crop in red wines...So, for the fifth year out of six, the 1961 vintage will be below average in quality."

August 1962:
"A lighted handle was held by one devoted assistant below the Impériale and the clarity of the "pour" watched from above by the one then pouring. Suddenly he gave a cry--the lees were coming forward. The bottle was titled back and found to contain about a half-magnum of cloudy wine and sediment, no drop of which had escaped into the magnum. The magnums were labeled 1, 2, 3, 4 and each corked as soon as filled. At the same time a magnum of Lafite '34 was decanted. In a glow of anticipation and achievement, the party trooped down to join the others in the dining room, where, after an avocado pear with crab filling, a very fine saddle of lamb, expertly prepared by the chef, made its appearance in style, and the party got down to the serious matter of the Lascombes and the Lafite."

February 1963:
Paris Sommelier: "What wine would you like with dessert? A Champagne not too dry and not too sweet would be, I believe, a happy and fit Grand Finale."
English customer: "You have the soul of a poet, my friend, hence your disregard of cash considerations. Champagne is too dear."
Paris Sommelier: "You flatter me, sir, but a bottle of Champagne costs no more than a bottle of Yquem."

Booze à la Normande: Calvados, Cidre, Poiré and Pommeau

Matt Stamp — Tue, 31 May 2011 19:05:00 GMT

A Little Background

Normandy, located east of Brittany and north of the Loire Valley, is a coastal region along the English Channel, whose native populace can claim Viking ancestry. In 911, King Charles III of France ceded Normandy to Scandinavian invaders led by Rollo, who was formally baptized as Robert and pledged as vassal to defend the French king. The line of Robert’s successors, the Dukes of Normandy (Norman = Northman, or Norseman) lasted through the French Revolution, although claim of the title moved in time from Normandy to France to England—today, the Queen of England lists “Duke of Normandy” as an official title, although her crown retains authority over only the Channel Islands. William (Guillaume) the Conqueror, one of Robert’s descendants, conquered England in 1066 as the Duke of Normandy, and is formally regarded by the monarchy in the UK as the founder of the State of England. The titles of King of England and Duke of Normandy were united until 1204, when France confiscated Normandy, a loss formally recognized a half-century later in the Treaty of Paris. The region remained contested for several hundred years, and the English sporadically occupied the land during the bloody Hundred Years’ War of the 14th and 15th centuries. When the French monarchy was dissolved at the end of the 18th century, the Duchy of Normandy was formally disbanded as well; its sole remnants are the Channel Islands off the coast and the obsolete title in the hands of the Queen.

Normandy is a picturesque and pastoral region, dotted with small towns and hamlets, each clustered around a magnificent church, whose spires sharply jut above the verdant waves of hill and field. Farms and orchards abound; half-timbered farmhouses in the English Tudor style stand side-by-side cottages and churches erected from the plentiful local granite. A sonorous French GPS struggles to carve a path through the back roads and single lane bridges. Cattle are everywhere; in the Manche and Calvados départements their milk provides the raw material for Beurre d’Isigny AOC and Crème d’Isigny AOC—butter and cream, respectively. The French stipulations for agricultural product appellations are every bit as regimented as those for wine: butter, for example, must be churned at certain speeds; temperature and pasteurization procedures are methodically detailed. Even the amount of time cattle must be left to graze at pasture is mandated. Soft-ripened cow’s milk cheeses are produced as Camembert AOC, Pont l’Évêque AOC, and Livarot AOC, from communes of the same name. Only Pont l’Évêque producers may use pasteurized milk. Overall, dairy produce makes up 27% of Normandy’s agricultural output. Beef composes another 20% of the total product—the Normande cow is a dual-purpose breed, utilized for both dairy and—with a little more finality—the abattoir. Tripe from Caen, the urban center of Normandy, is famous, and the nearby Atlantic provides fishermen with bountiful scallops, mussels, and monkfish. Cooking in Normandy is rich, indeed, with butter and cream at the base of the à la Normande style. Apples, of course, are widely incorporated into both the cuisine and the homegrown libations of the region.

The first of four courses....for lunch. Normandy conspires to make you fat.

Cidre, Poiré, and Eric Bordelet

With over 300,000 tons of cider apples harvested per year, Cidre (cider) production in Normandy is a major business. In Normandy, east of Caen, Pays d’Auge AOC (1996) produces Cidre exclusively from apples. In Brittany, along the western border of Normandy, Cidre may be released as Cornouaille AOC. Just as in wine, Pays d’Auge AOC controls are strict: orchard density, apple varieties, yields, minimum must weights, fermentation methods, final alcohol levels (min. 3.5% acquired, min. 6% total), and pressure (min. 3 atmospheres) are all regulated. Dozens of apple varieties are authorized, grouped into the main categories of bitter and acidic. For Pays d’Auge, there is a mandatory encépagement: orchards must comprise a minimum 70% bitter varieties of apple, and a maximum 15% of acidic varieties. Sweet apples are also used, but none of the cider apple varieties are suitable for eating. A single apple may compose no more than 60% of the finished Cidre. The apple harvest may be conducted by hand or machine, and it occurs from October through Christmastime, with some of the most interesting and complex varieties harvested near the end of the season. Harvested apples are crushed to a rough pulp—but not so fine as a purée, which ruins flavor—and are usually macerated on the apple skins for a few hours prior to pressing. To qualify for the AOC, Cidre develops during a slow, cool fermentation in vat before being transferred to the bottle, wherein, with the optional addition of active yeasts, it undergoes a second fermentation that lasts at least six weeks and produces the mousse at a level similar to old style crémant. Finer ciders are bottled as cidre bouché, in a Champagne-style bottle under cork. There is even a subzone in Pays d’Auge: 22 communes may append “Cambremer” to the AOC name on the label.

Producers in Domfront AOC, named for the cité médiévale of the same name some fifty-five miles south of Caen, make Poiré rather than Cidre. The production of Poiré (pear) follows a similar formula, and is a reflection of the region’s abundance of pear trees, some of which are centuries old. The apple tree, as described by Emmanuel Camut of the renowned Adrien Camut Calvados Pays d’Auge estate, ages much like a man, whereas the pear tree, although it may bear fruit by its 16th year, may be 100 years old before it reaches true maturity. The pear trees are better suited to the stonier soils of the Domfrontais, and Poiré is a major component in the region’s style of Calvados. Despite the asserted superiority of AOC products, Eric Bordelet, one of Normandy’s best producers of both Cidre and Poiré, is not making his elixirs under the auspices of either AOC.

As one approaches the family estate of Eric Bordelet, a half hour’s drive southeast of Domfront, the ruined Château de Hauteville dominates the scenery. The castle, built in 1789—a year in which many manors and palaces in France were destroyed and very few were actually erected—succumbed to fire in 1922. Today it is a skeleton, slowly and irreversibly swallowed by time and scenery, the stone façade cracked and reclaimed by vegetation. Bordelet still uses a small cellar hewn out of the granite upon which the castle stands, but the château, to an outsider, threatens to collapse at even slight provocation. 15 ha of orchard land surround the castle, amidst other fields and pastures, and Eric envisions planting 2 more hectares within the next year. A sommelier by trade, Bordelet returned to his family home in Charchigné in 1992, where he gave up his ambition to produce wine in exchange for the pear and apple trees of his native Normandy. Today, he makes Sidre/Sydre (two old spellings of Cidre) and Poiré from a mixture of trees—although he cannot recall the exact proportion of pear to apple in his vineyards, he estimates approximately 60% are pear—but he never mixes the juices of each fruit in the final product. As the Poirés benefit from higher acidity and a more elegant structure, he likens them to white wines, whereas the more tannic and full-bodied Sidre could be compared to a red. Like some German producers who prefer to showcase Riesling and Spätburgunder in reverse order because of the intensity of Riesling’s acidity, Bordelet will pour his Sidre before Poiré in a tasting flight.

On the red schist and granite soils of the estate, Bordelet’s orchards contain a wide variety of pears and apples and include bitter, sweet, and acidic varieties for both fruits. The majority of his orchards were planted in 1992 or later, but there are three hectares of 40- to 50-year old trees that are the soul of his Poiré production. An even smaller stand of wizened, ancient 300-year old trees predates the construction of the Château de Hauteville and provides the raw material for his Poiré “Granit”, a bottle worth keeping in the cellar—a 2003 Granit tasted in 2011, with Scallops à la Normande was off-dry, with piney, rustic, caramel flavors and great acidity despite the heat-wave vintage. The older trees are planted in the traditional haute tige (“high stem”) fashion, with high branches and wide spacing between trees. The younger trees on his property are planted in high densities and trellised, in the manner of a European vineyard, and many of these trees are grafted to produce a different variety of the fruit. Through grafting, Bordelet can control disease and increase the number of “heirloom” fruits present in his orchards, and he firmly believes in tending his trees in accordance with biodynamic principles. Bordelet does purchase an amount of fruit each year from a handful of other growers, who may cultivate their orchards organically but not in full biodynamic fashion.

A grafted pear tree in Bordelet's orchards

Soyons réalistes, exigeons l'impossible: “Be realistic, demand the impossible”. Che Guevara’s famous statement adorns the stainless steel tank from which Bordelet bottles his production. He rigidly controls every step in the “winery”—for lack of a better word—from the sleek, jacketed fermentation units to his own bottling line, and insists that his specific method, despite the lack of a second fermentation in the bottle, is not akin to the Charmat Method utilized in Asti. Persuaded by his close personal friend, the late Didier Dagueneau, to pursue cider production, he is striving for a level of complexity rare in a traditionally rustic field. He releases several Sidre bottlings, usually in a range of sweetness levels: Brut, Tendre, and Doux. In 2010, a vintage defined by heat and drought, Bordelet did not release a Brut. His off-dry 2010 Sidre Tendre shows fairly pronounced tannin. He likes his Sidre to finish between 4% and 6% abv, which is difficult in drier, hotter years—many producers, even within the AOC, may add water to the must to keep final alcohol levels down. Bordelet refuses to add water directly to the must, but he will irrigate his trees in such years, accomplishing the same result—a solution, ironically, prohibited by AOC regulations. His most complex Sidre is the “Sydre” Argelette, a vinous, ageworthy, intense style that combines 19 apple varieties, and is characterized by extremely small bubbles. His Poirés are less weighty and paler, with alcohol levels in the 3.5-4% range, and they tend toward elegance, freshness, and racy acidity. His total production numbers hover around 85,000 bottles annually, including a small amount of Calvados.

Calvados, Adrien Camut and Lemorton

The first lesson in successfully navigating Normandy should have hit home when Gilles de Chambure, MS—a Norman native—gravely intoned: “Get a good map.” GPS is useless here. Driving hopelessly back and forth through the tiny town of La Lande Saint-Léger and its environs, I first encountered Emmanuel Camut, who currently runs his family’s 45 ha estate with his brothers, while out walking the family dog. Emmanuel—a man thick in Viking blood—guided a French friend and me to the wooded drive of the Camuts’ Domaine de Semainville, named for its former owners, aristocrats on the wrong side of the revolution, where he would patiently explain his methods of producing Calvados Pays d’Auge AOC. Pays d’Auge, considered the best region for Calvados production, is located east of Caen in a large area, its center marked by the city of Lisieux. Pont l’Évêque is to the north of Lisieux, Camembert lies to the south, Bernay is to the east, and Cambremer is to the west. Unlike the granite-based soils of the Domfrontais, Pays d’Auge has more clay and less stone, which permits apple trees to grow faster. Camut’s property, which contains apple trees cultivated in the haute tige style almost exclusively—he admits to planting a couple of pear trees, for “fun”—is nearly devoid of the larger stones that slow tree growth and result in smaller apples with lower sugar content. His facilities are a monument to traditional, artisan production: there is no insulation or temperature control anywhere on the property, nothing to suggest a modern distillation facility save a single modern pneumatic press. He tends his orchards organically, as his father and grandfather Adrien did before him. Chickens, each bearing a vibrant, unique plumage, scatter across the property.

Cidre in foudre awaiting September's distillation at the estate of Adrien Camut

We passed through his Cidre production facility—a barn, really—where he explains the benefits of utilizing a selection of 25 to 30 different varieties of apple, and only apple, despite Calvados Pays d’Auge AOC’s allowance of up to 30% Poiré in the blend. Traditionally, cigar-shaped tonne barrels were used in Normandy for cider production, and the foudre, with twice the wood thickness, was used to hold and age Calvados—a development perhaps due to the greater safety it bestowed upon the spirit inside, in deference to the relative expense of the two liquids. Camut, however, allows his Cidre to ferment in large, neutral American oak foudres, where they remain until the September after harvest—with no temperature control—when the contents are finally distilled. Many of his competitors would have distilled the previous March. Stepping outside, Emmanuel motions to two separate piles of firewood for his stills, as he dispels the notion of using gas so favored by many of his colleagues, including Bordelet. Peuplier (poplar) wood summons a rousing, enthusiastic fire for the first distillation, whereas apple wood burns evenly, more embers than open flame, providing a more constant temperature for the second. Calvados Pays d’Auge AOC must be distilled twice, like Cognac, and Camut’s old twin copper Charentais alembics suggest something alchemical, mysterious, and transformative. 10 liters of Cidre produce about 1 liter of Calvados, and the whole distillation process lasts about six weeks, 24 hours a day. Of course, Cidre of higher alcohol content will produce larger amounts of spirit: a producer with a 9% abv Cidre can make twice as much Calvados as a producer, like Camut, who prefers to use Cidre of around 4.5% abv. Instead of keeping the spirit at cask strength as it begins its sojourn in oak, Camut reduces the spirit with rainwater vapors that intermingle with the vapors of the exiting eau de vie as they condense. A second innovation is the pot of Camut's still, which is divided in two: a small tube connects the pots and refreshes the alcohol vapor by contact with boiling Cidre in the second pot, giving the spirit additional flavor. The brouillis, or petites eaux—the heart of the condensed spirit—is then distilled again, with the final alcoholic strength ending up closer to 55%, rather than the standard 65% or 70%, due to the reduction with water vapor. Camut believes that spirits nearer 70% alcohol will sear the casks, and render the wood less able to permit the exchange of oxygen. Oxidation is vitally important to Camut’s style of Calvados: the spirits are moved frequently between barrels in the first few years of life, and barrels are generally not topped off over time.

The spirits age for at least six years in neutral Limousin oak foudres—the appellation requires a minimum of only two years—but his best products are a blend of vintages: the Reserve de Semainville Calvados is composed of spirits between 25 and 30 years of age, the Reserve d’Adrien is composed of 35-40 year old spirits, and the Prestige contains Calvados between 40 and 50 years old. His liquors, unlike offerings from many of the larger houses, are neither filtered nor colored, and sugar is never added at bottling. To preserve a presence of tannin without having to resort to new barrels, Camut may fill a cask destined for Calvados with Saint-Martin apple must (one of the more tannic bitter varieties) prior to storing a new spirit in the wood. Camut does not typically release vintage bottlings, but he holds casks dating to the middle of the last century on the property, and will occasionally offer a vintage bottling as a gift—he drew spirit from a 1977 cask into bottle, sealing the closure with hot wax as I watched, a gift bottle of Calvados distilled in my birth year. The honey-colored spirit—oxidative, slightly rancio, and caramel-toned, yet still fresh with apples, grass and flowers—will not continue to mature in bottle, but it will last indefinitely once opened. Adrien Camut releases 15,000 to 20,000 bottles of Calvados each year.

Camut's alembic

The Normans of the back roads are perfectly hospitable but still guarded. While Bordelet himself remains pretty protective of his processes, Bordelet’s mother remains ever vigilant, refusing to allow photographs of the property with a zeal undeterred by casual tourists, facebook addicts, and serious bloggers alike. Neither he nor Camut seem interested in recommending other producers worth visiting in the region—both regard the question with either incredulity or outright aversion, as though the question was untranslatable, or perhaps not even heard. When pressed, Camut relented: Didier Lemorton, who represents the sixth generation of his family to produce Calvados at the Lemorton estate in Mantilly, near Domfront. The almost 100 hectare Lemorton property has only 9 acres of orchards, composed of nearly 80% pear trees planted in the haute tige style. The mandatory inclusion of at least 30% pear in Calvados Domfrontais AOC is far exceeded here: the family recipe generally calls for about 70% pear in the blend. As with Camut, distillation occurs nearly a year after the fruit harvest, although a column still is used rather than the traditional copper pot alembic of Pays d’Auge, and Calvados Domfrontais AOC may only be distilled once. The 65% abv spirit leaves the traveling oak wood-fired still—few if any producers own a still in the Domfrontais—and is then transferred to old casks. AOC regulations for Calvados Domfrontais require a minimum three years in cask before release. Lemorton is famous for vintage Calvados, and currently maintains stocks of every vintage from 1963 forward in cask. Barrels are never topped up, and the spirit is bottled with the addition of distilled water upon sale; thus, the same vintage purchased years apart may show different characteristics. Due to the higher presence of pear, Calvados Domfrontais usually takes on a fresher, lighter, more feminine character than Calvados Pays d’Auge, but the Lemorton style remains intense. A 1978 vintage tasted out of bottle at the domaine was delicate, smoky, and laden with orange peel, roasted nuts and honey. Lemorton does not solely make vintage bottles; the Reserve Calvados Domfrontais, aged for at least five years, is an introduction to house’s style, whereas the Rareté, a blend of vintages dating back to 1920, reveals complex toffee, spice and nut flavors.

Calvados AOC is the largest of the three Calvados appellations, encompassing both Calvados Domfrontais and Calvados Pays d’Auge, along with other outlying and disconnected areas. Spirits labeled simply “Calvados” may be distilled by either pot or, more frequently, column still, and they are required to be aged for a minimum of two years in cask. Most Calvados AOC is less complex than the spirits produced in the two more signature appellations, and it is generally best consumed as an aperitif or in a cocktail—Calvados and tonic is a growing trend—rather than as a contemplative digestif. All Calvados has a minimum alcohol content of 40%. Blended Calvados is marked with an age statement indicating the youngest spirit in the blend, whereas vintage Calvados will be labeled with the year of distillation. Approximately 10 million bottles of Calvados are shipped every year, and although it has declined in popularity in its native France, the rapidly expanding Russian market gives hope for the future.

Producers of Calvados and Cidre in Normandy agree on methods rarely if ever, and the absolute scientific precision and technical acumen that increasingly govern the world’s great winemaking regions seems utterly out of place here. Things occur because that is the way they should occur. Taste and observation are the calculus of measurement and decision, not the laboratory. Along the cider route, one can find many small farmsteads offering Calvados “fermier”, farmhouse spirits produced in even more rustic, fiery fashion. Camut, Bordelet and Lemorton, deep in the hills of Normandy, each have their own outlook and methodology, but they share a basic, unembellished authenticity, and a genuine product. I did not seek out the larger names of Calvados, such as Château du Breuil, or even the moderate-sized Domaine Dupont; perhaps these estates, with their public tours, professional websites, and range of products, have a similarly engaging story to tell. Dupont’s organic Brut Cidre Bouché has wowed me in the past, and I enjoy the estate’s Calvados, which shows a little new wood. But for sheer immersion into the culture of Calvados, I recommend a visit to Adrien Camut. Just be sure to speak a little French.

Emmanuel Camut and Didier Lemorton, photo courtesy of Charles Neal

A final note: Pommeau de Normandie AOC

Pommeau de Normandie AOC (1991) is made from a mixture of fresh apple must (juice) and AOC Calvados of at least 65% abv, aged for a minimum of 12 months in oak. Mutage results in a final alcohol level between 16-18% and at least 69 grams per liter of residual sugar. As with both Cidre and Calvados, a blend of apple varieties must be used, including at least 70% bitter varieties and no more than 15% acidic varieties. The production area for Pommeau de Normandie is identical to the delimited area of Calvados AOC. A similar style of apple-based aperitif is produced in Brittany, under the Pommeau de Bretagne AOC (1997). A third Pommeau AOC, Pommeau du Maine, was approved in 2009 for producers in the Mayenne and Main-et-Loire départements, just south of Normandy in the northern Loire Valley region. Eaux-de-Vie de Cidre du Maine, the apple spirit of the region, is used in place of Calvados.

Pommeau de Normandie and Pommeau de Bretagne are aged in oak for 14 months before release, whereas Pommeau du Maine is kept for at least 21 months prior to sale. The sweet, amber-colored aperitif is best enjoyed between 46-50° F, and it is sometimes served with a single cube of ice in the brasseries and cafes of Normandy. Sweetness in the better examples is balanced by structure and tannin. As a starter, it is a good accompaniment to foie gras torchon or the sweet/savory tatin apple tarts of the region. Lemorton makes a more serious example of Pommeau de Normandie; honeyed smoke aromas intertwine with apple, toffee and cherry.

Mme. Colin's beautiful Chambre d'Hote, in the half-timbered style

Reflections of a New Master (The Journey is the Reward?)

Matt Stamp — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 10:13:00 GMT

I recall approaching the examination room for the first time several winters ago in Toronto, as an introductory candidate from the Midwest. I had the opportunity for the first time in person to meet and to learn from a Master Sommelier. I felt awe and reverence at that moment for these gentlemen with red pins on a scale normally reserved for gods and natural disasters; I recall praying throughout that first terrifying, eye-opening day of class that in their capriciousness they would call on me for something tangible: the visual assessment of a wine, perhaps, but nothing so nebulous as a conclusion! I escaped mostly unscathed. I earned a small pin and a measure of respect from my colleagues back home; yet my pride in this accomplishment was moderated by certainty in my own abilities: I would never become a Master Sommelier. The gulf was simply too wide.

That first frigid morning of class, an affable young gentleman from California mapped his trajectory from this introductory pin to his Master Sommelier Exam with precision: he beamed with broad confidence and proclaimed to all around that he would sit that most difficult of exams by the age of 30. I remember, with the measure of distrust introverts reserve for those with a gift of gab, simultaneously envying his charm and imaging his conceit. I took my seat near the back while he raced for the front of class, and didn’t bother to speak to him again. Today, I have had the pleasure of knowing Ian Cauble for nearly two years, and I value his friendship and talent greatly. As we shared a ride through Dallas this past Friday afternoon, awaiting the results of our second MS exam together, he offhandedly remarked about his intro class in Canada, and I suddenly remembered that long-haired kid from California. What I mistook at that moment for conceit was a sense of ambition and scope and drive that I could not understand.

For me, the path to an MS pin was a series of small struggles, small victories, small advances. Unlike Ian, I could have not made it to this exam if I had envisioned it as a goal from the start. I needed tiny achievements to mask a lack of confidence in myself. I looked forward to the certified exam, but no further. As successes multiply, however, your confidence slowly builds. In every pin that you achieve, every exam that you do not pass, every personal goal that you realize, whether you can take the long view or whether you are simply putting one foot in front of the other: you are building and enriching yourself. As I sat at dinner for the first time as a Master Sommelier, I looked at my new tie with incomprehension and felt as though I was sitting with giants. But as I reflect, I realize that I, along with my fellow new Masters, earned this. A wide-eyed introductory candidate will, before not too long, look at us as giants as well, not as human beings, incredulously waiting—in the paraphrased words of Master Sommelier Greg Harrington—for some monstrous clerical error to be revealed.

There is no secret chart or road map to success that downplays the struggle and difficulty involved in preparation for this exam. You will sacrifice and put on hold every aspect of your life in order to achieve this. You will need immense help: the understanding of your friends and family, the support of your fellow sommeliers, and the coaching of a mentor. In the summer of 2008, I was working for my family’s restaurant, V. Mertz, in Omaha, NE. I built the wine list and acted as General Manager, Sommelier, and Occasional Dishwasher/Waiter/Bartender/Jack of all Trades for our little establishment of 20-some tables, tucked away in the cellar of a 19th century fruit warehouse. With the Advanced Exam on the horizon, I was directionless in my study. There was no regular tasting group, no one to provide an example of the dedication required. No template. No circulated copies of old exams flooding my inbox. No green pins for hundreds of miles in any direction. Three months out from the big week, I received a phone call, out of the blue, from a Master Sommelier and native Nebraskan named Jesse Becker. He would be visiting Omaha soon, he explained, and wanted to provide a flight of wines and speak about the upcoming exam. In addition, he offered a short stagiere position at Frasca Food and Wine in Boulder, CO, where he worked under Bobby Stuckey, MS. In two dinner services at Frasca I learned more about the art of service than I had in 8 years of working on the floor in Omaha. For this I am very much indebted to Bobby, Matthew Mathers, and my good friend Sur Lucero, whose support has been rock solid since the day we met. Under Jesse’s guidance, I improved my theory and tasting dramatically in three short months, and passed the Advanced Exam with a Rudd Scholarship on my first attempt.

Three months later I let my confidence sink again as I participated in the Rudd Round Table in Napa, CA. Surrounded by 12 other Master’s Candidates and a dozen Master Sommeliers, I felt insignificant, crippled—a deer in headlights. I was in the wrong room. I went two for six in my blind tasting. I called Gewürztraminer on a Pinot Gris in front of everyone. I may have well been sitting at the Algonquin Round Table without a quip. A bright young sommelier named Jason Heller nailed an aged Brunello; his tasting seemed imaginative, and effortless in comparison to mine. I wanted a similar composure and ability more than anything; at that moment, I knew I had to leave the family business in Omaha, and come to California to learn.

I took a job under Master Sommelier Geoff Kruth at the Farmhouse Inn in Russian River Valley, packed up my belongings, and drove across the country with my girlfriend Kali for the prospect of lesser pay, a higher cost of living, and some vague recollection of the California Dream. I abandoned my family’s business for uncertainty, leaving my parents devastated. But I grew as a sommelier along avenues that simply were not available in Omaha. My debt of gratitude for Geoff’s mentorship is incalculable. I began studying with Jason Heller, Yoon Ha, Sur Lucero, and Dennis Kelly, my current boss at The French Laundry, whose faith in me has been selfless and intractable. The support, example and dedication of Jason and Yoon, two of my closest friends, spurred me forward. Under Geoff’s guidance, the three of us passed tasting on our first attempt, in February of 2010.

Failure to succeed at theory in the 2010 MS exam was a bitter pill for me to swallow at first. Theory was easy for me; the struggle was always in service and tasting. There was one theory pass at that exam, and afterward, while awaiting results, I was among the chorus of candidates who condemned the theory exam as “unfair”, and “brutal”. Over the next couple of weeks, however, I reformed my approach. If that was the bar, so be it. It was set, and I spent the entirety of the next year preparing myself for that level of difficulty; whereas some simply hoped for an easier exam. I competed in TOP SOMM, I spent hours and hours developing documents and guides for the Guild of Sommeliers, and I stopped reading Sotheby’s and started reading INAO. (Invigorating stuff, right?) But when I stood up from the theory examination table in 2011 with the absolute conviction that I had killed that test, well, it was one of the most rewarding moments of the entire process. You have to go deep for theory, you have to be able to understand it from a fundamental level, and understand that things change all the time. At some point, the subregions of blah blah blah in Portugal become as ingrained, as second nature as the Grand Crus of Chablis. But you cannot simply sit idly by for nine or ten months out of the year. Theory is not something that can be gained in a meaningful manner by cramming for two months before the exam. This is the most basic but important shred of advice I can give.

The euphoria one experiences in actually passing the exam is tempered by the knowledge that so many equally qualified and immensely talented friends and colleagues did not. Passing the MS exam in the company of Brian McClintic, Dustin Wilson, Anthony Anselmi, Jennifer Huether, and especially Jason Heller gives me enormous satisfaction, and I want nothing more than to see good friends who have dedicated their lives to this pursuit share in this milestone. Yoon, who sat with Jason and I for the second time, did not receive the news he wanted in Dallas. Despite—or due to—the conflagration of emotions he was enduring, Yoon pulled Jason and I aside, and with a conviction that testifies to his character, assured us: “My happiness for the two of you and for your accomplishment far outweighs my own disappointment in myself.” For Jason and I, the incredible sincerity and meaningfulness of this single, stunningly selfless act is something that we will carry forever; the friendships forged in the pursuit of this goal are as significant and rewarding as the pin itself.

You hear the cliché time and again: in all things, the journey is the reward. Embarking on a journey such as this is as much a measure of the faith and love of those closest to you as it is a testament to your own determination. Without the support of Kali—now my fiancé—and her patience to see this through to the end, I would never have made it this far. After countless flashcard sessions (Surely the most romantic way to spend a Friday night?) she may be able to recite the most southerly AOC in France quicker than I can. Without the support of my parents, with whose blessing I was able to leave the family business and strike out for parts unknown, I would have never made it this far. Without the support of many old friends who understood intuitively why I had to quit coming to band practices, I would have never made it this far. This pin is the sum of a universe of influences: Master Fred Dame (or perhaps his vengeful and all-seeing specter) grumpily chiding me to get a tailor and a decent pair of shoes, David Eckler teaching me how not to sound like a jackass when pronouncing French, Master Wayne Belding offering a first letter of recommendation and an even more vital first vote of confidence. Against a horizon of forking paths I achieved this only because so many had such great faith in me along the way. I can only hope to offer this same support to others, as you embark on your own paths to the Court of Master Sommeliers.

Sharing a wine with new Masters Jason Heller and Brian Mclintic, and Masters candidates Ian Cauble and Michael Engleman at the Guild BBQ,