A couple of pleasant surprises last week—delicious white wines from New Zealand that weren’t Sauvignon Blanc. The first was the real surprise: full and peaches-and-creamy 2008 Chardonnay from Clos de Ste. Anne, “Naboth’s Vineyard,” near Gisborne; the forthright fruit was nicely buttressed by a fresh, persistent zip of balancing acidity. It wasn’t surprising to discover that the grapes were dry-farmed, grown on their own roots (biodynamically, actually), hand-harvested and bunch-pressed. Old-fashioned, indeed; the back label mentioned “luminosity,” and for once, that wasn’t typical back-label hyperbole.
The other taste of serendipity was Greywacke 2009 Pinot Gris, from a single vineyard in Marlborough, the northernmost region of the South Island. Winemaker Kevin Judd is a talented perfectionist, and it shines through in all his wines (even his Sauvignon Blanc, all gooseberry and no cat pee). The wine is more in the style of the best of Friuli, well-rounded but still bracing, autumnal and savory, like baked apples with citrus zest. Half the juice was fermented in stainless steel, the other half spontaneously fermented in old oak casks, then both were left on the lees for a while before blending. There’s some more technical stuff involved, but the main thing is, it all added to the wine’s vibrant character. Considerably.
Quite a mouthful
Le nouveau Beaujolais est arrive! And it’s terrific, and it’s. . . um, 2009. The Beaujolais “Nouveau” 2010, untimely ripped from the wineskins after a scant six weeks to be peddled to gullible guzzlers fonder of alcohol and ceremony than of flavor, is perhaps another story. Meanwhile, the newly released traditional wines from last year are well worth getting your corkscrew out for.
The vintage of 2009 was a very good one, warm, with useful rain in June and plenty of sunshine in August; the wines are rather full-bodied, fairly tannic, with acidity levels that are refreshing without making your teeth ache, and somewhat elevated (and natural) alcohol. Many will be even better with a couple of years to mature. At a recent tasting by Domaine Direct (http://www.domainedirect.co.uk/), the standard was generally high, with a couple of outstanding examples: Domaine Paul Janin et Fils Moulin-a-Vent “Clos du Tremblay” was dark and lovely, quite vibrant, and the “Vielles Vignes des Greneriers” was intense and velvety, even voluptuous (biodynamically farmed grapes, very old vines, no SO2). A trio of Fleuries from Domaine de la Madone promise great drinking now (the “Tradition”), next year (“Niagara”), and in 2012-2014 or even further (“Cuvee Speciale Vielles Vignes,” from 70- to 100-year-old vines, rich, serious, sensuous, sensational).
Then, just to pleasantly surprise me and upend the conventional wisdom some more, a friend went to Paris and brought me back a delicious 2010 Beaujolais Nouveau, made by Pierre-Marie Chermette at Domaine du Vissoux and bottled for the venerable wine bar/shop Legrand—it's not chaptalized, barely filtered, and hearty and jolly as a peasant uncle in a Dumas novel. An augury? Things seem to be looking up after all.
The vintage of 2009 was a very good one, warm, with useful rain in June and plenty of sunshine in August; the wines are rather full-bodied, fairly tannic, with acidity levels that are refreshing without making your teeth ache, and somewhat elevated (and natural) alcohol. Many will be even better with a couple of years to mature. At a recent tasting by Domaine Direct (http://www.domainedirect.co.uk/), the standard was generally high, with a couple of outstanding examples: Domaine Paul Janin et Fils Moulin-a-Vent “Clos du Tremblay” was dark and lovely, quite vibrant, and the “Vielles Vignes des Greneriers” was intense and velvety, even voluptuous (biodynamically farmed grapes, very old vines, no SO2). A trio of Fleuries from Domaine de la Madone promise great drinking now (the “Tradition”), next year (“Niagara”), and in 2012-2014 or even further (“Cuvee Speciale Vielles Vignes,” from 70- to 100-year-old vines, rich, serious, sensuous, sensational).
Then, just to pleasantly surprise me and upend the conventional wisdom some more, a friend went to Paris and brought me back a delicious 2010 Beaujolais Nouveau, made by Pierre-Marie Chermette at Domaine du Vissoux and bottled for the venerable wine bar/shop Legrand—it's not chaptalized, barely filtered, and hearty and jolly as a peasant uncle in a Dumas novel. An augury? Things seem to be looking up after all.
Booked up for Christmas
Some wine books make you want to drink, and a few may make you think, but I don’t know of any that do both, except for “Matt Kramer On Wine,” recently published and the book I’m giving my godson for Christmas (while saving my copy for my son, for when he’s ready to pull his first cork).
This is mostly a collection of previously published pieces, essays from the New York Sun and the Wine Spectator and a few chapters from Kramer’s books that underscore and tie them together, as well as a long (and fascinating) profile of Angelo Gaja commissioned but never published by the New Yorker. They are arranged loosely by subject, and seeing them in context—looking at the whole garments, as it were, rather than the threads in the weave—they’re even more provocative and thoughtful. Wine writing’s a genre not notable for subtlety or rhetorical skill, but they’re here in abundance, often presented so adroitly that you’re not quite aware of the seriousness of the point being made until it comes back around and nudges you afterward.
For example, an easygoing essay on Rosé sidles up to some historical background about color
This is mostly a collection of previously published pieces, essays from the New York Sun and the Wine Spectator and a few chapters from Kramer’s books that underscore and tie them together, as well as a long (and fascinating) profile of Angelo Gaja commissioned but never published by the New Yorker. They are arranged loosely by subject, and seeing them in context—looking at the whole garments, as it were, rather than the threads in the weave—they’re even more provocative and thoughtful. Wine writing’s a genre not notable for subtlety or rhetorical skill, but they’re here in abundance, often presented so adroitly that you’re not quite aware of the seriousness of the point being made until it comes back around and nudges you afterward.
For example, an easygoing essay on Rosé sidles up to some historical background about color
Roll out the Barolo
Some of my happiest times in Italy have been in the Piedmont (including my honeymoon), so when my favorite Italian restaurant, Enoteca Turi, announced a Nebbiolo dinner, I moved a lot more quickly than usual—the food is dependably excellent, but also, owner Giuseppe Turi is as knowledgeable as he is passionate about wine. With a superb five-course meal, we enjoyed six wines from the Piedmont (a Spanna, three Barbarescos, and two Barolos, notably from the 2001 vintage—classic, still nicely developing—and the 2004, which is at once sensuous and powerful, fulfilling all the promise of a fine vintage; best of all, though, was a 2003 Barbaresco Asili from Bruno Giacosa).
There was an anomaly included, and a marvelous one at that: a Valtellina Superiore (DOCG) “Ca Morei” 2006 from Sandro Fay, in Lombardy, up in the mountains north of Bergamo. The vineyards are high-altitude, steeply terraced, in a beautiful alpine landscape, and the wine is a tart, vibrant, even slightly nervy rendition of Nebbiolo’s classic aromas and flavors (a little less tar and more roses). It’s definitely a wine worth searching for, and a good reminder of why we trust great sommeliers: they know more than we do. http://www.enotecaturi.com/
There was an anomaly included, and a marvelous one at that: a Valtellina Superiore (DOCG) “Ca Morei” 2006 from Sandro Fay, in Lombardy, up in the mountains north of Bergamo. The vineyards are high-altitude, steeply terraced, in a beautiful alpine landscape, and the wine is a tart, vibrant, even slightly nervy rendition of Nebbiolo’s classic aromas and flavors (a little less tar and more roses). It’s definitely a wine worth searching for, and a good reminder of why we trust great sommeliers: they know more than we do. http://www.enotecaturi.com/
Let the chips fall. . .
I’m working my way through a case of 2008 Chablis, unfortunately without much enthusiasm, even though most of them are from the legendary Fourchame vineyards. The problem isn’t the vintage, it’s the international plague—the blight of oak. I know the conventional wisdom is that winemakers are (finally) practicing restraint these days, but there’s still a lot of barrel in the glass. And it’s not just with Chardonnay, the usual victim. At a recent lunch celebrating Sydney’s chefs and restaurants, no one at our table got past the first sip of a very woody Clonakilla Viognier (Blockhead question: what attribute of Viognier might sensibly suggest an affinity for oak?). Last month, much of a case of 2006 Chianti Classico Riserva I drank had more wood in the wines than the box they came in, their Sangiovese character completely flattened.
But the biggest travesty may be over-oaking Chablis, which ought to be the most straightforward expression of Chardonnay. Twenty-odd years ago, when the winemakers of Chablis used to come to San Francisco for what were fascinating, unmissable tastings, they used to brag about their soils and climate, implanting the idea of terroir almost before anyone else did, and they disdained oak, or at least new oak, or very much of it at all. The wines backed them up. Now, too many of them are buried in oak coffins, their flinty minerality dulled into mediocrity. So far, only Domaine Alain Geoffroy and Domaine Pommier have stood out in style, while Louis Moreau was perhaps a half-step behind them, but a long way ahead of the pack. What a shame.
But the biggest travesty may be over-oaking Chablis, which ought to be the most straightforward expression of Chardonnay. Twenty-odd years ago, when the winemakers of Chablis used to come to San Francisco for what were fascinating, unmissable tastings, they used to brag about their soils and climate, implanting the idea of terroir almost before anyone else did, and they disdained oak, or at least new oak, or very much of it at all. The wines backed them up. Now, too many of them are buried in oak coffins, their flinty minerality dulled into mediocrity. So far, only Domaine Alain Geoffroy and Domaine Pommier have stood out in style, while Louis Moreau was perhaps a half-step behind them, but a long way ahead of the pack. What a shame.
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