Trapper, Moses, and me

Wayne Rogers, who played Trapper John McIntyre in the classic TV series of “M.A.S.H.,” died last week. Besides acting, he had been  a highly successful financial manager. One venture, in the early 1970s, was a syndicate that included Peter Falk, Jack Webb, and James Caan, which established a 530-acre vineyard in Paso Robles, then mostly known for its hot springs.

          Vineyards were a savvy, tax-deferring investment, but Wayne, who admitted at the time that his wine knowledge was limited to knowing the difference between Pinot Noir and Cabernet Sauvignon, got involved, even taking university courses in enology and viticulture. His enthusiasm—and financial returns—helped bring in new investors and revitalize the area’s historic wine traditions (and its annual rodeo became the only one in America featuring wine-tastings).

          We were slightly acquainted, so I wasn’t surprised when he called me one day in 1985 at my office at Wine Institute in San Francisco, but I was surprised at the reason: He'd gotten a phone call from Charlton Heston, who was appearing on stage in London in “The Caine Mutiny,” and was in a Captain Queeg-type lather. On his night off, Heston had had dinner with the American Ambassador--and been served French wine! He was indignant! He was outraged! He said the ambassador had claimed French wine was all they had in the embassy’s cellar. Not so, I told Wayne, I’d recently arranged a donation of wine left over from a California tasting to the embassy. Perhaps the ambassador had been misled.

          Wayne wasn’t mollified. “Do you really want to argue with Moses?” he said, laughing. Good point: I sent Heston a message promising that we were working to sort out the situation, and then called Geoffrey Roberts in London, the leading importer of California wine at the time, and asked him to send a mixed case to Heston at his hotel, with a note saying I was sure he’d enjoy it when he hosted the ambassador in return, and then to bill me for the wine. (A real gent, Roberts only charged me the wholesale price.) 

          Later, Heston sent me back a message saying he appreciated the quick response; I never knew if he was referring to my promise, or the wine he evidently enjoyed. Moses supposed, I disposed. That’s entertainment.

Sign of the times, part 2

This is at one of several large booths behind the Royal Festival Hall in London, along the Thames. 
I don't know if they were serving Prosecco on tap--I suspect they were-- because the line was so long 
(longer than the ones for cocktails or beer) that I couldn't get close enough to see!

Pinot Noir moves the needle in California

There’s something about Burgundy (and of course I mean the red wine rather than the place 
or its Chardonnay), something that brings out a kind of poetic, often ribald, ambiguously 
affectionate response from people, something other kinds of wine will never get to. At a Burgundy 
tasting years ago, we were asked to raise our hands if that wine had been our best experience; 
most of us raised our hands. Then we were asked if it had been our worst, and most of us raised 
our hands again, chagrined but smiling.
        In Hilaire Belloc’s famous poem, he forgets the girl’s name, but the wine is Burgundy; 
Dumas said it should be drunk kneeling, and with your head bared. Musketeers saluted as they 
marched past the vineyards. And, lately, in California, the similes have been extended. Winemaker 
Paul Hobbs said making Pinot Noir was like coming home to the indifference of a cat as opposed to 
the welcome of a happy, tail-wagging dog, while Karen McNeill said a tasting of it was like 
waking up in a strange bed at 3 a.m.—you don’t know whether you’re about to have 
a good time or a bad one. 
        Karen and the Wine Institute hosted a tasting/seminar of California Pinot Noir 
at the Culinary Institute of America in the Napa Valley recently, which was entitled 
“The Needle Has Moved.” The point was well made, though the needle still isn’t pointing toward 
Burgundy. Karen and her crew tasted 126 Pinots and chose what they thought were the best 18; 
most of the wines cut were heavier, or tannic or over-extracted, the survivors chosen for power, 
elegance, fruit and earthiness. Subjective, and certainly not definitive (I'd have included 
the very elegant McMurray Ranch version and a solid, well-defined Schug "Carneros" we tried the day 
before, and there are surely more worth trying), but most of the wines showed through beautifully 
in those aspects, velvet with silk trim: 6 were from the Sonoma Coast, 4 from Santa Lucia Highlands, 
2 from Santa Rita Hills, 2 from Arroyo Grande, and 1 each from Carneros and Santa Maria Highlands. 
Terroir aside, the winemaking varied, some barrel-fermented, some aged on their lees; all were aged 
in barrel; alcohol levels ranged from 13 to 15.2 percent.
         I ranked half on my top level: Sanford Winery, Brewer-Clifton, Paul Hobbs, Kosta Browne,  
Peay Vineyards, Laetitia, Talley, McIntyre, and Siduri (the last three, incidentally, had the lowest 
retail price, less than $42 a bottle.) One that got my attention, almost Burgundian, funky, edgy, 
full—I wrote, “a flashback, loud, feral”—turned out to be, unsurprisingly, Au Bon Climat, 
from the original Wild Boy, Jim Clendenen. It didn’t come tops for technical reasons, but it would be 
the first one I’d want with dinner.

California: Sign of the times?

Billboard spotted just north of the town of Napa, alongside Highway 29: 
“Make the Napa Valley your lifestyle!”
          According to latest statistics, less than half of the valley’s residents actually live there 
full-time, so obviously it’s a dream come true.

White is the new. . . news?

During back-to-back trips to California and Greece last month, a few easygoing white wines caught—and held—our attention. In the midst of work and seriousness, they stood out for sheer pleasure, perfect diverting intermissions. At Seghesio Winery, whose Zinfandels from Sonoma have become increasingly robust and bolder, a light, bright, and refreshingly dry Pinot Grigio was a revelation, as was an equally appealing Arneis. What struck me was that neither has an exact correspondent in Italy: The Pinot Grigio wasn’t in the dilute style of so many in the Veneto, nor in the fuller style of Friuli; the Arneis was also lighter (and crisper) than those found in the Piedmont’s Roero, but without sacrificing any flavor. The next day, at the MacMurray Ranch, also in Sonoma, we stopped on a hillside overlooking a bend in the Russian River, above the afternoon fog line, and had a glass of their Pinot Gris, dry, lightly fruity, and with the sort of limestone finish that I can only think of as—I hate to say it, as it’s become so traduced—minerality (and, again, unlike European versions such as Alsatians). As I wrote at the beginning, none of these were “serious,” but all were seriously pleasant. Maybe California’s on to something in terms of style, something unashamedly independent. If these are examples of that, it’s welcome.
           Greece? Moschofilero. A more elusive animal. Stay tuned, please.