When in doubt, punt

I’ve been accused of tomfoolery over my warning of a signal of some wines being densely overblown blockbusters by identifying their bottles as having “Parker punts,” that is, deeper-than-usual indentations at the bottom of what are usually heavy bottles, regardless of the wines’ origins, grape varieties, or pedigree. I’ve been guilty of all sorts of tomfoolery in the past, but I’m not kidding.

        For example, take Sauska Hungarian Merlot 2011; it’s expensive (£75/$105 on this date), the bottle weighs 800 grams/1.8 pounds, which would come to more than 5 pounds per case of added weight over the average of most bottles, and the depth of the punt is almost to the second knuckle of my index finger. Inside: A dense, over-extracted, brooding beast, ungenerous, all tannin and muscularity, a relative of the grizzly bear that had its way with Leonardo di Caprio in “The Revenant”—a wine that fulfilled the promise of its package.
        Luckily, I also had a bottle of  Chateau de Gaudou “Renaissance” 2009, a Malbec from Cahors, standing by; Sauska went into the stewpot, this one, in a normal package and with a shallow-punted bottle a bit more than 200 grams lighter, went into me. It was lovely, did its job: to be enjoyable.

Bubbling up

British sparkling wine is having its moment, and the moment may last. In 2015, sales more than doubled, while the Wine Society saw increases of only a little less than that; restaurant listings went up as well, especially in places like Fera, in Claridge’s, Restaurant Gordon Ramsay, and many haute-cuisine hot spots in Mayfair. Tasting my way through a batch of local bubbly recently, I was quite impressed by Ridgeview (the first real breakaway wine, which won a top trophy at Decanter’s World Wine Awards a few years back), Wiston Estate, Gusborne, Theale, Nyetimber, and Furleigh Estate, which also makes the wine from Steven and Bella Spurrier’s Bride Valley vineyard. They’re all first-rate. 
        Now they’re being joined by one of France’s most notable producers: Taittinger has purchased just over 170 acres of land in Kent, which has chalky soil similar to that of Champagne; about 100 acres will be planted to Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier. The wine will be called Domaine Evremond, named for a French poet who lived in England and is buried, near Spenser and Chaucer, in Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey. It could be an omen—40 years ago, after Domaine Chandon established a French beachhead for sparkling wine in California, there was a welcome invasion, as Mumm, Roederer, and yes, Taittinger, arrived, and were soon joined by the Spanish Freixenet, which created Gloria Ferrer. A few other producers dipped their toes in the California pool, but didn’t linger, more from marketing stumbles than anything else. Taittinger, which had a major success in California, looks like a safe bet.

More organic (in every way)

A day after I posted the item below on organic wine production, a colleague in Brazil sent me an e-mail saying, “Just back from a ‘natural’ wine tasting. Seriously one of worst wine experiences of my professional life. Everything bio, terrible. Only good thing was dark chocolate and foie gras amuse-bouche.” I hope those last two were separate, but I know what she means. A few months ago a writers’ group I belong to did a similar tasting, with wines mostly from Italy and France. It was more work than most wine tastings, and certainly more than it should have been: Not one of the dozen tasted good, even when we tried them with food (although a few at least tasted a little better then). 

        What was most irksome was the way the proponents of these wines keep saying that their biodynamic principles really and truly demonstrate their terroir, which simply traduces language, making it meaningless. What they demonstrated, in fact, was that in making wines with primitive methods, the flavours simply reflect the winemaking—they were similar to each other, no matter where they came from, or sometimes whichever grape they were made from. “Terroir” is in danger of going the way of “minerality” as a hollow phrase. (As wine-drinking may be in danger of becoming dutiful assessments of moral standing rather than sensual pleasure.)

        But on the other hand, I went to lunch and then, because it was so good, dinner, at a wine bar called Antidote, on Carnaby Street (it used to be La Trouvaille). The wine list is organic, etc., and we drank—quite happily!—glasses of Domaine de Bellevue Muscadet 2014, Domaine de Veilloux Cheverny 2011, and Domaine Ledogar Corbieres 2011. So, there is still something to talk about. The INAO, the French appellation governing body, is now preparing a report aimed at defining “natural” wine. It won’t please everybody—perhaps nobody—but it’s a start.

You say organic, I say. . . ?

Some of the best wines I’ve ever drunk were organic, or at least made from organic grapes. Some of the worst, often labelled as “natural” or biodynamic, were too, really quite punishing to drink (“enjoy” didn’t come into the conversation at all—drinking them seemed more like a duty, or maybe a penance, than anything else).
        The good ones were so good that I’ve always leaned toward the idea that, at least for small-to-medium-sized producers, organic was probably the way to go, and I wasn’t alone—around the world, the number of producers embracing the idea has grown: in the last couple of decades, the acreage of Spain’s vineyards farmed organically quintupled, France’s quadrupled, and Italy’s nearly doubled. That’s what was officially reported; the actual number of people simply adopting some or most of the organic methods was even higher. Now, however, according to an extensive survey in Europe, the numbers are dropping slightly, especially in France (there seem to be problems of administration of their Ecocert program, and people willing to go against the grain by going organic are also the sort of people also willing to go against the grain from bureaucracy). Italy, however, seems to still be moving on; their organic program is more biodiverse, and more directly participatory—it’s called “Biodistretto,” with more local control, and farmers as well as vineyardists involved.
         I can still, decades later, vividly remember drinking a range of splendid wines from the Dry Creek Valley and other parts of northern Sonoma, where there was an early and enthusiastic move to organic principles: Zinfandels from Quivira, Nalle, Seghesio, Preston, and Ridge, Barbera from several vineyards, and a whole range from early-adopter Dave Stare’s Dry Creek Vineyards. All proof enough that it can work, done sensibly.

Uruguay weighs in

I recently bought a case of wine at an auction for one of my favorite charities, WaterAid, which works to bring fresh clean water to communities in Africa, digging wells, supplying pumps, and creating plumbing systems, making a huge differences to people’s lives. The wine was a “mystery case”—all I knew was that it was white wine, donated by Decanter after a series of tastings. Half a dozen bottles were Uruguayan Chardonnay. Oh well, I thought, the money went for a good cause anyway. I’ve now drunk my way through most of them, and am pleased to report that I got quite a bargain.

          Back in the days before “terroir” and “minerality” became the dominant, all-purpose, misappropriated and eventually diluted criteria they are now, we used to judge wine in simpler, more accessible ways, beginning with varietal character, moving on to acidity, and ending up with balance (which brought in the actual winemaking)—not a bad way to go. On that useful basis, several of those Uruguayan Chardonnays were terrific, clearly respecting the grape’s flavours and aromas, with a vibrant zing of green-apple acidity running through them that never let up, and a balance that never flagged, with just the right touch of subtle oak, always inviting another mouthful: Bouza, Bodgeas Carrau, and Del Pedregal from 2014, and Marichal 2015, are highly recommended.

          Uruguay has a fascinating wine history, with an unusual climate and topography; it’s the fourth-largest wine industry in South America, and becoming export-minded. The principal grape is the red Tannat, a rough, tannic beast in France but softer and voluptuous in Uruguay (it must be the terroir!). And if you see a dessert wine called Vinedo de los Vientos “Alcyone,” do yourself a favor and try it—it’s  Tannat made with added herbs, in the style of some Amarones, and it’s a delicious chocolate-cherry bombshell with a firm tannic backbone, unique and quite wonderful.