Do wine palates progress upward naturally to a more sophisticated stage?

In a previous article (Archives, October 24, 2011), I summarized the findings of an extensive, multi-year consumer research study by Constellation Brands that analyzed the wine purchasing habit of Americans.

Constellation came up with the following six-way classification of wine buyer types: 1) the intimidated and fretful, 2) the bargain-shopping, savvy shoppers, 3) the image-seeking, high price buyers, 4) the traditionalists who never vary from their favorites, 5) the satisfied sippers, who drink wine but are rather unmoved about it, and 6) the passionate, knowledgeable wine enthusiasts.

Oversimplified? Maybe. But it does inform us of the motivations at work for those who regularly buy wine. However, one aspect that was not mentioned, if even identified, was to what extent do wine buyers move from one category to another toward greater knowledge and sophistication? In short, is there validity to the notion of “progressive wine palate?”

This view holds, in a very general fashion, that neophytes, particularly those with a budding interest, travel an ascending pathway of learning points and palate refinements. Most people, especially those of us with a “Cola-trained-palate,” react positively to food and drink that have a pleasant, sweet component to it, and more often than not, following on that, one’s entry-level, first choice for wines usually reflects that palate preference.

As such, beginners have an initial predisposition for simple, soft wines. “Soft” is the operative word here. For whites, it means low acidity and a tendency toward sweetness; for reds, it means very low or absent tannins and, again, a tilt toward sweetness. Also, beginners usually start with soft white wines such as White Zinfandel and California Chenin Blancs and Rieslings. Red wines, because of their challenging structural aspects, are typically not the first choices for beginners.

Moving to the next level, the emerging enthusiast’s palate begins to evolve and move toward the mature preferences of more complex and dry (less sweet) wines. This notch up the palate stepladder points toward California or other New World styled Chardonnays that, while technically dry, still impart that pleasing and slight impression of sweetness because of the ripeness of the grapes. Those who prefer drier, livelier whites will show a preference for Sauvignon Blancs, Pinot Grigios or similar crisp palate cleansers. And others starting to feel the tug of red wines will likely begin with those that are simple, inexpensive and quite low in tannins—basic Beaujolais, anonymous proprietary blends, and low cost Pinot Noirs and Merlots. They typically will manifest little if any varietal character and/or complexity, but they will occasionally impart a hint at the pleasures that lie beyond.

While the first two phases typically are transitory, this next stage for a developing palate is an ongoing and continuing pursuit, which—for all practical purposes—never ends. This plateau of wine education involves moving beyond one dimensional reds and whites to an enlarged field of more complex and interesting options from a wide variety of New and Old World producers. Books, magazines, classes and the Internet are all accessed for the most current information. Now definitely committed, the enthusiast begins to take note of the personality traits of the grape varieties and/or the appellations that underlie the wines being assessed. Reds are compared and contrasted, as are whites, and an awareness of the similarities and differences are grasped. Most importantly, each is appreciated for what it is, and what it is not.

This is where one becomes aware of and comfortable with the notions of acidity, tannin, alcohol, dryness, and body style, while additional insights emerge as one also learns about the relevance of structure, typicity and varietal character. It is here where the enthusiast tacitly defines his/her palate and begins to search out options within that broad category of preferences. One might settle on rich, ripe and fruity while another might settle on the more subdued of lower alcohol, more acidity and more food friendliness. And it is during this period that the enthusiast understands that lofty prices and 95+ point ratings seldom, if ever, deliver a wine that matches the aroused expectations, including the likelihood that it will pair well with a wide variety of food.

In closing, one can debate the validity of the Constellation categories, and another can certainly find exceptions and inconsistencies in the progressive palate theory. However, there is no question that nothing, absolutely nothing, beats being informed about what’s in your stemware.

Finding Complexity In Wine

Wine is produced in various levels of quality, from simple, one-dimensional quaffs to world-class collectibles. Wines of very good to excellent quality typically distinguish themselves—whether they are red or white, dessert or bubbly—by a unique characteristic that wine enthusiasts know as complexity.

Any item which is complex in nature, whether it be Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, Monet’s Femmes au Jardin or an aged Grand Cru Red Bordeaux, has central to its nature a variety of unique and interacting attributes. These synergistic components provide the potential for greater enjoyment, assuming one is versed in the principles of music, art or wine appreciation and are open to pursuing the increased possibilities.

I particularly enjoy Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, but I would likely appreciate it more if I understood    “. . . its daunting technical difficulties, including the bruising first-movement cadenza, which demands treacherous skips.” Likewise, if I studied painting as my wife has, I might be more taken with Monet’s Femmes au Jardin, like the enthusiastic critic who exclaims, “Can there ever have been a painting in which such an array of blobs, dots, stripes, beads, buttons, petals and leaves play together with such an effect?”

However, I know just enough about wine to be dangerous, and when I read the following Decanter magazine review of the 2005 Pontet-Canet (Pauillac), it really got my juices flowing: “Extraordinary multi-dimensional nose, very deep and perfumed. Lovely fresh and juicy palate with sweet red and black fruits - very exotic fruit too - set off by ripe soft tannins. A totally new dimension, very balanced, enormous length, utterly delicious.” I purchased a few bottles “on futures” several years ago to celebrate our first grandchild's birth year, and I’m anxiously looking forward to uncorking one in the next year or two!

So, what are wine’s “interacting attributes?” Briefly, they include the fundamentals—aroma and flavor, acidity and tannin, body style, structure and balance, as well as grape variety and/or appellation—plus the various procedural options that winemakers have in their “tool boxes.”

It’s important to note, however, that even without understanding or being able to evaluate those attributes, one can still appreciate and enjoy a wine. However, that person won’t be able to delve into the more—dare I say?—“intellectual” aspects of wine appreciation until he/she understands those particulars.

While I expect Bordeaux and other world-class wines to deliver complexity, I did not anticipate encountering it from a rather unexpected source: an inexpensive (under $20) California Sauvignon Blanc (SB). What was “going on” here, I wondered? Well, what “went on” (it took a few nagging emails), was the winemaker reached deep into his/her “tool box,” and pulled out several interesting options.

First, a “fair amount” of the highly aromatic Musqué Clone was added to the regular Sauvignon Blanc Clone 1—then both were fermented in stainless steel. Second, a small percentage of (new French oak), barrel fermented Viognier (tropical aspects) was added to SB blend. Third, the entire cuvee was aged for three months “on the lees” with periodic stirrings for added complexity (body and richness). Lastly, everything was clean-racked to new stainless steel to age and meld for several more months prior to bottling.

As you likely know, Sauvignon Blanc is identified by its pungent, grapefruit-like, herbal aromatics and its high-toned, palate-whacking acidity. I have friends who hate the stuff and have others who salivate over it. However, this wine displayed those same aspects but in a more toned-down and redefined way—the typical SB aromatics were enhanced and enriched as was the mouthfeel. It was fuller bodied than usual, and there was broad, atypical textural expression. Stylistically, this was not your average SB, and it seemed more quality driven than its price. In a nutshell, it was decidedly different, but pleasantly complex.

However, as in all topics vinous, complexity is in the eyes (or palate) of the beholder—my wife was underwhelmed by it. Moreover, I can see that many SB fans—particularly those who prefer the New Zealand style—would find this wine rather boring and not the least bit complex. On the other hand, I can see where Chardonnay drinkers might find it interesting, because of its Chardonnay-like vinification.

And lastly, my purpose in detailing the above was not to pique your interest about that specific wine, but, rather, to arouse your curiosity as well as your palate about future wines that you’ll be swirling and sniffing.

Guess What's In Your Wine!

I have in a previous article offered my fanciful interpretation of wine’s origins—how it was discovered by ancient, cave-dwelling, soon-to-be-oenophiles (click here). In that set-up, wine appeared spontaneously because of the natural yeasts on the grapes. In fact, some writers note that each grape is a self-contained winery. It contains all that is needed—sugar, moisture, yeasts. That wine was “discovered” as opposed to “invented” is without question. However, once the process was more fully understood, mankind quickly developed and formalized the following basic routine: Pick the grapes when ripe, crush them, let natural yeasts ferment the sugars into alcohol, remove precipitates and—start drinking!

The above “flashcard” approach assumes that nature will take its course and the finished wine will be clear, bright, aromatic, balanced, well structured, and, overall, taste just great. However, in a non-interventionist mode, that is not always the case, and winemakers now utilize any number of numerous legally approved additives and supplements to adjust the wine to their desired stylistic goal. Some consider this an artistic “crafting” effort, while others relate it to what the French call elevage—literally raising or otherwise elevating the wine from its rather base, untamed state to something far more civilized and refined.

The winemaker’s range of options now includes a wide variety of fifty or more materials and additives that are legally “approved as being consistent with good commercial practice in the production, cellar treatment, or finishing of wine.” Along the way, to facilitate the final product and achieve their intended wine style, winemakers can, for example, increase or reduce inherent acidities, augment or diminish natural tannins, raise or lower usual alcohol levels, and deepen or lighten colors and flavors. Additionally, they can (and should) fine, filter, clarify and purify, while they also stabilize, deodorize and preserve. And, of course, they can also sweeten, smooth and enrich—all intended to deliver the perfect, critically-approved wine. Whew!

In addition to the obligatory statement that alcohol consumption could be harmful to your health, wine labels typically only mention the alcohol level and the presence of sulfites. Some wine journalists argue for inclusion of all additives and materials that have been utilized in wine’s production. I’m conflicted on that one, and you might be as well. What do you or I conclude from the use of these unpronounceables: acetaldehyde, alumino-silicates, dimethylpoly-siloxane, dimethyl dicarbonate, ethyl maltol, ferrocyanide compounds, granular cork, polyvinyl-polypyr-rolidone, or lysozyme? They are all legally approved to produce some of the salutary effects noted above, and they apparently have no known side effects.

However, I’m not nearly as confident about the following wine additive that seized my attention while researching this topic: sodium carboxymethyl cellulose (SCC). California Watch, founded by The Center for Investigative Reporting, reported on December 6, 2011 that “Australia OKs laxative agent as wine additive.” SCC apparently is a chemical contained in laxatives that is “prized by the medical world for its anti-bulking and laxative properties.” In addition to that it is used in small doses “to stabilize and thicken beverages and food.”

What the crap is that all about? That stuff’s in my wine? Are they telling me those enticing, viscous “legs” oozing down the insides of my stemware are attributable to sodium carboxymethyl cellulose and not to the inherent nature of the grapes or their unique terroir provenance? Is that voluptuous, full-bodied summer white nothing more than an airbrushed, anorexic lightweight with a padded bra? And does that mean it could take 12 to 24 hours to experience its long, crisp “finish?” Dare I go on? OK, one more: It seems that SCC gives a whole new meaning to the wine tasting descriptor commonly referred to as “barnyard.”

I could be wrong, but it seems to me that wine label warnings for the 50+ AARP crowd might be in order when SCC is added to the wine. At a minimum, they should be advised to reduce the serving size of their morning, high-fiber cereal, and/or possibly forego their twice or thrice-daily routine of Metamucil, Citrucel and other fiber-laden products that promote regularity, intestinal bliss and a cheery disposition. On the other hand, while it’s not exactly homeopathic or holistic, I wonder if two or three glasses a day of Aussie wine—a sort of vinous stool softener—could well take the place of those two intestinal aids.

Of course, my concerns are nonsensical. I really don’t expect any wide spread movement with regard to the increased used of SCC. The General Counsel of The Wine Institute, the trade organization for California’s wine industry assures us that he “doesn’t think” that the approved levels will trigger any laxative effect. Stay tuned for any late-breaking news.

Structure -- The Anatomy Of Wine

I often take wine to restaurants, and if its quality warrants it, I like to share it with one or more of the employees. Recently my wife and I went to our favorite Italian restaurant, and being in the mood for something special, I took a 1997 Flaccianello, an exceptional Italian wine that ranks high in that unofficial classification of “Super Tuscans.”

Our food server gave the wine an ecstatic two thumbs up, but I was curious how the Chef—born and trained in Italy—might react to it. Smiling broadly and carefully examining the bottle between swirls and sips, he was also quite taken by it. Among his several positive assessments, and the one on which we both agreed, was the wine’s excellent structure—a special quality that made it vibrant and delicious even after all these years.

For people not into wine, the notion of structure may smack of pretense. For them, wine is simply wine—one of many beverages to accompany food. However, for those who are more than casual wine drinkers—informed wine enthusiasts—that notion underlies their buying habits. For the former, it’s a notion worth exploring. For the latter, it underlies what they buy and why.

Structure, from a tasting perspective, is the vehicle or means by which a wine achieves its impact on your palate. Structure’s major components that create the effect are alcohol, residual sugar, acid, and tannins. Alcohol provides the body and feeling of weight in your mouth (light, medium, full). Residual sugar, that portion not completely fermented into alcohol, is what determines how sweet or dry a wine tastes.

Acidity (pleasant tartness) is a most vital component, especially for whites. It provides a crisp, lasting finish, as well as the ability to age and improve. Tannins (think black tea) are mainly from red grapes but also from stems, seeds and oak and give a wine a feeling of substance and texture, as well as its ability to evolve for years. Those four, acting in unison, are what comprises a wine’s makeup and make you aware there is something far more than colorful liquid in your mouth.

So, when and how do we identify and describe a wine’s structure? After getting a handle on its appearance and aromatics, flavor and finish, you are totally armed with all you need to next judge and describe its structure. If it feels lifeless and flabby on your palate, the wine is said to be poorly structured. It is likely short on acidity or tannin (or both).

Poorly structured wines can also be described as being unbalanced or out of balance, especially those with an excess of acidity or tannins (or residual sugar). An overly acidic white (or red ) wine can taste unpleasantly citric or sour, just as the astringency of a tannic red wine can jolt the palate with its abrasiveness. Unbalanced wines are easy to perceive—something disagreeable is dominant. (Think vinaigrette with too much vinegar or too much salt.)

As you likely can guess, wines with good structure have all four elements in perfect combination. Everything is in balance, with neither acidity nor tannins prevailing. They deliver a significant and pleasing palate impression, and are a joy to drink.

Wines with great or excellent structure, however, are in a class of their own. While “approachable” in their youth, some ageing is usually required to really discover and enjoy their best qualities. When evolved, all parts will be integrated and harmoniously balanced. Their appearance will be clear and brilliant, and aromatics and flavors will entice and amaze. They will be complex wines with depth, concentration and vitality, and—more often than not—coming from time-proven, high quality winegrowers and appellations.

Even though they may challenge the purse as well as the palate, these wines—and they run the entire gamut of red, white, sparkling and dessert—certainly deserve a place on your “World Class Wines to Try” bucket list. To paraphrase the Michelin travel guides, “They are wines worth seeking out.”

The French View On Wine and Food

While browsing a food and wine magazine recently, I was reminded of a DVD that my wife and I watched some time ago. There was a scene wherein two men, in an unnamed small town in France, were seated in a restaurant ordering a light dinner. One requested an omelet and the other seconded the choice. The server then asked, “Red or White?” Not, mind you, “What would you like to drink?” Just simply, “Red or White?” Without even inquiring about other beverage options, they agreed on red. She returned with a large carafe filled with, undoubtedly, an inexpensive, generic blend from nearby producers. Vin de table, I’m sure. Quaffable, and never offending, it is at the bottom France’s appellation hierarchy.

It also brought to mind an interesting episode that we witnessed years ago in Cavaillon—a small, frenetic city in sun-drenched Provence. We were stalled in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and wanting to absorb as much local culture as possible, I began scanning the various sidewalk storefronts. While gazing through one of the store windows, I was suddenly stunned by the improbable: customers filling up gallon-sized glass containers with wine via a long rubber hose attached to a metal tank, which—I swear—looked exactly like the configuration at your neighborhood gas station! Vin de pump—or whatever that vinous blend might be titled in their appellation—is most likely their bulk, un-bottled version of Two Buck Chuck.

I am struck by the innocence and the outright lack of pretense in the above scenes, and they validate that France’s citizens—particularly countryside dwellers whose lives are spent on the land—regard wine as a food product, not as an image-laden, numerically-rated beverage. To the contrary, their daily table wines (like those mentioned above) are a standard, dining complement much like salt and pepper, oil and vinegar, and the like. It’s unlikely wine will reach that status in America—but we can hope. (Sidebar: Maybe a “McRed” or a “McWhite” in a new “McVino” section at the Golden Arches could move us in that direction!)

Notwithstanding the above, I suspect, however, that there is yet another level in countryside Monsieur’s wine palate. If you were to nudge him, tug at his shirtsleeve and ask, “C’mon, Mon Ami, where’s the special reds that Grandpere gave you? Where’s the really good stuff?” he would not be offended. I suspect he would lead you down to a stash in his cool, underground cellars, or to various wines tucked away inside a handcrafted antique armoire. And those wines would not be characterless Vin ordinaires—no, they would be Premier or Grand Crus of structure and longevity, most likely crafted by one of the better winegrowers in a nearby appellation. Yep, those would be time-tested, quality wines set aside for family celebrations.

The French Appellation System is a product labeling method which guarantees origin, authenticity and, indirectly, quality. Not widely understood or appreciated in America, that guarantee applies not only to wines and spirits, but also to other food products like cheese from Roquefort, green lentils from Le Puy and chickens from Bresse. A nation which has categorized its food and wine products into stringent hierarchical classifications, teaches us more than disdaining Two Buck Chuck or raving about Cult Cabernets. It teaches us to accept (and enjoy) each for what they are.

Think While You Drink

"I'm no wine connoisseur, but I know what I like." I cannot tell you how often I've heard a “satisfied sipper” or a “traditionalist” utter that phrase. (Archives 10/24/11)

 I've also been tempted to respond, “I believe you . . . I really do. But can you tell me why . . . very specifically why you like it?” Thank goodness, I've resisted saying that, otherwise I'd be a very lonely wine drinker.

Wine drinkers—you, me, all of us—know what we like, but for the most part, we find it awkward and difficult to articulate. Part of the reason, I believe, is that we simply don’t focus our attention on the details of what’s in the stemware. It's like other aspects of our lives. How about that picture hanging over the fireplace? In detail, what is it that you like about it? Is representational, full of life-like details, or is it abstract, leaving you to experience your own perception. The same can be said of music. Is it strictly in the background, sliding by your consciousness? Or are you paying attention and heard that waffling sound of the fifty-cent piece the drummer spun gently on the drum? The full, satisfying appreciation of wine, art or music is definitely knowing and understanding the details.

Another reason for our inability to define and articulate our wine preferences, I believe, lies in the intimidating, sometimes off-putting, metaphorical vocabulary of winespeak; those special purpose descriptors that wine tasters and critics use that sound like they belong in a physiology class (legs, body), or a chemistry seminar (acidity, tannins, balance), or a garden club meeting (floral, herbaceous). There's no question those wine basics need to be understood. However, when the metaphors go to lofty extremes . . . .

What if I can't perceive, for example, that a Super Tuscan has the gentle fragrance of the "forest floor?" Or that I don’t detect the aromatics of a Provence red echoing "garrigue" (that mélange of wild, countryside herbs and shrubs )? Or that I can’t honestly confirm that a Bordeaux smells faintly of cassis, cedar, and tobacco?

I’ve never sniffed the undergrowth at Muir Woods, so I’m out of luck on Super Tuscans. But could a jar of Herbs de Provence give me a hint of that red from Provence? I doubt it, but maybe I just need to do more outdoor grilling with those spices. And we have cedar blocks in our closets, but I must confess the aroma doesn’t remind me, the least bit, of my favorite St. Emilion or St. Julien.

Lastly, our palates are like fingerprints; everyone is different. What you perceive is not what I perceive. I've been to large group tastings, and the perceptions and descriptors vary widely. But that shouldn’t inhibit you from expressing your own opinion. One man's "forest floor," may be another man's "mulch pile," while an expert's "garrigue" may be the beginners "weedy." And "cassis", well, blackberry preserves sounds pretty good to me. So, here's a thought: focus your attention, don't be afraid to speak your mind, and have faith in your palate. As one English wine writer says it, "Think while you drink."

Being Senstive to a Wine's Basic Structure

The other day I was in a local wine shop, browsing around, scavenging through bins and racks, “doing my wine thing,” when I noticed a man to my right looking rather helpless and bewildered.

“Gee . . . so many to choose from,” he said, his voice wavering with woeful uncertainty.

“Yes,” I answered. “They have quite a varied selection here.” He then uttered the inevitable—the shy, painful utterance that springs from every overwhelmed neophyte’s lips, “But how do you know what to buy?”

“Learn the grape. Once you know the grape, you know the wine,” I said in my most authoritative sounding tones, assuming that once he heard that dusty wine axiom, that those clouds of ignorance and indecision hovering over him would suddenly dissipate; that his vinous compass would thereafter point him in the correct direction; and from that day forward he would always make self-confident and well-informed wine choices.

“Oh . . .” he said, (which said it all) and then slinked away to another part of the store and returned to staring blankly at all the pretty labels. Unfortunately, rather than assist him, I inadvertently may have pushed him deeper into wine’s black hole of fear and intimidation.

Forgive me, if I’m unduly repetitive about the importance of a key ingredient in the pursuit of wine enlightenment, but when it comes to being sensitive to wine’s basic structure, to being aware of what makes a particular vino tick, to recognizing the differences between—and similarities to—various wines, it all comes down to those color-laden clusters clinging to that gnarled, perfectly pruned grape vine.

More specifically, the single most important item that determines the way a wine looks, smells, feels and tastes is, (drum roll, please!) the underlying grape(s) from which the wine is made.

“Duh,” you say? I say reread that previous sentence and commit it to memory. (You’ll dazzle ’em at cocktail parties.)

Moreover, and quite importantly, when you’re exploring a particular wine, trying to understand its underlying character, as well as deciding whether it appeals to you or not, please don’t fault or reject it for what it is not. Don’t dismiss Beaujolais, for example, for being light bodied and breezy and unlike a richer, riper California Merlot.

Similarly, you shouldn’t avoid a Zinfandel for being large scaled and brambly and so unlike, say, a smooth and fruity Pinot Noir. And, likewise, don’t deride a crisp, herbal Sauvignon Blanc for being so unlike your “go to” buttery Chardonnay.

Each of them—and countless other wines—has its own, distinctive personality derived from its underlying grape(s), and each should be celebrated for what it is—as well as for what it is not. That is, I believe, the essence of wine appreciation.

What wine and tea have in common

The other day I was drinking some gloriously scented Jasmine tea that accompanied my potent, chili-laced Kung Pao Chicken and steamed rice lunch, and I was vividly reminded of how the tea’s role in that meal was, and is, so similar to wine’s role when it accompanies food. I offer that flash of oenological insight, not only to confirm the boringly obvious—that fluids are necessary to facilitate the intake and digestion of the meat, seafood, vegetables, grains and other food groups that one consumes—but also to alert you to an additional, and largely underappreciated secondary function that both tea and wine fulfill when they are served with food.

That role—and it is really somewhat of an unanticipated bonus—involves how those beverages interact with one’s palate while eating.  In addition to the engaging aspects of color, aroma and flavor that we enjoy while dining, both tea and wine also affect our palates in a highly functional way, and that effect is traceable to an element that is integral to their composition: tannins. Tannins in wines, especially reds, originate primarily in the skins, stems and seeds. They are essential to a wine’s vitality and structure. Wines are flabby, lifeless and devoid of character without them, as many very low priced red wines are.

From a dining perspective, tannins provide a gentle cleansing effect between swallows of food, just as teas do, and thereby refresh the mouth for the next tasty mouthful of food. Overly tannic reds, usually very young, large-scaled wines, taste bitter and mouth puckering and are a challenge to drink, with or without food. However, when the tannins are in check—or softened from a few years of bottle ageing—their effect will be gentle and pleasing (think “finish”). And when they are preceded by an attractive color, an arousing aroma and a savory flavor, then that wine promises enjoyable dining, which is far more than the heedless routine of simply eating and drinking.

“So what about white wines?” you ask. As Bacchus and Mother Nature would have it, the role of acidity in whites mirrors that of tannins in reds. From a mealtime viewpoint, acidity performs the same function that tannins do: cleansing and refreshing the palate between bites of food. Acidity—that pleasing, fruity tartness—is crucial to a wine’s composition. Wines with excess acidity can be too high-toned or disagreeably sour and those with too little are flat, lifeless and as interesting as bottled water with a touch of lemon juice. Neither are interesting to drink. But when the acidity level is balanced and pleasantly crisp and combined with the spirited aromas and flavors of, say, Sauvignon Blanc, then you have a white wine—just as with the red wine above—that will deliver an enjoyable dining experience.

Lastly, I hope my apprising you of such oenological trivia does not cause you to wonder if my next proposal is for you to gargle the wine, either during or at the end of your meal. While I cannot completely rule that out—because this blog is an ongoing exploration—I am suggesting that a modest awareness of wine’s inherent characteristics, and the role they play with that flavorful food on your plate, can transform an otherwise routine fuel fix into a more insightful and enjoyable dining experience.

Good Wines Versus Great Wines

What is the difference between a good bottle of red wine and great one? One cynic has responded, “About $200 bucks.” While, for a variety of reasons, there may be a crunchy kernel of truth in that wisecrack, conventional wisdom maintains, “One of the key ingredients in a great wine is its ability to age and improve in the bottle.”

The potential for a wine to be enjoyed many years after the bottling date is, therefore, what separates great wines from the day-to-day, good wines. The words worth remembering are “age and improve,” for if the wine merely ages without developing more interesting flavors and aromas, then it’s only gotten older. And older ‘tain’t necessarily better. Well, at least with respect to wines.

Sidebar: There is an old saying that goes something like this: “The French drink them young, so the government won’t take them. The English drink them old, so they can show their friends cobwebs and dusty bottles. The Americans drink them anytime they want, because they simply don’t know any better.”

Notwithstanding the above, if you’re a wine enthusiast and are appellation-wise and grape-varietal-astute and you’ve considered exploring the finer qualities that an aged wine can reveal, then in my humble and biased opinion, you’re edging away from the casual wine drinker status to one that is entering the more stimulating aspects of wine appreciation.

This is the juncture at which wine becomes more than mere food accompaniment. It is when that mature red with its gentle messages arouses your intellect to delve beyond the initial findings of sniff and sip, fruit and flowers. With patient probing, you discover that the youthful, fruity freshness of red and black berry/cherry fruits have transformed into subtle and enticing nuances of dried fruit, toast, tobacco, mocha and other age-related bottle bouquets. It is no longer “just a beverage” as one anti-wine snob has maintained. (Click here.)

One of the early symptoms of yielding to the sensuous, subliminal tug of wine appreciation is when, after your first sip, you take a long look at the shimmering liquid and think, “That tasted good, really good.” And perhaps after another more deliberate savoring, you wonder, “Why did I like that? What does it have that others don’t?” (This distinctive and mysterious quality is known as “complexity.”) At this point, you will review the basics of color, aromatics, flavor, finish, acidity and tannins. And as you continue the pursuit, you will consider the next level of fine wine characteristics like balance and depth, structure and style. Where you go to from there, is up to you.

On a metaphorical level, which is where I feel the emotional connection occurs, such wines are like the warm and heartfelt embrace of an old friend. No longer showing the rich, raw power of youth, they have become beautifully balanced, soft, fragrant and thought provoking, and sometimes—dare I say—tear duct activating with their inherent beauty. As Hugh Johnson, one of the more interesting and evocative wine writers of the last four decades, has observed, “There are some (fine wines) in the world that are simply beautiful; there is no other word for them. They offer as much to the aesthetic sense as great music or great painting. If you ever come to the point of asking what all the fuss is about, why people talk so much about wine, that is the answer.“

The Rosé Resurgence in Now Fully Underway

Until the Wine Spectator published a front page article on them several years ago, Rosés were the Rodney Dangerfield of wines—utterly no respect. Even my friend Jack once said, “It tastes good, but I just can’t see myself holding a glass of it.” Eschewed by White Zinfandel drinkers because they were too dry (not sweet enough), they were simultaneously shunned by other wine enthusiasts because they were thought to be like White Zinfandel—too sweet.

However, other publications and wine critics continued to point out the worthiness of those value-priced pinks of summer. From then on, Rosé sales in America, particularly dry French versions, have increased substantially. In its July 31, 2011 issue, the Spectator published a lengthy review of Rosés from around the world, providing them another upward notch of respectability, and in another vote of confidence, the San Francisco Chronicle stated in its recent Rosé tasting review, “evangelism (is) not needed.” The Rosé resurgence is now fully underway.

I bring this up, because the relentless Northern California spring rains have run their course, the summer sun is showing its face here and there, and my primal urges to cook over flames is beginning to find satisfaction. That is, I’m starting to grill my favorite warm weather food—burgers, baby back ribs, chicken teriyaki, flank steaks, lamb chops, and Mediterranean-styled grilled vegetables. As you likely would assume, the wines that get first right of refusal with that cuisine are Rosés. My wife Helga and I particularly enjoy Rosés for they offer the cool and crisp, fruity freshness of whites with an injection, figuratively speaking, of some red wine virtues: color, flavor, aromatics and a tad more body.

It is worth noting that Rosés are not made by merely blending a bland white wine with a mediocre red one. Nope. Rosés are made from quality red grapes much as red wines are, except that after the crush the skins do not remain as long in the juice. This commingling of skins and grape juice, known as maceration, is what gives each Rosé its unique qualities of tint, taste, fragrance and heft. After the maceration, the extent of which is determined by the traits of the grapes utilized, the juice is “bled” off, and the fermentation is completed, sans skins, in temperature-controlled, stainless steel tanks.

This process, which the French call saignée (sen-yay), is the technique winemakers utilize to produce a “serious” Rosé, and since each red grape has unique skin pigments, acidity and tannin levels, then it’s clear that there’s a wide variety of styles to be enjoyed. Further, do not assume that the palest color will be the lightest bodied and/or be lacking in aromatic or flavor intensity. Tain’t necessarily so. Also, oak aging is typically not part of the process, for the unambiguous purpose of these wines is the enjoyment of their crisp and savory freshness.

The red grapes used in the production of Rosé vary with what’s available at the producer’s estate or allowed in the appellation, but the ones I find particularly interesting are from the French varietals like Grenache, Syrah, Cinsault, and Mourvedre. However, I have never turned my nose or taste buds away from Rosés made from Pinot Noir, Cabernet Sauvignon, or any other varietal, and neither should you.

Lastly, as food partners, which is any wine’s reason for existing, Rosés unrivaled versatility make them great matches—in addition to grilling—for alfresco lunches, picnics, simple dinner fare, late morning brunches, or even just sipping and noshing whenever the mood hits. Summer is upon us, so put away your Riedel stemware, pull out the tumblers and pour yourself an easy drinking, thirst slaking, palate cleansing Rosé. A relaxed, stress-free, Provencal state of mind is just a few sips away.

Minerality: What's that all about?

When I first attended wine tasting classes, it was not unusual to hear the phrase gout de terroir (goo de tare-wahr — taste of the soil) ascribed to the wines that we were evaluating. The concept seemed esoteric and elusive, and it was not uncommon to hear a chortle or two when the French phrase was invoked by the class moderator.

For whatever reason, possibly because tasting dirt isn’t very compelling, gout de terroir is seldom referred to by today’s wine critics. It seems to have morphed into, or otherwise been replaced by, something quite different and even more elusive: minerality. Wine journalists originally assigned the descriptor to unoaked, high-acid white wines which were perceived as having soil-based, stony flavors, vibrant earthy touches and steely streaks of distinctiveness. For a while, it seemed that the white wines of Alsace, Loire, Germany and Burgundy were the few beneficiaries of this ethereal quality. But of late, I note that New World reds and whites, as well as Old World reds, are also now being lauded for having palate-pleasing touches of minerality.

For years, traditional wine tasting metaphors relied upon flowers and fruits and how they were perceived in the aromas and flavors of wine. Ann C. Nobel of U.C. Davis pulled those and other elements together with her Wine Aroma Wheel that categorized them into twelve major categories. It greatly facilitated and standardized much of the subjective terminology that professionals utilized. And while she included terms like chemical, woody and earthy, minerality was missing from the wheel. When asked why by others, she answered, “Minerality is a concept which could never be consistently defined in words or physical standards. If someone could come up with a stone or metallic solution that had an aroma that could be used to define minerality, it could be on the wheel.”

While it is true that wine has many mineral components, geologists and scientists remain unconvinced that wine can effectively reflect any of them. However, notwithstanding science, many well-known winemakers and producers—those who live and die on the land—steadfastly defend the notion that wine echoes its life-giving, nutritional sources.

So what is that earthy element in our stemware, and how can one best comprehend it? Are geologic elements migrating from the soil into the vine’s root system and upwards into the grapes? Or is there a vague, vine-based sensory quality that flicks the palate with crisp, fleeting sensations? Or could it be that it is an indistinct but integral part of a wine’s acidity?

Irrespective of those speculations, doesn’t it seem rock-solid reasonable, that a wine’s make up has a vibrant core, a buoyant underpinning, a subtle but perceptible personality nuance that has nothing to do with aromas of flowers or flavors of fruit . . . which emits a sign of its geologic distinctiveness? Mystical to be sure, but one worth pondering tonight over a glass of Sancerre.

Finally, and on a very personal note, even if it’s difficult to define or describe, minerality may have clarified why I’m partial to white wines, and many reds, that have no oak or other winemaker intrusions into their structure. Such wines are unaltered by wood, vanilla, butter or other man-made recipes for style and flavor enhancement. They have a fresh, unfettered, natural vitality quite apart from the wine’s defining varietal character. I really find them quite revealing and engaging.

The Worth And Relevance Of Wine Ratings

Of the various wine rating systems consumers can reference when purchasing wines, one of the most popular is the 100 point method originated by Robert M. Parker Jr., the man with the million dollar palate. Actually, the million dollar nose, for he can detect aromas and scents that you and I can barely imagine, let alone identify. He and other wine critics who subsequently adopted his approach, rate wines much like our schoolwork was graded.

The ratings are divided into five levels: 90 to 100, 80 to 89, 70 to79, 60 to 69 and 50 to 59, which are the equivalent grades of A, B, C , D, and F. An important distinction, however, between wine ratings and our exam grades is that the latter were based on objective data. Either the answers to the test questions were correct or they were not. Whereas, the 100 point wine system is based on one person’s very personal and subjective evaluation.

In wine stores you’ll never see the shelves flagged with stickers touting wines in the “80 to 89” range, let alone the bottom three tiers, just as your parents didn’t rejoice when you slinked home with a “C” or a “D” in English. (Lack of excellence is not noteworthy.) What scores are typically posted are “90 to 95” (outstanding) and the “96 to 100” (extraordinary).  Of course, wines with those lofty ratings usually are priced at loftier levels. After all, if one elects to drink the highest rated wines, then one should also be prepared to pay the price. (Pun intended.)

Just as in school we received an “A” because we answered most of the questions correctly, wines are rated in the 90’s (“A”) because, in addition to possessing the vital components of a fine wine (the correct “answers,” as it were), they also have an extra something going for it. That extra something is “aging potential,” which is the wine’s ability to improve and develop further aromatic and flavor nuances as the wine evolves for five, ten or more years.

Quite clearly, one’s emotional payback on this varies with one’s perspective about those nuances. That is, does the wine’s evolution from primary fruit and flower based “aromas” to the secondary, more nuanced, truffle, and currant-like “bouquet” over a five or ten year period, motivate you to pay a premium for that wine? (Side bar: Note that aging potential effectively eliminates many excellent white and lighter-bodied red wines from being categorized as outstanding or extraordinary, even if they represent the finest example of that type or class of wine.)

However, because “B” wines lack long term aging potential, does not mean that they are the least bit inferior. Much like an “A” rated wine, “B” wines must also be well structured, balanced and have good color, aroma, flavor and finish. And even though they will not last for decades, they can be enjoyed today and for numerous tomorrows. Also, while price is seldom part of most critics’ grading schemes, “B” wines are frequently excellent values when compared against the prices of “A” wines.

Lastly, I should point out that on Parker’s website he is quite specific about the worth and relevance of numerical precision. “Scores, however, do not reveal the important facts about a wine. The written commentary that accompanies the ratings is a better source of information regarding the wine's style and personality, its relative quality vis-à-vis its peers, and its value and aging potential than any score could ever indicate.” He further states, “ . . . there can never be any substitute for your own palate nor any better education than tasting the wine yourself.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Go beyond "It Tastes Good" - Learn the Grape

I’ve been browsing and buying wine books for years, and no matter the publication date, in each book’s Preface the author invariably comments on the 1) the current revolution in wines and winemaking, 2) the increasing number of choices available, 3) and the ongoing need for the wine consumer to be making informed buying decisions.

Of course, it’s that proliferation of information that makes the topic so challenging. Much is available to assist us—certainly much more than in previous years. Winery and in-store tasting rooms, Internet web sites, specialized wine publications, books and newspaper articles and knowledgeable wine clerks are all available to assist. However, wine is one of those products that, for the most part, the consumer has to self educate. To be sure, one must make the time and effort to learn.

Since wines are produced in a wide variety of styles, doesn’t it make sense for you to become knowledgeable, confident and conversant, about the details of your preferences? For example, which body style do you prefer—light, medium or full? Do you favor a high or low acid white? And how about dryness (sweetness) level? Do you like your reds “fruit forward” or something more elegant and understated? And what level tannins tests your threshold?

If those questions make little or no sense to you, or worse yet, you could care less about them, then I’m guessing that anything in the stemware is appropriate for you as long as it doesn’t offend. “It tastes good,” or “I like it” will typify how deep you are “into wine.” If, on the other hand, you would like to know WHY you like or dislike a particular wine, then it’s time to learn the grape.

What the above points to, is the singular importance of grape variety. It is the single most important component in determining the way a wine looks, smells and tastes. Other major factors are the wine’s country of origin, the specific microclimate and location of the vineyard, as well as the producer’s winemaking practices. But once you get a handle on what the grape is all about—its appearance, its aroma, and its flavor—then you’re on your way to informed wine buying and a greater level of wine appreciation.

Take the popular Chardonnay grape for example. It has its own inherent look, smell and taste, but it will always display a personality peculiar to, and one that varies with, the determinants mentioned above (country, vineyard, climate, and winemaker). That’s why a California Chardonnay tastes the way it does. Ditto France’s Macon-Villages. Ditto the Australian version. The same goes for any other red or white grape variety.

Attentive, side-by-side of similar or dissimilar wines will bring their similarities and differences into clear view. When you learn the grape, it takes you beyond the “I like it,” or “It tastes good” stage into the next level of wine appreciation.

Appellations: What's that all about?

Varietal labeling—naming the wine after the primary grape from which it is made—is so prevalent that one might think that all wines are labeled that way. They aren’t. When you shop at your favorite wine retailer and consider buying a wine from France, Spain, Italy, and other European countries, you will notice that the wine typically is not named after the primary grape. Rather, the wine is named after the region where it is produced. As such, it may, for example, indicate Chablis (France), or Chianti (Italy), or Rioja (Spain). This method is known as the appellation method, and the wines are labeled with the name of the geographical region from which it came, rather than the underlying grape(s) from which it is made.

How did that originate? The tweet response: it's an outcome of history. The enlarged, flash-card reply: the European winegrowers discovered centuries ago, through trial and error, that each grape variety does its best in specific types of soils, exposures, and environments. Eventually, those in the wine industry and, more importantly, their customers came to accept and acknowledge the excellence of particular wines from specific locations. Without knowing, or even caring about the underlying grapes, early wine drinkers simply came to know a wine because of where it was produced. It was flavorsome and distinctive because of its provenance: where it came from.

The hierarchical French appellation system, on which other European countries modeled their own versions, was created in 1935 to protect growers in their most famous winemaking regions against the subtle and not-so-subtle, imitations from other regions and countries, no matter how benign and well meaning their intentions.

Its goal was to give wine buyers a guarantee of origin and authenticity—and indirectly, quality. In other words, the appellation system assures that you are getting the Real Thing. Without delving into the particulars, the appellation controls the some extremely important details: permitted grapes, geographical boundaries, vineyard yields, alcohol levels, and certain vineyard and wine making practices.

However, in California and other New World areas, the term “appellation” has a much broader meaning and is nowhere nearly as restrictive, since it means little more than  geographical area.  California and Napa, for example, are appellations. American Viticultural Areas (AVA’s), on the other hand, are a bit more specific. They are essentially unique microclimates which give the wine its distinctiveness. Napa Valley, Russian River Valley and Dry Creek Valley are well known AVA’s, and card-carrying wine enthusiasts know what each of those valleys is famous for.

Lastly, irrespective of how wines are named—varietal or appellation—there are specific grapes which underlie each. While the appellation method may seem daunting at first, it takes little time and effort to learn, for example, that Chardonnay and Pinot Noir are the primary grapes in Burgundy. Cabernet, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc are the main ones in Bordeaux. Gamay found its home in Beaujolais. And Sauvignon Blanc thrives in Sancerre. There are many other appellations, with a variety of underlying grapes and choice wines awaiting your exploration and enjoyment.

From French Paradox to American Paradox

Somehow, this red wine has fallen from grace. And why is that, since it’s soft, gentle and very enjoyable to drink? It doesn’t require cerebral discussions to understand or appreciate it, and its attributes assure that it will seldom, if ever, be astringent or overly tannic. As such, that makes it an ideal wine with which aspiring wine enthusiasts can start their journey into the savory delights of red wines. But make no mistake, it is also favored by savvy wine consumers who seek a dinner wine that has a straightforward, reliable character, and one that pairs readily with a wide variety of meat and poultry recipes.

With one enduring and notable French exception, it typically makes no pretense or overt leap toward greatness. What you see and sniff is what you get, and “smooth” is the best adjective that describes it. As one friend has observed, “It tastes like a red wine should.” It hints at black fruit flavors and aromatics, and occasional complex, char-like, toasty nuances. That enticing profile is one reason why it became the red wine of choice in the early 1990’s when the TV newsmagazine 60 Minutes announced red wine as the key variable in the French Paradox.  That is, why in spite of their seemingly unhealthy diet, the French apparently have fewer cardiac issues than beer drinking, Cola-loving Americans.

Wine geeks will surely recognize I’m alluding to Merlot. Unfortunately, since the baffling success of the movie Sideways—wherein Paul Giamatti said he would never drink any “effing” Merlot—consumers have dumped it in favor of his revered Pinot Noir, even when it is clearly obvious that many of them can’t distinguish one from the other.

Notwithstanding that ignominy, Merlot remains the primary grape underlying most wines produced in the two renowned Right Bank Bordeaux appellations of Pomerol and St. Emilion. With their lush, concentrated, fruit forward, low tannic profiles, these regions have been red hot, international best sellers for the last decade or two. At release date, some of the finer ones sell in the three-digit range and become more costly as the vintage ages and supplies diminish. Chateau Pétrus, one of the world’s most coveted wines is primarily, if not totally, made from Merlot. According to one Internet site, the 2000 Pétrus, a particularly good vintage in Bordeaux, is currently fetching up to $5000 per bottle—you read that right, per bottle!

In addition to its Right Bank primacy, Merlot is the primary blending grape used to counterbalance the harshness of the Cabernet Sauvignon in most Left Bank Grand Crus, and, as such, without Merlot, the fame of Bordeaux would be alternately defined. In the New World models, which is what most of us buy, Merlot is typically made as a stand alone, varietally labeled wine, and is available from as low as $10 to $90 or more per bottle.

In the last year or so, I have enjoyed Jessup, Wente Nth Degree, Duckhorn and Newton—all high quality, but somewhat pricey for daily consumption. The good news, however, is that there are numerous, attractive Merlots from well-known, name brand New World producers in the $12 to $20 price range. By all means, feel free to disregard what Giamatti has uttered and what wine snobs may be pontificating, visit your trusted, local retailer. He/she should be able to advise what style and price is just right for you.

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America's Red Wine -- Maybe, Possibly

It’s the only red grape that has been vinified into these five different wine styles: white, light bodied nouveau, full-bodied red, late harvest dessert, as well as a faux, port-like wine. That’s asking a lot from any grape, but it does give you insight into its chameleon personality. The white, whose popularity is being tested by the surging sales of Pinot Grigio, is still America’s biggest selling “blush” with its semi-sweet, modestly flavored profile, while, at the other end of the spectrum, the alcoholic red model, with its rich, in-your-face fruitiness, is enjoyed for the opposite reason.

Even though early winemakers and journalists were aware that this grape’s vine cuttings likely came from Italy, they originally acclaimed it as “America’s Red Wine,” insinuating, of course, that it was not to found elsewhere. Most recently, however, its origins were sleuthed from Italy to its apparent birthplace, Croatia, where grapevine geneticists traced its roots, so to speak, to this tongue twister: Crljenak Kaštelanski.

No matter, for despite those scientific findings, California has successfully staked a prior heritage and seems to have convinced most wine drinkers that this red is an authentic and unique California varietal. In a rather conspicuous effort to solidify that claim, a few years ago one of our State Senators sponsored a bill to have the wine named our “official state wine,” but, alas, the Governor wisely disagreed and vetoed it.

Of course, “Zinfreaks” know I speak of Zinfandel, and of all varietal wines produced in California, Zinfandel is the only one with an organized, official entity of its own. Comprised of 275 winery-members, 4000 advocate members, 100 associate members, and countless avid devotees, it’s called “ZAP” for short (Zinfandel Advocates and Producers).

Review the various classes at http://www.zinfandel.org/ and note the benefits (tastings, tours, recipes, private dinner parties, discounts, newsletters, etc.) that accrue to each class, the more important of which is assured tickets to the upcoming, 20th annual San Francisco extravaganza on January 27 - 29, 2011.

According to its press release, the “Festival consists of four events in three days, showcasing approximately 250 wineries, pouring their barrel samples and new releases, together with educational seminars, culinary demonstrations and decadent food pairings. The ZAP Festival is the most comprehensive showing of Zinfandel wines in the world.”

Events are scheduled at two locations—Fort Mason, near the Golden Gate Bridge, and at the Westin St. Francis Hotel at Union Square. Scroll through the website’s various links for more details on each day’s activities. Lastly, for you foodies, Thursday’s “Good Eats and Zinfandel Pairing” link has a lengthy list of pairings by winery and restaurant plus a mouthwatering description of each dish that will be served.

Burgundy's Other Red Wine

Robert M. Parker describes it best: “ . . . narrow, winding roads, sleepy valleys . . . photogenic hillsides . . . quaint old villages . . . enchanted mountainsides . . . one of France’s two most beautiful viticultural regions.” But it is Rudolph Chelminski, author of I’ll Drink To That who fleshes out the minute but interesting details—geological, historical, vinicultural, political, cultural, gastronomical—including crucial personalities like the 14th Century Duke of Burgundy, Philippe the Bold and the 20th Century Marketing Wizard, Georges Duboeuf.

Über-wine enthusiasts, those oenophiles with a curiosity for the story behind a wine, will recognize those teases as pointing directly at Beaujolais, that bucolic, thirty-four mile long winegrowing region in east-central France between Macon and Lyon. Philippe the Bold banished the Gamay Noir à Jus Blanc from his Duchy, the northernmost area of Burgundy now known as the Cote d’Or. Duboeuf, the marketing genius behind Nouveau Beaujolais, is the dominant producer and negociant in Beaujolais, the southernmost section of Burgundy. (The Cote d’Or remains home to Pinot Noir, while the exiled Gamay found its ideal terroir south in Beaujolais.)

Like most French wines, Beaujolais is a wine—and a region. And much like Bordeaux, which includes Pauillac, Margaux, St. Julien and other appellations, so too does Beaujolais have its own sub-appellations. Ascending the structure and complexity ladder, they are Beaujolais (where Nouveau is made), Beaujolais-Villages and the Ten Beaujolais Crus (crews).

While the first two produce juicy, low tannin quaffs, it is with the Crus—virtually unknown in America—where complex wines of substance and character are to be found. They are as follows: Brouilly, Régnié, Côte-de-Brouilly, Chiroubles, Saint Amour, Fleurie, Chénas, Juliénas, Morgon and Moulin-à-Vent, with the last two being the most structured and age-worthy. Also, inasmuch as each Cru has earned its own appellation status, you will seldom, if ever, see the word “Beaujolais” anywhere on the label. However, Red Burgundy Wine occasionally appears in small print.

The word from France and career wine journalists, is that the 2009 Beaujolais vintage is quite special, if not spectacular. Georges Duboeuf has proclaimed it the “Vintage of his lifetime.” He describes the Crus as, “Opulent, exceptionally full bodied and fabulous.” I have sampled many of them and tend to agree that they are something special—well balanced, nicely structured, age-worthy wines. They are definitely not confected, steroid versions of Nouveau. (I also enlisted the opinion and tasting talents of one T. C. Engler, a local legend with a laser-like palate for complex, well structured red wines. Not previously a Beaujolais Crus enthusiast, he now, I believe, has joined the fold.)

As a final thought, if your wine preference leans toward high alcohol, sledgehammer reds that are as dense as tar and nearly as viscous, the Beaujolais Crus are not for you. If, however, you yearn for a $15 to $25 wine that’s easy on the palate and pairs well with food, definitely consider pairing one of “Burgundy’s Other Red Wines” with your Christmas or New Year’s beef roast.

What should a Pinot noir taste like?

You may remember Paul Giamatti, as the mousy, pathetic Miles in the movie Sideways, uttering that infamous, denigrating, phrase about "effing" Merlot, and later in the movie following it up by waxing poetically about the elusive, haunting delicacy of Pinot Noir.

Ever since, many wine drinkers have deserted Merlot and have alternately plunked their cash down for Pinot Noir wanting to discover the near spiritual bliss that Miles experienced. Around the globe, Pinot Noir sales in the last several years have increased substantially. Giamatti, who in real life is not remotely interested in wine, gave such a convincing, Oscar-quality performance that it convinced many wine drinkers. Many of them switched to Pinot and are really trying “to get with it.”

I suppose it really doesn’t matter that the movie, though roughly autobiographical, was a work of fiction, and like all Hollywood presentations, should be taken with a grain of salt, if not a sip of Chardonnay. I suppose it also doesn’t matter that many wine drinkers may not understand that Pinot Noir and Merlot, though having different underlying characters, share some important similarities.

Those common qualities include user friendliness, ease of entry into the world of red wines, abundant fruit, and, generally, a low level of mouth-puckering tannins. I must also assume that it may be irrelevant that the emerging New World (California, Oregon and New Zealand) Pinot Noir style, which most people are buying, is quite contrary to the historical Red Burgundy character of lightness, elegance and finesse; the style that most particularly seduced Miles.

This contrarian style was detailed in a San Francisco newspaper that described current New World Pinot Noir styles as “unabashedly big-bodied, fruit-forward and high-powered.” Sounds more like Cabernet Sauvignon or even Zinfandel, rather than the historical Old World Pinot Noir model.

Before long Pinot Noir will formally take its place in the growing list of red wines that are being crafted to reflect the following “must have” characteristics: big, rich, ripe and powerful. Unfortunately, Pinot Noir does not wear its best robe when masquerading as a deep, dark, full-bodied, Mother-of-a-red.

So what do all these stains on the tablecloth mean? Does it highlight the inherent differences between Old World and New World wines; that is, a grape there is always unlike the same grape here? Or does it suggest that wine drinkers are a fickle lot, scurrying here and groping there according to the latest fad?

Finally, and I cringe even mentioning it, given the inexorable grind of changing tastes, does it portend that before very long Miles’ beloved, spirit-moving Pinot Noir, much like his wife Victoria who left him, may also become a dim and distant memory of one of life’s gentle pleasures that used to be?

All About Albariño

It’s not as if a colorful, ingredient-packed risotto topped with a boneless lamb shank ragout wasn’t enough to delight my palate, it was also preceded by a scrumptious salad, and followed with a decadent, zabaione-like, fruit topped dessert. The Fields, Mary and Tom, put on a gourmet talent show that also involved a beautifully designed nine-wines-and-cheeses tasting that preceded the dinner. Wow! Within that tasting of reds and white wines, was one of my favorite whites—Albariño.

Albariño, Spain’s finest white wine comes from one of the most unlikely vineyard settings in the country, if not the world. Of the six climactic regions that define Spain’s wine production, Albariño is produced in the coolest and moistest of them all. Within the north-northwest region, known as “Green Spain,” perched atop Portugal, lays the Atlantic-facing province of Galicia. In Galicia’s southwest corner near the Portugal border is the appellation of Rias Baixas (REE-ahs BUY-shuss). It is there, in an Ireland-like landscape and weather belt, where the numerous jagged, lands-end inlets meet the ocean, that Albariño is produced. Other wines are made there, but Albariño is the signature and defining grape, as it accounts for more than 90% of the appellation’s production.

Albariño’s best vineyards, those in the The Salnés Valley sub-zone, lie close to the lower (baixas) fjord-like estuaries (rias), where the annual mean temperature tops out at 55 degrees. And as you might guess, it requires a singular grape like the Albariño, with its thick, sturdy skin, to withstand the microclimate’s twin threats of mildew and rot. Also, totally unlike customary ground-level cultivation and harvesting, the Albariño is cultivated high above the ground on pergolas, a trellised, canopy-like system. This keeps the grapes dry and helps resist fungus and mildew. Harvest time photos that test one’s expectations and perception, depict vineyard workers standing on wooden boxes reaching up to cut grape clusters from hanging vines.

Albariño’s personality traits offer a welcomed alternative to the usual white wine suspects. It’s medium bodied with a rich, aromatic stone fruit (peaches, apricots) quality and a fresh, crisp acidity. After crushing, it’s chilled and cold soaked to extract optimal aromatics and then fermented in stainless steel. It’s typically sees no oak, which is one reason I’m partial to it. However, since locals like their wines oaked, some producers are now experimenting with it. Aromatically, it can be quite elusive, for it often recalls a Viognier, at other times a German Riesling, and still at other times an Alsatian Pinot Gris. To be sure, that is part of its charm.

When enjoyed with food, which is what it’s all about, it goes well with salads, seafood (consider its birthplace), and olive oil-laced pastas, as well as some Asian dishes. Thanksgiving would be a good time to sample it. Retail prices, heading upwards now, range from $12 to $25. Some producers that I have enjoyed are Burgans, Valminor, Morgadio, Martin Codax, Condes de Albarei, Vionta, and my current favorite, Fefiñanes. As a final note, I should add that as recently as the late 1980’s Albariño was an unknown, poorly made, provincial quaff. Thanks to visionary Spanish winegrowers, who foresaw Albariño’s potential, wine enthusiasts now have another world-class wine atop their dinner tables.

It Provides the Backbone for Red Wines

“Wow, that’s just a little tooooo dry for me,” I said, recoiling from the bitter, astringent jolt of a young Cabernet Sauvignon. That unpleasant experience, as I later learned, had nothing to do with “dry,” which is winespeak for “not sweet.” It was related to something quite different. That harsh, mouth-puckering feeling was caused by a crucial component in red wines known as “tannins.” That wine was “tannic,” not “dry.”

In my pursuit of the grape, I easily grasped the notions of “body style” and “acidity.” Things, however, were more challenging for “tannins,” a word that was foreign to me. I found out, though, that I already had experienced tannins. In a strong brew of tea, dark chocolate, a misdirected bite into banana peel and my first and last taste of persimmon. Those palate shocks made my mouth feel as if it had no moisture. No wonder (I thought) that Cabernet was “tooooo dry.”

Tannins, however, have a crucial role in wine. They are to red wines what acidity is to whites. That is, they supply texture, structure and balance. While acidity is known as the “nervous system” of white wines, tannins can be called the “backbone” of reds. It allows them to age and develop flavor and aroma nuances far beyond the primary “berry” and “plummy” descriptors. And just as there are wine enthusiasts who are “acidity freaks,” there are those who like the distinct, “textural grip” and finish derived from “well integrated tannins.”

Why mainly red wines? The source of tannins is primarily from grape skins as well as oak barrels used during the aging process. Tannin levels are also directly related to the type of grape, the duration of skin contact during fermentation, and the age of the wine. Pinot Noir grapes, for example, yield lower tannins while Cabernet Sauvignons generally impart a more aggressive style. A very short soak on Zinfandel skins will produce that forward, fruit laden White Zinfandel, while a longer infusion will yield the more traditional, muscular Red Zinfandel. And if you store it for several years, those tannins will fall away and you will perceive a wine with a distinctly different taste and bouquet.

Without sufficient tannins, reds taste flabby and lifeless; with too much, they’re sharp and bitter; when balanced, they are “silky.” And just as acidity tolerance levels vary with each person’s palate, so does one’s reaction differ with various tannin levels. Lastly, much like acidity in white wines, tannins in reds refresh the palate between bites of that grilled steak, and thereby, in the context of accompanying food, genuinely fulfills its intended function.