The Wine Savant: A Guide to the New Wine Culture (16 page)

During the 1970s consumer interest in Chardonnay began to blossom and the California wine industry started devoting more space to it. In 1972, Jim Barrett, an oenophilic attorney from Southern California, bought Chateau Montelena, which hadn't produced wine commercially since Prohibition, with the intention of turning out Cabernets to rival the best of Bordeaux. Barrett and his winemaker, Mike Grgich, decided to make Chardonnay simply as a way of generating some income while they waited for their newly planted Cabernet vines to bear sufficient fruit. But their Chardonnay did more than just generate some extra cash flow. Astonishingly, the 1973 Montelena Chardonnay, their second vintage, was the winning white wine in the 1976 Judgment of Paris, beating out a handful of famous white Burgundies. Barrett, however, insisted that the Paris result came as no surprise to him. “We've known for a long time that we could put our white Burgundies against anybody's in the world and not take a back seat,” he told George Taber of
Time
magazine after the tasting.

California didn't actually make white Burgundies, of course—only Burgundy made white Burgundies. But Barrett's comment spoke to a larger truth: for most of those early Chardonnay producers, the goal was to craft wines in the Burgundian mold. One means to that end was to use French oak barrels to age the wines. James Zellerbach of Sonoma's Hanzell Vineyards, was the pioneering figure on this front; he imported small barrels of Limousin oak, purchased from one of the top coopers in Burgundy, for his Chardonnays. Employed judiciously, oak aging imparts greater complexity to wines, and although Zellerbach's neighbors were apparently dubious, the results he achieved were so impressive that the practice quickly caught on. The 1973 Montelena spent eight months maturing in French barrels before being bottled.

Burgundy remained the inspiration even after the Judgment of Paris, and as Chardonnay's toehold in California turned into a foothold, many newer producers, determined to adhere faithfully to the Burgundian playbook, began putting their wines through malolactic fermentation, a process that converts tart malic acid (at this point, it is customary to say, “Think green apple,” so I'll say it: Think green apple) into softer, more palate-friendly lactic acid. It is a necessary step in Burgundy, where the northerly climate can leave the grapes with too much acidic bite. California, though, has the opposite problem: because the weather is often so warm, the grapes can be short on acidity.

Although some of the first serious Chardonnays in California benefited from malolactic fermentation, the process became a standard feature of Chardonnay production in California in the 1980s and frequently yielded thick, creamy, almost zaftig wines that also displayed a pronounced buttery note (a by-product of this secondary fermentation). It didn't help that a lot of vintners were harvesting overripe fruit that was notably deficient in acidity. At the same time, the use of oak turned increasingly indiscriminate, to the point where the wood tended to overwhelm the wine. Thus the irony: classic Burgundian methods ended up taking California Chardonnay in a distinctly un-Burgundian direction. And this was true across all price points, from discount bottlings to high-end ones. Sweet, fat, and oaky emerged as the signature California style.

It is an undeniably popular one, a point underscored by the fact that the amount of California Chardonnay sold annually has quintupled over the last two decades. But you won't find much California Chardonnay in my cellar. For me, most California Chardonnays are clumsy and cloying; they taste like melted popsicles and are exhausting to drink and pretty much impossible to pair with food. They are often described as cocktail wines, and that's precisely what they are—except I wouldn't want to drink them for cocktails, either. Nor am I a solitary refusenik; lots of grape nuts now live by that aforementioned abbreviation, ABC.

However, some of the long-established names still make svelte, delicious Chardonnays. The list includes not only Montelena and Hanzell but also Ridge Vineyards, Mount Eden, Stony Hill Winery, Mayacamas Vineyards, and Au Bon Climat. And some of the new names mentioned in the California chapter are making sensational Chardonnays in a restrained, Burgundian style, as well. That list includes Rhys, Copain, Wind Gap, Arnot-Roberts, Tyler, and Sandhi (in particular, look for the Rhys Horseshoe Vineyard Chardonnay and the Sandhi Sanford & Benedict Vineyard Chardonnay). But these producers account for just a small fraction of the Chardonnay that is made in California, so how much of a bellwether they are is hard to say. From what I can see, the butterball style of Chardonnay is still quite popular with many vintners and consumers alike; I certainly don't see any indication that these confections are yet going the way of bell-bottoms.

If there is a grape that most wine geeks would like to see eclipse Chardonnay, it is unquestionably Riesling. No grape breeds devotion quite like Reisling, and Riesling has become the darling of sommeliers everywhere. In fact, one of them, the New York sommelier Paul Grieco, is such a Riesling fanatic that he often sports a temporary tattoo with the word
Riesling
in big letters down the length of his right forearm. He also started an annual celebration called the Summer of Riesling. Each summer, restaurants around the United States showcase this Germanic grape in all its geographic and stylistic splendor (Riesling excels at capturing the attributes of the vineyards in which it is grown; it has the same transparency that you find in Pinot Noir). It has been a wildly successful venture that underscores just how popular Riesling has become. In fact, if there is one commandment that holds sway in the wine world today, it is this: thou shalt never speak ill of Riesling.

But Riesling, too, has its problems—specifically, it has an identity problem. Should it be sweet or dry? In France's Alsace region, where Riesling is the primary grape, vintners have split the difference: some of the Rieslings are dry, others are fairly sweet. It is a confusing situation made more confusing by the fact that the labels don't tell you whether the wines are dry or sweet. Essentially, you need to be familiar with the producer's style to know what kind of Riesling you are getting, which is not a great situation for consumers. The most reliably dry Alsatian Rieslings, and the best Alsatian Rieslings I know, come from Trimbach, a venerable producer whose winemaking history dates back to the seventeenth century. Trimbach has two wines, the Cuvée Frédéric Emile and the exceedingly rare Clos Ste. Hune, which I think are two of the finest dry Rieslings on the planet.

But Riesling's true heartland is just over the border from Alsace, in Germany, and for at least the past sixty years or so, a certain amount of sweetness has been a defining attribute of German Rieslings. There is some dispute as to whether the “fruity” style can be described as traditional; while sweet wines enjoyed great prestige in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, they were rarities then, and most German wines were apparently fairly dry. The advent of sterile filtration enabled German winemakers to stop fermentations in order to consistently produce wines with discernible amounts of residual sugar. And German consumers developed a raging thirst for such Rieslings after World War II, a fact that is generally attributed to postwar sugar rationing, which had the paradoxical effect of giving Germans an insatiable sweet tooth.

The 1971 German Wine Law introduced a hierarchy known as the Prädikat scale, which was based on the ripeness of the grapes at harvest—that is, the amount of sugar they contained. From lowest to highest, the classifications were Kabinett, Spätlese, Auslese, Beerenauslese, and Trockenbeerenauslese. (Between all the cumbersome names, the classifications, and the morass of regulations, trying to decipher German wine laws is like trying to master the tax code; it makes Burgundy look like a paragon of simplicity.) A lot of dreck was marketed under these headings, but the best examples were elegant, complex Rieslings with a perfect balance of sweetness, acidity, and minerality and the added virtue of being very low in alcohol, typically just 7 to 10 percent. They were some of the most distinctive, enthralling wines in the world.

But in the 1970s and '80s, German drinkers soured on sweetish Rieslings. During this period Germany saw a proliferation of French-influenced restaurants, and consumers demanded dry wines. The first wave of
trocken
(dry) Rieslings was pretty abysmal; they were often lean and harshly acidic (“battery acid” was a popular description). But thanks to better viticulture, and with some help from global warming, quality has improved dramatically in recent years, and numerous excellent dry German Rieslings are now on the market. Meanwhile, domestic demand for fruity Rieslings has effectively collapsed; German palates have been completely reoriented, and Rieslings with pronounced residual sugar are now outcasts in their own neighborhood. David Schildknecht, who covers Germany for Robert Parker's
Wine Advocate
, humorously describes this volte-face as “bipolar Riesling disorder” and says that Germans have succumbed to “
trocken
fanaticism.”

The fruity style is being kept alive, barely, by foreign consumers, and Americans in particular, which is another ironic twist to this story. Back in the 1970s, Americans were smitten with Liebfraumilch, of which treacly Blue Nun was the foremost brand. The inevitable backlash made German wines a dead category in the United States for many years thereafter. The road out of perdition was paved by two importers, Rudi Wiest and Terry Theise, who together represent a who's who of top German estates. Wiest and Theise brought in the finest off-dry and sweet German Rieslings and traveled the country preaching their virtues. These efforts paid off with the 2001 vintage, a superb year that generated enormous excitement and which created an ardent American following for the likes of J. J. Prüm, Dönnhoff, J. J. Christoffel, Dr. Loosen, Fritz Haag, and other great German growers. German wine imports to the United States have surged in the past decade, and the American market has truly become a lifeline for the fruity style. Theise told me a few years ago that if he stopped importing these wines to the United States, the producers would very likely stop making them.

Hopefully that will never happen, and those of us who enjoy Riesling can continue to have it in a variety of styles, not only from Germany and Alsace but from other regions, too. The grape does well in a variety of places. Austria produces fantastic Rieslings, both dry and sweet. Australia has had a lot of success with dry versions. The grape also has a bright future in the United States. Some appealing Rieslings have been produced on the West Coast, but the most promising American Rieslings are coming out of the Finger Lakes region of New York State, whose steep, water-facing vineyards and mineral-rich soils call to mind the Mosel Valley. Two wineries, Hermann J. Wiemer and Dr. Konstantin Frank, were the Riesling pioneers in these parts and have been making good wines for decades. They've lately been joined by some stellar newcomers, such as Ravines and Bloomer Creek, and the overall quality of Finger Lakes Rieslings has really started to soar. It has truly become a Riesling stronghold and is one of the most dynamic wine regions in the United States.

Periodically other white wine grapes emerge as possible challengers to Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc. For a time Grüner Veltliner, a variety native to Austria, was the new “it” grape. It was popular with sommeliers in New York and San Francisco, who hawked it as a delicious alternative to Chardonnay. Personally, I think their enthusiasm got the better of them. Grüner can yield very good wines, but for my taste it just doesn't possess much of a wow factor—certainly nothing like you find in the best Chardonnays or Rieslings. The Albariño grape from northern Spain then got hot. Albariño can make genuinely great wines—wines that can hold their own against good white Burgundies and German Rieslings. The Albariños from producers such as Pedralonga and Do Ferreiro, for instance, are sensational. However, there are also a lot of insipid Albariños, with an overbearingly tropical fruitiness—tutti-frutti would be a good way of describing it—that I find off-putting. There is just not enough of the good stuff at this point to enable Albariño to be anything more than a niche grape.

The grape that I would most love to see achieve superstar status is Chenin Blanc. Chenin is easily the most protean grape on the planet: it turns out sensational dry, off-dry, and sweet wines and can also be used to make terrific sparkling wines. Chenin isn't exactly obscure, but it has never quite achieved the kind of renown and following that Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, and Riesling enjoy. At one time it was the most widely planted white wine grape in California. But then Chardonnay took over in the 1970s, and Chenin has been an obscurity in California ever since. What's preventing Chenin from attracting a wider following? No idea. Maybe it is a tactile thing: the wines often have a waxy texture, which some drinkers might find unpleasant. Whatever the case, Chenin has never quite caught on, which is unfortunate, because it can really make some head-spinning wines.

Perhaps, though, there's some hope for Chenin. Nowhere is it grown in greater abundance than in South Africa, where it was first planted in the seventeenth century. Although plenty of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc is grown in South Africa, too, the local wine industry has had particular success with Chenin in the years since apartheid ended and the industry was revitalized, and it is generally agreed now that Chenin is likeliest to emerge as the country's signature white wine. South Africa does turn out some very tasty Chenins, and as these wines gain a greater international following, it might spark some interest in other Chenins, notably those of France's Loire Valley.

The Loire, known as the Garden of France, is where Chenin reaches its apogee. A lot of mediocre Chenin is produced in the Loire, but the good stuff is as good as any white wine in the world. The Vouvray appellation in particular turns out magical wines. Domaine Huet is a legendary Vouvray producer (it was even mentioned in
Sideways
, which sent a frisson of delight down the spine of every wine geek in the theater) and makes some of the most enthralling wines you will ever taste. Huet demonstrates the incredible versatility of Chenin, crafting dry, semisweet, sweet, and sparkling wines. The three dry, or
sec
, Vouvrays, Clos du Bourg, Le Mont, and Le Haut-Lieu, are not only delicious; they have the added virtue of being amazingly affordable (around $30 a bottle) relative to the quality they offer. But Huet isn't the only beacon in Vouvray; Philippe Foreau/Domaine du Clos Naudin, François Pinon, François Chidaine, Jacky Blot/Domaine de la Taille aux Loups, and Bernard Fouquet/Domaine des Aubuisières make outstanding wines, too, a number of which are also very attractively priced (Fouquet's Cuvée de Silex
sec
is a sensational wine, and at $15 a bottle is so cheap that one almost feels guilty buying it).