Leave it to the Canucks, Chambolle, and Beaujolais to really stretch & tear at what I deem to be "correct" terroir. Anyone in this profession who truly understands this concept will attest to its bastardization the world over. In Willamette, so many people utter "Burgundian" when they should be screaming with pride, "Willamette!". Why must we always compare the new to the historical? Who likes to be compared to their sibling? Is a new, flashy Mustang really anything like the old, muscle-car model?
On a recent trip to Prince Edward County, I was astonished by what I tasted (and experienced). I wasn't expecting much - we were tasting Canadian wines after all - and although they are making strides in their winemaking techniques and replacing hybrids with vinifera vines, the wines coming to the U.S. leave us wondering what's going on, oenologically and viticulturally with our sibling up north.
Never, and I mean, never has the word "Burgundian" slipped off my tongue to describe a wine from another region. We, in the wine business are redolent of poets in our abundant use of the metaphor (we really must get more creative). What does "Burgundian" even mean? These days with global warming, flying winemakers, hard times, and dollar signs counting, French wines can smell of the hot lands of Australia, California can taste of Spain and folks, I must say it, Canadian wines (only a select few, and yes, I did say Canadian) can smell & taste of Burgundy.
Peeling my eyelids back after a sound sleep in Brighton, Ontario, I proceeded to set off into the chilly morning on a hunt to understand a little of what Prince Edward County had to offer in terms of wine. Maybe it was due to the lack of expectations involved. How many times have people been disappointed with their 500$ meal out or that expensive bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape? Countless, I presume.
I hit the ground running at Norman Hardie, a semi-small operation totaling about 6,500 cases annually. May I say, the wines were spectacular. They were verging on brilliance - the stars being Pinot Noir & Chardonnay and only a couple cuvées of each. The first word in my tasting note for the County Chardonnay from the 2008 vintage read, "Burgundian in style." I couldn't believe it. I read and re-read it and immediately asked, "What's the story about yeasts around here?" "100% indigenous, we don't innoculate," Richard swiftly responded. It wasn't tiresome, it was ethereally oaked and had a presence that village-level Puligny can often acquire. Basket pressed fruit, 100% French oak, very light toast and 500L barrels for eight months. My notes continue with, "raw almond, tart acidity, yellow plums, and a beautiful, gulpable mouthfeel. Is this refreshing, oaked Chardonnay?" Reaching for the bottle and turning it around almost indecently, I read, "11,4% alc.". Where, please tell me where, on Earth, can I find a Chardonnay having flirted with a barrel and bearing the seal 11,4% alc? I'll tell you, nowhere. Even today, our favourite white Burgundies are gracing the 13 (if we're lucky) -14+% mark (sans the allowable fudging of .5-1%) which brings me back to my discussion...
What is terroir? Does it even exist in today's age of young children avec iPhones and microwave dinners? Does one beautiful, earthy, acidic, Chinon or a bottle of Sherry that tastes like yesteryear signify that these are THE emblems of terroir for their area while swimming in a sea of hundreds that do not exemplify their characteristics? I would like to think so, but then again, Norman Hardie tasted much more like village Puligny than the last few Pulignys I've tasted.
