Terroir nowadays?

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. 

The Afghan

Possibly the world's simplest cookie.  Upon discovering them on the South Island in New Zealand, I was hooked.  Besides vineyard work (and I thank the hillside sites for without them, I may look a bit like a pear), I made it my mission to find the best in Central Otago - no easy feat.

They consist of, unless one decides to bastardize them, five - and only five - ingredients.  Yes, I understand shortbread cookies are unequivocal in their simplicity, however it is the Afghan's inclusion of one's necessary daily dose of chocolate that makes them unriveled the world over.  After devouring four or so of these over the course of a few weeks, I pondered their history.  Why the hell was the damn biscuit called an "Afghan"?  It seemed either obsurd or a lack of imagination resulting in a slightly racy label (no pun intended).  The complete abscence of a respectable provanance was frustrating after questioning many grandmothers, professional bakers, and fellow vineyard workers.  I immediately discarded the theory that such a scrumptious biscuit was named after a breed of dog.  Appetizing.   

Nevertheless, Afghans are enjoyed all the same - during a cooler season, in the middle of the night, immediately after waking, while listening to classical music, or as an excuse to interrupt your personal yoga session; these delights are brilliant alongside a steaming mug of black tea, coffee, or my personal favourite, a glass of 20-year Tawny Port (thanks Gigi!).   

Now you're salvating and waiting for me to show up on your doorstep in an apron with a dozen of these - not going to happen and I'd be willing to bet my life savings (which isn't much) that you'll never find these at your local bakery (unless the baker-mate happens to be from Down Under).  This leaves you no election but to crank on your oven and bake.  Don't mess with recipes online - head straight for Edmond's cookbook from New Zealand to experiece ectasy.  I always include a pinch of salt, brightening up nuances in the cocoa (and totaling the ingredient list to six - shoot me).  Note: The better quality corn flakes you use (if there is such a thing), the purer the result & most importantly, don't use a "mix" of any sort.

Txakolí

Txakolí, a wine only found in Spain made from grapes only found on the mother land's soil is one of the wine world's greatest mysteries.  Many don't know what the hell it is when they buy it; they're usually cohersed into ordering it at a wine bar or apprehensively take a bottle off the shelf after people like me suggest it to you.  It's home, it's on the chill down, and after the cork is popped, you're stunned, wondering where this refreshingly quaffable liquor has been your whole life.  Well folks, once it's reached Minneapolis, where people have funny accents and still eat enormous quantities of Spam, you can be guaranteed that the rest of the country has access to it.  Thus, presented below is a little piece of mystery and history from the Basque Country.   

Terroir, history, tradition; intrinsic words are inevitably manipulated to consecrate estates, vineyards or regions.  However one mere wine may pluck more inscriptive heartstrings than many others.  Its name is a direct derivative of the single most important thing in their culture: the home or “etxea” hence, it seems natural we commence here.    

“Txakolí” or “Txakolina” directly translates to “wine made at home” from the Basque (Euskera) term "etxacón" meaning the “neighbors at home or in the pueblo”; the “in” referring to wine, and the “l” binding the couple.   As the Basque language is one of the oldest still spoken today and without concrete evidence to its parentage, many other mythological meanings exist. 

Three distinct regions with Denominación de Origen status comprise this harsh, Cantabrian climate, the only place on Earth breeding this most unique nectar.  Comprised principally of the Hondarribi Zuri (white) and Hondarribi Beltza (red) grape, the wine is the antithesis of nectar, being light in its composition, with a hint of spritz and an alcohol content that hovers around 10,5%.   80% of production is white, 15% rosé and a handful of producers yield a still, red wine from Hondarribi Beltza that can only be compared to an earthy, light Cabernet Franc with its leafy, vegetal notes.  

The wine itself, like many others, shares triumph and tragedy, fecundity and near extinction.  Steeped in tradition, txakolí is first mentioned in the "Ordenanzas de Portugalete" in the 13th century and four hundred years later, taverns were set up along Basque hillsides serving txakolí as its specialty.  In 1517 Christopher Columbus stated, “…  On the edges of the sea, the hillsides are covered with vineyards.”   But by 1696, the clergy prohibited the planting of more vines for lack of use, and towards the end of the 18^th century, before the demise of vines everywhere identified as oidium and phylloxera, there were over 3,000 ha of vines.  The regions’ situation mirrored many others during this time and further disintegration took place during the Spanish Civil War amounting to a paltry 800 ha.  During the 1970s there were only 16ha of vines dedicated to wine production.  The situation is changing every year and much gratitude should lean towards the Asociación de Txakolineros de Bizkaia (Vizcayan Txakolineros Association) for their fervid interest in improving the name and quality of txakolí, leading to the creation of the Denomination of Origen, Bizkaiko Txakolina in 1994.  The region now has 65 bodegas, 273 ha under vine, and produces a total of 1.2 million bottles annually.  

Two disparate regions are every bit as focused on quality and supply us with our necessary dose of yodo (we will reach this momentarily).  Geteraiko Txakolina (Getaria) was the first D.O. on the scene in 1989 and produces roughly 1.8 million bottles per year.  The nascent addition of Arabako Txakolina (Álava) in 2001 shows a broader, rounder side of txakolí bred from clay soils further inland from the salty sea.  Here, six bodegas work with a slim 46 ha producing esoteric juice only a small quantity get to enjoy.    

"Yodo?”, you inquire; this is the kicker.  Spaniards believe in this, holding it close to their hearts, rarely verbalizing its powers.  Virtually unheard of elsewhere, yodo [in this sense] loosely translates to “mineral from the sea” and Spaniards believe it cures many-a-ailment from thyroid issues to cuts.  There's plenty more to this but work with me here.  According to those residing in the north, the closer you live to the Cantabrian Sea, the more yodo you experience; in the food, in the air, the algae, it surrounds you.  Many in Spain will tell you that the Cantabrian Sea contains more yodo than the Mediterranean.  Txakolí exudes yodo, a bottle bursting forth unequivocal notes of sea spray misting up from the coast.  I mentioned terroir before, didn't I?  Think Manzanilla in Sanlúcar de Barrameda, now multiplied by 10; an emphatic salty notion.   

Service is another affair altogether.  Walking into a local bar in San Sebastián or smaller pueblo such as Azpeitia and ordering a txakolí for the first time will most likely render you speechless.  Nine out of ten times your eyes follow a three-foot stream from a short-sided tumbler to the bottle (accompanied by an "escanciador," a two-holed, plastic device placed in the spout allowing a succinct stream to fall, splashing into your glass).  Although this is protocol for virtually every bar in País Vasco, the method is under scrutiny from many producers of fine txakolí.   Pouring from a distance allows the wine to conjure up some extra effervescence, the glass bursting with yodo.  The flip side states that the most exemplary wines should be served via the proper wine regime in bona fide stemware and the sparkle should be a gentle accoutrement to the wine.  Either way, you are guaranteed refreshment whether it be a 4€ quaffer or a pristine, 17€ bottle.

Txakolí may never grace the wine-world's red carpet.  Let's face it, people are intimidated by the "tx", grape varietals they cannot pronounce, and a 15-20€ price tag for a white wine with soft bubbles from a region known for its political troubles.  That's just it.  The wine is an oxymoron, and quite possibly, the wine industries' best kept secret.  Like Melon de Bourgogne, the Hondarribis provide a whirlwind of inexpensive, terroir-bonded pleasure for erudite consumers and wine professionals.  I only propose that no-one get a harebrained idea to plant these grapes elsewhere. 

Feeding chickens - 6am

I'm home, back stateside and missing the fresh air, the cow dung, and the lack of semaphores.  I think I've finally gotten on top in the sack with technology. 

One can never be sure where they're going, the adventures that lie on the horizon, nor the strangers that are to become friends.  Yet the smell of rain always brings us back, once upon a time, somewhere.  Here are friends I miss - their lovely eggs and their "caw."    

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wdbl0WxN6No

technology... fuera!

Ok, ok, I am finally over my inability to meld with technology. My videos don't work or at least, I cannot get them uploaded in any respectable amount of time. For those of you at home, you'll have to be pleased by mere photos and dialogue that hopefully are not too banal.

Today (Friday, 5 March), I worked for a few hours in the vineyard pulling bunch weight samples, later heading to Wanaka, home of Rippon Vineyards. I met with Nick Mills after a brief walk around the village (I hesitate to call it a small city) and a moment to contemplate the mountains caressing the lake.
The theory on biodynamics varies greatly from spirit to spirit. Nick's was more on par with what I have formulated as the idea behind the concept. I mean no disrespect in my attempt to paraphrase Nick's biodynamic ideals, but really it comes down to making wine that reflects and more importantly respects the soil. We've all heard this song and dance a million-and-one times, however Nick succinctly stated how to best respect the soil by giving it what it needs, indigenously and sustainably, as a breeding ground for root goodies. His entire 15ha of vines, winery, future endeavours on the vineyard, compost, staff needs as well as animals' are all extremely well thought out: compost in the middle of the vineyard as this is at the heart of the matter, wine being a "cultural bi-product", gravity in relation to water and its use... I could go on and on but it really would be a futile attempt.

I left Wanaka in a whirlwind of thought. On the way home, I couldn't help but stop and test the self-timer on my camera. Maybe it was the biodynamic marc of Riesling.

personality in monotony

There are many viticultural regimes in relation to trimming your fruit before harvest.  The main objective is to direct power from leaf to bunches of grapes; not too much, never too little.  It's a photosynthetic balancing act.  A vine wants to produce a boat load of foliage to grow and prosper.  If man were not around to snip, twist, aim, etc., the vine would not likely produce ripe enough grapes for quality wine.  Each vine, moreover, each shoot is an entity in its own right, having an ostentatious personality, producing a boat load of leaves or the quiet, shy sibling, conversely producing one bunch or perhaps, nothing. 

The first week dropping fruit was pure monotony.  In the U.S., most wineries save this joy for immigrant workers getting underpaid clipping under the hot sun.   Many harvest hands arrive and don't realize while producing a slight 1,000 cases of wine, we have 10,000 personalities to look after...  10,000, that's a lot of frickin' vines, yet to strike a relationship between each vine takes care and good nature.  As my grandmother once said, "there are never any problems when you're in the garden."

Good morning from Crowell

Waking up in Cromwell on a Sunday morning is a beautiful thing. And that brilliant sun is a constant reminder (and should remind you must you travel to this region) about the ozone factor down here.  It's non-existent.  We're located in an area that rarely sees more than 350-400 ml of rain annually. The rain shadow effect means that the coasts are lush with forests and fauna and the valley that stretches down the spine of the southern island (wine region of Central Otago) is an arid and intense growing area.

This sunburn is awesome, not because it's a closer bout to skin cancer but it constantly reminds me that I would be chillin' (literally) in 30° weather. Burn and all it's been a busy week!

We've been knee deep in biodynamic preparations (actually massaging cow pies, filtering out the grass and preparing them for their basin home in the earth for the next two weeks to a month(s) turning them into usable soil). I will give a full detailed video on this at a later date. Many-a-biodynamic wine geek, myself included, reads about this and really hasn't an idea of how it's actually performed; you'll get your fill.  There's also been much dropping of fruit, cluster counts (crop estimations), and vine trimming.

I have the day off-it is Sunday after all- and plan to enjoy the sun and head to Queenstown. A jump off a cliff perhaps (I've always wanted to hang glide)?