Notes from the Cellar blog
Drinking and thinking "à la dérive"...
There have been a heckuva lot of wonderful things to drink and think about lately. It seems that every day brings at least one sip that then begets a revelation. Like these (in no particular order):
Malt is the soul of beer. Think about it. Have a beer or two, then think about it some more if you don’t agree. Hops get all the glory (in much the same way that folks make a big fuss about oak - and barrels in general - in wine. Sure, hops are a key ingredient, but without malt, there’s no substance, no point of reference for all that lovely bitterness, no point to the counterpoint. Spice with no substance. Nada, really.
It’s the water. Yes it is. Think about it, – you can taste the difference in water in different places when you travel, as any number of variables in local geology influence the chemistry and flavor of water. I was talking with a local brewery rep the other day who told a story about his brewery running short of capacity and having one of their beers contract brewed in Whatcom County. Same recipe, different water It completely changed the beer, and customers were quick to notice. Not that Whatcom County water is bad, it just doesn’t have the same makeup as our (delicious) Cedar River watershed H20. Meanwhile, a colleague with a well-honed palate appreciates the quality of Sierra Nevada beers, but picks up a metallic note in all their beers. Check out an analysis of Chico water and sure ‘nuff, there’s plenty of magnesium, calcium and sulfur in the water (and given the volcanic nature of the nearby mountains, probably a bit of iron, too). Like using putting marginal juice in fancy oak cooperage, you can take the finest barley, malt and yeast in the world and brew with gack (technical term) H20, and the result is pretty much nicely dressed-up, well, gack. Good water doesn’t guarantee good beer, of course, but good beer isn’t going to happen without quality water. You could say that if malt is the soul of beer, water is its essence. Or something like that.
Beaujolais. Again. The Accomplice and I stopped by the Boat Street farewell soirée last Saturday, to join a lively, lovely cast of folks in helping Renée Erickson mark the turning of another delicious page. Well into the proceedings, who should arrive but the inimitable (fortunately) Jon Marvin, sporting a 3 liter of ’10 Lapierre Morgon. The man has some kinda style, gotta give him that. And the wine was astounding. Beaujolais of that caliber truly is Burgundy, just a lot less self-conscious (and expensive) than its northern sibling, while showing a sunnier, more unabashedly exuberant disposition. Note to self: buy more Beaujolais for the “cellar” (garage). We’ve also been drinking some lovely gamay and gamay rosé from Division Winemaking Company in Portlandia. Amazing wines, showing all that lovely energy you find in great Beaujolais, but with that lovely Willamette Valley terroir. There’s amazing stuff happening at SE Wine Collective. Buy more of that, too.
Rosé for all seasons (and the ages). There was a great article in last Week’s New York Times, primarily about rosés from the Côtes de Provence. The two most salient points were that in addition to many great rosés being at their best until several years after vintage, you can – and should – drink them year ‘round (both points that conventional wisdom regards as downright heretical. I’m here to say it’s true, with both frequent and recent evidence to back my claim. There are, of course, plenty of rosés that are passing fancies, made for a brief moment in the sun, but that fade away come autumn. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Think Tavel, the amazing rosado from Lopez de Heredia, or the score of beautiful pink wines from Bandol and the Côtes de Provence that are produced with love, dedication and passion. These are wines that combine the brilliant, fresh verve that we all associate with rosé with the substance to stand up to food and the complexity and depth to merit contemplation. Foraging in the cellar for something to contribute to the aforementioned soirée, I remembered a magnum of Clos Ste. Magdelaine Cassis rosé, a 2012. Just the ticket, I thought. It was. A few minutes in the ice bucket and voilà. We drank the cool, pink wine, its aromas telling tales of perfectly ripe fruits, exotic spices and flowers of springs come and gone. And it was good.
Amidst the daze of yesterday’s two o’clock torpor, looking out the window like a kid with face pressed to the candy store window, this missive hit my inbox:
“Hola man. My taste buds seem to be smacking for some slightly chilled gamay for some reason and the Domaine Dupeuble always satiates what my mind’s eye is seeking…strawberries that still have a touch of dew on them while being kissed by the morning rays of sun, the aroma of sweet, fertile, freshly tilled earth, the spark of stone and plow mixing in with the depths of granite from which the vines have extracted while on their silent quests for nutrients that have lasted in upwards of 100 years….”
Well, no fooling. It came from the local purveyor of Domaine Dupeuble, of course, but was no less spot on for that bit of subjectivity. The crux, the bottom line, the point is Beaujolais—real, honest-to-goodness, grown with love and scruples Beaujolais. That incredible marriage of cool, stony granite and sweet, tangy, just – ripe berry fruit. Burgundy’s bohemian sibling, sans the self-consciousness.
Once upon a baking hot day in southeast Arizona, Throckmorton and I were riding our bikes into an endless headwind from hell, cursing the wind, the sun, the sparse palisade of telephone poles stretching to a vanishing point a seeming infinity away. Thirsty as all get-out. Somewhere about 30 miles east of Tombstone we overtook another rider who fell in with our duo, a welcome addition to the paceline, a 50% bonus in time out of the teeth of the wind. Nice guy, a well-travelled, well-spoken San Franciscan, his contribution to the dialog almost as welcome as his turns on the front—almost. After about 15 miles or so, he broke one of the lulls in conversation with a question: “You know what I really want right now?” Other than the obvious (to be off the bike and out of the wind in someplace cool), we had no clue. “A nice, cool, cellar-temperature bottle of cru Beaujolais.”
Come to think of it, now that he mentioned it, that was pretty much the most perfect, delicious-est thing we could think of in the whole, wide world, too. The next 10 miles to the outskirts of town were filled with mouth-watering, vivid descriptions of our favorite Beaujolais. Not white wine, not rosé. Just Beaujolais, the coolest, loveliest, most ineffably refreshing thing we could conceive of.
Almost going-home time. Best part is, there’s Beaujolais when I get there.
Hola, bonjour, howdy. It’s been a while, but I’m back, hopefully better than ever, and most definitely with a thing or two to say.
I made the rounds at Taste Washington last Saturday, and was pleasantly surprised to note that the overall quality of Washington wine continues to grow, in seemingly inversely proportion to the levels of ripeness and the prevalence of new oak. It’s a good thing…
I’ve been saying for years to anyone who’d listen, that despite all Washington wine’s accolades, the best is yet to come for our state as the real taste of Washington emerges from oceans of extraction, silky tannins, new French oak and über ripeness that have defined the region for the past bunch of years. Not that there’s anything wrong with that style. Those wines are impressive, plush, powerful and polished, and make a very bold statement. In my humble opinions however, while they reflect a style of winemaking that has gained a fair bit of renown, they don’t really reflect the gorgeous terroir and character Washington the place.
There’s no place and no taste in the world like here, from the loess-covered basalt of Walla Walla to the gravel and sage of the Wahluke Slope to the high lonesome crispness of Naches Heights to the edgy, energetic magic of the Gorge. But jack the ripeness up to 28 brix and steep it in new French oak and all that unique loveliness vanishes, like a beautiful face behind a mask of cosmetics.
There has always been a nucleus of wineries that have defied the “bigger is better” trend and focused on making wines that showcase varietal character and terroir. Now, as that style catches on, it’s incredibly refreshing to taste way more Washington at Taste Washington. The alcohol levels are dialing back, acidity is back in styl,e and more and more of the wines taste deliciously like here. You know, that inimitable, diversely delectable place we call home.
So there. As my friend Jean-Pierre says » « c’est mon opinion, et je la partage (that’s my opinion, and I’m sharing it). Now, I think I’ll go pour myself pour myself a glass and enjoy the of the art of the state.
El Camino California: Neyers “Sage Canyon” Cuvée
I’d like to think that I know better, but have to ‘fess up that I’m as susceptible to thinking (and drinking) sweeping generalizations as the next know-it-all. That’s the bad news. The good part is that it can be pretty tasty catching yourself in the act and getting a little remedial schooling.
The most recent such epiphany comes with a series of encounters with Bruce Neyers outstanding wines. We carry Neyers wines in our larger stores, and there’s a good reason for that: although the demand for moderate – to spendy California wines in this neck of the woods is tepid at best, you just can’t argue with the quality and character these wines offer. Add to that Bruce’s Old World sensibilities and scrupulous, reasoned vineyard and winery practices and, well, voilà.
Picking out wines for a wine team tasting last week, my gaze fell on Neyers “Sage Canyon” red, a southern Rhône-inspired alliance of non-clonal grenache from the Sierra foothills, mourvèdre and carignan from 125 – 135 year old, own – rooted vines in Contra Costa County and syrah from the Sangiacomo Family’s Old Lakeville Road vineyard. While I remembered having been impressed with this wine when Bruce stopped by a few months back, re-tasting it was an epiphany.
In the wake of California’s drift toward more, bigger, riper, woodier wines, it’s gotten easy to forget that there’s actually terroir there. Duh, right? It just takes people like Bruce or Matt & Kevin at Lioco who have the vision to taste that sense of place and care enough to throw the dice and make the commitment to get it in the bottle. In this case, it’s pure Norcal: that heady dry, brushy, woodsy blend of scrub oak, a digger pine or two, some dry grass and sun-baked, iron – rich dirt. Nothing like it. Steep the aforementioned mélange of lovingly farmed, old-school California Rhône grapes and you have a heckuva bottle of wine. A perfect companion to some a nice big slab of beef, fresh off the grill.
I’ll take mine with a large side of crow, please.
There’s a lot going on these days, a veritable cyclone of a to-do list. Out of all that, there’s been no shortage of great wine to drink -- and some rather compelling ideas about it. In no particular order…
No apologies, no pretense. If there’s a unifying theme among wines that make my heart sing, it’s a sense that they’re unapologetically just what they are. No more, no less, no striving at being the “best” outside being the most honest, no-bs expressions of what they are as possible. Thelonius Monk wouldn’t have been Thelonius Monk if he’d tried to play like Basie. Brings to mind this quote, from Muscadet producer Frédéric Niger Van Herck, read in the New York Times awhile back: “We don’t make the best wines in the world, but we make them with conviction.” Yeah, like that. There’s the kind of thinking that interests me in drinking.
Snarky interlude: World Class…whatever. I often see promotional stuff from new-kid-on-the-block wineries and regions touting their “world class” wines. OK, fine. But what the heck does that mean? My sense is that it’s shorthand for “Hey, this is no mom-and-pop operation. We’re making stuff that’s just as good as the big boys.” Or, “people can actually drink this, just like real wines” -- or something like that. The subtext is that “World Class” is something that’s universally coveted. Like a Mercedes Benz hood ornament, a Gucci logo or a bottle of Leonetti Cellars. The perfect way to say “me too.”
Back to the good stuff. The Accomplice spent last week working with a charming, dynamic Italiana (but aren’t they almost always charming and dynamic?) name Corrinne, from Castello di Luzzano, which sits astride, and produces wines in two DOCs – Oltrepo -Pavese and the Colli Piacentini. Both are off-the-beaten-path regions – at least if you think of Italian wine in terms of Chianti, pinot grigio, and a couple other familiar, household words. If, on the other hand, your perception of Italy is that of an astoundingly complex, diverse patchwork of geographies, cultures, geologies and yes indeed, separate, very unique wine regions—then you simply have Oltrepo – Pavese and Colli Piacentini. Two different DOCs who share the same geographical neighborhood.
But I digress. These were fascinating wines. Distinct, singular, fetching expressions of place. From the dry, silky, enchantingly perfumed malvasia (called, appropriately, “Seta” or “silk”) to “Romeo”, a blend of bonarda (different from the Piemontese bonarda, and sometimes called “croatina) to the revolutionary, red, savory-tinged, earthy “Sommossa”, 100% lightly sparkling bonarda, walking tightrope of just-ripe fruit and dry earthiness, all were enticing, hard-to-put-down-the-glass expositions of character and typicity. The sort of wines that make you happy – and hungry for great food and the company of friends. The sort of wines that don’t need to call themselves world class – they have way too much character for that. The best? Who needs that either? I think this is what the man meant when he said conviction.
What a lovely week. (And the weather has been pretty fine, too!). Got off to a fabulous start, breaking bread with a jet-lagged bunch of charming and gracious Italians from some of my favorite Italian wineries, in the company of some of my favorite Seattle wine people. (With plenty of lovely, charming, gracious wines from all those amazing place, of course). Not to be a name dropper, but we’re talking Inama, Selvapiana, Marchesi di Gresy, La Valentina and Aia Vecchia. Not bad, huh?
Grace. If there’s one word that sums up what all those wineries share, it’s grace. It’s in the wines, it’s in the people, it’s effortless, it’s easy, it’s magical in the way it adds an ineffable dimension to a simple conversation and a sip of wine. My friend, the amazing Carrie Omegna, who is both economical and profound in her use of the language, summed it up perfectly. I can’t remember if it was the Selvapiana Chianti Rufina or the Marchesi di Gresy “Camp Gros” or Sauvignon. No matter. Carrie took a sniff, smiled and said, quite simply, “that makes me happy.” Amen.
Can you say it any better than that? While an effusive spray of artfully descriptive verbiage is nice, maybe even informative, it’s often nonetheless just that, a big blah-blah-blah in world that’s flooded with often meaningless, inescapable blah-blah-blah. As Count Basie said, “less is more.” Words to live by, pretty much no matter what you do. It’s what happens when the music, or the words, or the wine you grow come from the same place in your soul that love comes from. It’s what happens when you’ve got something to say.
It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t blow you away. It’s the kind of thing that just makes you happy.
It's Friday, closing in on fiveo'clock and there Marchesi di Gresy sauvignon in the fridge. That makes me happy, too.
Labor Day. Onward. Rolling the stone up the familiar hill can lead to a moderate case of myopia, if you don’t take the next exit and look around every once in awhile. Meanwhile, it’s a big world out there, and we’re looking to get the maximum thrill from our time on the ride. Ergo, we do what we can to keep our blindness from becoming either acute or chronic.
As Richard Brautigan once noted, “the biggest surprise is when you come gradually to realize that nothing surprises you anymore.” Word.
We’re fortunate enough here in our little slice of the wine business to do a tremendous amount of our commerce with families, farmers, smaller-scale distributors and importers—people whose labors and the way they think about it are quite a bit different from the big players. Mere DAvids to the Big Brands’ Goliaths. Independents. Still, once or twice a week, I have a glance at Wine Business News, or one of Marvellous Marvin Shanken’s trade publications, just to see what’s happening out there “the Industry,” given that we’re part of that universe and the ripples from its movers and shakers affect our world out here on the edge.
It’s pretty standard fare: water issues in Norcal, weird weather in France, somebody buying, somebody selling, bigger grenache yields on less acreage, a lawsuit here, one there and the usual litany of mergers, acquisitions et cetera. In a business that’s essentially agricultural, where nothing’s really a given until the harvest is done and the wines is in the bottle, there’s one thing you can count on when you read about its heavyweights and other contenders: the bigger the brand, the further removed from actual dirt and honest-to-goodness grapes its players get, and the more jargon it takes to express really basic ideas. You can count on it.
But still. Sometimes you just have to shake your head in amazement. This past week’s wonder is both brand-new word and a whole new category: masstige. That’s “mass-produced, prestige wine” brands. In an interview with Wine Business News, Treasury Wine Estates CEO Michael Clarke expounds on his leadership in the company’s “acquisition campaign” to reverse several years’ trend of flat sales growth. The level of linguistic obfuscation throughout the piece is pretty much what you’d expect from an executive of his stature: “”and there is an opportunity to build on top of that, especially luxury and massitge portfolio where doing well and to accelerate that beyond just organic growth…” “we have shown the discipline that we can take costs out…and we can over-deliver…and can do the approporiate acquisition to build on the great momentum we are building in luxury and masstige.” We are not talking major acquisitions, we are talking bolt-ons.” Blah-blah-blah. Bolt away, then.
“Luxury and masstige.” “Bolt-ons.” There’s another whole post right there (coming soon). Meanwhile, I’m thanking my lucky stars I don’t have to get up in the morning and concern myself with prestige, or luxury, or bolt-on acquisitions. Whew!
Think I’ll go home and find something decidedly un-luxurious, non-prestigious, grown in small quantities and maybe not even attached to anything else -- although I bet it'll play well with dinner. It’ll be delicious.
There’s some crazy stuff going on in Oregon these days. There’s energy and inspiration in spades, while a desire to let the vineyard sing in the wines both drives that energy and infuses it with the kind of humility that seems to be the common denominator among people who produce truly expressive vino.
Lately, the Boss (aka “the Accomplice”) and I have been hanging out at SE Wine Collective, on Division street in Portlandia. The brainchild of owners Kate and Thomeas Monroe, it’s sheer brilliance, a place where a half dozen or so producers share equipment and space, allowing all the space and the gear to realize their various projects without the considerable investment of setting up shop solo. With a restaurant that doubles as a retail outlet, it’s essentially both studio and performance space for some of the area’s most talented, up-and coming wine producers.
Better still, it’s temple of wine passion and serious geekdom, with the restaurant offering a small, but incredibly well-chosen selection of wines from around the world to complement the menu and the resident wineries’ offerings. Last Friday, when I was there to meet my good friend Barbara Gross, of Cooper Mountain Vineyards, Thomas insisted we begin with a flight of chenin blancs from various regions from Vouvray to the Willamette Valley to Walla Walla (Thomas makes several superb, terroir-driven chenins blanc, under his mmmmm, which are, sadly, presently sold out until the release of the new vintages - - more about Thomas and Kate’s wines in another post).
Onward, then, to tasting though more wines from the Collective, a few new Cooper Mountain releases that Barbara brought along (getting more and more impressive with every vintage—more on that soon, too) and barrel sample of a Chardonnay that Thomas is making with fruit from cooper Mountain. Great stuff.
I’ve come to think that great wine is a lot like the printed word, or music – it’s best when enjoyed and explored in good company—and truly amazing when you have the opportunity to taste wine with people as passionate, inquisitive, experienced and humble as Thomas and Barbara. I could’ve hung there all evening – and am sure to be back soon. If you’re down in P-town you should check it out!
Lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer … (with apologies to Nat Cole).
While being a “person of a certain” age has its obvious downside, there’s plenitude of reasons to be grateful, if not downright cheerful, not the least of which are those lovely little “aha” moments that go hand in glove with no longer having time to burn on [meaningless projects].
I’ve been re-discovering lately just how little interest I have in anything that smacks of more, bigger, louder, lusher, richer and all those other turn-up –the-volume sorta things, especially when it comes allocating brain cells and liver function. Keep chasing after that stuff and all you’ll do is chase, ‘cause more always begs another more, right?
Just got a mail advertising some new Washington releases. A brand new round of the the usual fare: Blockbuster! Plush! Brand new oak! Concentrated! A gazillion months of brand new oak! Concepts! Techniques! I’m thinkin’ I’ll hafta keep my wallet in my pocket and miss that one. Oh well.
Meanwhile, right up my alley, I had the opportunity and absolute pleasure last week to join a crew of local wine industry types at a lunch and tasting with Luca Currado of Vietti. The wines were, of course, incredible – and for this go-‘round we’ll skip an attempt at description that’d be predestined to fall far short of doing them justice. My only advice is to pick up a bottle of anything Vietti and let the wine tell the story. You’ll see what I mean.
That story is all about the place, and one of them most remarkable stories about vignaioli like Luca is the depth of thought and humility with which they approach their roles as translators of place. While the hallmark of New World winemakers is to use technique to “make” grapes into wines of a certain style, the Old World approach is to use whatever technique best permits the character of the vineyard to speak in the wine. It’s not about making a stylistic imprint as much as it’s about staying out of the way, subtracting one’s own ego and not leaving a signature. Think accompanist, rather than soloist, as our friend Jean-Pierre Vanel often says.
As Luca says: “I don’t care anymore about making wines to please people. I don’t want to sound arrogant, but all I want to do is to make wines that tell the story of the vineyard.” (I don’t know about you, but I’m hard pressed to find anything arrogant in that statement. ) Later, as I complimented him on the wines, he smiled and said “grazie, ci proviamo (we try).”
In your obedient correspondent’s humble opinion, that’s grace – something you can taste in a wine that’s made with passion and humility, but that no amount of money or ego can buy. But grace requires that you pay attention. It's not a blockbuster, it won't blow you away. But it's there for the taking, whispering stores of enchantment and down-to-earth, honest dirt.
And that, as Martha says, is a good thing.
Everyone knows that: Rosé and riesling are sweet wines (and sophisticated people don’t drink sweet wine), white wine is the pairing of choice with fish, Italy and Spain are all about red wine, big brands are big because they’re the best, Lambrusco is the soda pop of red wines, white wines should be served very cold, and only a hayseed would ever dream of chilling red wine. You know.
Well dang. Isn’t it amazing how completely wrong conventional “wisdom” can often be? I mean, not just a little bit misguided, or not quite right, but completely, thoroughly, barking-up-the-wrong-tree erroneous? I can personally testify, cross my heart, Scout’s honor that the above “truths” ain’t necessarily so. Which serves to make your summer a heckuva lot more more delicious, particularly because of the temperature thing.
The fact is that, year-‘round, most of us drink our whites way too cold and our reds way too warm. Most of us are familiar what happens to aroma as its source is chilled – it vanishes, by degrees. Chill that bottle of grower Champagne or white Burgundy to near freezing and you essentially squander the loveliness your hard-earned ducats bought. Just be cool, not ice cold and your reward is refreshment and the full pleasure of all discovering all the nuance and charm your wine has to offer.
On the other hand, drinking a red wine at “room” temperature often volatilizes the alcohol, making it seem disjointed and out of balance. Crank up the temperature a notch or two on a warm summer day and things can really get out of whack, pretty much taking all the pleasure out of a nice bottle of red. Granted, a big, powerful, tannic red is less likely to sound very refreshing on a toasty day, but a fruity Beaujolais, a young Rioja, a grenache-based Côtes du Rhône, or a nice fresh Dolcetto (not to mention a savory Lambrusco) are often not only the perfect match for warm weather fare, but all the more refreshing with just a hint of a chill. Not cold, mind you, but just a few degrees above “cellar” temperature—somewhere between 50 and 60 degrees, depending.
So, thirsty for something red with your al fresco dinner? Just chill, the possibilities are endless.