Look homeward, critic
By Todd M. WernstromI am pleasantly surprised every time it happens. That surprise is in no way lessened by repetition either. There, on my doorstep with increasing frequency, are boxes of snugly packed wines. These containers arrive in all shapes and sizes: streamlined singles; just-in-time-for-dinner doubles (conveniently, more often than not, a white and a red); triples; six-packs; and even the mother lode, full casers. The only trait that nearly all of them share - other than they are unappetizingly stamped "For Laboratory Analysis Only" - is that they contain wines from California. The largess of the senders is a mystery to me.
After all, what have I ever done to deserve it? While it's true that I write about wine, so on the surface it might behoove a producer to impress me with their wares, I rarely fill up pages with words praising anything other than France and Italy. By doing so, I mean no disrespect to the "Made in the U.S.A." label. In fact, I once drank a lot of California wine.
Like many newbie wine appreciators, I was initially lured to the pleasures of the grape by the haughty Bordelais. As an American, my unconscious yearned for the stamp of approval and legitimacy conveyed by a classified growth. But again, as an American, I soon strayed after discovering my independence. Or more likely, I just didn't have the patience to wait out wines that were being made during the era of tough tannins in Bordeaux.
So I went west - very far west - and washed down my fish with buttery Chards and stained my teeth with fruit-forward Cabs from the Golden State. I made merry with bottles from Mondavi, Heitz, Montelena and BV - I recall a chocolaty 1985 Georges de Latour fondly to this day. My first real wine crush involved Silver Oak; flying home with a few bottles purchased at the winery back when $35 was a lot of money for a California Cab made my heart grow even fonder, especially for the Alexander Valley offering. Far Niente, Ferrari-Carano and Grgich Hills (even though I didn't know how to pronounce the latter) more than slaked my thirst for whites. I was very happy if somewhat parochially so.
Then one night, two wine snob (the term I then attached to anyone who drank French wine) friends introduced me to red and white Burgundy. It would be trite to say that the experience was revelatory, though it did show me that between the pain of underripe fruit and mean tannins of Bordeaux and easy-to-like California fruit, there existed a world of nuance. I unceremoniously dismissed California for the same reason I jettisoned Bordeaux: Their wines struck me as too one-dimensional.
I've since spent the last decade or so learning about and loving the vagaries of vintage variation in Burgundy, Alsace and the Loire; the minerally density of Châteauneuf and the berry-scented beauty of Côte-Rôtie. The Italians taught me to seek out the aboriginal: fiano, aglianico, corvina, nebbiolo and sagrantino, to name just a few. But lately it seems that the all-too-familiar Mondovino-ization has taken some of the luster away from the patina of many of my favorites.
A recently consumed bottle of Pira Barolo - an elegant package of dried fruit, flowers and tar - made me realize just how much harder it has become to find a bottle that impresses with subtlety instead of muscle from the hills of the Langhe.
In despair (in the relative sense - after all, I still had Champagne and Belgian beer to tickle my tonsils) I reached into my cellar and randomly pulled out some of those unsolicited samples. A couple of Chardonnays seemed like as good a place as any to start.
Chateau St. Jean's 2001 Belle Terre Vineyard ($22) proved to be loaded with butterscotch and apricot flavors, and despite an alcohol level that would cause a Burgundian to look askance - perhaps with envy! - it has the type of balance prized in that part of the world. Richness has never been a problem for Californians to achieve, but the addition of a layer of nuance has often been elusive; not so with this Alexander Valley bottle.
The grapes that compose Wild Horse's 2004 Central Coast Chardonnay come from the area now more widely known for Sideways, and while it would be easy to speak of Wild Horse Pinot because this now-trendy varietal has long been this winery's calling card, I was particularly taken by the Chardonnay's pedigree. A portion of the fruit was sourced from cool-climate vineyards that are indeed so cool that the acidity actually had to be taken down a notch. How's that for a change? This $17 bargain couldn't cloy if it tried.
These two prove that there is no such thing as a "California" Chardonnay. Instead, they suggest that sense of place, while perhaps not trumpeted as condescendingly as by the French, is alive and well from the North Coast down to the Central and everywhere in between. But it's not just the big money whites that offer some variety. Estancia's 2004 Pinot Grigio, so named, perhaps, to cash in on some of that Santa Margherita magic, is crisp with pear and lemon notes - actually closer in texture to an Alsace Gris than an Italian Grigio. It might have been oaked but I couldn't feel it, making it nicely apéritif weight.
A handful of reds were just as intriguing. Murphy-Goode bottles a Petit Verdot that is diminutive in no respect. It possesses the texture and flavor of a blueberry milkshake - a serious one, that is. This important Bordeaux blender may never rival Merlot in stand-alone numbers, but it does add color and punch to some of the world's greatest wines. It is so highly regarded that the genius behind St.-Julien's Château Lagrange, Marcel Ducasse, wouldn't think of leaving it out of his Third Growth, making his Grand Vin the most PV-heavy in Bordeaux.
Stags' Leap Winery's 2000 Ne Cede Malis shows that you can take the blend out of the Southern Rhône, but you can't take the California out of the wine. The cépage may be right out of Châteauneuf, but there is no mistaking its Napa Valley origin with its luscious aromas and flavors of black currant, smoke and sweet oak. It is both mouth-filling and food friendly, a twin set we've come to assume is unachievable in the New World. Jessie's Grove 2002 Westwind Zinfandel compels me to peck out the Z-word, something I'm not sure I've ever done before. At $19, it would be hard to beat this tight package of plum, pencil shavings and maple.
Though it's not from California, I have to mention Willamette Valley's Territorial Vineyards. One of its proprietors subscribed to a newsletter I published for a few years. He didn't send samples until after I folded it, however - perhaps as a thank you for doing so! Territorial's small-block Pinots, including the neatly named Stone's Throw and Capital T, demonstrate that concentration can exist without high alcohol outside of the Côte de Nuits.
I'm sure I'll end up back with my French and Italian friends soon enough. But I won't be doing so with an ex-pat's attitude.
For now, though, it's comforting to know that you can go home again, even if it's only for a visit.
Todd M. Wernstrom is the executive editor.