Golden Oldies
By Todd M. WernstromI'm certain that I've never had a more unlikely inspiration for a column than sitting in front of the TV watching an early-round NHL playoff game. The winged tire logo of the Detroit Red Wings juxtaposed with the less dignified crest of the Edmonton Oilers resulted in a rare "aha" moment for me: The cause of my longstanding reluctance to embrace California wines as I have those from Italy and France crystallized during this game taking place in Hockeytown. It turns out that for all my talk of the glories of terroir in Burgundy, Alsace, the Veneto and the Alto Adige, I actually love California wine after all.
It happens that what I love about California is the same thing that I love about the Original Six (as the pre-multiple-expansion-era NHL teams are referred to). The history of those teams from Chicago, Detroit, Boston, New York, Montreal and Toronto is palpable. Each "sweater" with its primary colors timelessly integrated with the great seals of these storied franchises tugs at emotions in a way that neon cartoon characters like ducks, panthers and sharks can't. Similarly, names such as Beaulieu Vineyard, Inglenook, Beringer, Niebaum and Heitz evoke something that even the trendiest cult label can't hope to replicate.
It's not even a question of quality; it's really a function of time. In a place where winemaking history is in its relative infancy as compared to the Old World, no number of 95+ scores can make up for the fact that legacies can't be formulated by consultants and ever-more-ripe, extracted and cleverly packaged wines. Even the venerable Robert Mondavi Winery is only celebrating its 40th anniversary this year, making it a true California pioneer, but a baby compared to its equivalents in Pauillac and Alba.
So, while I've never quite been able to get on the Screaming Eagle bandwagon - make that a Rolls given the prices fetched for each release - I do get anticipatory butterflies contemplating a bottle from one of the golden oldies. Recently I was invited to taste a half-dozen Georges de Latour Cabs going back to 1969. Named for the man who founded BV in 1900, the GDL was perhaps California's first consciously created super premium wine. It was always meant to be the best wine made in California in any given year, and while critics might argue the point today, there can be no arguing its historic importance to the business of wine in the Golden State.
"Georges de Latour resembles a more European model than a Californian. No one ever really knew who was actually making Lafite; it was more about house style," observed Jeffrey Stambor, who has been the winemaker in charge of BV's "Bordeaux program" since 1989. Though all of us know how much of an impact André Tchlischeff had on BV, and wine in general, Stambor's point is otherwise well taken. Even today, Georges de Latour doesn't seem as Californian as other heavy-hitting California Cabs. BV can make adjustments to consumer taste without losing its sense of self because it has already made similar moves throughout its long history. By way of example, Stambor said, "There's nothing wrong with ripeness, but the extreme isn't right either. Cab without some herbaceous notes isn't Cab. A lot of them are being made today so that there are no hints of herbal notes."
Innovation steeped in tradition is a hard package to resist. At about the same time in the 1930s that BV reportedly became the first to bottle a 100 percent varietal Cab, Russel Wright was introducing his revolutionary "American Modern" line of dinnerware. Today, hundreds of Wright's designs are vied for regularly on eBay, attesting to the longevity of his relevance; and now varietal labeling is even showing up in Europe more and more, proving that BV did more to create the curve than follow it. Of course, there's a big difference between something that truly stands the test of time - like Wright's organic-looking yet stylized plates, and even day-glo Fiesta Ware and Fire-King cups and saucers - and something that's just old. After all, nostalgia-clouded lenses have even made Tricky Dick Nixon and the "Dukes of Hazzard" seem not so bad in retrospect; there has to be something timeless and substantial involved.
The '69 Georges de Latour, a floral, vibrant and thoughtfully packaged combination of cherry, black olive and pulverized brick aromas and flavors, proves the point. It demonstrates its substance by showing itself in a way that old wines usually can't: Rather than quickly fading upon uncorking, it becomes more open as it sits in the glass. The white-hot labels of today can't possibly compare simply because most of them have histories that barely reach back a decade or so into the 20th century. The BVs of California resonate in a way that even the most Euro-snobby collector can understand. California's wine history is really one of names, not places. In Burgundy, the vineyard, be it Montrachet or Clos de Vougeot, or any one of the hundreds upon hundreds of meaningful names, is, by law, writ large on the label; in California, the producer's name takes precedence, and perhaps will continue to do so for a number of generations until it's beyond dispute which grape belongs in which place. Until that time, it's the maker's mark that matters.
I, for one, seek something more than just a very good wine - or an excellent one, for that matter. I want a mouthful of California's primordial winemaking stew when I open a bottle, because, in a sense, that's what I get from my French and Italian favorites. The ups and downs of the market; the occasional civil unrest or war; the change in fender shapes and lapel widths - I want to know that the winery whose name is on the bottle has been through all of this. The proliferation of labels in California (and elsewhere) brings the same ills that expansion has to hockey (or any professional sport). And I'm not suggesting that the main problem is a dilution of quality; in fact, in the wine world, the opposite is true. What it has led to is a facelessness in the end product - a high-quality one at that, but still one with less individuality, less personality.
In many ways, producers like Beaulieu Vineyard are dinosaurs. I'm not sure another 1969 Georges de Latour could even be made today. Consumer taste (read: lack of patience) dictates a style of wine that seems impossible to reconcile with the requisite ingredients to make such a wine. I'm sure I'm reading too much into it, but as of this writing, the three Original Six teams that made the playoffs have already been eliminated.
Whether I'm right or wrong on this score, I will take comfort in the old school. I recently bought a bottle of 1971 Ridge Carignan that I will open on my wife's birthday in a few weeks, and I look forward to it as much as I do the '71 Guigal Côte-Rôtie I purchased for the same occasion. Marking her birth year in this fashion is something I just can't do with the Screaming Eagles of the world.
Todd M. Wernstrom is the executive editor and frequently writes about French and Italian wine.