Only Excellent: The Story of the Wines of the Finger Lakes

Dr. Konstantin Frank

"Only Excellent. Good wine is not good enough for humans - only excellent will do."--Dr. Konstantin Frank

Once upon a time, the wines of the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York were little more than boozy grape juice, and those who produced them had resigned themselves to mediocrity. Believing that it was simply too cold in the region to grow quality, vitis vinifera grapes, winemakers of the region had long relied on the simple, sugary wines made from cold-hardy native American and French hybrid grapes like Concord and Catawba. It would take the persistence and dedication of a maverick mad scientist to turn the Finger Lakes into the impressive wine-producing region it is today.

In 1951, the prayers of those who desired great wine were answered with the arrival of Dr. Konstantin Frank, a 54-year-old Ukrainian immigrant, to the region. Although in the old country Dr. Frank had been a respected viticulturist, English was not one of the nine languages he spoke, so in New York he was forced to take a low-level, menial labor job at the Geneva Research Station, a grape research facility at Cornell University. Once he had found his in, Dr. Frank immediately began urging the local winemakers to experiment with planting vinifera grape varieties. He explained that his thesis at the Odessa Polytechnic Institute had been on techniques for growing vitis vinifera in a cold climate, and that if it could be done in the below-freezing winters of Ukraine, it could certainly be done in slightly milder New York. 

Winter in the Finger Lakes

As most mad scientists are at first, Dr. Frank was ridiculed by the local winemaking community. His idea that the failure of vinifera wines in the region was due not to icy temperatures but to the lack of proper rootstock was viewed as ludicrous (although admittedly, he may have hurt his case by telling women who drank labrusca wines that they would be unable to get pregnant as a result). The ornery Ukrainian viticulturist, however, refused to give up. After much perseverance, he finally was able to convince local sparkling wine producer Charles Fournier to give him a chance. Together, they planted thousands of Chardonnay and Riesling vines grafted onto hardy rootstock in Quebec, Canada, and then waited patiently until 1957, when the vines proved Dr. Frank's hypothesis to be correct. 

Shortly thereafter, Dr. Frank founded Vinifera Wine Cellars, which will celebrate its 50th anniversary next month, in Hammondsport, New York. The first vintage, a trockenbeerenauslese Riesling, was released in 1962, and upon tasting the success for themselves, other winemakers sheepishly began to follow suit. The Finger Lakes region is now home to more than 100 wineries producing wines made from vinifera grapes, the best of which are often bone-dry, aromatic Rieslings, although great success has been had with Pinot Noir, Cabernet Franc, Chardonnay, and Gewürztraminer as well. More recently, experimentation with Austrian varieties such as Blaufrankisch and Grüner Veltliner has led to pleasing results. 

Keuka Lake in Autumn

In addition to Dr. Frank's Vinifera Wine Cellars, now run by Konstantin's grandson Frederick Frank and still producing some of the best wines in the state, top Finger Lakes producers include Sheldrake Point, Red Tail Ridge, Ravines, Hermann J. Wiemer, and Hearts & Hands. These wines are still sorely under-appreciated in the national marketplace, which makes them a little hard to find on the West Coast, but luckily more and more are finding their way here. The easiest to find include bottlings by Ravines, Red Tail Ridge, (particularly their earthy and unusual Lemberger (a synonym for Blaufrankisch), and of course, the descendants of Dr. Frank himself. If you haven't tried the wines of the Finger Lakes, you are missing out. But if you, like myself, have tried them and loved them, then you can thank Dr. Konstantin Frank. 

Australia's Best Kept Secret: It's Not All Yellowtail and Foster's!

At most of the places where I have sold wine, I have frequently encountered guests visiting from Australia. As they scan the selection, they always ask the same question: "where are all of your Aussie wines?" After a recent visit to Melbourne and nearby wine region the Mornington Peninsula, I have come to realize that the answer is not what I previously thought it was. 

For years, I have believed that Australian wines just didn't quite jive with my palate. Those I had tasted (mostly Shiraz) were generally over-extracted fruit bombs with too much oak and more residual sugar than I felt my beloved Syrah grape deserved to be laden with. But after having sampled a diverse array of Australian wines over the last few weeks, I now know the truth: there are fantastic wines being made in Australia, but those clever Aussies are keeping the good stuff for themselves!

Before heading to my first true Australian barbecue, I stopped at a nice little wine shop near my hotel to grab a bottle of something refreshing to help cool us off on a hot Melbourne summer day. Taking my time walking around the store, I observed a few things of note. One was that apart from a smattering of Italian and French wines, the vast majority of the selections were Australian, a stark contrast to most wine shops stateside. Very few of them were wines that I recognized, apart from the obligatory Penfolds, d'Arenberg, and yes, Yellowtail. Most of the bottlings had names and labels unfamiliar to me as an American. These were the boutique wines of Australia, the ones made in quantities too small for exporting. Another thing I noticed was that this particular wine shop only carried one American wine: Gallo White Zinfandel. That explains why the Aussies are about as excited about our wines as I had been about theirs! After a quick chat with the affable store manager, I left with a cold bottle of 2012 Pewsey Vale Riesling from the Eden Valley region. 

At the barbecue, the wine turned out to be a huge hit--with me. After first tasting its bone-dry, mineral rich character with bright lemon-lime citrus exploding on the palate, I surrepititiously tucked the bottle behind a few others in the ice bucket, making sure never to stray so far as to let it out of my line of vision. No one else seemed to notice its presence, so I poured myself another glass, and then another. Soon, I had finished the entire bottle. The wine reminded me of some of my favorite Finger Lakes Rieslings, (I'm looking at you, Sheldrake Point 2007 Reserve Riesling!) and I was truly impressed. At that point, I became very excited to see what else this underrated wine-producing country had to offer. 

The next day, on my way to another barbecue (it's true, the Aussies really do barbecue every day!), I picked up a bottle of 2012 Dominique Portet Fontaine Rosé, a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Shiraz from the Yarra Valley, recommended by the same gentleman. I was skeptical of the blend, but the reliable pale salmon color told me this wine would not betray my taste buds--and it didn't. Crisp, clean and dry, its juicy red berry flavors with hints of fresh herbs made this wine the perfect quaffing beverage to cool off after a rousing family cricket match. Again, I may as well have just stuck a straw in the bottle, because I was fairly unwilling to share this extremely tasty wine.   

After discovering my natural talent for cricket, a nice, cold glass of rosé was necessary.

At restaurants and bars, there were more delightful surprises to be found. At the Builders Arms Hotel, a glass of NV Bress sparkling wine (a mineral-rich blend of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay) from Macedon, Victoria made for a perfect midday refreshment while taking a break from exploring the city's eclectic Fitzroy neighborhood. 

A block away, the Gertrude Street Enoteca, a combination bottle shop and wine bar, was a haven for those looking to explore Australia's diverse vinous offerings. I salivated for a while over the bottle selection, including a Lagrein from Macedon that I'll have to try on my next visit, and then sat down to taste a few of their by-the-glass offerings. The 2012 Cherubino 'Laissez Faire' Fiano, Western Australia's take on the classic white wine of Campania, Fiano di Avellino, paid a pleasing tribute to its southern Italian mentor, fresh and lively now, but sure to develop lovely honeyed and spicy notes with age. But the true star of the show was the 2009 Avani Syrah. Yes, you read that correctly. A burgeoning trend among Australian winemakers is to eschew the nation's famous 'Shiraz' nickname in favor of lighter-handed, minimal-intervention, lower-alcohol, northern-Rhône-style wines labeled with the grape's French name: Syrah (the two grapes are one and the same!).  This Mornington Peninsula wine, which clocks in at just under 13.5% alcohol (the 2011 vintage is under 12%!) is the first vintage produced by Shashi Singh, an Indian-born chemist-turned-restaurateur-turned-oenologist who moved to Melbourne with her chef husband thirty years ago. She applies biodynamic processes in the vineyard with the result of a beautiful, aromatic wine with notes of pepper, brooding black fruit, earth, and a hint of violet.

At the Enoteca, I met second-generation winemaker Andrew Marks, who has made wine all over the world but calls the Yarra Valley home. He spoke with me about the aforementioned Syrah trend, as well as the movement of many winemakers toward lower-alcohol, terroir-expressive wines like Shashi's. I told him of my plans to go wine tasting the following day, and if the Avani Syrah hadn't already convinced me to head to the Mornington Peninsula, Andrew sealed the deal.

Any day that starts with a paddle of beer is bound to be a good day.

Hops grown on site

The next morning, the adventure began...at a brewery. Red Hill Brewery, to be exact. If the Mornington Peninsula didn't remind me enough of driving through Mendocino's Anderson Valley, the taco truck parked right outside the brewery made me feel right at home. A paddle of beer was deemed the most appropriate way to start the day, which included samples of Red Hill's Golden Ale, Wheat Beer, Black Rye IPA, and Irish Red Ale. All were thoroughly enjoyable, and I learned that Australia is a true contender on the microbrewery scene. It should be noted that I did not see a single bottle of Foster's the entire time I was in the country, and am now thoroughly convinced that "Foster's" is Australian for "gullible Americans." 

Red Hill Brewery

After getting a nice base of beer in our stomachs to begin our day of wine tasting, we moved on to scenic Tuck's Ridge, where the quality of the wine matched the friendliness of the tasting room staff. It was here that I realized that the Mornington Peninsula resembles the Anderson Valley in more than just aesthetics. A coastal influence and significant diurnal swing (warm days followed by cool nights) help to produce crisp, acidic whites and light, earthy reds. Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Rosé, and Pinot Noir were the standouts, but the bottle I chose to bring home was a 2012 Savignin, a grape most commonly grown in the Jura region of France, which I learned had until as recently as 2008 been mistaken in Australia for the Spanish grape Albariño. 

The line-up at Tuck's Ridge

This wine was not available for tasting due to its extremely limited production, but it promises to excite my salivary glands with white peach, citrus pith, and apricots on the nose and palate--an experience I am quite looking forward to.  

Tuck's Ridge vineyards

The next stop was Main Ridge Estate, where the specialties were Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. The group favorite, however, turned out to be a 2010 Merlot, whose soft tannins and dark fruit aromas enticed me in a way Merlot often fails to achieve. Flipping through a guide to Victoria's wineries that I found at Main Ridge, I perked up when I noticed that a few wineries were producing wines from one of my favorite underrated grapes, Gamay. 

Eldridge Estate

I asked where to find the best Gamay and was instructed to visit Eldridge Estate. I quickly found that I had not been led astray. This intensely aromatic wine had all of the best qualities of a Cru Beaujolais, and the winery's other offerings, particularly their two Pinot Noirs, were excellent as well. 

Eldridge Estate uses the ancient French tradition of
planting roses at the end of each row of vines. Roses
and grape vines are prone to the same diseases, so the
roses would serve as early warning signs for disease. In
modern times, the color of the roses usually indicates the
type of grape. At Eldridge, red roses = Pinot Noir, white
roses = Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc, and pink
roses = Gamay.

All good things must come to an end, and our little group decided to finish the day the same way we started--at a brewery (this is what happens when you go wine tasting with beer drinkers). We found ourselves atMornington Brewery, washing down more entire pizzas than I'd like to admit with delicious English-

style Brown Ale.

Needless to say, I was very pleasantly surprised by both the wine and the beer in the land down under. I boarded my plane home with a mixture of melancholy and excitement--sad that I had to leave this wonderful country and all of the delicious things it had to offer, but looking forward to coming back to The Barrel Room and sharing my discovery with my colleagues and our guests. Luckily, soon after my return I had the opportunity to attend a trade tasting of Australian wines, where I was able to sample some fantastic bottlings that actually are available in California. I was thrilled to taste such wines as BK Wines Cult Syrah from McLaren Vale, South Australia, Dandelion Wines Eden Valley Riesling, and the entire lineup from Fowles Wine--run by lovely husband-and-wife team Matt and Lu Fowles, who assure me that their 'Ladies Who Shoot Their Lunch' Shiraz would pair fantastically with 'roo, my new favorite meat.

My first bite of 'roo. Once you go marsupial, you never go back.

The Dry Wine Dilemma: Clearing up Confusion

Some wine terms sound completely ridiculous. Just the other day, I caught myself describing a 1985 Bordeaux as being "not so much fruitier as it is brighter" than the '95 I had tasted a day earlier. I realized as soon as the words came out of my mouth that I sounded like Paul Giamatti's character in the movie 'Sideways.' Even worse was that my tasting companions, both seasoned wine drinkers like myself, nodded in agreement. I was appalled--I would have preferred if they had made fun of me for sounding like a snob!

But the fact of the matter is that certain 'ridiculous'-sounding terms can be very useful and important in describing wine--but perhaps not in the way that you might think. Sure, we winos enjoy sniffing and swirling together and comparing notes, in the way that sports fans might enjoy talking about a great football play that they just watched or fashion-lovers may discuss the latest Zac Posen runway show. 

People often tell me apologetically that they are not very good at describing wine. In such instances, I share with them my belief that it is not their duty to excel in this activity; that's my job (and my hobby--we wine people are nerds). You'll certainly never find me apologizing to a surgeon for not being able to perform a heart transplant, or to an accountant for not being able to fill out complicated tax forms. I do believe, however, that there is one important exception to this rule. I think that anyone who enjoys drinking wine and does so on at least a semi-regular basis should know a few basic terms to describe what they like to drink. That way, the person whose job it actually is to understand the terminology and apply it to the wine list in question can be of optimal assistance in finding a glass or bottle of wine that the customer will enjoy.

Unfortunately, there is a big problem with one of the most important of these terms: 'dry.' It seems so straightforward, doesn't it? If you take it literally (and without proper instruction, why wouldn't you?), it seems to imply that drying feeling you get in your mouth after taking a sip of an intense red wine, like a Nebbiolo from Piedmont or a young Bordeaux. But no--that feeling has its own, far less obvious term: 'tannic.' Tannin, existing in the skins of red wine grapes, is what gives you the sensation that you just licked a flannel shirt. In more extreme cases, it may temporarily deprive you of the ability to separate your gums from the inside of your lip. Many people understandably mistake tannin for dryness when describing wine. 

Unless you're a wine geek like me, you very well may now be wondering, "well then what is a dry wine?" The answer is definitely not intuitive, but it is simple. In the world of wine, dry is merely the opposite of sweet. Of course, we could get complicated and talk about wines that are 'off-dry' or 'semi-dry,' but that just means that they are a little bit sweet. The problem lies in the divide in understanding between the experienced winos of the world and the casual wine drinker who has never taken a formal course in wine tasting. This breakdown in communication can lead to disastrous wine selection results!

I once served a woman who was unfamiliar with many of the selections available on the wine list asked for guidance in choosing a glass. I asked her what she liked to drink and she confidently answered that she enjoyed red wines that were both dry and earthy. "Easy enough," I thought. Most earthy wines are quite dry (as in, little or no residual sugar is left after fermentation) so I assumed it would not be difficult to help her pick out her ideal beverage. I poured her a few tastes, waiting expectantly as she sipped. I was surprised when she asked if I had anything drier--it doesn't get any drier than this! 

A lightbulb went off over my head and I asked her, cautiously, "what is it exactly that you mean when you say the word 'dry'?" Quickly, she answered, "you know, that feeling you get in your mouth after you take a sip when it feels really dry!" I instantly realized she was referring to tannin, and explained the confusion of the two terms. She then wrote down in her notebook for future reference that she likes "earthy, tannic wines." She ended up being quite happy with a 2004 Nebbiolo that scored high marks for her in both categories. 

So why would such a simple and important word have such a counterintuitive definition? The answer is not quite clear. A search for the term's etymology leads simply to speculation and dead ends. Charles Hodgson's book History of Wine Words skips the subject altogether, leaving a gaping, confusing hole between 'drink' and 'Dry Creek Valley.' A prevailing theory is that the idea that sugar was once thought to 'evaporate' like water during fermentation, until it could be presumed 'dry;' another one relates to wine storage technology (or lack thereof) during medieval times, which led to a tradeoff between sweetness and astringency, so that non-sweet wines would have been more astringent (as in 'tannic' or 'dry') on the palate, and sweet wines less so. 

Unfortunately, it's difficult to imagine a solution to this semantic mix-up. We can only continue the crusade to educate wine drinkers on this peculiarity for which we can probably blame the French, who first used the term vin sec (dry wine) in print around the year 1200 (although it's hard to stay mad at them when they make such delicious wine!) On the other side of the coin, I believe it is very important for bartenders, sommeliers, and restaurant servers to be cognizant and understanding of this issue. When you deal with wine day in and day out and are constantly surrounded by people who do the same, it is easy to forget that not everyone has the same knowledge of the subject. We can do our part by always remembering to ask, "what exactly is it that you mean when you say the word 'dry'?"

How do they Get the Blueberries into the Wine?: A Primer on Wine Aromas

Wine tasting is very serious business

I poured two tastes of Petite Sirah, and then stood back and watched as the two women in front of me swirled their glasses and inhaled deeply. 

"It smells fruity," one of them said.

"Yes," replied her friend, "sort of like blueberries!"

"Exactly," I responded. "Blueberry is a very common aroma in Petite Sirah."

The women smiled with satisfaction, pondering the wine as they sniffed and sipped. But then the first woman's face contorted in confusion. "Wait a second..." she began, "how do they get the blueberries into the wine?!"

To the novice wine drinker, this can be an extremely confusing concept. Sometimes a wine has such a pronounced smell of blueberries, or of roses, or of ripe fresh peaches, that it seems impossible that the scent could have been achieved in any other manner than by tossing a bag of groceries in with the fermenting grapes. But unless you are making blueberry wine, peach wine, or rose wine (all of which do exist), the only fruit that will ever see the inside of the oak barrel or stainless steel fermenting tank is in fact, the grape.

So how do wines made from little more than fermented grapes and yeast end up smelling like, well, anything but? And what makes each wine different? There are a number of factors that contribute to the aroma (or the bouquet--more on that later) of a wine. 

One of the most important determinants of a wine's aroma is the type of grape(s) from which it is made. Each grape contains tiny amounts of aromatic and phenolic compounds--chemical compounds with very unromantic names like methoxypyrazine, which gives Cabernet Sauvignon and Sauvignon Blanc their characteristic grassy aromas, or zingerone, the vaguely onomatopoeic moniker for the compound responsible for spiciness (zing!) in Syrah. Monoterpenes, a class of compounds including linalool and geraniol, lend a floral quality to Gewürztraminer, Muscat, and Riesling. If you were to pick a ripe grape off of the vine and eat it, you may have a hard time perceiving any of these chemical compounds. Fermentation, however, has a magnifying effect on their aromas, and they are often clearly perceptible in the finished product. 

Then there is the "bouquet"--a somewhat controversial and mostly unnecessary term that, depending on who you ask, either means the aromas that come from the winemaking process or the aromas that come from aging. Between you and me, I'm fine with calling them all aromas. Or scents. Or smells. Whatever works for you. But although the term doesn't matter, these two processes have an undeniable effect on the way a wine smells. A winemaker can choose to age a wine in stainless steel barrels, preserving the purity of the fruit aromas, or in oak barrels, which (depending on their age and region of origin) can impart hints of toast, cedar, vanilla, or coconut. The decision to allow a white wine such as Chardonnay to undergo malolactic fermentation can result in a scent not unlike buttered popcorn, due to the conversion of crisp, tart malic acid (think green apples) to soft lactic acid (think yogurt). Allowing a wine to sit with the dead yeast cells (lees) following fermentation will lead to a yeasty, brioche-like smell. An aging wine will see its fresh fruit aromas turn to those of dried, cooked, or baked fruit, while other earthy, floral, mineral, or even animal aromas develop as well. The scent of the wine will become much more layered and complex as it matures, although if you let it mature for too long, its aroma will turn to that of a nice vinegar for cooking.

Oak barrel aging can lead to toasty, woody, and vanilla flavors in the finished wine

Of course, despite the fact that there is some science behind all this, that doesn't mean everyone is going to perceive the same thing all of the time, or even half of the time. Everyone's nose and palate is different, and we all have different thresholds of perception. Personally, I can almost never detect the smell of mint in a wine until someone else points it out, but I am always among the first to pick up on the smell of plum. Some people can instantly discern that a wine that has been ever-so-slightly damaged by cork taint, while others may happily gulp down the entire bottle without batting an eye. This doesn't mean anyone is "wrong," any more than one would be "wrong" for preferring vanilla ice cream to chocolate.

the aroma wheel

If you want to get better at this wine-sniffing thing, you have options. A very useful tool is the aroma wheel, the creation of Ann C. Noble, a sensory chemist and former U.C. Davis professor. You can buy one for $6, and use it to identify scents by narrowing them down from the general (fruity) to the sort-of-general (berry) to the specific (strawberry), helping to make the process a little less daunting. Another suggestion, courtesy of my former Intro to Wines professor, is to learn what things smell like. It's pretty simple. Go to the farmers' market or a spice shop, pick things up, and sniff them. Commit their scents to memory. If you don't know what gooseberries smell like, find some gooseberries in the produce aisle and take a big whiff. Of course, if anyone sees you do this, you might have to buy them. Or, if you have lots of money and cannot figure out what to do with it, spend some of it on an aroma kit like Le Nez du Vin, which basically lets you do all of that without the awkward trip to the grocery store. 

Le Nez du Vin aroma kit

At the end of the day, the most important thing to do while drinking a wine is to enjoy it, not to try to think of obtuse flowery descriptions (unless, of course, you are a wine reviewer). But identifying aromatic characteristics can be fun, especially with a group of friends. And the more you drink, the more creative your descriptions will become (some excerpts from my tasting group's late-night notes: 'kinda like a burrito,' 'Aunt Jemima maple syrup,' 'third grade snack time with apple juice and graham crackers' and 'Pert Plus shampoo - green apple scent.' Don't take yourself too seriously. And remember, practice makes perfect. 

How Much do we Need to Know About Wine in Order to Enjoy it?

You don't need to be "that guy" in order to enjoy wine.

As anyone with even a mild interest in fermented grape juice is aware, there are many misconceptions that people have about wine--for example, that all wines bottled under screwcap are cheap, that "dry" means the same thing as "tannic," or that sulfites in wine cause headaches (look for all of these myths to be debunked in future blog posts!). But one of the most harmful misconceptions out there is that you need to be knowledgeable about wine in order to enjoy it. This belief has caused many people to eschew wine in favor of beverages like beer or vodka, which they feel they have permission to imbibe without having to think about it too much. "Winophobics" fear that they will not be able to appreciate the often expensive beverage without being well-versed in its nuances, or that there will be some sort of exam that they will fail and embarrass themselves in front of the sommelier or a snooty colleague. 

A few years ago, I asked a beer-loving friend if she wanted to accompany me to a Friday evening wine tasting at Alphabet City Wine Co. in New York, a fun and laid-back store with friendly and knowledgeable staff and a great wine selection. She looked as if I had just asked her to help me give my great-grandfather a sponge bath. 

"But--I wouldn't know what to say about the wines!" she stammered, a look of panic flashing across her face. 

Confused, I replied, "do you think they're going to quiz you on the wines or something? You don't need to say anything about them. You just drink them. It's fun."

We ended up skipping the tasting and going out for beers instead, but since that conversation I have often thought about the peculiar link between wine enjoyment and knowledge. There is no other food or beverage that I can think of that people feel they actually cannot enjoy without knowing a lot about it. Sure, there is plenty to learn about cheese, mushrooms, or even whiskey, that may make their consumption somewhat more enjoyable, but, personal taste aside, I have never seen anyone refuse the chance to try any of those things based on a lack of sufficient understanding thereof. 

The fact of the matter is, unless you are trying to become a wine professional, all you really need to know is whether or not a wine tastes good to you personally. Sure, it can be fun to learn more, especially when you find a region or grape variety that you particularly enjoy. But this can only enhance cognitive pleasure, not sensory pleasure. That is to say, recognizing that the mysterious liquid you just sipped is a Burgundy from the 2006 vintage will give you the same satisfaction as acing a difficult question on a math test, but it will not make the wine taste any better.

Conversely, knowledge of wine can sometimes actually reduce your enjoyment of the beverage. Having too much information about a particular wine--for example, that the producer has an excellent reputation, that it came from a superior vintage, or that someone like Robert Parker gave it 100 points--may cause you to set your expectations of quality too high. It's kind of like finally going to see a movie after hearing rave reviews for months--very few can live up to that kind of buildup. 

Last year, I was at a restaurant that is well-known for its excellent wine selection. The bartender had overheard enough of the conversation between myself and my drinking companion to know that we were total wine nerds, and generously began to pour us blind tastes of every bottle he had open. When I sipped one of them, I felt as if I had reached some sort of enlightenment. I suddenly understood the reason for all of the pomp and circumstance surrounding wine. I turned to my companion, and managed to utter a short, staccato sentence: "This. Is. The best. Wine. I have ever. Tasted."

Smirking, the bartender interjected, "don't drink that too fast. It's DRC."

This was one of those record-scratch moments for me. For the uninitiated, DRC stands for Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, the Burgundy estate considered to be one of the best (and certainly the most expensive) wine producers on the planet. I had always longed to try one of their wines, but believed my lack of sufficient income would be an insurmountable roadblock.  I was thrilled to discover that, independently of its reputation, I thoroughly enjoyed such a highly sought-after wine. My companion, however, had not yet had a chance to taste it before the revelation was made. She took a sip.

"I mean, it's good," she shrugged, "but it's not amazing." We will never know for sure, but I suspect that if I had not been the one to take the first sip, our evaluations might have been reversed. 

Psychology can have a massive impact on the way we experience wine. There have been many experiments where wine professionals have been swayed in their evaluations of wine by subtle psychological cues. In 2001, University of Bordeaux researcher Frédéric Brochet conducted two revealing experiments that are often recalled today when discussing the subjectivity of wine. In the first one, fifty-seven wine professionals were asked to evaluate two glasses of wine--one white and one red. The experts marveled at the "jamminess" and "crushed red fruit" of the latter, completely unaware that both glasses contained the same white wine, one of which had been tinted with red food coloring. Not one of them noticed this. 

In the second experiment, an average-quality Bordeaux wine was poured into two different bottles--one a high-end, well-respected Grand Cru, and the other just a regular vin de table. I'm sure you can guess how the ratings differed between the two wines! The "Grand Cru" was heralded as being “agreeable, woody, complex, balanced and rounded,” while the "vin de table" was derided as “weak, short, light, flat and faulty." 

When I serve wine, I like to play these tricks with people as well (but don't worry, I'll always come clean immediately after!). If you tell me that you hate Merlot but love Cabernet Sauvignon, there's a good chance I will pour you a small taste of Merlot and say "try this Cab!" It is not intended to be cruel, but rather to help you free your mind from the prejudices you may have developed from listening to other people talk about wine. If you aren't sure what wine you would like to try and I pour you a taste, I generally won't tell you what it is until after you've formed your thoughts on it. Your opinion should not be influenced by where it's from or who made it. By paying attention to our own tastebuds rather than our highly suggestible brains, we can become more comfortable with the idea of tasting wine.

Note: if this subject interests you and you would like to read some thought-provoking discussion about it, I highly recommend the book Questions of Taste: The Philosophy of Wine. It is by no means a light read, but it's fascinating! 

An Anderson Valley Adventure, Part 2: Why Going Wine Tasting is Good for More than Just Drinking

Ferrington Vineyard

After having blogged about the Anderson Valley AVA last week, I was even more anxious to visit than I had been previously. I have known for quite some time now that I prefer the wines of that region to almost any others in the state of California, but despite the rave reviews I have often heard, I had never been to Mendocino at all. Less than twenty-four hours after the trip, I am already trying to plot my return.

Highway-128 may be one of the best arguments there is in the debate between California and New York. Beginning two hours North of San Francisco, just off of the sunburned hills of Route 101, this winding road is not for the faint of heart, but adventurous drivers will reap worthwhile rewards in the form of stunning scenery. Between the lush redwood forests, vineyards, rivers, and lakes, there is no shortage of opportunities to entertain yourself simply by looking out the window during the drive, which is useful since you won't have cell phone service for most of it. All of this leads to some very lovely photos, but equally importantly to a greater understanding of that region's wines. 

State Route 128

When we checked out of our hotel in the town of Mendocino and prepared to head south, away from the coast, the chilly air was damp enough to instantly render my hair straightener's recent hard work irrelevant. When we stopped at the first winery about twenty miles inland, a sweater was still very necessary, yet by the end of our fourth and last stop (only six miles further from the coast), it seemed I couldn't get the car's air conditioning cold enough. Experiencing this firsthand helped me deepen my understanding of what I had previously read about what makes the Anderson Valley unique--the cooling effects of the fog rolling off the Pacific Ocean (so thick early in the day that we couldn't see a bridge as we drove across it), and the intensity of the diurnal swing (the difference between the daytime heat that aids in sugar development and the cool nights that help the grapes to maintain acidity). Later, when looking at a detailed map of the region, the names of the vineyards I had seen on the wine labels ceased to be meaningless, arbitrary words--suddenly, they were valuable sources of information that I could use to predict my enjoyment of Anderson Valley wines. 

Wiley Vineyard

The wines made with fruit from the Wiley Vineyard had tended to be my favorite throughout the day, and a quick glance at the map revealed that this northerly vineyard is the closest to the ocean, and therefore the coolest. The wines tended to be light in body, low in alcohol, and marked by mouthwatering acidity. The wines of the Savoy Vineyard, quite a bit further inland, leaned more toward a bigger, bolder style, with darker fruit. After having driven through the area and feeling the temperature change, both with the direction of travel and the time of day, it was very clear to me how weather (among many other factors) had played a part in the development of the wines I had sampled.

If you're interested in learning more about the wines you enjoy, visiting the region where they are made can be an invaluable (and enjoyable!) tool. Even if you are not tasting wine, just being aware of the area's conditions during the growing season can help you understand and recall the specifics of a particular vintage. If you were in Northern California in the summer of 2008, you'll remember the forest fires that plagued wine growing areas and left many grapes tainted by smoke, producing a unique crop of wines with an aroma not dissimilar to a Fourth of July barbecue. If you visited Germany and nearly froze to death in the winter of 2010, you'll likely never forget the record-breaking cold that produced some of the most highly acidic (and delicious) rieslings in recent history. You can read all you want about wine, but of course nothing compares to getting out there and experiencing it for yourself.

For the record, the highlights of my tasting experience included:

2010 Navarro Vineyards Anderson Valley Pinot Noir, $19.50
light and earthy with soft red fruit and spice

2007 Navarro Vineyards Anderson Valley Late Harvest Riesling, $29 (375ml)
apricot, honey, and pineapple, with remarkably balanced acidity

2010 Breggo Cellars Ferrington Vineyard Gewürztraminer, $25
exotic aromas of rose petals, spice, and lychee; crisp, refreshing, and bone dry.

2010 Phillips Hill Ridley Vineyard Chardonnay, $30
clean nose (no oak or malolactic) with ripe apple and citrus. Round, pleasant mouthfeel.

2009 Phillips Hill Wiley Vineyard Pinot Noir, $38
cola, cocoa, cherry, vanilla, and baking spice.

Did I mention these wines are crazy affordable??