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What I've Been Drinking by C.S. Stone April 3, 2000 Once upon a time the world of wine was divided into two opposing camps. On one side were the Old World traditionalists: They believed that a winemaker should strive to create wines that were a reflection of the history, geography, climate, soil and grape variety of the place in which the wine was grown. The French, of course, have distilled a complex concept into a single word: Terroir. Terroir is the defining notion behind most of European wine law, and much of that based on France's influential Appelation Controlee system. It is, in its essentials, the wedding of 19th century romantic nationalism to the bureaucratic realities of 20th century European agricultural policy - which is not to say that there is no merit in it. In the New World of wine (California and Australia, mostly) such a concept as terroir rapidly breaks down. Particular wines have not grown in particular places, even on particular plots of land, for hundreds of years. Winemakers grow what they want, and what they want to grow is what they can sell in the "international" market. This means making wines that consumers, particularly those in the United States, want to drink. In general, this means wines that have lots of ripe fruit flavor, often augmented by the smooth presence of oak. Although the wines are not a reflection of terroir, they are the outcome of equally compelling and persuasive realities: the power of late 20th century technology and marketing. Again, this is not to say that the wines can not be good. This cleavage, still quite distinct only a decade or two ago, is crumbling on both sides of the Atlantic. In Napa, winemakers are trying to define the difference between a Cabernet from Rutherford and one from Mt. Veeder. In Spain, the Languedoc, and parts of Italy, tradition (and bureaucratic wrongheadedness) are being dumped or evaded to make more consumer-friendly wines. One might hesitate to place austere Tuscany, the home of Chianti and Brunello, at the forefront of this change, but in actuality some of the regions most famous growers, like Antinori, have long been innovators. Erik Banti is a winemaker from a region of southern Tuscany defined by Italian wine law as Morellino di Scansano. Neither well-known nor prestigious, the wines of Morellino are made from the same Sangiovese grapes that make Chianti, and their more southerly location, in the hills above the salt marshes called the Maremma, often mean riper, fuller wines. Banti makes superb Morellino's, but his 1998 Carato can't be called Morellino because, while 85% Sangiovese, the other 15% consists of varieties (mostly Grenache) that are either forbidden or exceed the legally defined limit for the district. In a blind tasting, I probably would not have identified this as an Italian, let alone a Tuscan, wine. Nonetheless, it could prove to be a revelation to those who know only California Cabernet, Merlot, and Zinfandel. While not complex, the dark fruit flavors are rich, ripe and fill the mouth; the oaking has been discrete and lends a mellow vanilla edge. Best of all, this wine should be widely available now at around $10 a bottle. Act soon: the '98 Carato could easily pass for a wine twice the price, and a bona fide bargain like this will disappear from shelves very quickly. March 8, 2000 For the wine drinker there are many things not to love about Burgundy. Prices are generally high; for the famous names they are astronomical. This might be tolerable if that the pain in one's pocketbook were always reversely proportionate to the pleasure in one's glass; but alas, the wines of Burgundy remain, despite recent strides, the most uneven in quality of any of the world's major wine regions. I've choked down premier cru reds (I cannot afford grand cru) from respected names that tasted like sour dirt. I recall one spendy bottle of Meursault that was so brutally overoaked that it was like drinking wood chips. And then there are the place names and vineyards and wine-makers; names difficult to pronounce and more difficult to remember, and in such bewildering variation that rather than trying to sort out the differences in geography and style of chardonnays from Chablis, Pouilly-Fuisse and Rully (to name but a few) one grabs a bottle from California and heads to the checkout - at least you have an idea what you're getting into. So the question becomes: Why bother? Because, when they are good (and good does not have to mean a day's wages) Burgundy still coaxes out more flavor and complexity from the pinot noir and chardonnay grapes than anywhere else. Vincent Prunier's St. Aubin Premier Cru "Les Combes" (1996) is a stellar case in point. St. Aubin is an almost unknown village in the Cote de Beaune, the more southerly half of the Cote d'Or (got that), sandwiched between two rather more famous villages: Chassagne-Montrachet and Puligny-Montrachet. Like its neighbors, St. Aubin is perhaps better known for its white wines, but half of its production is lightish reds. Prunier's pinot noirs strive for more substance, perhaps because he comes from a large and competitive wine-making family. Young Vincent's (he's in his mid-30's) reds lack the strawberry flavors that are said to characterize the wines of St. Aubin . Instead his "Les Combes" (the name of a vineyard within the village boundaries) was darkly colored for a pinot noir, and with the kind of brambly wild blackberry, ripe cherry and mineral flavors that are often found in reds from classier districts, like Gevrey-Chambertin. Best of all was the price: $21 at my local Fred Meyer. Not a great bargain surely, but certainly a better one than many red Burgundies, and Oregon pinot noirs, that deliver far less for far more. March 1, 2000 East of the town of Libourne lie the districts of Pomerol and St. Emilion. Merlot, aided by Cabernet Franc, is the primary grape variety. These red Bordeaux, some with very famous names, are delicious, and often frighteningly expensive. West of the town of Libourne lie the districts of Fronsac and Canon-Fronsac. Merlot, aided by Cabernet Franc is the primarly grape variety. The red Bordeaux here once had well known names, but they are now obscure. The wines are delicious, and while not cheap, are more moderately priced. One such wine, from Fronsac, is Chateau Villars. I drank a bottle from the 1995 vintage, which may still be available, and I payed $18 for it at retail. Money well spent. The wine was a pleasure to drink; the smokey merlot and spicy cabernet franc flavors had real depth and complexity. These wines are a fine alternative to US merlot from Washington or California for those who've developed a taste for that varietal, but would like to try something different. Vive la difference.