A Hedonist in the Cellar (5 page)

I’m supposed to meet two different Côte-Rôtie winemakers on the same day in the same church parking lot in the same tiny village—one at eleven and another at two in the afternoon. Easy enough, except that they are former friends, i.e., mortal enemies. Their American distributor has repeatedly warned me not to mention the name of one to the other— they had a nasty falling-out over the purchase of a vineyard. I guess this is what
The Oxford Companion to Wine
means when it calls Côte-Rôtie “a hotbed of activity and ambition.”

As recently as twenty years ago, no one was fighting very hard to buy land on the steep hillsides above the village of Ampuis. Côte-Rôtie, the “roasted slope,” was so named because its southeast exposure provides brilliant, grape-ripening sun. These hillsides above the Rhône River can reach a gradient of 55 degrees; the picturesque, terraced vineyards, first cultivated during the Roman era, produce a wine celebrated for its perfume and longevity, attracting the notice of connoisseurs from Pliny to Thomas Jefferson. Along with Hermitage, some twenty miles to the south, Côte-Rôtie is the ultimate terroir for Syrah, which may be indigenous, although this is a matter of hot dispute in ampelographical circles. I think of Côte-Rôtie as Fitzgerald to Hermitage’s Hemingway; like Fitzgerald’s,
Côte-Rôtie’s reputation was almost moribund at mid-century. The steep, rocky hillside vineyards require punishing manual labor, and after the Second World War many vintners abandoned the vines and planted apricots.

Any wine that can somehow harmonize the flavors of raspberry and bacon—not to mention aromas like violet and leather—is worth saving, in my book. The white knight in this story is Marcel Guigal, heir to the firm that his father established in 1946. Traditionally, the wines of Côte-Rôtie depended on a blend from different parcels all over the hillside to achieve complexity and balance. The sandy limestone soils of the southerly Côte Blonde are supposed to provide finesse; those of the larger Côte Brune, with more clay and iron, breed power and longevity. Guigal began bottling his finest parcels separately, starting with the vineyards La Mouline and La Landonne and, later, La Turque. He aged these wines in 100 percent new oak barrels for as long as forty-two months. When Robert Parker started raving about these new-wave Côte-Rôties and giving them 100 point ratings, the wine world sat up and drooled. They are now among the most prized— and expensive—wines on the planet, and their fame has rubbed off on their neighbors.

Still, the Guigal wines were controversial; romantics complained that the taste of new oak masked the distinctive characteristics of Côte-Rôtie. Importer and author Kermit Lynch, who praises traditional Côte-Rôtie for its seductive combination of vigor and delicacy (blonde and brunette), complained that Guigal produces “an inky, oaky, monster.” He finds it ironic that the appellation has been saved from desuetude by
a wine that is freakishly uncharacteristic. Lynch has a point, though it has to be said that traditional Côte-Rôtie vinification too often resulted in nasty flavors from old, unsanitary barrels and green flavors from stems. And I have to admit that I’m a slut for a good vintage of La Mouline or La Turque. Over the past decade, others have emulated Guigal: Yves Gangloff, Jean-Michel Gerin, Delas Frères, Tardieu-Laurent, and the Hermitage firm of Chapoutier are producing big, modern Syrahs. But the largest group, exemplified by the domaine of René Rostaing, has struck a balance between the old and new styles. In fact, a kind of counterreformation has recently begun—some of the new Young Turks are pragmatists who talk a lot about tradition and finesse.

A bullet-headed man of solid build and military demeanor, Eric Texier made a big splash among American oenophiles with his debut vintage ′99 Côte-Rôtie. (Curiously, 95 percent of his wine is exported.) A native of the Bordeaux region and a former nuclear engineer, Texier first traveled to Oregon and California to get a New World perspective. He became fascinated with the Rhône region, and started studying the nineteenth-century literature in order to determine the best vineyard sites. Texier uses 40 percent new oak in his lush, elegant Côte-Rôtie, which always showcases the signature Côte-Rôtie taste of raspberry.

The father-and-son team of Michel and Stephane Ogier is similarly pragmatic. Until 1980, Michel sold his grapes to negotiants, including Guigal. Now, he and twenty-four-year-old Stephane, who towers over his wiry, balding father and looks a lot like Brendan Fraser, produce several seductive
estate-bottled Côte-Rôties using a combination of traditional and new techniques. Another rising star of the appellation is Texier’s former friend Pierre Gaillard, a gregarious, good-natured man whose fingernails are as dirty as any of the local farmers’, although he is a well-traveled cosmopolitan who likes to debate the merits of Opus One versus Margaux. (He prefers the former.) Gaillard worked as vineyard manager at the old firm Vidal-Fleury, where he planted the famed La Turque vineyard. He worked for Guigal after it bought Vidal-Fleury, and eventually began to purchase his own vineyard parcels, the most prized of which, Côte Rozier, produced one of the best wines of the 2000 vintage. Other makers to look for are Burgaud, Clusel-Roch, Jamet, Bernard Levet, and— my desert-island Côte-Rôtie—-Jasmin.

Côte-Rôtie typically takes five to ten years to show its potential (and shed that nasty young Syrah burnt-rubber smell). As for recent vintages, 2001 was classic, while the superhot 2003 wines are more massive and voluptuous and roasted. The 2005 may prove superior to both. Côte-Rôtie is one of the smallest appellations in France, and the output is minuscule. Guigal’s Côte-Rôtie Brune et Blonde is the only wine made in enough quantity to appear at retail outlets throughout the country. Most other Côte-Rôties take work to find and are best reserved in advance. The following importer-retailers are among the best sources. You should be on their mailing lists.

When über-restaurateur Danny Meyer entertained his childhood idol, St. Louis Cardinals right-hander Bob Gibson, he thought long and hard about what wine to serve to the pitcher, whom he knew to be a serious oenophile. Gibson had arrived at Meyer’s Gramercy Park apartment with a bottle of Turley Cellars Hayne Vineyard Zinfandel, a big purple Hummer of a wine that’s always a hard act to follow. Meyer, whose restaurants, such as Gramercy Tavern and Union Square Cafe, are known for having some of the best wine lists in the country, finally decided on a 1990 Quintarelli Recioto della Valpolicella. Gibson must have been pleased. I know I was ecstatic when Meyer brought the second of his three cherished bottles to my apartment recently for dinner; it was probably the best wine I’ve had this year.

Okay, I can hear some of you snickering out there. It’s true that Valpolicella has pretty much the same image problem in this country as Soave, which is no coincidence, since the two regions adjoin each other and the same giant corporation has been shipping vast quantities of bland Valpolicella and Soave to this country since the 1970s. For some of us, the wine is a part of our history that we’d rather forget, a name associated with dim memories of embarrassing dates—like certain hair-styles
from the era of Foreigner and Leo Sayer. But anybody who has recently tasted a Valpolicella from Quintarelli or dal Forno has a different impression.

Quintarelli and dal Forno are the Plato and Aristotle of Valpolicella, and the legitimate question is whether they are superfreaks who happen to make great wine here or whether they are pioneers in a region that is catching up to them. Romano dal Forno’s father and grandfather made Valpolicella on their small family estate, but dal Forno says that he knew virtually nothing about wine until he met Giuseppe Quintarelli, the genial genius who lived a couple of valleys away near the town of Negrar, back in 1981. “He basically adopted me,” the stocky and intense dal Forno told me when I visited him last year. Dal Forno speaks about wine as if it were a matter of life and death: “I tried to absorb everything.” He seems to have succeeded. His Valpolicellas are more intense than most Amarones, and his Amarones should be opened only in the presence of gods and stinky cheeses.

The Valpolicella region encompasses a series of picturesque north-south ridges that are often described as resembling the fingers of an open hand. The dominant red grape here is Corvina, which shares the hillsides with cherry trees. Valpolicella is the hometown red in Verona, the ancient city that Romeo and Juliet made famous, which has lately become the setting for Vinitaly, a gigantic trade fair that fills the hotels and ties up the streets every March. The two-story “booth” of the Valpolicella-based Allegrini winery is literally and figuratively the biggest thing at the fair. But just as Valpolicella is starting to get sexy, it’s also getting a little complicated. We’re
starting to hear the phrase “super-Valpolicellas,” and some of the most interesting wines from the region don’t even carry the V-word on their label. The Recioto della Valpolicella mentioned above is a sweet version, made from dried grapes. And some dry Valpolicellas are turbocharged with dried grape skins left over from the production of Recioto, a method known as
ripasso.
Got that?

Probably the easiest way to understand the wines of Valpolicella is to think of a continuum between the lightest and the richest. On the lightest end of the scale are wines labeled simply Valpolicella, like the notorious Bolla (which is improving under American ownership). At the other end of the scale are Recioto della Valpolicella, produced from grapes that are dried on mats for three or four months after the harvest in order to concentrate the sugars before fermenting, and Amarone, its dry cousin, made by the same process, except that the grapes are allowed to ferment until the sugar is gone.

Amarone—or, to use its full name, Amarone della Valpolicella—was the first wine from the Valpolicella appellation to get respect. But in recent years the quality and the reputation of ordinary Valpolicella have improved as well. “The wines used to stink,” says Sergio Esposito of New York’s Italian Wine Merchants. “Literally—they smelled like feet.” Esposito suggests that just as Barolo producers started to pay attention to the quality of their Barberas and Dolcettos in the 1990s, the top Amarone producers are boosting the quality of their dry reds with lower yields and improved cellar work. Allegrini has all but abandoned the appellation name, turning out some brilliant Corvina-based wines under the names La Grola, Palazzo della Torre, and La Poja.

Valpolicellas that have been turbocharged by the
ripasso
method (usually indicated on the label) can taste like junior Amarones, with hints of tar, leather, dates, and figs, and can stand up to a grilled rib eye or lamb chops. The Reciotos make a tremendous accompaniment to a cheese plate. But don’t overlook the simpler pleasures of a good Valpolicella Superiore—with an obligatory 12 percent alcohol and at least a year of aging—from makers like Brigaldara, Nicolis, Tedeschi, and Zenato, which typically sells for about fifteen dollars. Any one of these might become your new house red.

“Amarone is an extreme wine,” Romano dal Forno warns, pausing as we descend the spiral staircase of his villa to the chilly depths of the wine cellar, where I’m suddenly struck by how much he looks like a weather-beaten version of James Gandolfini. “It’s an emotional wine,” he continues. For a moment, I wonder if he’s implying that I may not be man enough for the job ahead. After sampling several vintages from the barrel, I’m indeed a little emotional—exhilarated and also saddened by the knowledge that, rare and expensive as it is, I will seldom taste dal Forno’s radical juice again.

Amarone is an anomaly: a dry wine that mimics sweetness; a relatively modern creation that seems deeply primitive and rustic, like some kind of rich pagan nectar or the blood of a mythological beast. While Italians consider food and wine to be inseparable, Amarone overwhelms most dishes. “With Amarone, you don’t think about food,” dal Forno says. “Cheese, maybe.”

Dal Forno is the most extreme proponent of this extreme red, made from dried grapes—mostly Corvina—in the Valpolicella hills outside Verona. His turbocharged Amarones, produced only in the better vintages, tip the scales above 15 percent alcohol and make most cult Cabernets seem dainty
by comparison. In the past decade, thanks to Robert Parker, dal Forno’s wines have become as revered as those of his mentor, Giuseppe Quintarelli, with whom he worked before assuming responsibility for his father’s vineyards.

Quintarelli’s estate sits in the hills of the Valpolicella Classico region, at the end of a long driveway lined with meticulously pruned olive trees—holy ground for the wine geek. Sticking his head out the window in answer to my repeated ringing of his doorbell, the resident saint sports a large bib across his green herringbone jacket and a smear of tomato sauce on his chin. A genial baldie in his seventies, Quintarelli seems to have no recollection of our appointment but cheerfully agrees to show me around after he has finished lunch and, presumably, the game show that is blaring in the background.

Quintarelli’s cellar is pleasingly cluttered and medieval-looking, full of giant old Slovenian casks. I don’t see any steel tanks. Nor any of the new oak barriques that dominate dal Forno’s pristine cellar. Although the family resemblance is unmistakable, Quintarelli’s Amarones are more earthy than dal Forno’s, and even more complex, suggestive of figs and dates, bittersweet cherry and black licorice. They inspire contemplation and wonder. To my mind, they are the ultimate expression of this extreme concept. My visit overlaps with that of two French wine writers whose initial irritation at sharing the cellar with an American is eventually overridden by their pleasure in the wine, which they acknowledge is unlike anything produced in la belle France.

The courtly, tweedy Stefano Cesari, proprietor of the
nearby Brigaldara estate, shows me the real secret of Amarone, leading me up a flight of stairs to a loft in the barn behind his fourteenth-century villa, where thousands of wooden trays are suspended, one atop another. If most wines are made in the cellar, Amarone is made in the attic.

Every fall, the choicest grapes of the vintage are set out in racks to dry for a period of months. This process, which dates back at least to the time of Pliny, who commended it, concentrates the sugar—and often induces botrytis, the noble rot responsible for the flavor of the great whites of Sauternes. (Botrytis is not welcomed by all makers; some, like Allegrini, have installed humidity-controlled drying chambers to prevent its formation.) Drying does for the grapes what a turbo-charger does for a V-8 engine. Traditionally, a sweet wine resulted, because the grapes stopped fermenting before the sugar was consumed. Called Recioto della Valpolicella, this sweet red is still produced. Cesari tells me the first cask of Amarone was a mistake—a barrel that fermented all the way to dryness sometime in the early part of the century (other sources point to much earlier origins). This style became known as amaro (bitter) recioto and was eventually produced in commercial quantities in the 1950s.

Just as its exact origins are obscure, Amarone remains a mysterious, almost schizophrenic wine. As Bastianich and Lynch suggest in
Vino Italiano
, “It behaves like a sweet wine without technically being sweet.” The bouquet of dried fruits and the syrupy texture suggest port; it tends to trick the palate by seeming sweet in the beginning and finishing dry, even slightly bitter, like unsweetened chocolate.

When I get in the Amarone mood, I often look for Allegrini, one of the most innovative and exciting estates in Valpolicella, or Brigaldara, which excelled not only in the stellar ′97 vintage but also in the less opulent ′98 and ′99 vintages. Bussola, Masi, and Tedeschi make powerhouse Amarones in the dal Forno mold, while Accordini, Bertani, Bolla (yup, that Bolla), and Speri produce slightly lighter, more approachable versions.

As complex as it is, I like to think of Amarone as the perfect primer wine for those who are suspicious of the cornucopia of flavor analogies that wine critics come up with. I’m often baffled myself when I read wine notes full of huckleberries and hawthorn blossoms. But give me a glass of Amarone and I’m the man! Step back, Bob Parker! Even the beginning taster can feel like a professional as he effortlessly identifies the intense flavors and aromas of the most extreme red wine on the planet. Cherries! Dates! Figs! Black licorice! Leather! Coffee! Bittersweet chocolate! Tobacco! Et cetera, et cetera.