makers whose wines taste more similar to one another than do Humbrecht’s half dozen cuvées of Riesling, each expressing the soil of its vineyard, fermented by its own local yeasts.
“In twenty years they will make a standardized Chardonnay everywhere,” Olivier complained, the only time I saw him scowl in five hours. “In another twenty years there will only be two strains of yeast.” Except, presumably, in Alsace. Chardonnay is against the law here. Riesling, which can age for decades, is considered by many to be the most noble variety in Alsace; Alsatian Riesling tends to be a little richer and fatter than its German counterparts. It’s also, many of us believe, among the most versatile food wines in the world; though, of course, some pairings are more sublime than others. With his Riesling Herrenweg Turckheim Olivier likes Cantonese food and dim sum; he recommends Gewürztraminer for Vietnamese and Thai food. Essentially unique to Alsace, Gewürztraminer is a rich, heady, and perfumey grape that overwhelms some palates; on the other hand, it can complement powerful flavors like curry and saffron. The third noble grape variety of Alsace is Pinot Gris—which to me often tastes like a smoky cousin of Riesling and which both Olivier and his neighbor André Ostertag recommend as a companion to Peking duck. (Pinot Blanc, a much lighter wine, is better suited to shellfish.)
The three noble varietals are usually fermented till they are relatively dry. However, in certain years good weather allows growers with well-exposed vineyards to leave selected grapes on the vines to produce special Vendange Tardives— late-harvest—wines, which have a higher level of ripeness and sugar. These rich wines fall somewhere between dry and dessert wines. A VT Pinot Gris is excellent with foie gras, less cloying than the average Sauternes, while a VT Gewürztraminer is the perfect companion for Muenster cheese. Every few years the weather suits the production of sublime, extremely late harvest dessert wines called Sélections de Grains Nobles (SGN). These sweet wines will evolve for decades. As for the drier wines—I’m just starting to drink my ′99s, although they were perfectly delicious on release. Last night I popped a ′96 Trimbach Gewürztraminer Cuvée des Seigneurs de Ribeaupierre, which had a fine dialogue with my Szechuan garlic shrimp.
THE DISCREET CHARMS OF OLD-STYLE RIOJA
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against fruit. But I sometimes get tired of all this superextracted, alcoholic grape juice that seems like it ought to be served on toast rather than in a glass, and that tastes like it doesn’t come from anywhere in particular. These are wines that somehow remind me of the blind date I had recently with a woman exactly half my age. Our conversation had lots of italics and exclamation marks and very few parentheses or semicolons. Much as I like some of the bold new postmodern Riojas from producers like Artadi, Allende, and Roda, I sometimes crave the sepia tones of old-school Rioja. Todd Hess, wine director for Sam’s Wine & Spirits in Chicago, is one of many who appreciate these discreet charms: “Old traditional Rioja tastes like old Burgundy should taste but seldom does—and for a lot less money.”
What we now think of as the old style in Rioja was created in the 1850s, when French wine brokers arrived in Spain after oïdium and, later, phylloxera had devastated their native vineyards. The French introduced oak-barrel aging to the region, which had previously specialized in light, fruity, short-lived plonk. Two nobles, the Marqués de Murrieta and the Marqués de Riscal, helped develop and market this Bordeaux-styleRioja. (Both bodegas are still flourishing.) The Riojans took to barrel aging the way the Italians took to noodles, substituting American for French oak and developing an official hierarchy that culminates with
reserva
(at least twelve months in oak, two years in the bottle) and
gran
“In twenty years they will make a standardized Chardonnay everywhere,” Olivier complained, the only time I saw him scowl in five hours. “In another twenty years there will only be two strains of yeast.” Except, presumably, in Alsace. Chardonnay is against the law here. Riesling, which can age for decades, is considered by many to be the most noble variety in Alsace; Alsatian Riesling tends to be a little richer and fatter than its German counterparts. It’s also, many of us believe, among the most versatile food wines in the world; though, of course, some pairings are more sublime than others. With his Riesling Herrenweg Turckheim Olivier likes Cantonese food and dim sum; he recommends Gewürztraminer for Vietnamese and Thai food. Essentially unique to Alsace, Gewürztraminer is a rich, heady, and perfumey grape that overwhelms some palates; on the other hand, it can complement powerful flavors like curry and saffron. The third noble grape variety of Alsace is Pinot Gris—which to me often tastes like a smoky cousin of Riesling and which both Olivier and his neighbor André Ostertag recommend as a companion to Peking duck. (Pinot Blanc, a much lighter wine, is better suited to shellfish.)
The three noble varietals are usually fermented till they are relatively dry. However, in certain years good weather allows growers with well-exposed vineyards to leave selected grapes on the vines to produce special Vendange Tardives— late-harvest—wines, which have a higher level of ripeness and sugar. These rich wines fall somewhere between dry and dessert wines. A VT Pinot Gris is excellent with foie gras, less cloying than the average Sauternes, while a VT Gewürztraminer is the perfect companion for Muenster cheese. Every few years the weather suits the production of sublime, extremely late harvest dessert wines called Sélections de Grains Nobles (SGN). These sweet wines will evolve for decades. As for the drier wines—I’m just starting to drink my ′99s, although they were perfectly delicious on release. Last night I popped a ′96 Trimbach Gewürztraminer Cuvée des Seigneurs de Ribeaupierre, which had a fine dialogue with my Szechuan garlic shrimp.
THE DISCREET CHARMS OF OLD-STYLE RIOJA
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against fruit. But I sometimes get tired of all this superextracted, alcoholic grape juice that seems like it ought to be served on toast rather than in a glass, and that tastes like it doesn’t come from anywhere in particular. These are wines that somehow remind me of the blind date I had recently with a woman exactly half my age. Our conversation had lots of italics and exclamation marks and very few parentheses or semicolons. Much as I like some of the bold new postmodern Riojas from producers like Artadi, Allende, and Roda, I sometimes crave the sepia tones of old-school Rioja. Todd Hess, wine director for Sam’s Wine & Spirits in Chicago, is one of many who appreciate these discreet charms: “Old traditional Rioja tastes like old Burgundy should taste but seldom does—and for a lot less money.”
What we now think of as the old style in Rioja was created in the 1850s, when French wine brokers arrived in Spain after oïdium and, later, phylloxera had devastated their native vineyards. The French introduced oak-barrel aging to the region, which had previously specialized in light, fruity, short-lived plonk. Two nobles, the Marqués de Murrieta and the Marqués de Riscal, helped develop and market this Bordeaux-styleRioja. (Both bodegas are still flourishing.) The Riojans took to barrel aging the way the Italians took to noodles, substituting American for French oak and developing an official hierarchy that culminates with
reserva
(at least twelve months in oak, two years in the bottle) and
gran
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