Remembering the Old World, but expressing the New

Over the past four centuries, grape varietals have immigrated to new worlds with their human co-nationals. And like their compatriots, they have tested the soils for something familiar to their homeland and sunk their roots in regions which they find comfortable. However, though the new worlds might seem vaguely familiar, there is a difference. There is something strange and wild in the air and soil and water – something that takes adapting to.

The Americas, though abundant with “vinelands,” had very few grape varietals that could be turned into wines to match the quality of their European counterparts. Other new worlds, such as Australia and New Zealand, had no native grapes. But when immigrant horticulturalists introduced European grapes, some varieties flourished.

One such vine was clipped from its cool, moist habitat on the rolling hills around the Rhine. Its last glance of the Alsace was of its native village – it saw the tan, Germanic buildings with steep red roofs, backed by lush forests one last time before it was covered with cool, black soil and tossed aboard a ship. When the vine next saw daylight, the air was dry and salty, the sun was warm but the breeze was cool and refreshing. The little vine had sprouted roots, which were sunk into loamy, brown soil overlooking a blue, South Australian bay.

In its first few years, it could not bear fruit. It struggled to survive in this new land. But eventually, its roots became strong enough to dig deeper for water, its leaves spread wider to gather the sun and keep the heat through the cold, desert-like nights – and it adapted enough to reproduce.

The fruit, however, tasted different. The usually sweet grape had become dry – the wine kept its flowery aroma, but instead of a taste that matched schnitzel and sauerkraut, it now matched boiled crab and artichoke hearts dipped in butter. Its soft, easy-going European personality had transformed – now it is wispy, vibrant, and out-going. This dry riesling from South Australia tries to keep its Alsacian heritage alive, but belies its new world roots.

The Secret Treasure of the Hidden Willamette

After leaving Corvallis, heading north, the Willamette River veers off to the East. We question our navigating ability and wonder if we are actually in the increasingly famous Willamette Valley of Oregon. Are these rolling fields – filled with wheat and barley and bright green alfalfa, cut into squares, wrestling for dominance with the tall, thick hardwoods – are these fields really associated with the Pinot Noir and Pinot Gris we have been hearing so much about?

Then, finally, there is a sign for a winery pointing up a long, winding road. We decide against it. We are running out of time – the afternoon is half passed and we have not tried a single wine from the region. We need a tighter concentration. It is five miles to Amity and we decide to try our luck with the auspiciously-named village.

Sure enough, Amity boasts more than one winery in its tiny city limits. And – oh, sweet relief! – we see one such winery occupying a recently renovated old mill building. We park alongside an open field and take a moment to breathe the fresh air and marvel at the sunlight dancing through the tree boughs and casting hazy shadows in the too-green grass.

We amble into the winery and a stout young man offers us his famed pinot varieties with a plate of local cheeses. Though the Pinot Gris is light, sweet, and fresh, it does not match the smoky, flavorful cheese. The young owner tells us that he is only at the southern tip of the Willamette wine-growing region. We debate: should we buy a bottle to savor later and continue onwards to try as many different wineries as possible? No. It is a shame to rush a good wine.

We each purchase a glass of the Pinot Noir. The owner takes an un-opened bottle from the shelf – a squat, dark-green bottle with a black and maroon label. He peels off the foil top to reveal a wooden cork and we know that we made the right decision. We spend the next hour – the last hour that the wineries are open that day – enjoying the incredible taste of this region’s most famous variety. The Pinot Noir is a diverse wine – smelling of candy, but burning the nostrils; it is dark and sticky and smooth in the glass; and its taste is tangy and sweet, but nibbles at the back of the throat. It blends perfectly with the aromatic and somewhat bitter West Coast cheeses. It also blends beautifully with the dark chocolate that we find in front of us once our glasses are half-consumed. It is a meal in itself.

The glasses emptied, our minds work at drawing a connection between the Pinot Noir and the local area. What creates such a gorgeous taste? Maybe it’s the cool, salty, wet breezes sweeping over the hills to our West from the Pacific Ocean. Maybe it is the rich, black soil from the old grain farmlands. Maybe it is the sunlight resting ever-so-gently on the grapes growing on those ten-degree sloping hills. Probably, it is a combination of all of these things, mixed with a dash of the local culinary preference and drinking culture. And probably, it is impossible to replicate this exact taste in any other region of the world, because there are so many factors affecting the delicate, powerful taste of the Oregon Pinot Noir.

Photo: 2005 Pinot Noir from Amity Oregon, USA

Coelho winery, 111 5th St, Amity, Oregon 97101

Thought in front of THE Alaskan wine

In front of us sits a silvery white wine, resting in a glass stenciled with the name of a winery visited years ago in opaque, romantic lettering. It smells like candy – a powerful taste of peach with a fruity, bitter aftertaste – a taste reminiscent of rolling the pit of some tree-grown fruit in our mouth after all the flesh is gone. It reminds us of our youth – picking a peach or apricot from a wild, hillside fruit tree and tasting the beauty of nature. It is a local wine.

Usually it is not unique to find a nice local wine – where we grew up in Oklahoma, the Viognier grape sprang up, lively and green, from the rocky, brown soil; when we lived in Alabama, the locals had nearly perfected turning the disease-resistant, plump Muscadine grape into a desert wine; and when we lived in Europe – well, anything would grow from Syrah to Merlot to Sangiovese to Cabernet to any type of Pinot we could name. However, this specific wine that we sip now, which we know only a few other people on earth have enjoyed, is unique because it is from Alaska. It was not just fermented or bottled in Alaska, it was grown in Alaska. And to us, that is what makes a wine local; the roots of the vine tasted the local water, the minerals from the local soil nourished the fledgling fruit, and the skin of the fruit basked in the local sunlight.

So how, then, do we judge a wine? This is always the question debated at the beginning of any prose on Dionysus’ libations. Is it through the color of the wine when observed with a soft background light at a forty-five degree tilt; or is it the stickiness of the liquid when we swirl it in the glass? Is it the scent that our nose gets when shoved into the glass; or is it the boldness, or the smoothness? Some experts say that the best wines are the ones that we, the taster, enjoy the most. In some ways, this simple statement is quite agreeable to us. We are always right. But let’s go one step further. Let’s say that a great wine is one that is so perfect, so powerful, so distinct that, like a great song or a exquisite dish of food, it reminds us of some far-off place or time. That the wine, due to its unique qualities that it gathered from the local elements, holds a memory in its tiny, transparent, fragile glass body.

Now that we all agree, let’s agree that this journal not follow a specific grape or hold one region superior to another. Rather, we will delve into the qualities that make a wine great for its region. And as we traverse the land, creeping from one region of the world to another, we will change how we describe the wine. We will taste the local sun, the local soil, the local water – and forever, we will be able to take a bottle of superior wine from that region, taste it, and recall the funny, exciting, and beautiful times we had there in those golden days of our past.

photo: Peach Apricot Wine from Bear Creek Winery, Homer Alaska