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 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.
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