Grapes of wrath

The terroir of comparative tastings

Uncorked by Thor Iverson

Hey, I can admit my mistakes.

A month ago, I wrote: "California makes good chardonnay, but it is brutally outclassed by Corton-Charlemagne." I was right . . . but I was wrong, too.

As opinion, that statement was on the mark. I infinitely prefer the suppleness and complexity of white Burgundy to the beat-you-with-an-oak-log ponderousness of California chardonnay. Yes, I know that's a generalization and there are many exceptions, but that's just one of my wine biases.

As information, however, that statement was pretty pathetic. Not, as one West Coast winemaker lectured me via e-mail, because competitions have "proven" that California makes wines that are equal or superior to white Burgundy, but for the exact opposite reason: the two are simply not comparable, nor should they be.

The Wine Spectator, the premier journal of the trade, wastes a lot of space pitting wines from one region against those from another. "The Chardonnay Challenge," "The Syrah Shootout," "The Riesling Riot" . . . okay, I made up those last two, but the magazine has run three such competitions over the past year: California chardonnay versus white Burgundy; California cabernet sauvignon versus the cabernet-based reds of Bordeaux; West Coast pinot noir versus red Burgundy. In each contest, two judges -- who have their own well-known biases -- taste all the wines. Scores are tallied; champions are declared.

And the whole exercise is -- to put it bluntly -- complete BS.

Why? Here's an analogy: consider two cows -- one in Vermont, the other in Normandy. In Vermont, the cow's milk is turned into firm, tangy cheddar. In France, it's turned into soft, earthy, smelly camembert. You wouldn't compare the two as if they were the same cheese, would you? Sure, they both start with milk, just as California chards and white Burgundies both start with chardonnay grapes. But they don't share the same qualities; they're not even intended to.

It's much more enlightening to ask not which is better, but what makes them so different. Technique has something to do with it, but there's something else -- something essential that goes beyond technique. With cows, the difference is in what they eat and how that food affects their milk (and thus the cheese). The same is true of wine. The things grapes "eat" -- the soil, pollen from the surrounding plants, and the atmosphere itself -- all affect the end product, the juice.

Wine people ascribe this difference to terroir (pronounced "tair-wah"), a French word so laden with meaning that there's not even a direct translation. It's a difficult and controversial thing, and I'll fill three more columns before I'm done exploring the concept. But for now, use this shorthand definition: terroir means "place-ness," the essential character of land and environment that is expressed in products from a particular place.

So it's no surprise that chardonnay grown in Burgundy and chardonnay grown in California should be quite different. This is a good thing. Why should California waste its time making Burgundy? Burgundy already makes Burgundy, and quite well, thank you. The differences between the two should be celebrated, not judged.

Wines should be applauded for what they are, not for what they could be if they hopped on a plane and planted themselves somewhere else. Judging regions against each other for the purpose of determining a "winner" is an affront to everything wine stands for.

Here are three chardonnays whose differences represent a combination of their origins and winemaking techniques.

1997 Viña Tarapacá Chardonnay Reserva ($10). A fantastic bargain from Chile, rich and golden with apple, banana, peach, pear, well-integrated oak, and a minerality to the moderately acidic finish that makes it refreshing rather than heavy.

1988 Mayacamas Chardonnay Napa Valley ($21.50). A fantastic example of this grape's Californian potential. The nose is a spicy mélange of honeydew, cantaloupe, caramel, apple, brown sugar, and butternut squash. There's substantial weight to the orange, red apple, and butter pecan ice cream-tinged palate, but it's all cut through with clear acidity.

1991 Jean-Noël Gagnard Chassagne-Montrachet Les Chenevottes ler Cru ($35). Brilliant light gold, with earthy and raw dairy aromas drifting over a hint of spice, then an explosion of apple, orange rind, mushroom, and summer squash laced with a trace of garlic. Incredible, earthy finish with a slight tartness; it's still young. It teases rather than seduces, but it's still a flawless wine.

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Being a wine writer means that retailers become close acquaintances. So to rate a wine shop objectively, I have to visit in "disguise": T-shirt, jeans, perhaps some stubble. The stores that really care about wine stand out in conditions like that: after all, it's easy to get treated well in a suit and tie, flashing my business card. Vines (1191 Centre Street, Newton) is a small but excellent shop staffed by people who actually listen to their customers, treat everyone like a regular, and both stock and recommend fantastic wines in all price ranges. They'll be getting my business, and they deserve yours.

And then there's the other kind of store. I won't mention the name, but it's diagonally across the parking lot from Vines, on Beacon Street. From the moment I entered, the manager glared at me disapprovingly. I played up the role of someone needing help, but he didn't budge. Piqued, I brought some really good (and perhaps a bit pricey) wines to the counter, where they remained; obviously not convinced of my age, they rejected my ID, claiming they couldn't take out-of-state licenses. That didn't stop them from selling to me a few days later, when I was wearing a jacket and tie. I won't be back.

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine[a]phx.com.

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