Syrah, sirrah?
Untangling a great grape
by David Marglin
In January, I predicted this would be the year that syrah
takes its place as one of America's prominent red wines, alongside cabernet
sauvignon, pinot noir, and merlot. Almost halfway through the year, that
shows every sign of coming true --
stores
are carrying, and selling, more syrahs.
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After years of second-class status, why is syrah finally getting its due?
First, it has everything to do with current "American" tastes -- in these times
of plenty, everyone seems to be enjoying abundantly flavorful wines. Second, a
lot of winemakers are now trying their hand at syrah, and doing a bang-up job
with it. There are so many good syrahs available these days that it's hard to
go really wrong.
It's not hard, however, to become confused about syrah, shiraz, and
petite sirah -- to say nothing of the French regions where syrah has
traditionally been grown. So in the interest of keeping a great grape straight,
here's the story:
The quintessential syrah wines hail from France's Rhône Valley. They
aren't called "syrah" at all, but are labeled by
appellation: Hermitage,
Crozes-Hermitage, and Côte-Rôtie. When
Robert Parker rediscovered
these bad boys in the mid 1980s, a lot of wine connoisseurs began gobbling them
up, driving up the prices.
About that time, in California's southern wine regions, a group of winemakers
began to focus on Rhône grapes, including syrah. These winemakers dubbed
themselves the "Rhône Rangers," and thanks to them, a revolution is now
fully underway. These days it seems everyone wants to make Rhône-style
wines, especially syrah.
Syrah or shiraz?
Australian and South African winemakers have been making syrah for
generations -- only they've been calling it "shiraz." What's the difference?
The short answer: none.
The grapes are the same;
shiraz owes its name to the
legend that the grape was originally from Persia and was transplanted to
southern France during the Roman Empire. To add to the confusion, some
"shirazes" are now made in California, but the name implies more a style than
anything to do with the grape -- although some Aussie boosters will argue that
their shiraz grapes are more "original" than French or American strains, since
they have never been decimated by the root louse known as phyloxera and
therefore have never been grafted and replanted. At any rate, the key
differentiator for shiraz is its big, fruit-forward style, which produces
powerful, stunning wines.
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At their best, syrahs are as majestic and elegant as Ali in his prime. Much
American syrah, like Australian shiraz (see box at right), tends to be more
bruising and straightforward -- vintage Foreman. In California, awesome syrahs
with a Rhône-like balance of fruit and elegance are now being made in
Santa Barbara
(by Qupé and Jaffurs), along the central coast (by Albans,
Andrew Murray, and Bonny Doon), and in Napa by Truchard (*** 1996 Carneros -- a
round, slightly sweet wine with elegant plum and hints of chocolate pudding),
Neyers (whose *** 1996 is a monster, oozing warm berry fruit like a shortcake),
and Joseph Phelps, whose Mistal is one of the industry's pacesetters.
Many smaller wineries are also concentrating on syrah, including Paloma
Vineyards on Spring Mountain (known for exquisite merlot) and Sean Thackrey,
whose Orion 1996 Syrah from Old Vines gets ****1/2 for being one of
the best syrahs around.
Beyond California, amazing syrahs are now being produced in Washington and
Oregon. Washington's
leaders are Glen Fiona, which makes a Bacchus Vineyard
(*** 1997) that is going to be one of this country's best; and Chateau
Ste. Michelle (the Reserve 1995 is **). In Oregon, Seven Hills Winery,
which is technically part of the predominantly Washington outfit called Walla
Walla Valley, makes a smooth, elegant syrah. It's hard to believe that the 1997
is so young and yet so refined. In Oregon's southernmost region, the Rogue
Valley, an up-and-coming winery called Valley View Vineyards is making a
scrumptious syrah, which -- though not available yet -- will be supposedly be
here soon. (The 1996 was **1/2, and the 1997 merits a cool *** --
not bad for a wine that retails at $16 a bottle.)
Finally, how does petite sirah (or "petite syrah," as it is sometimes spelled)
fit into the picture? First off, the name is a misnomer -- there's nothing
petite about these flavorful wines, which tend to be huge and unsubtle. Petite
sirah is now believed to be a strain of the French dourif (or durif), which has
historically been viewed as a rather ordinary table-wine grape. In California,
however, wineries such as Turley, Stags' Leap, and Ridge have been making
blockbuster petite sirahs for many years. I recently tried the Turley Hayne
Vineyard 1995, made by the famous winemaker Helen Turley for her brother
Larry's winery, and it was a knockout. Like many petite sirahs, it may mellow
in about 50 years, but right now you have to fasten your belts -- it's one hell
of a ride.
Despite its humble origins, current research suggests that petite sirah has
been genetically influenced by syrah, making it a bit of a hybrid -- indeed, in
many ways, it reminds me of a cross between
zinfandel and syrah. Stags' Leap
(not to be confused with Stag's Leap, the killer cabernet winery) has been
churning out an opulent petite sirah for more than a decade; all its recent
vintages
have been good, but the 1994 is especially good now. When might you
want to uncork a petite sirah? With barbecue, with pungent meat and game, with
mighty stinky cheeses, or with big hunks of shish kebab.
Syrah itself, having more elegance, can go equally well with game or any red
meat except perhaps a delicate preparation of lamb. Both of these wines reward
big gulps over small sips. So hoist your glass, drink up, and let whatever will
be, be. And if you're looking for a cheap syrah, try the $11 *** J. Lohr
South Ridge 1997 grown in Paso Robles. This is an Old World-style wine,
unexpectedly elegant, with a core of dark fruit and blueberries. So good that
if you tried it blind, you might mistake it for a Rhône wine.
David Marglin can be reached at wine[a]phx.com.
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