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Archive for the ‘Tuscany’ Category

The above is a title I once thought I would only ever use ironically. Back when I began as a wine journalist, when the Italian wine world was just beginning to awaken from its long slumber, an invitation to taste the produce of a regional cooperative was usually something I would firmly decline. Back then, most co-ops were turning out the least common denominator wine of their region – lots of it, designed to sell cheaply, to supply a supposed mass taste for nondescript plonk.

Well, the Italian wine world has transformed itself completely since then, and now co-ops are striving for quality production, and in most cases achieving it. Now, some of the most interesting tastings a wine maven can attend are those of cooperatives.

To understand how this came about, you need to know a little of the history of the co-op movement in Italy. For centuries, wine in Italy was a largely local affair, with growers – from the smallest sharecropper to the largest baronial estate – making wine mostly for personal and local consumption. A few of the larger growers bottled and commercialized their wine, but the market had nothing of its present-day dimensions. With a very few exceptions, Italian wine was very localized.

When Italy’s feudal sharecropping system, the mezzadria, finally ended (in the middle of the twentieth century!), small farmers fled the land for jobs in the cities, fields stood idle, and vineyards were neglected. A few producers with the resources bought up the land, consolidated the vineyards, and started commercializing their wines. The remaining smallholders, almost none of whom could afford to bottle their own wine, had little choice but to sell it to the big operations, usually – as you can imagine the market pressures – at a price more pleasing to the buyers than the sellers.

Enter the cooperatives. A few had been around for decades, mostly in the relatively few well-known northern appellations, where small growers had been able to merge their efforts and produce enough wine to be of interest to markets or distributors beyond their home region. Some of these are still active and very fine, especially in Alto Adige.

In Piedmont, one of the earliest and most successful cooperatives was Produttori del Barbaresco, which brought together small growers from all over the Barbaresco zone. It benefited from two key factors: a bevy of growers who worked many small but prized vineyards in prestigious parts of an important zone, and – maybe even more significant – enlightened leadership that from the beginning emphasized quality over quantity. Even now, in these days of superstar winemakers and much-hyped single-vineyard wines, the wines of the Produttori, whether basic Barbaresco, or Riserva, or any of the zone’s esteemed crus, stand in the front ranks of Barbaresco – which is to say, in the top echelon of Italian wine production.
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Produttori del Barbaresco can be regarded as the pacesetter, but other co-ops in regions famous and regions scarcely known caught on quickly. Co-ops offer many advantages for their members, far from all of whom are specialized in growing vines or making wine. Many are old farming families who love living on their land and working it. They still practice mixed agriculture. They may have only a few hectares, but some of it will be in grapes, some in wheat or vegetables, some in olive trees. Co-ops help them make a reasonable living, and they may belong to several, one for their grapes, one for their olives, one perhaps for their cheeses. Nobody gets rich, but they can all make a living and continue to enjoy the kind of life their families have followed for who knows how long.

Nowadays you can find cooperatives all through Italy, in zones both famous and not-so. Over half of Italy’s wine production comes from co-ops: I think that there are over 500 of them. Some may be quite specialized, but usually they produce the whole range of their area’s wines, and usually these days at quite a respectable level of quality.

A good example can be found almost anywhere. Tuscany, for instance, which is in all respects a quirky region of hyper-individualists, now hosts several fine co-ops in some of its most important zones. One whose wines I’ve been drinking lately is one of the smallest: Castelli del Grevepesa, in the Chianti Classico region, comprises only 18 growers. Not surprisingly, with most of them located in Panzano, Lamole, and Greve, they work mostly with Sangiovese.

Following the typical cooperative pattern, their newly harvested grapes are transferred immediately to the co-op winery where they are fermented, aged, and bottled by the co-op team – a general manager, an agronomist, and an oenologist. From those grapes they make Chianti Classico, Chianti Classico Riserva, and Gran Selezione wines. As a further economic boost for the co-op members, Castelli di Grevepesa also produces grappa and extra-virgin olive oil.
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Lately, I’ve been enjoying a lot of this co-op’s Clemente VII Chianti Classico Riserva 2018, a nicely balanced wine with lots of Sangiovese character and the kind of lively acidity that makes it a fine companion with all sorts of everyday lunches or dinners. And it has the added virtue of being quite inexpensive: It’s usually available for around $20, sometimes even less. To get a good reliable wine at that price, one I can enjoy with everything from hamburgers or steaks to, say, chicken pizzaiola: that makes me a very happy camper. You can see why I’m singing the praises of co-ops.

 

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Tuscany is filled with superstar wines and winemakers, but it’s also filled – particularly the Chianti Classico zone – with superstars that haven’t yet been acclaimed. I’d nominate Castello di Querceto as one.

The site is quite a historic one. For many centuries in the Middle Ages, it really was a castle, a major fortification guarding key roadways, much fought over in the nearly endless small wars of the period. It was finally razed almost to the ground by the Aragonese at the beginning of the 16th century. Only vestiges of the castle remain, now incorporated into the residence of the owners. More than vestiges remain of the oak (quercia) forest that gave the site its name.
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The owners are the François family, of which Alessandro François is the patriarch. As the name indicates, the family is of French origin, now Tuscan and established at Castello di Querceto since the 19th century. The family has been actively engaged in wine production from its earliest days at the Castello, and it now produces a full range of Tuscan wines, from the most traditional Chianti Classico to a handful of Supertuscans (though, if I am remembering accurately, Alessandro hates that phrase, so maybe I should just refer to them as IGT wines).

I am a long-time fan of his Chianti Classico and Chianti Classico Riserva, which tend to fall into the well-structured, somewhat burly style of Chianti. These are archetypal bistecca Fiorentina wines, with the kind of muscularity and depth of flavor a big piece of beef like bistecca demands. They taste like the kind of wines that Querceto’s high-altitude, hilly, shaggily wooded site leads you to expect.
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The whole line of Querceto’s wines exudes toscanità. There are two Gran Selezione Chiantis, Il Picchio and La Corte, drawn from two distinctive vineyards. In addition, Querceto makes a very traditional Vin Santo, as well as a young and an aged grappa – neither of which I have been lucky enough to taste in recent years but the younger of which I remember very fondly for its heady aroma and warmth.

More of a surprise are some of Querceto’s IGT wines. Those I enjoy most are Cignale, a 90/10 blend of Cabernet sauvignon and Merlot, and the 100% Cabernet Sole di Alessandro. Both are big wines and want – and deserve – aging. Cignale is markedly robust, Sole – surprisingly for a 100% Tuscan Cabernet – the more polished of the two.

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It’s also the more adaptable. Recently we poured a 21-year-old bottle of Sole to accompany a fairly complex dinner, and it shone with every dish. Those ran from a starter of warm cauliflower salad, followed by a subtle braise of veal and oyster mushrooms in a rich, creamy sauce. It concluded simply with toasted hazelnuts, and the Cabernet played up perfectly to them all.

I had expected the wine to stand up well to each, but this performance went beyond that. Clearly, Tuscan acidity had a lot to do with the Cabernet’s ability to interact successfully with so many different flavors. Like the François family, Cabernet has adapted well to life at Castello di Querceto.

 

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When I was a kid, I was the sole Dodgers fan – Brooklyn Dodgers, as they were then – in a large family of Yankee fans. It scarred me for life and gave me a lifelong, unreasoning fondness for underdogs. Besides that, in wines I’ve also often been attracted to vintages that have been overshadowed by harvests more highly reputed or more vigorously hyped immediately before or after them.
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This penchant started way back when the 1966 vintage in Bordeaux and Burgundy was so ballyhooed that the next few vintages of both were barely able to find a market. I was just beginning to learn my way in wine back then, and those ‘66s, especially in Bordeaux, priced themselves clear out of my league – so I bought and drank the much less esteemed 1967s. And I continued to do so, very happily, for many years.

Those ‘67s were lovely wines, no matter which bank of the Gironde or what commune they came from. They were medium-bodied, balanced, and elegant, with wonderful typicity – pitch-perfect fidelity to their soils and grapes. Eventually, I caught up with a few of those much-ballyhooed ‘66s, and they were indeed wonderful wines. But they were wonderful in the way of very special vintages: the particular character of that great harvest dominated every other aspect of the wines.

So the ‘67s were perfect for me at that stage of my wine appreciation: Not only were they pleasurably drinkable and much more adaptable to more dining circumstances, but because of their typicity, they were much more educational. I learned more about the wines of Bordeaux from them than I ever could have from a whole suite of those exceptional ‘66s, and at far less expense.

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And by this commodious vicus of recirculation, I arrive at Brunello 2011. Poor-relation 2011 Brunello is bracketed by two greater vintages, 2010 and 2012. The Brunello Consorzio awarded both those vintages five stars, its highest ranking, while it gave 2011 only four, thereby disproving my private theory that the Consorzio always gave every vintage five stars, and immediately arousing the suspicion of every cynical wine journalist that 2011 must be pretty poor indeed, if even the Consorzio wouldn’t give it five stars.

My ingrained underdog sympathy quickly kicked in, however, and I tasted a few bottles of 2011, and guess what?  They were pretty good, and considerably less expensive than either 2010 or 2012 – so I bought a few bottles of several different estates, and put them away to let them rest and mature. Now, ten years on, seemed a very good time to see how they’re doing. They should certainly be past their dumb phase, and – if they are as good as I hoped – just starting to display some mature flavors.
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The first bottle I tried was from Ciacci Piccolomini d’Aragona, which is about as aristocratic a name as one can encounter in Montalcino. For many years, the property belonged to descendants of Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini – Pope Pius II – a Renaissance pontiff who was, among other things, responsible for creating the harmonious central piazza of the nearby town of Pienza (his birthplace). A few decades ago, the last survivor of the family willed the Montalcino property to its long-time winemaker, in whose family it has been ever since. With that much history in every bottle, I hoped for much from my theoretically lowly 2011.

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Not to prolong suspense, let me just say the results were mixed. The wine was good, maybe even very good, but not brilliant. My hopes were probably unreasonable. The wine showed some very characteristic Brunello features: a good nose of berries and underbrush; an initial rush of almost-bitter dark cherry flavors, younger than I had expected, round, balanced, and smooth in the mouth – but definitely rustic rather than in any way elegant. Sangiovese grosso indeed, I thought as I drank it.
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Mildly disappointed but undeterred, at the following night’s dinner I tried another bottle, this time from Col d’Orcia. This is another historic Montalcino property, now directed by Count Francesco Marone Cinzano, a man I knew to be equally passionately committed to his wines and to preserving the environment. The estate has been completely organic since 2010.

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This 2011 bottle was wonderful from the get-go: bright, fragrant, and fresh, with mixed dark berries on the nose and big, round, black cherry flavors in the mouth; structured beautifully with good acidity and soft tannins, mouth-filling but not at all heavy. This was a classic Brunello, as good as one can hope for, no matter how many stars the vintage was given.
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Now seriously encouraged, I thought to try one more example of 2011, so a few nights later I opened a bottle of Lisini. Lisini is for some Brunello lovers almost a cult wine. Made by a family with five centuries of roots in Montalcino and Chianti, and crafted in the most traditional manner, Lisini’s wines are for many experts the epitome of Brunello, the model of what Montalcino’s wines should be. This, I hoped, would be a real treat.

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Well, it was, but it wasn’t the perfect wine that its most ardent fans would expect.

It started with an intriguing, slightly tarry note in its aroma. A lovely dark cherry palate followed, smooth and round, with soft tannins and a long finish – unquestionably fine drinking. I’d call it a country gentleman of a wine. Italians would probably describe it as rustico-elegante, which is a useful phrase that I wish had a good English equivalent.

Many Brunello fans would argue that that is exactly what Brunello should be, and that is an opinion I respect but do not share. I prefer the greater elegance shown by the Col d’Orcia bottle, which I hope is an opinion that Lisini fans will respect even if they don’t share. When we are judging wines of this caliber, personal preferences loom large – even when we’re dealing with a supposedly “lesser” vintage like 2011. I’m very pleased with the way all three of these wines showed, and I’m glad I’ve got a few more 2011s squirreled away to comfort my (already upon me) old age.
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And a final word to the wise: While not all underdogs reward our support, enough “lesser vintages” do to make it a good policy to try them for yourself. Remember: You only taste with your own mouth – not mine or any other wine writer’s.

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The Chianti Classico zone grows titles of nobility as profusely as it does vines, and the two are nowadays closely linked. Hundreds of years ago, marchesi, baroni, even principi may have earned their rank by successful careers as Florentine merchants or Lombard warlords, but nowadays they’re all winemakers, and most of them quite famous and accomplished as such. Which makes it all the more surprising and noteworthy to find that one of the now most prestigious and forward of Chianti Classico wineries is, by the standards of this historic zone, a rank newcomer, founded by an untitled “foreigner” – i.e., a non-Tuscan.

I am referring to Rocca delle Macìe, whose wines I suspect most of my readers have tasted and enjoyed. Founded in 1973 by Italo Zingarelli, a very successful Roman movie producer who had a lifelong dream of vines and wines, Rocca delle Macìe started with 93 run-down hectares, only two of which were in vines. From this less-than-inspiring beginning, the Zingarelli family has built up an estate that now covers over 200 hectares of vines and 54 more of olives spread over six locales, plus an elegant relais hotel.

Italo’s son Sergio, who has just finished a term as president of the Chianti Classico Consorzio, is now running the family business, and Rocca delle Macìe has become a fixture of the Chianti Classico landscape.

A little over 20 years ago, the family undertook a major renovation of the vineyards, seeking better microclimate/soil/Sangiovese clone matches for maximum quality in their wines. One result was the designation of the Le Terrazze vineyard in Castellina, which they consider their finest vineyard, as the source of their Chianti Classico Gran Selezione Sergio Zingarelli. Just recently, I was able to taste nine vintages of that wine, courtesy of Rocca delle Macìe’s American importer Palm Bay.

This was a very illuminating as well as enjoyable experience. The wines shown started with the 2010 vintage, followed by 2011, ‘12, ‘13, ‘14, ‘15, ‘16, ‘17, and ’18 – no cherry-picking of only fine vintages, but an honest display of nearly a decade of Gran Selezione wines. That line-up allowed us tasters to trace the evolution of Sangiovese from year to year, as well as to experience the continuity of the vineyard’s and the family’s style. The latter is quite classic. These wines, even in the lesser vintages, all showed beautiful Sangiovese character, with great restraint – no fruit bombs here – and balance. My thought at the time was that these are Chiantis for grown-ups, and I’ll stand by that.

Here are some brief notes on the wines, all Sergio Zingarelli Chianti Classico Gran Selezione DOCG, in the order we tasted them.

2010: Lovely wild cherry aroma; fine, elegant palate. Very nice Sangiovese acidity under-strapped by soft wood tannins. Long finish. A great vintage and a harmonious wine.

2011: A difficult hot, dry summer grudgingly yielded a good but not excellent wine, smooth and round in the mouth, but with a slightly cellar-y aroma. This vintage demanded much care and effort in the field and in the cellar.

2012:  Similar to the 2011, but slightly smoother and softer on the palate. Not great, but good.

2013: A step up from the preceding two vintages. Rounder and fresher both in the nose and on the palate. More pleasing and immediately enjoyable.

2014: Darker and more concentrated than the ’13, with its tannins nicely softened. Enjoyable now, with a good fruity finish. All the preceding vintages had been 90% Sangiovese blended with 10% Colorino; starting with 2014, this Gran Selezione became 100% Sangiovese.

2015: A good growing season makes a good vintage. This wine is very pretty, well-balanced and lively. You could almost call it perky.

2016: Not quite as fine as ’15, but still a lovely Chianti, with fine Sangiovese flavors and character. Opens beautifully in the glass.

2017: Very fresh smelling, with the palate equally fresh – dark cherry-ish flavors. A very young and pretty wine, from a growing season hot and dry, like ’11 and ’12. The vineyard team has clearly learned how to deal with that.

2018:  Smells more tannic, even though you’re not supposed to be able to smell tannin. Must be the new barrels. Big and soft, but still closed. It needs time, but it should be fine. Sergio called it “a classic vintage for Sangiovese.”

All these wines showed well, though 2010, 2015, 2016, and 2018 stood out. It was almost a shame to have started with the 2010, since it was the only one of these vintages that was, for this lover of mature wines, truly ready to drink. But that’s why cellars were invented.

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Indeed, surprised and pleased were exactly what I felt from my first taste of this relatively obscure bottle from Selvapiana.
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Selvapiana is a fine Chianti estate, probably the finest not in the Classico zone. It lies within the Rufina zone, northeast of Florence, and that area is totally different, climatically and geographically, from the Classico. It is hillier, and its hills are steeper and rougher than the long-domesticated ones that lie between Florence and Siena, the historical Chianti Classico zone.
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The Rufina zone is more heavily forested, and its forests are pines, not the decorous cypresses of Tuscan postcards. What grow beneath those pines are mountain laurels, clearly indicating a more acidic soil and a very different climate from that of the Classico zone. Needless to say, the wines that Sangiovese produces here are also different from the Classicos: they are bigger, fuller, with darker-toned fruit. Some call them rustic, but the best of them show no rusticity. Rather, they are graceful country folk, with all the strength and natural elegance that implies.
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For obvious reasons, I’ve always admired Selvapiana’s Chiantis. The estate’s decades-long relationship with consulting enologist Franco Bernabei, one of the acknowledged masters of Tuscan wine, has always coaxed the best from its Sangiovese. The wine Selvapiana calls Fornace (from the vineyard where it originates) has always been for me another matter, however.

Fornace is Selvapiana’s Supertuscan, a blend of non-Italian grape varieties that was originally concocted back when Supertuscan was a hot category and every serious wine estate had to make one to show that it was au courant. I acquired my bottle long ago, when I was preparing an article about Selvapiana and the Rufina zone for some magazine or other. I’ve never really approved of the Supertuscans – I hated the name – so for the article I focused on the zone’s Italian varieties, put my bottle of Fornace away, and completely forgot about it. Until, just recently, Diane was making a recipe that originated at Selvapiana, and I wanted to serve a Selvapiana wine with it. Imagine my distress when I discovered I had none of the wonderful Chiantis on hand, and just this dusty bottle of a wine I distrusted. Arrgh!

Well, no choice: I wanted a Selvapiana wine and this was what I had, so off went its dust and out came its cork. Two hours of breathing, and then into the glass alongside Diane’s delightful pasta dish. As I said before, color me surprised and pleased: It was a wonderful wine. Vinified entirely from French varieties – 40% Cabernet sauvignon, 40% Merlot, and 20% Petit verdot, I believe – though I could swear I tasted a little Syrah pepper in it. No matter. At 18 years old it was a complete wine, big, round, harmonious, and deep. It didn’t taste typically Tuscan, but it didn’t taste Bordelaise either: It was a third thing, entirely its own category, and completely enjoyable. It has given me something to think about, in terms of my distaste for French varieties in Italy – and it has certainly deepened my already immense respect for Selvapiana.
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Burton Anderson has a new independently published anthology/memoir, Vino II. It is available on Amazon, and if you love Italian wine, you should get it, read it, and prepare for the exam: It will certainly be on any test I administer.

Sorry: that’s just the old teacher in me asserting himself.

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Vino II
is a time trip back to what I more and more think of as the heroic age of Italian winemaking, when the sleeping giant finally awakened and shrugged off the rust and dust of centuries. Back in the 1960s, names like Sassicaia and Tignanello were scarcely known in Italy outside of Tuscany, and you could search for days in the best wine shops to find a Barolo or Barbaresco with a vineyard name on the label. All such stuff was in the future, and that future is what Anderson’s book is all about.

Anderson was not only an eyewitness but also, if you will, a catalytic figure, who by his interactions with winemakers and by his publications helped shape that future. The original Vino, published in 1980, was brilliant, nearly prophetic, in its selection of makers and wines and regions to present and explain. For most readers, it opened a whole new view of an Italian wine world that stretched far beyond Chianti in a straw flask and Verdicchio in a fish-shaped bottle.
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Vino II
chronicles the great renaissance of Italian wine that followed. Anderson and I are just about the same age, but there is no question that, for English-speaking persons who love Italian wine, he is the father of us all.

How to talk about Vino II? It’s in part an anthology of articles that Anderson has written over the decades, all of them timely at the moment of writing and almost all of them just as relevant and telling today. These are woven into a chronological account of the revival of Italian wine and Anderson’s engagement with and too-often unrequited love for it. No: scratch that. Italian wine rarely let Anderson down; it was the commercial world of wine publishing that often did.

Anderson as a young man took tremendous financial risks to follow his love of the wines and the people who make them. You would think the importance of his work – the original Vino was and is a landmark book is the history of Italian wine – would have assured him a comfortable income from which to carry on, but that was never the case. Even the “raters” – the 100-point-score wine writers whom he despises — probably are better known today than he is; and he – who writes only in English – is probably better known in Italy than in either the US or the UK. Anderson is mordantly aware of the ironies here. Nevertheless, though he may have made some unfortunate financial decisions, he has also made some brilliant life choices, and we are the beneficiaries of those.

His stories, in Vino II, of conversations and dinners with the likes of Giacomo Bologna and Costantino Rozzi, with almost mythical winemakers like Giorgio Grai, owners and winemakers like Sergio Manetti, Angelo Gaja, and many, many more, all read like excerpts from the journals of Rabelais in Italy. Moreover, they illustrate very clearly how wide-open and wild-westish the world of Italian wine had become in the sixties and seventies of what is now the last century. Everything lay in the future: The present was all flux and change, with no surety about what would happen next. There were giants in those day, and Anderson ate and drank with them.

This book was a major nostalgia trip for me, but I know that for many people it will serve as an excellent – and vivid – introduction to the story of how Italian wine achieved the prestige it now has, and even more importantly how and why it has become so complex. The most amateur of wine drinkers knows to expect complexity from Burgundy and knows that there is a long tradition behind the most seemingly arcane of distinctions in French wine, but most wine lovers – and I include here the great majority of wine “professionals” – remain basically clueless about the great diversity of Italy’s noble varieties and the incredibly diverse geography and geology of the country that created and preserved them. As was true of Vino in 1980, Vino II is a great place to start pleasurably learning about them. Not to mention savoring the tales of the great individualists – and I emphatically include Burton Anderson among them – who created the marvelous cornucopia of fine Italian wine we enjoy today.

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To put you out of no-doubt-intolerable suspense, my answer to that question is yes.

I’ve been drinking some Brunellos lately that are getting positively burly – and that, to my mind, is definitely the wrong way for a Sangiovese wine to go. Sangiovese is a grape whose character is gracile, not muscular, like a sculpture rather than a quarry. Sangiovese makes a wine of elegance and suppleness, even delicacy, a wine of nuance and complexity, not a push in the face.
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It’s been a few years now since I’ve been able to attend the Brunello Consortium’s annual new release event in Montalcino, so I can’t claim to be fully up to date on the broad spectrum of Brunellos. This opinion piece is based on my recent experience of some young and youngish Brunellos, bottles from solid if not stellar producers, who represent to my mind a fair sampling of what the large middle ground of Montalcino winemakers have been up to in recent years – and I’m not happy with it.

Let me be clear: I’m not saying these are bad wines. Far from it. Many of the bottles I’ve tasted lately, wines like Val di Cava 2010 and Le Gode 2012 and Mastrojanni 2015, have been very enjoyable. But they have been big, and high alcohol, and they seem to be pursuing a model of winemaking that I think is a misdirection for Brunello, one that if followed to its logical conclusion will result in a wine that I for one will no longer recognize as Brunello di Montalcino.

Just the other evening, to test my palatal memory and to make sure I wasn’t imagining this whole problem, I opened a bottle of Donatella Cinelli Colombini’s Brunello Riserva 1999.

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(Believe me when I say I’m very aware of the difference between a mature wine and a young one. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know how to taste a young wine to discern what its aging and maturation potential is. Almost all the reports I’ve ever written about Brunello new releases – and they have been many – have demanded that kind of palatal knowledge.)

Donatella’s wine was lovely, everything I think a Brunello should be: Balanced and mouth-filling, without being in any way heavy, rich with mature fruit flavors while still subtle and nuanced, complex and changing with every dish, from a spicy rabbit pâté to poulet Marengo (the whole deal, with fried bread and poached eggs), to a gorgeous ripe pont l’éveque. Never aggressive but always responsive, not insisting on its own primacy but establishing its greatness by its gracefulness.

That is exactly what I am not tasting in the younger Brunellos I’ve recently drunk, and that is what worries me. Maybe it’s resulting from global warming and the steadily increasing heat in many wine zones, with consequent super-ripeness. Or maybe it’s resulting from young winemakers playing their version of who’s the toughest kid on the block. I can’t answer that, and I’d be very interested to hear from other Brunello lovers about whether their experience tallies with mine and how they account for it.

All I’m really sure of is this: that I feel very strongly that the Brunello I have loved for many decades now is slipping away.

Kerin O’Keefe, in her landmark book, Brunello di Montalcino, describes her early experiences learning Italy’s great wines: “While I relished discovering those glorious Barolos, it was Brunello, exceedingly elegant and vibrant, with more complexity than muscle, that won my heart.” That’s an assessment that’s hard to better: lively, vibrant elegance, complexity and nuance foregrounded over power. I couldn’t agree more. What I’m worried about is that muscle – always easier to achieve than elegance, especially in warmer and warmer vintages – is pushing elegance out the door.

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Who says I’m too old to believe in Santa Claus? Taub Family Selections just provided four samples of Fonterutoli’s newly released best wines for me to try, and that’s one of the nicest Christmas packages I’ve received in a long time. Vicoregio 36, Castello Fonterutoli, Badiòla – all 2017 vintage, all Chianti Classico Gran Selezione – and 2018 Siepi IGT are the bottles in question, and opening them was a big holiday treat.

Fonterutoli is the Mazzei family. That tiny hamlet in the heart of the Chianti Classico country has been the family seat since the middle of the 15th century, and the Mazzei have been deeply involved in Tuscan wine since at least 1435.

That adds up to many generations of wine know-how and experience, which the present generations have used to keep their wines at the forefront of Tuscan production. The Mazzei have steadily pushed for the improvement of Chianti Classico: They were deeply involved in the Chianti Consortium’s Chianti 2000 project for instance, one of whose results shows in the 36 clones of Sangiovese that make up Vicoregio. And Siepi was one of the earliest – for my palate one of the most successful – of what used to be known as supertuscans, the wines that are credited with pushing Tuscan (and subsequently all Italian) winemaking into the modern age.

(A necessary aside: I’m very happy that “supertuscan” as a phrase is fading from use. I’ve always thought that the real supertuscans are the wines made with indigenous varieties, chief of them Sangiovese: Brunello, Carmignano, Chianti Classico, Chianti Rufina, Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. Wines made from “international” varieties can be very fine, but they are rarely truly Tuscan in character. I would rate Siepi as one of the few exceptions to that, insofar as Merlot – its “international” component – has shown itself to be one of those varieties that have adapted best to the soils and climates of the Chianti Classico zone.)

I have been a steady admirer of Fonterutoli wines for several decades now, and there was nothing in these four bottles to change my opinion. With the proviso that all are very young and showing a small touch of bottle shock, they all impressed with their separate but equal expressions of their grapes and terroirs, and all promised interesting evolutions as they age.
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Vicoregio 36, Chianti Classico Gran Selezione 2017

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This wine originates in the Mazzei’s southernmost vineyards, in the commune of Castelnuovo Berardenga, and it reflects the huskiness of the wines of that area. It shows a rich, grapey nose, earthy, and a touch smoky (that may be the barrels), with a hint of dried figs. These elements all follow through on the palate. A smooth, round, mid-weight wine, with excellent Sangiovese character and a big, dry-fruit finish. Very fine for immediate drinking or keeping for five or more years.
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Castello Fonterutoli, Chianti Classico Gran Selezione 2017

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This is the family’s flagship wine, sourced entirely from the home vineyards surrounding the village of Fonterutoli. It displays the same aroma and flavor characteristics as the Vicoregio but feels lighter in body and higher in tone, simply more elegant overall – very typical of the best Chiantis from the heart of the zone. I tasted a wonderful zing of wild cherry in the mouth and the finish. An excellent wine, for immediate drinking or keeping for five to ten years.
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Badiòla, Chianti Classico Gran Selezione 2017

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The vines that make this wine grow in Radda at 570 meters, the highest altitude of any of the Fonterutoli wines. They are 100% Sangiovese, and they fill the wine with wild cherry notes from aroma through palate to finish. The other aroma and flavor components are like those of the two preceding wines, only more so, with an extremely long finish. This is about as elegant as a Chianti gets. Very, very fine: good drinking now but structured, I would guess, for a much longer haul.
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Siepi, IGT Toscana 2018

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Composed of 50% Sangiovese and 50% Merlot, this is a darker wine in all respects than the Chianti Classicos. It’s rounder and softer – smells and tastes of mulberry. On the palate, that mulberry merges nicely with the Sangiovese cherry. The wine is big and soft in the mouth (the Merlot showing its stuff), very composed and balanced. For all the Merlot, it shows some genuine Tuscan character in its fine acid balance. Truly, a one-of-a-kind wine, unique and fine.
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To sum up:  Siepi is a kind of wine I admire, but the three Chiantis are the kind of wines I love. Can’t help it: I’m old-fashioned – so let me wish you an old-fashioned Merry Christmas and a very Happy post-Covid New Year!

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An Ode to Ordinary

Well, I’m back from my vacation. Covid 19 hasn’t gone away, and there definitely won’t be anything like a normal autumn wine season, with its crowded portfolio shows and densely packed seated tastings of new releases. There have to be new releases, I guess, but how a working-from-home wine journalist is supposed to find them and taste them is beyond my imagination. Like so much else, the wine world that emerges from this corona-virus cocoon is going to be far different – perhaps unrecognizably different — from what it was before.

Facing up to that fact started me on a nostalgic yearning for the good old ordinary wine world I used to know. But thinking a bit more about that lost world made me realize that (a) it wasn’t uniformly good; (b) it wasn’t that old; and (c) ordinary was the wrong word to apply to it: There was actually very little ordinary about it.

What I’m talking about is the fact that since at least the 1960s, the wine world has undergone several seismic shifts: The world immediately pre-Covid was already a very different place – had in fact been several different places – from the one I had come to know way back when I first seriously engaged wine. Even more important, the concept of ordinary, as it applied to wine, had completely shifted its meaning from what vin ordinaire – a phrase one rarely hears nowadays – had meant for several generations. We are now well into Ordinary Wine 2.0 – or maybe 3.0 or 4.0.

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Let me explain – and I hope this doesn’t sound like ancient history, but you really do have to know where we’ve been to appreciate where we are now – or, I should say, where we were a few months ago. I’ll start with a case in point.

The other evening, for our dinner wine, I had opened a bottle of Castello di Meleto Chianti Classico Gran Selezione 2010. I don’t even know how I happened to have a ten-year-old Castello di Meleto: It’s not a wine I seek out, and usually not one I would lay down.
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Castello di Meleto is a real castle, located in the heart of the heart of the Chianti Classico zone, not far from Gaiole and a little further from Radda. That makes it a serious piece of Sangiovese terroir. In the late 1960s, it and its surrounding fields were acquired by a large Italian firm seeking to diversify into an agricultural component, as many firms did then, at the start of the Italian wine boom. For years it was a negligible producer of large quantities of wine. In the late 1990s, Castello di Meleto began – as almost every Tuscan estate had by then – moving toward smaller-quantity, higher-quality production, and by the end of the first decade of the present century it was producing quite respectable Chianti Classico.
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However the bottle wound up in my cellar, there it was, and we drank it with an ordinary meal on an ordinary day. It was very enjoyable: quite correct Chianti Classico, aging nicely, with charming Sangiovese fruit and character, delightfully adaptable with the main course and then with a little selection of cheese – all quite typical. This was by no means a great wine, but a thoroughly pleasing one, reflecting a level of field work and cellar care that now is almost universal – that is to say, ordinary.

The winemakers at Castello di Meleto are not going to be thrilled to be praised for being ordinary, but that’s precisely my point. The caliber of most of the wines entering the international market today – the ordinary level of wines that we can all buy and drink – is what back in the day used to be considered unusually good, ranging up to great. And that is because of the widespread shift from making wine in quantity, as simply a beverage to moisten food, to making wine of quality, as a fine drink to enhance meals of all kinds.

That, the most profound of the wine world’s earthquakes, began very slowly, perhaps as early as the 1955 vintage in Germany and France, and gathered strength all through the 1960s, until in the early 1970s it simply exploded. Bordeaux and Burgundy winemakers and negociants, riding an economic wave and dominating the international wine market, got greedy and demanded then-preposterous prices for their miserable 1973 vintage. The expanding American market resisted. California winemakers, who had been waiting for their moment, saw their chance and grabbed it, as did Italian and Spanish winemakers, and the wine world, which until that point had exclusively spoken French, began to learn other languages.
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That was the second step toward the polyglot market we now have. Wine & Spirits Magazine has just announced its Top 100 Wineries of 2020. The countries represented, in addition to France and the United States, include Argentina, Australia, Austria, Chile, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Italy, Portugal, Spain, and Uruguay. Such a list was unthinkable in, say, 1975. Now the questions it is likely to raise are more of the order of “What about South Africa?  What about Britain? Canada?  Croatia?”

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And it’s not just geographical change this Wine & Spirits list indicates: These are top wineries, wineries judged to be on a par with, just to pick two, Bollinger and Bouchard. Back in 1975, those worthies would have been shocked to be named in the same sentence with, for example, Mastroberardino or Stag’s leap.

The third of the wine world’s great transformations, and the one that made so much else possible, was the vast leap forward in wine technology. Both in the field and in the cellar, new knowledge and new methods improved the health and quality of the grapes that came into the presses, as well as what happened to them between that step and bottling. In the course of a few decades, winemaking around the world made a great leap from the Late Stone Age to the Twentieth (as it then was) Century.

And then, of course, came global warming, which among its very alarming effects had the lovely one of almost every year gifting with gloriously ripe grapes regions that used to see good harvests once every five or ten years. In between those good harvests, they used to endure many mediocre ones – which was then ordinary – with some real stinkers generously interspersed.

People who have come to wine only since the 1990s can’t realize what a golden age of wine they’re living in. Piedmont and Burgundy particularly have been enjoying fine harvest after fine harvest, one excellent vintage on top of another. Consumers have forgotten that there can be rotten harvests, because there’s always a good one somewhere in the greatly expanded wine world. Memories of truly undrinkable green, weedy wines – sometimes from the most reputable houses – have simply vanished.

(Of course, if global warming continues, we may start seeing bad wines for the opposite reason. Burnt, scorched, desiccated grapes could loom in our future.)

Anyhow, that’s all history, and my point is just this: What we now think of as ordinary in wine, like my thoroughly enjoyable Castello di Meleto, is the extraordinary result of a concatenation of causes working together over the last fifty years to lift the quantity, quality, and availability of good wine to the very high plateau we are now enjoying. There is real reason to fear the world may not be able to sustain this uniform, reliable “ordinary” level very much longer. So revel in our amazing ordinary while it is still ordinary and available. Remember the wisdom of Zero Mostel in The Producers: “Flaunt it while you got it!”

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“One Fine Wine” is an occasional series of posts about wines I’ve enjoyed recently

Every now and again, when our home supply of wine dips below a level I consider crucial for human life, Diane and I trot over to our off-premises storage unit and bring home a case to bolster our resources. Most of the cases I’ve squirreled away are mixed lots, and I’m never quite sure what’s going to turn up in them. That was how I found today’s star, a lovely Sangiovese-based wine from the Tuscan Maremma.

Diane had prepared a Neapolitan tinged dinner, in deference to my almost withdrawal-symptom need for tomato sauce and good mozzarella – and by the latter I emphatically mean fresh buffalo mozzarella, not cow’s milk fior di latte. Buon Italia provided both the cheese and some good potato gnocchi, which we had in a transcendent dish of gnocchi alla Sorrentina.

So it was a very happy Ubriaco who sipped and swallowed his way through Mazzei’s Belguardo. This is a Toscana IGT from the Maremma region, and the 2007 version of it contained 80% Sangiovese grapes, 20% Alicante. In Tuscany, Alicante can be a crapshoot, and most of it often turns out to be Grenache (Garnaccia), so what I was expecting from this wine was exuberant fruit – the hallmark of Maremma-zone Sangiovese – perhaps reined in somewhat by barriques and age, now almost 13 years old.

I got that and then some! Despite its age, this Belguardo tasted intensely fruity and fresh with an antipasto of Italian salume: finocchiana, coppa dolce, and schiacciata picante. The fatty meats softened the wine’s tannins even more than age had, and they all but nullified any lingering barrique notes, making it taste youthful and lively and perfectly companionable with all the differing flavors those meats presented.

With our lovely gnocchi alla Sorrentina, the wine changed completely. With the sweet/acid tomato sauce and the lush, melting mozzarella surrounding the delicate gnocchi, the Belguardo became more austere and complex and deep – almost a different style of wine, yet still firmly rooted in the character of Sangiovese. This was simply a lovely wine, incredibly pleasing in radically different ways with those very different courses, and clearly nowhere near old age. It showed terrific structure and balance: an estimable wine from a great wine family.

The Mazzei wine pedigree is impeccable: They have been in the Chianti wine business since 1435, rooted in the same small town, Fonterutoli, in the heart of what is now the Chianti Classico zone. Brothers Filippo and Francesco now head the firm, with another generation of Mazzei in the wings. Since the beginning of Italy’s wine renaissance in the last century, they have been in the forefront of Tuscan wine making in both style and quality.

Mazzei’s Belguardo Estate

Their flagship wine is Castello di Fonterutoli, a Chianti Classico Gran Selezione. If there is any serious wine person who still does not know how great Chianti can be, this is a wine to learn on. Their Siepi, a blend of Sangiovese and Merlot, likewise sets the bar for supertuscan wines. They make as well a monovarietal Sangiovese called Mix36, which is a blend of 36 different clones of Sangiovese: It recently won Tre Bicchieri. And finally, they farm their Maremma property Belguardo, which produces the lovely Serrata that sent me over the moon and prompted this post. In short, the Mazzei are Sangiovese royalty, and every one of their wines attests to it.

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