THE BLACK WINE OF CAHORS
When the estate of the late Bill Blass was auctioned by Sotheby’s, I couldn’t help wondering about the fate of a certain item—a medal he had received at a ceremony in New York inducting him into the Confrères des Chevaliers du Cahors some five or six years ago. I was also inducted into the society that night, though, like Blass, I was slightly baffled by the honor, and hardly knew where Cahors was at the time. I have since visited the region and sampled many of its wines, and when I drink the big wines of Cahors I often think of Blass, a big man who exuded a hypermasculine sense of personal style.
Cahors is butch. Peter the Great was one of its many admirers, and his enthusiasm was shared by his countrymen. The “black wine” of Cahors was renowned for its power and density and was sometimes used to punch up the wimpier reds of Bordeaux. This muscular, tannic red wine of Cahors developed alongside the hearty, fatty cuisine of the southwest: foie gras, cassoulet, confit, and maigret de canard.
From the Middle Ages until the middle of the nineteenth century the reds of Cahors were as famous as any in Europe, until phylloxera wiped out the vineyards. When initial attempts to graft the local Auxerrois vines onto disease-resistant American rootstocks failed, many growers planted hybrids that produced insipid vim ordinaires. By the middle of this century the big inky drink that was le vrai Cahors was almost extinct.
After devastating frosts in 1956 and 1957, a Cahors native named José Baudel left his post as the head of the government research center in Bordeaux to take over the local cooperative wine cellar and to save the wine of his homeland from oblivion. Baudel worked to banish the hybrids and propagate Auxerrois (known elsewhere as Malbec), a tannic grape that seems to have a particular affinity for the soils and climate of the Lot River Valley and the adjacent plateau.
In the last decade Cahors has made a comeback, as its winemakers groped to integrate their traditions with new technology and the international marketplace. “Ten years ago there was a midlife crisis,” says Ariane Daguin, proprietor of D’Artagan in New York, which specializes in the cuisine of her native region. “The wines, which had evolved in symbiosis with that heavy cuisine, were big and tannic. When people started eating lighter, they had to learn to lighten them up a little.” That said, Cahors will never be a dainty, aperitif kind of drink. It will never make a nice accompaniment for a plate of steamed vegetables, nor should it go to the beach. But it ought to find favor with advocates of high-fat, high-protein diets à la Atkins.
Locals consider Cahors to be the logical accompaniment to foie gras, and to most dishes involving black truffles— Cahors being more or less the heart of the Périgord region. The preternaturally boyish Pierre-Jean Pebeyre is a fourth-generation truffle negotiant; dining with Pebeyre and his wife, Babethe, in the town of Cahors I have experienced some stunning food-and-wine pairings involving black truffles and Cahors. The Pebeyres taught me to make a sauce of butter whisked into warm truffle juice (available in tins) with pureed black truffles, which eroticizes almost any simple dish.
Stendahl once remarked on the resemblance of this part of France to Tuscany, and as in Chianti, the wine story here is partly one of deep-pocketed outsiders coming in to reinvigorate the area. Alain Senderens, proprietor-chef of three-star Lucas Carton in Paris, bought Château Gautoul in 1992.
The hyperactive Alain Dominique Perrin, former president of Cartier, who bought Château Lagrézette, with its impressive fifteenth-century château, in 1980, has become the Robert Mondavi of the region, the chief promoter and innovator of Cahors. Perrin seems to know nearly everyone of interest on the planet and has the photos in the château to prove it. His luxury cuvée Le Pigeonnier has set a new standard, with high ratings and a price to match. The superconcentration and 100 percent new oak treatment make this wine seem almost as international and polished as its proprietor, as if it were wearing a Cartier Panther watch around its neck; but in some ways I prefer the regular cuvée of Lagrézette, which seems more distinctively regional and less like something that could have come from Australia.
Alain Gayraud, the wildly enthusiastic proprietor of Lamartine, at the western edge of the appellation, still uses the cement fermentation tanks his grandfather built, and employs new oak barrels sparingly. His wines are among the most distinctive I encountered in my visit, muscular but a little reserved, requiring time to reveal their considerable charms and distinctive regional character. Gayraud makes three different cuvées, the lesser of which is more accessible on release, as does nearby Domaine Pineraie, where they’ve been making wine continuously since 1456. Among the domaines worth looking for are Châteaux du Cèdre, Clos Triguedina, Croix de Mayne, Haute-Serre, and Château Peche de Jammes, owned by Americans Sherry and Stephen Schechter.
As with Bordeaux, the vintages to seek out are the 2000, the 2003, and the 2005. Although these wines will be decidedly young and somewhat wild, they should behave well in the company of a cassoulet or a charred slab of prime beef.
MAJOR BARBERA
Giuseppe Rivetti, the proprietor of La Spinetta, describes Barbera as “the anti-Merlot”—which is as good a starting point as any other for a discussion of this provincial grape with multiple personalities. It’s easier to say what it isn’t than what it is. I take Rivetti’s comment to mean that Barbera is not the kind of mellow international beverage you order by the glass at the bar of a revolving cocktail lounge while listening to a pianist cover Billy Joel. Certainly Rivetti’s Barberas, with their rustic exuberance and feisty acidity, are more likely to evoke a noisy trattoria redolent of roasted goat.
The poor relation of noble Nebbiolo, Barbera had long been the workhorse of Piedmont, accounting for half of the region’s red-wine production. Barbera ripens earlier than the fussy Nebbiolo, the grape used in Barolo and Barbaresco, and was traditionally planted on cooler slopes and lesser sites. (The dirty little secret of Piedmont is that Barbera was—and, many say, still is—added to Barolo and Barbaresco to boost the color and add body.) Barbera typically produced a rustic plonk that was acidic enough to stand up to tomato sauce. Insofar as it was known outside the region, it was known as a pizza wine. Lacking in natural tannins—which extend the life of red wines—it was meant to be consumed young, and often.
A few wistful growers had Cinderella visions for this local grape. They wondered if, with the proper upbringing, it might not be capable of stardom. What if it was raised on prime real estate? What if it went to finishing school to learn French? Angelo Gaja, who revolutionized the treatment of Nebbiolo, told me recently that he was the first person to experiment with Barbera and French oak barrels back in 1969—the wood supplying the tannins that were missing from the grape itself. The idea was also proposed by French oenologist Émile Peynaud, who was consulting for a winery in Asti in the early 1970s. By most accounts, the man who actually placed the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot was the late Giacomo Bologna, a motorcycle-riding, jazz-loving, barrel-chested bon vivant.
A native of sleepy Rocchetta Tanaro, some ten miles east of the town of Asti, Bologna inherited a property called Braida and experimented with practices that seemed radical at the time. He planted Barbera on prime, sun-drenched slopes; picked the grapes late, to alleviate some of their acidity; and aged the juice in toasted new French oak barrels, which further softened the hard edges while lending the wine some wood tannins, giving it more structure. In 1982, the same year that changed the face of Bordeaux, Bologna created Bricco dell’Uccellone, a barrel-aged, vineyard-designated Barbera that rapidly caught the attention of the international wine world, and of Bologna’s neighbors. Bricco was the first super-Barbera. Call it Barbarella. (They’re big on nicknames in the Piedmont. L’Uccellone is named for the crowlike old woman who used to own the vineyard; l′uselun means big bird.)
More than two decades after Bologna created this new, sophisticated, smoking-jacket style of Barbera, it’s hard to generalize about this grape except to say that quality is better at all levels. Barbera is as stylisticall
y all over the map as Zinfandel, another blending grape that has achieved recent renown. Many makers continue to produce the lighter-style Barbera—which can be a tremendous value, particularly given the recent string of stellar vintages in Piedmont. The 2000,2001, and 2003 vintages all achieved a ripeness that should counterbalance the natural acidity of the grape; good examples, like Michele Chiarlo’s Barbera d’Asti Superiore and Icardi’s Barbera d’Asti Tabarin, retail for about fifteen dollars. Barbera d’Asti is often fatter and fruitier than Barbera d’Alba, in part because the best, sunniest slopes in Alba are reserved for Nebbiolo, producing Barolo and Barbaresco. Many of the greatest producers of Barolo—Scavino, Clerico, Mascarello, Sandrone, and Aldo and Giacomo Conterno, among others— make supple, sophisticated Barbera d’Alba at a fraction of the price. The most concentrated, powerful Barberas are usually identified by vineyard name—often involving some variation of the word brie, which means hilltop in the local dialect. Price is another key indicator—the Barbarellas, like Franco Martinetti’s powerful Montruc, can sell for upwards of fifty dollars.
Bricco dell’Uccellone has proven itself over the past two decades to be a serious, ageworthy wine. Tasting at the winery this past spring with Raffaella and Giuseppe, Giacomo Bologna’s children, I was deeply impressed by the complexity and freshness of the ′89 and ′90 Bricco dell’Uccellone. The ′01 is another classic. The Bologna family makes several other excellent Barberas, including Bricco della Bigotta and Ai Suma. The most mind-boggling Barberas I’ve tasted recently were from La Spinetta, which in 2001 was named winery of the year in the Italian wine bible Gambero Rosso. My teeth are still stained from the experience of tasting the ′99 Barbera d’Alba Gallina and the ′99 Barbera d’Asti that spring; both reminded me in some ways of great, old-vine Zinfandels, and also reminded me of a blackberry fight I had with two fifth-grade classmates in Vancouver, Canada. We were picking blackberries, and after we’d filled two buckets and eaten several handfuls, we started throwing the surplus at one another. Thirty years later, Giuseppe Rivetti’s Barberas made me almost that exuberant.
GO ASK ALICE
The Dark Secret of Bandol
Many of you fashionable diners and sophisticated travelers are probably familiar with the refreshing, slightly bitter rosés of Bandol. From West Hollywood to Sardinia, Domaine Ott rosé is the official summertime beverage of the Prada and Hermès brigades. But fewer are aware that Bandol—a middle-class resort and fishing town between Marseille and Toulon— is home to one of the world’s great red wines.
“Bandol rouge has been the love of my life,” says Alice Waters, one of the great epicures of our time. Indeed, Domaine Tempier rouge has been more or less the house wine at Chez Panisse, in Berkeley, since it opened, some thirty years ago. “They have incredibly long lives and incredible perfume,” Waters says of red Bandols. “I can always pick them out blind in a tasting.” Waters particularly likes them with lamb, strong cheese, and figs. “And a young one slightly chilled can be incredible with bouillabaisse.”
I would add dry-rubbed spare ribs and beef stew to this list.
“Kind of like a cross between Barolo, Brunello, and Châteauneuf-du-Pape” is how Will Helburn of Rosenthal Wine Merchant describes red Bandol. Like Châteauneuf-du-Pape, it is the product of hot Provençal summers, redolent of the wild herbs (known collectively as garrigue) that perfume the hillsides, and probably best appreciated in the cooler months, alongside red meat or wild game. Like Barolo or Brunello, it is stubborn, sulky, and slow to evolve, which may account for its wallflower status.
Two centuries ago, Bandol reds were ranked alongside those of Bordeaux and Burgundy and were prized for their longevity—a quality attributable to the Mourvèdre grape, which is highly resistant to oxidation. However, the vineyards of Provence were replanted with higher-yielding and less-demanding grape varieties after phylloxera wiped out the Mourvèdre late in the nineteenth century, and Bandol never really recovered its luster.
The story of Bandol’s resurrection is murkier than a fermenting barrel sample of young Mourvèdre. (Importer Kermit Lynch, who owns a house in the region, recounts at least two and a half different versions in his classic book Adventures on the Wine Route) All that need concern us here is that two or three determined growers worked together to restore the noble Mourvèdre to the hillsides and set strict regulations for the appellation.
“Bandol is about Mourvèdre,” says Neal Rosenthal, who imports one of the finest—Château Pradeaux. While the regulations allow up to 50 percent Grenache and Cinsault, the best wines are mostly Mourvèdre. When young, Bandol Mourvèdre tastes like ripe blackberries squashed up with old tea bags. With age, after growing up in a microbiologically active cellar in Provence, it can smell like old sweaty saddle leather, dry-aged beef, and even wet fur. And I mean that as a compliment.
Fans of the increasingly expensive great Châteauneuf of Château de Beaucastel will probably love Pibarnon, Pradeaux, or Tempier—three of the top Bandols. Beaucastel is about 30 percent Mourvèdre, and like the other three is made without new oak, which can mask flavors and aromas. Fans of clean, technically perfect, tutti-frutti New World winemaking may well be horrified by the slightly funky herbal characteristics of a great aged Bandol. If you’re the kind of person who would never consider sharing a room with a wet Labrador retriever or a lit cigar, then I advise you to skip the rest of this column.
Like Nebbiolo, Mourvèdre is a late-ripening, tannic grape that doesn’t do well much north of the Mediterranean. “Mourvèdre needs to smell the sea,” claims poetic Randall Grahm of Bonny Doon Vineyard, who has made some fine California versions of Bandol rouge.
Château Pradeaux is a mere three-iron away from the Mediterranean. The vineyard has been in the Portalis family since before the French Revolution, and the big, gamy, backward wines made there may well resemble those of the nineteenth century—what the French call les vins de garde. Hold the saliva for a couple of decades; Rosenthal is just now uncorking his ′82s, while waiting for the monster ′89s and ′90s to open up. Not exactly a wine for instant gratification, but worth the wait. “You can actually smell the sun,” says Rosenthal of a mature Pradeaux. “Beeswax and tiger lilies are the high notes, animal fur and saddle leather underneath.”
A little farther from the ocean, Domaine Tempier is a relatively recent creation. As part of his dowry upon his marriage to Lulu Tempier, Lucien Peyraud received several hectares of neglected vines in the hills outside Bandol. By all accounts one of the great personalities of the past century, Peyraud started researching the history of the area and replanting the vineyards with Mourvèdre. By the time he died, he had created a great domaine and a global cult of aficionados for his bold, long-lived reds and his carpe diem rosés—a tradition that continues with his sons François and Jean-Marie. A few years back I shared a bottle of truffly, rosemary- and Montecristo-scented 1969 with Kermit Lynch in the cellar of the domaine and guessed it to be fifteen years younger.
Other excellent Bandols include Domaines Bunan and Château La Rouvière. Prices are generally lower than for Châteauneuf-du-Pape or Barolo. No one would be happier than I to see them remain so. On the other hand, development pressure in the area is so fierce that increasing renown and prices for the wines of Bandol may be the only hope for preserving some of these beautiful hillside vineyards.
THE SPICY REDS OF CHILE
I once speculated that the grapes for a certain luxury Champagne were harvested individually, by vestal virgins, never suspecting that I would one day witness something close to this whimsical vision. Arriving at the winery of Casa Lapostolle in Chile’s Colchagua Valley one morning in March, I encountered some ninety women lined up on either side of a narrow table about the length of a tennis court, plucking Cabernet grapes one by one from dewy clusters that were handpicked that morning, saving the best and discarding those that were damaged or unripe. High-end winemakers around the world employ sorting tables and manual labor to roughly edit out the leaves from the clusters,
but I’ve never seen it done literally grape by grape. The grapes in question were destined for the winery’s Clos Apalta, one of Chile’s new wave of luxury reds. The radically meticulous sorting process was one more piece of evidence, if I needed it, that Chilean wine is not just for swilling anymore.
Chile’s Central Valley—located in the center of this tall, skinny country, and crisscrossed by rivers and subvalleys—is a paradise for grapes. The climate, moderated by the Andes to the east and the Pacific to the west, is often described as being a cross between those of Napa and Bordeaux. Wine grapes arrived with the missionaries who followed the conquistadors, and the importation of vines (and winemakers) from France in the mid-nineteenth century created an invaluable viticultural resource; what never arrived in Chile was phylloxera, the disease that subsequently devastated most of the world’s vineyards. The raw material was in place, although it remained underexploited until the end of the Pinochet era, when domestic wineries began to look to the international market and foreign wine interests started pouring money into the Central Valley.
Alexandra Marnier-Lapostolle, whose great-grandfather invented Grand Marnier, began scouting Chile in the early 1990s and then brought in Michel Rolland, the renowned and ubiquitous oenologist. In 1994 she and her husband, Cyril de Bournet, founded Casa Lapostolle and secured Rolland’s services as a consultant. As you follow her through a dusty vineyard while she tastes grapes and talks about prephylloxera rootstocks, you keep thinking that Lapostolle is one of those chic, svelte, and devastatingly attractive women you see on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. It seems appropriate that she describes Clos Apalta as her “haute couture wine.” (Lapostolle also produces two lines in the ten- to twenty-dollar range.) The grapes, which are so tenderly plucked at the winery, come from a nearly hundred-year-old vineyard of gnarled Cabernet, Merlot, and Carmenère vines in the Colchagua Valley, which is bounded by a horseshoe of snowcapped mountains.