Let me start by saying I had a chip on my shoulder before even steeping foot in the Napa Valley. So when my friend Arantxa, a Valenciana working in the Salinas Valley, asked if I wanted to tour wineries in the Napa Valley I silently groaned while shooting back an enthusiastic line, 'Sure, I'd love to.' After all you can never really be a naysayer until you have sampled the peddler's wares. While I have been fan of big bodied, concentrated, super opulent Cabernet in the past, my palette has slowly evolved and over time I have become turned off to wines with backbones carved from new french oak and overripe berries. Bold, fruit concentrated, high alcohol Cabernets are of course, in vogue in Napa Valley and still fetching upwards of $250 per bottle from the utlra-premium producers. Even entry level Cabernets and Merlots can cost approximately $30 to $40 a bottle, leaving your typical wine drinker wondering where they can get a good value on a domestic bottle of wine (For many the answer is in the bargain bin at your local Trader Joe's).
For me the answer is clear: Europe and South America. As I wage slave I have a certain chunk of disposable income (that expands with my salary) to devote to wine. Increasingly aware of where my food and drink is produced I would ideally like to "buy locally" when possible. However it seems nearly impossible or rather, unsustainable for your typical laborer to purchase wine in California where an honest bottle of white starts at $20 and close to $30 for a red. Contrast these prices with continental Europe where the average bottle of table wine retails for roughly 5 Euros and the cost/quality ratio between continents is put into perspective. Thus, time after time I find myself returning to the same sections of my local package store to look for bargains in the Rhone Valley of France, the Rioja region of Spain and up and coming regions such as the Douro in Portugal. South of the border the best bang for your buck lies within the full bodied Cabernets of Chile's Maipo, Rapel and Maule Valleys or jump the border to Mendoza, Argentina to pick out a meaty Malbec to pair with your favorite medium to rare cut of grass fed beef.
But it was settled. I had agreed to tour the Napa Valley. Before I could even place my right foot on the gas pedal, I was aware that the trip was to be a tease, a pinhole glimpse at what the revered Napa Valley has to offer. After all it would be nearly impossible to sample more than a splinter of the wines produced in one day. However the trip would also have its rewards, demonstrating what a bit of wit and wisdom can afford two travelers on a shoestring budget. Since the trip was not originally my idea and I had little interest in the region I had no specific itinerary. Little did I know that neither did my partner in crime leaving us with grasping at straws as to where we should make house calls. Sure, I was familiar with the top end producers who's egos are perpetually inflated by shepherding critics, but many of them ie. Opus One, Shafer, Cakebread, Joseph Phelps, and Caymus require appointments, have exorbitant tasting fees or are only open for on-site sales. The night prior to our departure in a last ditch effort to get the low down on the Disneyland for adults I phoned my affable German pal Yohannesberg. Much to my surprise, the worldly Germ from Baden-Baden offered simple advice: start up the Silverado Trail and pop in anywhere that looks appealing. Easy enough.
Not wishing to forsake the wisdom of a man who has "been and done" we started out early(ish) Saturday morning up the Silverado Trail after fueling up and setting off from the Juice Bar in downtown Napa. Turning to Arantxa in the Tortuga Verde I quipped, "You know it never hurts to cleanse the palette with a tall mug of dark roast in the morning." "What?," she responded semi-confused and attempting to root out the the mix up in her breakfast order. "This is what you consider a muffin in the U.S.?" she queried pulling apart two thin slices of toasted bread, the insides chalk full of air craters. My belly bounced a bit as my diaphragm spasmed. "No, no, no. What you ordered is an English muffin," I informed her mentioning that it wouldn't be half bad with a greasy egg over easy and slab of American Cheese. Now that would be what we call a "Rebel" muffin.
Turning left onto the Silverado Trail we became the disjointed head of a long motorcade of easily bemused tourists and disgruntled valley dwellers. After all touring the valley should be pleasurable and done at reasonable speeds at least fifteen mile under the posted speed limit. Our first visit was in the Stag's Leap District of Napa Valley which first gained notoriety after Warren Winiarski's Stag's Leap Wine Cellars 1974 Cabernet took first place in the 1976 Paris tasting when it outclassed a hand full of Bordeaux first growths as well as other top California reds. The Stags Leap District, which was not classified as an American Viticulture Appellation (AVA) until 1989, received its name from local legend that alleges that stags have often times leaped off the jagged palisades, that loom boldly above the region, while fleeing the hunters' rifle. Aside from the breathtaking views the region has been characterised for its opulent Cabs and Merlots squeezed out of vineyards with little more than a few feet of topsoil resting on a solid granite floor.
Partially attached to the lure of the region's winemaking history as well as the physical beauty of the area we decided made our first stop at the highly esteemed Clos Du Val winery at the southern end of the Stags Leap AVA. Clos du Val (meaning "small estate in a small valley), which was started by an American businessman and French winemaker in the early seventies, has expanded in size and reputation over the past 35 plus years. Stepping out of the car I crammed the rest of my tautly wrapped breakfast burrito down my throat, salsa and sour cream careening down the sides of my face as a potpourri of Beamers, Mercedes and a stretch Limos pulled into the tiny parking lot. Yep, another a typical fall Saturday in Napa.
Heading to the loo to relieve myself for a comfortable tasting the Limo chauffeur's eyes lit up as he asked delightedly in a Slavic accent, "Uwe, you are from Neeuuu Yooorrk? That's a long way a way!" I gave a nod as I continued on my linear path as a crew of mid-forties bleach blondes exited the strechtmobile, their bosoms bouncing in tight-fitting designer tops, their spirits filled with mirth. "Hey, this guy is from New York," he enlightened the busty beauties, whom remained indifferent to the Croacians discerning detective work.
Post relief we entered the tasting room to meet Jim, a straight shooting grower who offered us industry studs a complimentary tasting of Classic (read entry level) wines upon proof of a pay stub or self gratifying business card. Done and done. Please maestro let the liquid gold flow like an untamed cascade off of a defrosting mount. OK, a series of five 3 oz samples will suffice. After the first pour, the spiel was on, our main man giving us the run down of fruit quality, new oak percentage, and sensory components of the wine. Our first sample, the chardonnay. Pourmaster J alleges that Clos du Val seeks to pick at optimal ripeness, with the chardonnay coming off the vines at 23 to 25 brix and using only 20 % new oak to allow the wine to show off vivid "tropical fruit." Pleased as I was to hear our host's fun filled facts the wine didn't quite meet up to specs and the finish felt as if my tongue and sides of my mouth had been swabbed with a stave of oak. The gaggle of giggling gal pals behind us starkly disagreed. "Oh my God. You know what gurlz?," shrieked one orgasmically, "this is like my favorite chardonnay ever. I mean ev-er!" The swirling pack of beautes agreed, bracing themselves on the bar, eyes bright and salivating for the next pour.
Next in the lineup was the Sauvignon Blanc which was made with grapes purchased from a nearby estate; Jim called it the prototype of what he looks for in a sauv blanc. Matter of fact he explained he had just spent three weeks in New Zealand the previous year and he didn't find one savvy that met his expectations or stood out. Arantxa and I turned and looked at each other amused as I rolled my eyes in disbelief. "Well, Jim," in a frank but casual tone, "us two bozos just finished a vintage in Marlborough last winter, the heart of suavignon blanc country, and I can name of hand full of outstanding wines from the region." Was this part of the spiel? Are American sauvignon blanc producers trying to steal back Marlborough's thunder in tasting rooms? Who knows? The wine it turns out wasn't bad with hints of citrus, pineapple, wet stone and maybe a bit of candy in the nose as well as lasting acidity. My cohort seemed to pick up a bit of green or vegetative aroma in the nose, but overall I was pleased. A hallmark, maybe not, but a summer bbq quaf, sure why the hell not.
What we did enjoy and what I was most surprised with throughout Napa Valley was the Merlot. As an avowed non-drinker of Merlot I was pleasantly surprised with the varietals drinkability in Napa. At Clos du Val the Merlot showed dark fruit, plum, baking chocolate and touch of leather in the nose with a medium body, strong backbone, smooth tannins and brooding dark fruit finish. Aside from the merlot's strong showing, outside the entrance to the cellar door sat 13 rows of merlot vines, acting as an educational tool on trellising techniques including spur, cordon, vertical shoot position and head pruning systems.
Shooting further up the Silverado Trail we turned into the infamous Stag's Leap Wine Cellars parking lot only to high tail it back to the main road as it was evident it was a hot spot along the trail. Opting to get off the beaten path we followed Jim's kind insider advice and called up Kim at Robinson Family Vineyards, a smaller family producer who's property neighbors Winiarski's prized domaine. With splotchy service my cell phone wavered in and out as I could barely make out Kim saying "where are you," "at the gate," and as my phone cut out "ye...c'mon...up." Soon we were negotiating a series of private drives and passing a pair of geezers clad in lyrca stretching aside their aluminum Ironhorse's as we rolled down into a three space parking lot under the enormous palisades coolly perched over the valley. Upon entering the tasting room, sister Carrie was organizing tasting bottles blanketed with CO2 and apologizing profusely for her current state: informal garb. No worries we informed her. After all why does wine have to be so formal.
If anything Robinson Family Vineyards eased my mind that Napa wasn't entirely filled with megalomaniacs hellbent on prestige and turning a massive profit. The winery which was started by Norman Robinson in the seventies has slowly evolved to a family centered hobby that generates a bit of extra income for the family. The winery tells a story of down home country wranglers who gave up horses for the wine industry. Idyllic, individual, proud, humble, bucolic and passionate would be some of the best fitting descriptors for the operation. As we headed out to take a look at the vineyard, tasting glasses gripped firmly in hand, the next generation of the family, a pack of youngsters with crewcuts, put down the pigskin to take a spin around the property in the six wheeled gator.
The vineyards, comprised of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes, are planted on roughly 7 acres behind a hand built log cabin on a hillside that skirts the base of the palisades. The terraced vineyards were covered in a layer of humus in an attempt to maintain moisture throughout dry spells. Carrie informed me that throughout the year the vines are continually stressed as water is non-existant(their wells dried up and they have to import water) and the root systems can only go down a few feet before hitting solid rock which prevents them from reaching a steady underground water source. Thankfully terrior is multifaceted and other climatic conditions make the region ideal for elegant reds. While temperature during the days remains mild and in the 70s to 80s the rock formations under the mountain absorb the heat and warm the vineyards throughout the night allowing for a long growing season while creating the optimal conditions for balanced fruit.
If the vineyard was eye opening the cellar was equally intriguing. When the fruit comes into the cellar from the vineyard it is crushed and placed into three ton vats where it is fermented out and then pressed off with a traditional wooden basket press that sits on a concrete slab that doubles as a dinner patio and outdoor kitchen including a clay oven stove, both crafted by the girls father Tom, a mason by trade. Likewise, the newest paterfamilias also carved out the underground cave used for barrel aging and the family's personal wine library. On display in the library is one of Norman's earliest productions, an '85 red blend labeled FART with a cloud of smoke behind the name, cheekily alluding to the collaboration between Robinson, Nathan Fay and Tom Turnbull. The Robinson family has essentially borrowed a few pages from older European producers who molded their wineries with their own blood and sweat rather than the dot com boom and investment banking.
Tasting the wine seemed almost second hand to seeing the property but we were nonetheless equally impressed with the Great Legs Syrah which showed dark spice, truffle and vivid fruit as well as the Estate Merlot which showcased truffle, currant, espresso and a hint of my arch nemesis green olive balanced with smooth relaxed tannins and boasting to age up to ten years. While it's fair to say that I wasn't blown away by the wine it doesn't really matter what I think. When I asked Carrie about sales and distribution she informed me that each bottle produced is virtually guaranteed a home. Even if that home happens to be the in the deep reaches of a the forlorn states Texas and Florida. Right then and there it clicked and it all made sense.
Hitting the road once again we bounced our way down the Silverado Trail to our next stop, Casa Nuestra, where we made another phone appointment minutes away from the tasting room. Stepping into the cellar door, once described by wine critic Matt Kramer as 'funky,' was a in and of itself stimulating to the senses. Our noses were immediately bombarded with patchouli incense, chimney smoke and old wood foundation. Unlike most tasting rooms, Casa Nuestra conducts its tasting (at least by industry standards) in reverse, starting with reds and finishing with whites. The idea is apparently common in parts of Germany where more acidic whites outshine gentle and fragile reds such as Pinot Noir. The tasting might have been my most challenging to date.
Our first glass was a sample of Tinto, a nine grape red blend including a portion of old vine zinfandel. As I splashed the wine about my mouth I starred into the eyes of a strumming Peter Yarrow and cast aside my reservations, for the time being at least. The old world throwback of planting nine varietals on a two acre plot was a bit more fascinating than the actual wine, that's nose appeared muddled and finished with unpleasant harsh tannins. Not to fear though, Casa Nuestra's Meritage, which I proclaim their best offering, closely resembles a St. Emilion blend (in varietal percentage at least) and offers dark spice and rhubarb with great finesses and delicious finish showcasing dark fruit. On the white side the Chenin Blanc shined brightly with crisp acidity and pear, apple and citrus in the nose. The reds' lingering tentacles were felt, however, maybe dulling the Chenin's finish and rendering the Rosado's nose indicipherable. Needless to say different strokes for different folks. If Old Gregg had a personal preference for a wine, Greg's place would stocked with cases of Casa Nuestra.
Our palettes worn and our bodies weary, Aranxta and I pulled up our bootstraps to visit one more winery, but this time on the well trodden route 12. While I had a few wineries in mind I knew that no tour of Napa would be complete for a foreigner without visiting the great house of Robert Mondavi. If baseball had Babe Ruth is to major league baseball what Robert Mondavi is to Napa Valley. The only difference is that when the Babe faded away after a few stellar seasons Robert Mondavi grew wise as a entrepreneur and visionary and soon transformed into Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle and Hank Aaron. The man just refused to stop producing quality wine for the masses as well as premium cabernet for the high end market.
To say that the Robert Mondavi Winery was a madhouse would be an understatement. At nearly closing time the parking lot was still packed and swarming with tourists of all nationalities and colors. Entering through the main arch we became eyewitness to group photo opps with a copper statue of a topless Victorian woman, meticulously manicured vines bedazzled with sparkling white pebbles and the general tasting room which looked more like a busy San Francisco pub, filled with long steamy lines and raccous laughter. We had just walked into a enophile amusement park for the masses.
My gut reaction was to book, leave the spectacle behind and retire to the relaxing hotel room with cable t.v., but on second thought we decided that it sure couldn't hurt to cash in on a free industry tasting. First we hit up reception which directed us to the Reserve Room crowded with suits and pearls, a stuffy environment with a shrewdly manicured and at upon introduction arrogant attentdant, who haughtily directed us down the club room. Mid-nineties tasting of To Kalon denied. We backtracked, as directed, to the Club Room which was adorned with Mondavi memorabilia and candid photos, a quiet retreat for enthusiasts to hand pick estate and reserve wines while pulling hors d'eurves from a communal marble slab. Jesus, the tranquil host was busy pouring and selling memebership to a feisty couple who would settle for nothing less than two membership cards. Jesus wiped the sweat from his unfurrowable brow and offered us up tasting menus.
Before we could order a more boisterous couple to the left of us sucked down samples applauding our host while complimenting "Now Chewey, that is one hell of a wine. Goddamn!" Reaching back into my faltering short term memory I began to wonder how Jesus, (traditionaly pronounced Hay-zeus) the burly Mexican-American guy in front of me became the eight foot Chewbaca from George Lucas' Star Wars. I let it go. Then once again we heard the same country twang, a mix of southern roustabout and California cowboy. "Hey now Chewey yer gonna hafta bring out another bucketa' olives cause I am gonna house the ones you got out here," declared the stocky gent to our left sucking back five stuffed greenies off of a toothpick. Taking interest in the short church mouse duo to his right, the thick necked man turned our direction and asked our place of origin. Disinterested in the cold dreary environs of Western New York the wrangling wine enthusiast immediately recognized the whereabouts of the Valenciana's abode in the Salinas Valley offering as advice "Now stay out of Watsonville ya hear."
Final thoughts on Mondavi: save your money and buy the Napa Cabernet a nicely balanced wine for the price. The Carneros Pinot Noir was an oak bomb and the Reserve Cabernet not quite worthy of the price tag.
Walking out of the tasting room Aranxta asked me for my brutal critique. Giving here a bit of the Belgian guy I mused "Well, the brie was certainly tasty."
Part Deux to come.
Check out wineries at:
http://www.robinsonfamilyvineyards.com/
No comments:
Post a Comment