Italian wines at the Decanter Tasting - Part Due
Second day at the Decanter. I griddled my loins, set my gums to stun and my teeth to deep stain and prepared to take on flight upon flight of the best and worst that Italy could throw at me.
First to peep above the parapet was a gaggle of Pecorino or Pecorini, a grape that supposedly derives its name not because it tastes like hard cheese but from the fact that sheep are quite partial to its charms. Maybe it was the sunshine, but generous marks oozed from my pen. The wines were pleasant, at best fresh with crystallised fruits and smokiness, at worst slightly confected and pear-drippy. I fought for a Coda di Volpe (did a Coda di Volpe ever fight for me?). Bronzes gonged merrily. Next three Muller-Thurgaus. I like an underpooch and Muller has a deservedly bad rep for delivering sugar-water in industrial quantities. These were solid citizens, good aromatic examples of a grape that is supposedly a cross of Riesling and Chasselas. In a fit of largesse we awarded a silver to one. Thence to Pinot Grigios, none of which buttered my parsnips and finished with some weepily pretentious Chardonnays. The wines were neither fish nor flesh if not particularly foul; there was no point to them, no spirit within them, just blowsy, unripe melon fruits. Upfront and over here. Sitting fatly in the glass one was bold gold in colour, smelled like churned vanilla ice cream and tasted like peach melba with toasted croutons. It was a manufactured wine to the nth degree, mildly rebarbative until one saw the price (dreamed up by a fantasist winemaker) and then it was totally rebarbative.
My favourite segment of wines contained the Chianti Rufinas. Whether it is onomatopoeia nuance but I always associate Rufina with the rougher, rustic side of Chianti. And the wines were certainly earthy and hearty, a tad more old-fashioned than their refeened Classico brethren. We merrily silvered a few and felt that all was gas and gaiters in the world of Tuscany.
The universe must have checks and balances for we proceeded to IGT Toscana wines which tested our resolve for punishment. In my best Latin - veni, vidi, vici. Or weeny, weedy, weaky (with apologies to 1066 and All That by Sellers and Yeatman). These wines struck an intense desire in us to confront the winemakers and shake them into a realisation that they were producing over-manipulated, technically clumsy and achingly expensive oak-juice that no-one in their right palates would be able to drink. The residual sugar in some of the reds was vertiginously high (13 g/l anyone?) and, combined with low acidity, high alcohol and char and tar oak what you end up with is liquid gloop. Or soup. With tannin. Mean unresolvable tannin. I like wine to be drinkable; this then was the antithesis of wine. The higher the price so the lower the score; the axiom that more means less was indisputably correct. A classic case of never mind the quality, feel the width. IGT= Inherently Ghastly Travesties. Get a grip, Italian winemakers!
After that came some wines from Emilia-Romagna. Mingling amongst the acute mediocrity was a cute Barbarossa which was most unusual and very flavoursome and a few nice blends featuring blends of Sangiovese and Malvasia Nera (an intriguing variety with plenty of aromatic potential). Unfortunately, there was also a plethora of “super Emilians”, wines which desperately wanted to be taken seriously. I was reminded of the expression that you can drive out nature with a pitchfork; in these case you could drown in it a new oak barrel.
Our convivial panel raced through the flights and we were there or thereabouts with our marks. An occasional dilemma arises according to whether one felt that a wine ticked the boxes or whether one liked a wine sufficiently to be able to recommend to a friend (or a stranger). If I couldn’t bring myself to drink the wine I wouldn’t give it a mark that implies drinkability, so, in absolute terms, my scores were possibly unduly generous, because so many of the wines were unacceptably, rather than acceptably, mediocre.
After a brief sojourn for lunch and degumming we reconvened for the final few: a group of wines from southern Italy, predominantly featuring Aglianico. The first wine, however, was a nifty 100% Piedirosso, dark and crunchy with some cool minerality and savoury pepperiness. It was delicious; I almost wanted to give it a gold because I was approaching that euphoric state of demob happiness. In the end it only registered high bronze. The rest of the Aglianicos and Taurasis were members of the port, prunes and p-tannin brigade, where you feel that the fruit has roasted under a hot sun until all the juice has evaporated leaving neat alcohol and grape skin. These wines are not my style, although I could see that there was a regional identity. But you know the tasting is nearly over when your tasting notes are as astringent as the wines.
For all the abovementioned digs I very much enjoyed the experience and thanks to Jane Hunt for inviting me to participate. The tasting was superbly organised, a credit to Decanter.