Northern Italy by way of Savoie Pt 2
They do what it says on the label
The drive through the Langhe hills reveals a rolling landscape of orchards and almond trees and green fields and copse-clustered slopes. The Bera farm wears its organic credentials proudly. The vineyards are beautiful: 10 hectares in total with five on steep south-facing slopes (these are the Moscato vines). They are verdant with grass and weeds in abundance, fava beans (beanz meanz wines) are sown between the rows as they absorb oxygen and pass it into the soil. Plus they can be consumed with a ham actor and a bottle of good Barolo (not Chianti as the film had it). The soils are limestone-clay and deep and not compact. Alessandra pointed towards her neighbour’s vineyards which looked like a dustbowl in comparison.
You can smell the air here. It is breezy in the hills with refreshing wafts of wild mint from the fields (it grows freely amongst the vines). Alessandra says you can taste it in the wine and I do remember thinking that the Moscato and Barbera had this delicious fresh herbal inflection.
Call that a vineyard (over there); this is a vineyard!
Everything is done painstakingly by hand; the excess foliage is plucked, the fruit selected and placed in small cagettes. Viticulture can be high maintenance.
We had dinner in the winery on a massive oak refectory table. The quality of the produce was exceptional: highlights included thick rounds of squidgy sausage and herbal goat’s cheese, followed by pasta and bean broth of wondrous refined rusticity and an apple pie to go to bed in. This is what I dreamed Italian food would be like – made with enormous care and love for the ingredients.
With the dinner we had the full range of wines from Bera. We have always admired them for their naturalness and authenticity; these are unfiltered wines with native yeasts. The reds, especially the Barberas, seem alive, being rasping, prickly and darting across the tongue. They don’t always taste exactly the same from day to day, but that is part of the charm of being a natural product. I have experienced variance in so many of our best growers’ wines. I can imagine that for some people this might constitute a fault: supermarkets, for example, demand rigorous consistency. To me that is a sterile philosophy. If wine is truly a living thing we must allow for occasional variability. Nevertheless, when you taste, you need to adjust your expectations and try to understand where the wine is coming from. Submitting a wine to analysis is like looking at a human being through a microscope; yes, you can see every flaw in the skin, but such flaws make up who and what we are. We live in a pseudo-scientific culture wherein we dissect so precisely and demand so much that we lose sight of the essential truth: enjoyment! As Ralph Waldo Emerson says: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”
A neat summary of the difference between real wines and branded products.
My comments on Bera’s two Barberas are filched from our wine catalogue (excuse me for quoting myself!)
The unfiltered Barbera “Le Verrane”, fermented in cement tank, is true to type with varietal notes of mulberry, cherry-soda, balsam and mint and faint traces of liquorice on a palate that drives all the way. The wine undergoes its malolactic in the bottle; do not be surprised to get a Lambrusco-style tongue-prickling epiphany. This unpredictable red is a party in glass, vinous space dust. It is frivolously serious with a charming bitter-sour contrariness guaranteed to offend the techno-squeakers, nit-pickers and fault-fetishists. The vivid Ronco Malo is classic Barbera cherry-amour; it brilliantly grips tongue, throat and attention.
The Ronco Malo seems to capture the philosophy of Bera and of Asti in general. I am reminded of an occasion when a wine buyer called me and asked whether we listed a Barbera d’Alba. “Only wines from Asti”, I said (proudly). “Oh”, she said, “not my style – too rustic”. “That’s why I like them”, I replied. The Ronco Malo is intense, but utterly pure, displaying what the French called nerve or tension. It tastes like a terroir wine through-and-through: wild yeastiness crunched together with cherries, earth, stones and herbs and it properly insists on food: that slightly astringent rasp calls for any part of the pig that’s in the pot.
Le Verrane, as the above note implies, is beyond left field. I have previously enjoyed the wine served directly from the fridge where the cool acidity sharpens the morello cherry fruit. It’s the classic charcuterie wine, although I don’t believe in Italy you need an excuse to bring out an array of delicious ham and sausage!
Moscato d’Asti can be drunk either as an aperitif or at the end of the meal. Many Moscatos are slightly sickly cheap confections; the delicious Bera version is from old vines and has a touch of minerality and lovely herbal quality behind the customary orange peel and grapefruit notes. Moscato/Muscat is a guilty pleasure – I can’t analyse a flavour that I like so much. I think the English palate needs to understand that a wine can be enjoyed and admired at the same time!
The hospitality of the Beras was a highlight of our visit to this part of Italy. My one regret is that we arrived late and somewhat exhausted after a rigorous schedule of running around vineyards, tasting and driving. I think I was suffering from botti-fatigue! There were many questions to be asked about the wines and the philosophical values of biodynamics. Next time – I’m sure we will come back soon.
Back on to the coach and a drive to a small town whose name escapes me and fall into a nondescript hotel. Tomorrow is an early start. We have a five hour drive across northern Italy to Trentino to visit Foradori and then right up into the Isarco in the South Tyrol to see the Cantina Valle Isarco.
Day 3 – The Story of Foradori – Up A Mount In the Dolomites – Bed in Bolzano
Five hours even on a comfortable coach is stupefaction guaranteed, but all our ears, eyes and antennae perked up when we slid into the valley linking Trentino wth Alto-Adige. The huge dolomitic rock seems hewn out of the texture of time itself. Compared to other mountains they seem brighter, more shimmeringly colourful, more monumental, and almost architecturally inspired. Formed 200 million years ago out of the primeval ocean, today they reach 3,000 metres into the sky. Déodat de Dolomieu (1750-1801) discovered and defined the unique composition of the stone, giving the mountains their name.
I found this rather sweet flight of poesy on a web-site
Imagine mountains which have the shape of gothic cathedrals, castles in ruins, belfries, immense walls, high towers, steeples and pinnacles, pietrified thunderbolts…
Mountains made of rocks which change their colour as the day goes on: sunrise, morning, noon, sunset, evening, night… they could be white like the snow, yellow like the sun, grey like the clouds, pink like a rose, black like a burnt wood, red like the blood…
Which is the colour of the Dolomites? Is it white? yellow? grey? pearly? Is it the colour of the ash? Is it the reflex of silver? Is it the paleness of the dead? Is it the shade of the roses? Are they rocks or clouds? Are they real or are they a dream?
Only the presidents’ heads are missing
Campo Rotaliano, for that is where we are, comprising the contiguous towns of Mezzolombardo and Mezzocorona, has seen tribes and rulers come and go – Rhaeto-Etruscan settlers, the Romans, Celts, Longobards, Franks, Tyroleans, Austrians, Bavarians and Italians. Whether conquerors or settlers, traders or mercenaries, all have left their mark at this crossroads where valleys, rivers and mountain ranges converge and diverge.
This region also offers the opportunity of discovering a grape variety that has been cultivated for centuries in a context rich in contrasts and history. Always exceptional, Teroldego has for long been considered a grape of unique character giving wines with “the body and robustness of a Bordeaux”, being “somewhat rougher” and possessing “strong varietal attributes” and “a little acidity”. These are words used to describe it by a 19th-century wine connoisseur. The Teroldego grape is medium-sized and deep in colour. Its vigorous vines need rigorous pruning. Depending on the year and the weather, the grapes ripen relatively early.
The first written document in which Teroldego is mentioned by name is dated 1383, when one Nicolò da Povo undertook to give a certain Agnes, who lent him money, a ‘tun’ (around 250 gallons) of Teroldego by way of interest. Between the 14th and 17th centuries, Teroldego was grown between Campo Rotaliano and Rovereto. It is spoken of in 16th-century Mezzolombardo when it gained a foothold in Campo Rotaliano. Elsewhere its use has waned.
We are met in the blindingly light courtyard by Titiana, export manager of Foradori who pours us a cooling glass of Myrto, a white wine.
The Foradori vineyards, she explains, lie mainly on alluvial soils from the Noce river and are a mix of stone and sand. Elisabetta is certainly the doyenne of the Teroldego and has done a selection massale to create fifteen biotypes which are the qualitative backbone of her wines. The vineyards are harvested separately and vinified separately, and, after eighteen months of ageing the final blends are made.
Recently, Foradori have started converting the vineyards to biodynamic viticulture, working according to the Maria Thun calendar and creating composts to allow the vine to receive more energy from the sun, as well as cutting the roots near the surface, thereby encouraging the plant to push deeper in search of water and mineral nourishment.
Foradori make two wines: the eponymous Foradori and Granato. The former is distinctive for the purity of fruit and the elegant weave of acidity whilst the Granato a wine of greater strength, harmony, depth and nobility. Deep, almost shy on the first nose, it reveals itself as the aromas come into focus: wild berries and candied fruit make way for roasted hazelnuts, baked bread, leather, eucalyptus and pomegranate (from which it derives its name), then the full robust palate shows plenty of temptingly chewy flesh.
I asked Jancis Robinson recently whether she believed that a wine could be feminine or express that quality. The resultant sceptical pshaw! fairly rocked the room. However, the Foradori operation exemplifies a smiling gracefulness and a cool efficiency that I associate with that word. Firstly, it is entirely manned (!) by women – don’t you love the felicities of language – bar one seemingly lobotomised bloke who drove round in circles on a tractor. The cellar is neat yet characterful; you could eat off the floor. The whole winery exudes elegance. Elisabetta herself is forthcoming, charming, passionate and precise and, at the risk of being anthropomorphic, her wines demonstrate similar qualities.
After a brief tasting or “Degustazione” of various vintages of Foradori and Teroldego and special bottlings of the biodynamic vineyard we strolled through the delightful town of Mezzolombardo to Per Bacco a sweet restaurant located in some former stables. I guess you would describe it as refined rusticity with fresh seasonal ingredients imaginatively presented. I can’t remember what I had to eat, but I do recall oohs and ahs and an atmosphere of smiling satisfaction. We repaired to the sun-baked courtyard for an espresso and a gentle bask – all was definitely right with the world and getting righter!
Time’s winged charioteer, however, was brandishing his ticking Swiss watch so it was all aboard the mystery bus to our next destination – the co-operative of Valle Isarco. More quaffable scenery on the way, a veritable granite manifesto of lowering blocks of stone which resembled giant teeth. On arrival at the very modern winery we were led up the hill by the director of the co-op to get the full panoramic.
The high life: vines in the alto part of adige
South Tyrol is regarded as one of the oldest-established wine-growing countries in the German language area. In the climatically sheltered countryside grapevines found excellent conditions thousands of years ago. The wine-growing tradition in the Eisacktal valley goes back to 500 BC. In the Middle Ages poets and minnesingers such as Walther von der Vogelweide and Oswald von Wolkenstein apparently praised the wine from Klausen and Brixen in their poems and songs. If you’re ever seeking credibility for the wines of your region, find a historically-misty local minstrel or two to give an endorsement, or, failing that, namecheck Pliny The Elder for the hell of it.
The Eisacktal wines were predominantly cellared in small wineries and by autonomous vintners. The actual upswing of wine-growing in Eisacktal occurred with the founding of the Eisacktal Kellerei Klausen EKK in 1961. The first headquarters were housed in the old Reinthalerhof in Klausen, until 1978, when the management decided to move to the present building.
The climate and countryside lend the Eisacktal wines their unique and distinctive character. Vines flourish at altitudes of 800-900 metres on the sun-drenched slopes (known locally as Leitn) of the Eisacktal valley and white grapes ripen particularly well due to the reddish-brown nutrient-rich soils, the aforementioned sunshine and the even distribution of precipitation.
The grape varieties have a Germanic flavour: Sylvaner, Kerner, Muller-Thurgau as well as some Italian sounding staples (Pinot Bianco or Weissburgunder) and Pinot Grigio (called Rülander). How I wish we could convert all Pinot Grigio labels on bottles to an indecipherable gothic script with the word “Rülander” blazoned on them. I’d like to see those who default/wimp out on a bottle of PG - aka flaccid grape water - curling their tongues around a few Teutonic consonants. Fancy a bottle of Rülander, meine kleine Strüdelchen? Genauso, meines liebchen. Or words to that effect.
But I digress.
Back amongst the vines under the beating sun. It is very important to breathe the air of the vineyards, to pick up the rocks in your hands and touch the vines. For all that winemaking is biology and chemistry what goes in the vineyard is very much about human judgement, which itself is a mixture of observation, intuition and guesswork. Humans have roots too, those who have lived and worked in a region for some length of time become part of the landscape. The true vigneron works with both his heart and his head.
An obscure hybrid classical music composer
We stopped at a lovely church with an ochre-hued spire that gazed over the valley. The graves were interesting; they were tiny little gardens of colourful mixed flowers and each stone had a miniature photograph as a memorial to the one who was buried. The fantastic view revealed vineyards dotted around the hillsides in small pockets in forest clearings, a testament to biodiversity. An attractive picture slightly tainted again by the sight and sound of lorries thundering through the valley.
We descended back to the winery passing by massive houses (many of them holiday “cottages”) for a tasting in the co-op’s sleek wine bar. Herewith my notes. Their brevity is due to the fact that plates of charcuterie appeared in my vicinity at the same time as an attack of munchies. Expect my wurst, so to speak.
Muidy (sic) and magnificent barrels
Südtirol Eisacktaler Sylvaner DOC 2006
This variety was introduced into South Tyrol around 1900. It favours high altitudes and well ventilated vineyards. Fresh apple-skin nose, surprisingly vinous on the palate with stony apricot fruit and well balanced finish.
Südtirol Eisacktaler Müller Thurgau DOC 2006
This grape variety is a cross between Rheinriesling and Gutedel (otherwise known as Chasselas) and named after its cultivator, Prof. Hermann Müller from Thurgau, Switzerland. Müller Thurgau has been synonymous with the cheap sugary dreck (scheisswein) that came out of Germany in the mid 70s and 80s, but this was no muller-lite wine rather an absolute beaut. The nose is floral, suggestive of muscat and nutmeg, the palate aromatic, fresh and grapefruity. The vines, which grow at nearly 900m, are all hand-harvested. A surprise hit.
Südtirol Eisacktaler Veltliner DOC 2006
Gruner is the terminally trendy grape variety of Austria but this is a peculiarity of the Südtirol, a blend of 75% Grüner Veltliner, 25% Frühröter Veltliner. The latter is being phased out in favour of the more noble former variety. A very dry white with intense minerality.
Südtirol Eisacktaler Gewürztraminer DOC 2006
Originating from the wine village of Tramin in South Tyrol, the grape has spread to wine-growing places all over the world. The Gewürztraminer vine prefers hilly terrain in cooler sites, which have to be sunny and well ventilated. The sunny slopes exposed to the south as well as its limestone soil make the Eisacktal valley a superb vine-growing area. This example is totally unconfected: at its most excessive wine made from Gewurz can smell like Yardley’s lavender talc and taste of tinned lychees in syrup. This wine combines power, delicacy and spice; it is dry, flavoursome and substantial.
Südtirol Eisacktaler Kerner DOC 2006
The Kerner grape is a hybrid, a disease-resistant cross between Riesling and the red grape Trollinger (also known as Schiava Gentile or Edelvernatsch). This example is simply extraordinary with aromas of green apples, melons and cream, before a soft curtain of delicious acidity opens into a full-bodied white wine full of peaches and apples and citrus fruits; the tell-tale distinctions of Riesling are backed by the strong mineral and nutty textures of cool-climate Italian whites. This rich, complex wine can tame most dishes; we had it back in England with pot-roasted partridge with spinach and an array of root veg.
Hotel with superb views – except from my room.
We left the trim co-op, impressed with the wines and bemoaning the fact that they made so little of them. The good things in life are always rationed; that’s what makes them good in the first place.
A quarter of an hour later we were at our hotel on the outskirts of Bolzano. An airy building with sweeping views up and down the valley it was a charming contrast to the dingy place we stayed the previous night. I was impatient to get to my room, open the door, throw open the window, stride onto the balcony and look all the way across… to the houses just opposite. I guess this is karma; on previous wine trips I have tended to draw the favourable bedchamber, most notably in a hotel in the village of Banyuls-sur-Mer in the Roussillon when my colleague virtually had to make do with a cupboard in a corridor whereas I was given a vast room with a balcony overlooking a shingle beach and went to sleep lulled by the susurrus of the Mediterranean.
After a shower met the rest of the gang in front of the hotel and we piled into cabs to go to Bolzano and dinner. The centre of Bolzano is a typical Italian town; there is an exceptional amount of flaning or boulevardiering, a stately parade of people ostentatiously sauntering for the sake of sauntering. They are there because they are there, because towns need their people to occupy the space therein and the inhabitants equally are proud of their towns and cities and want to enjoy them, because the night is always young, because you can order a beer or a glass of wine and drink it over the course of an hour, because it is the most natural thing in the world to sit outside in the middle of the night nursing an espresso chattering animatedly. Maybe that’s the difference, in that when you go into a pub or bar in this country as often as not you will be deafened by music or pinned against the wall by the sheer crush of humanity rushing to the bar to buy another round. In Italy slow drinking is the norm; I can’t recall seeing anyone slugging the booze, whilst on the streets even a late hour families were taking the air, women pushing buggies, men accoutred as if they were about to flaunt themselves on some nocturnal catwalk.
After a couple of beers in a micro-brewery bar we went to an adjacent restaurant that had plainly sacrificed its soul to tourism. I have to admit that the very thought of Italian food gets me slavering to such an extent I’m practically sitting in a pool of drool, but this was not cuisine of the land – it was cuisine of the bland. The menu was lengthy with a wide selection of antipasti, pasta dishes and mainly meat main courses. We ordered a bruschetta, some mixed fish and another dishes. Christian had warned us off the fish and, when it arrived, I could see why: a smear of what resembled defrosted smoked salmon, a couple of limp anchovies and an amorphous denatured grey something-or-other. I passed. The bruschetta was soggy and lacking flavour. This was unforgivable; you come to Italy to eat country bread anointed with the best garlic and rubbed with the sweet tomatoes to the sound of heavenly hosts trumpeting their approval, not to be confronted with something you’d be embarrassed to serve at home – to yourself. The pasta (about a million tiny ravioli) was mediocre. I was thankful I hadn’t ordered what looked like rice pudding, but was a really badly cooked risotto mush. My main was a not quite gruesome-but-plenty-of-chewsome hunk of venison with some assorted veg. The garnish for every single dish was a camp-looking half of cherry tomato which reminded me of the former English vogue for sticking a sprig or bunch of withered curly parsley on every dish regardless of its merits. To see an unripe cherry tomato astride of lump of venison or mingling in the ravioli is to witness a sad juxtaposition.
We left the restaurant and poked our heads into a few bars but they were all closing so it was back to the hotel where I discovered that I had locked the key in my bedroom. Apparently it’s in my genetic programming to do these things.
DAY 4 – Up and Down In the Adige – Blauburgunder Himmel – A Vertical of Pinot Bianco – Let Down in Verona
First stop was Georg Ramoser’s Untermosenhof winery. A huge unkempt hound met us; his intentions were friendly despite a notice on the door of the winery which announced that he was hungry and likely to devour unwary strangers. Georg led us up the hill towards the Sankt Magdalener church which gives its name to the wine made from the Schiava grape. The vineyards (mostly organic) were spectacular, carpeted with poppies, lush with grass with the vines trained in the old pergola fashion. From our vantage point we had the most amazing views, but not as amazing as the cable car that traversed from one side of the mountains to the other. At our feet was Bolzano, behind us a massive ridge covered in forest and vines, to the north the snow capped Dolomites and all around us a sea of wild green foliage. We discovered more almond trees which had shed their bounty on the path and whilst Georg was talking some of us were cracking nuts with rocks. Yes, we were really that hard up for a mid morning snack. Adrian, who last year had had a mildly allergic attack when he had tucked into a bowl of nuts, discovered by trial and subsequent error on this occasion that almonds were his nemesis.
Pergolas ‘n’ poppies
The generous pergola vines seem so much more real than the stunted twigs that are trained up wires. Most of the growers in the region have abandoned them in favour of more modern trellising systems, but their extensive canopies offer shade and respite from the battering sun. As Andrew Marvell wrote: “Annihilating all that’s made/To green thoughts/In a green shade.”
Back at the winery we sat down at two large refectory tables and tasted the small range of wines that Ramoser makes. By this time we had been joined by the winemaker from Tenuta Falkenstein (or Frankenstein as we predictably called the winery). Falkenstein means falcon’s rock by the way.
Looking down the hill from Santa Maddalena
Untermosenhof Sankt Magdalener Klassisch (or Santa Maddalena) 2005
Blend of 97% Schiava and 3% Lagrein.
Schiava or Trollinger originated in the South Tyrol. It probably reached the southern regions of Germany during Roman times. The variety is first mentioned under that name in fourteenth century documents, for example, Martin Luther drank it according to a report of the papal legate Alexander around 1520. Not sure whether any meistersingers have written deathless folk songs about it. During Mussolini’s time, a commission was appointed to judge the country’s best wines and, in 1941, they placed Santa Maddalena in the front rank alongside Barolo and Barbaresco. Considering the high esteem that the latter two wines generally enjoy, and the relative obscurity of Santa Maddalena today, this represents a jarring change in taste. Schiava is a relatively pale-skinned and its high acidity gives the Sankt Magdalener a biting bitter cherry freshness. This would be fun served chilled with a plate of chunky blood sausage.
Lagrein is an altogether bigger beast although it can be produced in a lighter style and make aromatic rosés.
Thanks to artisanal producers like Hofstätter and Georg Ramoser, I’m even becoming masochistically fond of Lagrein, the idiosyncratic indigenous red grape that looks as dark as Petite Sirah in the glass and tastes kind of like bitter zinfandel. Ask for it if you want to impress your wine store owner or your sommelier.
Jay McInerney
Untermosenhof Lagrein 2005
Leather and tobacco on the nose, plum-cake, dark red cherries and bitter chocolate on the finish
Untermosenhof Lagrein Riserva 2004
This style is known as Lagrein Dunkel or Scuro (i.e. dark Lagrein). Dark red, extractive bitter flavours of coffee, plumskin and toasty oak, lashings of pepper and dried spice, abundance of tannin. More impressive than charming.
Georg Ramoser
After lunch it was off to Mazzon on the other side of the valley to meet Bruno Gottardi who carted us up the narrow, winding mountain road in relays to his winery. We were captivated by his palatial residence perched above the vineyards like an eyrie and surrounded by exotic, scent-laden blossom trees (some of which were planted during Napoleon’s era). Pinot Nero, (Pinot Noir) locally known as Blauburgunder, is Gottardi’s passion and the micro-climate in the part of the Adige valley assists the cultivation of that temperamental variety with cool dry air cascading off Lake Garda and funnelling through the mountains before rising. The breezes keep the moisture off the vines which also means that fewer treatments are needed in the vineyard. For these reasons this small zone has acquired the sobriquet “Blauburgunder-Himmel”. Gottardi reminds us that we are on the same latitude as the Cote d’Or and one can certainly see where he draws his inspiration.
The aim is to capture the delicacy, perfume and heady essence of Pinot and to this end Gottardi looks for minimal extraction in the vinification. The beautifully designed winery works on gravity-fed principles. Pressing is pneumatic, gentle and even, so as not to acquire any bitterness or derive colour for the sake of colour.
Unsuspecting tourists about to be gravity fed into vats to give the Blauburgunder a meatier flavour
As usual only thimblefuls of wine are made and everything is on allocation. The straight Blauburgunder is exhilarating, bursting with wild strawberry and rhubarb fruit rounded off with a savoury mint-and-liquorice finish. This is limpid primary Pinot, gratification aplenty, lively, balanced and extremely tasty. How often does Pinot Noir let us down (he asks rhetorically)? As often as not. It enchants us, it infuriates us; its evanescent musky charms seduce us, its stewed or weedy fruit let us down.
The Gottardi Riserva wines with their extra maturity and secondary aromatics were beginning to ease towards notes of leather, truffle and raspberry leaf, but in their lightness of style (and colour) and gentle expressiveness they reminded me of a good Chambolle-Musigny.
Wine and the vines.
I liked the estate and the man himself. Gottardi, born in Austria, is himself a wine merchant with shops in Vienna and Innsbruck. He speaks elegant English in a clipped Germanic way. From what I’ve tasted in the past and what I tasted today these are easily the best Italian Pinots around (I haven’t tasted Hofstätter though).
There comes a point on any wine trip that a mixture of fatigue and sheer over-exposure to wine means that one naturally becomes less than receptive to the blandishments of the grower. I call it “Oh-no-not-another-steel-vat-syndrome”. This hit me when we reached our final destination of Weingut Niklas above Lake Kaltern at the foot of the Mendel mountain range. We were taken on a swift tour of the vineyards which were oddly chaotic, a mixture of trellising systems and with crazed chickens running amok between the vines and all sorts of rubbish and farm detritus scattered hither and thither: from empty paint tins and shards of timber to abandoned corncobs.
Niklas is a winery that makes all sorts of odds and sods but we were mainly there to taste three wines: a Schiava made in the style of a rosé, a Lagrein on the fruit and a run of five vintages of Pinot Bianco.
The Schiava was pleasant enough but slightly confected. Eric was disappointed as he had tasted the wine previously with the winemaker and they had agreed to create a wine in a certain style. The Lagrein was fine: more elegant and less extractive than the equivalent wines from Ramoser.
Weingut Niklas – under the Mendel mountains
Support your local pergola
The Pinot Bianco vertical was interesting. It is not a grape variety that ever expresses a great deal, tending toward the “waxy apple-and-pear” idiom without the compensation of driving acidity or elegant minerality. These examples ranged from 2002 to 2006. The oldest wine was outstanding with smoky, mushroom fruit bolted together by a steely core. It reminded me of very fine Chablis. The ’06 showed potential: at the present the wine is unremittingly dry and granny smith tart with residual carbon dioxide, but once it calms down and settles in the bottle it should fatten and develop a creamier texture. A lot of tasting, particularly tank or cask samples, involves using one’s imagination to see how the coarse raw material will evolve when time and/or winemaking techniques have modified it. Sometimes you taste the wine from the tank – it is cloudy and unrefined and yet so unmediated and of itself that you hope that these flavours will never be obfuscated or made over. Why wear loads of make up when you have a clear complexion?
A state-of-the-art wine rack in Weingut Niklas
And that was that. We said our goodbyes, packed our bones onto the coach and headed south to Verona.
It was time to reflect tranquilly on the past few days. When visiting a wine region one suspends judgement to a certain extent. The congeniality and enthusiasm of the growers, being smothered in snuffly doggy embrace by the invariable winery mutts, being plied with gorgeous salamis and cheeses at the pop of the cork, all add to the sense of place, and what places we visited! The meringue-shaped Alps and the monolithic slabby Dolomites, vineyards scarped and etched from forest and rock…
Yet when I return home I am compelled to look at wine in a different way and consider the relationship between the product and the consumer. Part of my job is to translate effectively the vision of the grower; to start from the bottle and go back to the beginning. VS Naipaul had an expression: the naming of things, meaning that once you could give something a name, you would begin to understand it. Wine is just liquid in a bottle, the end of a long story and that story deserves to be told; how else will the wine truly come to life? It begs the question: is wine purely a technical process or is it the accumulation and aggregation of innumerable corroborative details (some more important than others) such as the personality of the grower, the food of the region, the local fauna and flora, the local culture, the festivals and the history of the region? When you discover, for instance, that a grower works a vineyard in a certain fashion as a testament to vineyard practices centuries ago you have a further piece of the jigsaw. I am fascinated by the fuzzy truth in such matters; understanding and appreciating wine is not an exact science and I hope it never will be.
Northern Italy will never produce large commercial volumes of wine. Its strength is wonderful diversity - innumerable grape varieties, myriad micro-climates – allied to a strong cultural identity. For those who seek new taste sensations this region is very rewarding – worth the visit and if you can’t do that, the wines act as a perfect vehicle for imaginative transportation.
One bark short of the Battersea Dog’s Home
I’ve only tangentially alluded to my companions on the trip. What makes these visits work is camaraderie and a sense of fun as well as learning something new about people you work with. I would like to thank Dario and Christian, in particular, for their insightful explanations and simultaneous translations, Eric, of course, for organising the visit in the first place and Tim, whose excellent photos I have filched unashamedly (despite the fact that I have a three ton super-souped up camera bristling with buttons and knobs, I still managed to take a load of pix with the lens cap on. Step aside David Bailey) and, finally, everyone else for their enthusiasm and unfailing good humour. And our mate, the coach driver – what a trooper!!