RETURN TO TERRAS GAUDA
Galicia, Santiago di Compostela apart, is slightly off the tourist radar. With the Mediterranean coast of Spain gradually metamorphosing into an endless succession of hideous hybrid-style crazy-paved villa developments and golf course complexes designed by the ubiquitous Jack Nicklaus, it is good to know that this raw, somewhat elemental part of the country rises above such frivolities. The weather is perhaps a deterrent to the sun-seeking expat � this is a green land where mists roll in off the Atlantic and where the cascading rain reminds one forcibly of other celtic regions. Architecturally, some of the towns are, to put it kindly, functional. The motorways and main roads are particularly unlovely as they seem to connect one industrial estate to another, but follow the serendipitous coastal route and you come across busy fishing villages and a sense of communal identity.
On this occasion, for us, however, Vigo was wearing its sunniest smile and gayest weeds. Often I’ve been here in drear-dank November and the city is like a grim widow in a black bonnet clutching a stony reticule and the very air smells like the spray from multiple wet herrings being slapped on granite slabs. I’ve heard that Santiago di Compostela is the definitively damp place to be: the moss literally sprouts in front of your eyes, but Vigo also seems to absorb its fair share of Atlantic. No, this is not normally a city where tourists saunter taking in the sights (what sights) trigger fingers itching on the digital or where locals promenade loudly and proudly as if they were re-enacting a scene from La Belle Epoque - Vigo has a certain proud industrial feel with the culture of shipbuilding and fishing ingrained in the very architecture of the place. Nevertheless, on this delicious early evening with the temperature rising 30c, the tables on the pavements were packed with relaxed revellers enjoying their Galician beer. As Iago remarked to me you rarely see anyone drinking wine here and it’s true that often when you go into a bar or a small restaurant there is a dizzying array of spirits on offer but perhaps only one white and one red to choose from.
We strolled from the hotel down to the vast teeming harbour where boats from many countries were moored, climbed on board the good ship Empanada (I forget its real name) to be greeted by a smiling Augusto and chugged gently into Vigo bay. The evening was balmy, the light pearly, iridescent, and scarcely a ripple caressed the mirror’d water while the sunset bled gently into the sea and into our consciousness and the sky became as purple as my prose.
But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?
Bottles of Albarino and two crusty empanadas - those Domino’s boys deliver everywhere - magically appeared and were despatched with condign intent as the boat puttered amongst the innumerable mussel rafts and we drank in the gathering gloom. It was wonderful to think that a few hours previously we were sweating in an airport; now we were as chilled as the wine in our glasses.
.
Eventually we put to shore (how familiar I am with these nautical terms) and sallied up the gangplank only to find the door at the other end bolted. Augusto phoned for help and someone came and let us through. It was a short walk to the restaurant. The night smelled of warm blossom and salt. We were so mellow that they could have put any old slop on the table and we would have cooed appreciatively. As it was some spanking fresh prawns got the juices flowing, followed by the inevitable al dente pulpo with paprika and then we were offered various fish on the bone (sea bass, sole, hake were three of the choices), but I settled for a lobster rice, a kind of slushy paella served in a pan the size of a dustbin lid filled with an ocean of golden saffron rice and about a dozen part-buried lobster claws. The portion was so immense I nearly asked for a dogfish bag.
Back onto the boat and gently back into the night. Amy disappeared down the hatch and reappeared bearing a tray of gin and tonics or did I just imagine that? Drinking gin and tonic on a boat after midnight on a balmy evening looking at the twinkling city lights in the distance - it doesn’t get much better than that.
It was time to sample Vigo night life. This consists of one American rock and roll theme bar bursting with faux memorabilia and a fairly tacky dance bar with sad glitterball and precious little else. I nursed a desultory beer for half an hour and admitted defeat; someone was ordering chasers like there was no tomorrow. I was afraid that if I participated that there would be no tomorrow. Besides, I needed my ugly sleep.
DAY TWO - Bodegas Pittacum
Cometh the hour to depart to Bierzo and a fair few of our flock had not surfaced. Hugo took it upon himself to deliver the wakey-wakey calls from the reception desk. His voice must have sounded like an importunate road drill. A cheery, importunate road drill.
A barely conscious, bleary-eyed troupe piled on board the charabanc. Those with presence of alcohol-addled mind camped on the double seats on one side of the corridor the better to curl up and slumber. For those about to zzz we salute you. Attempts to ooze into sleep mode were confounded by the driver’s insistence on playing (on loop) a selection of “Now That’s What I Call Spanish Disco Diva Meets Folk Anthems Classics” at an irritatingly high volume. The tunes, if that’s what they were, wormed their way insidious way into our befuddled brains; we groaned collectively at the relentless emotive jollity, operatic hysteria and plinky-synth europap. I think they play this music to bulls before the corrida to sap them of the will to live. (Or more likely to enrage them so they are ready to inflict maximum gore)
For those of us who couldn’t recoup the lost zeds of the previous evening the drive to Bierzo zigzagging along roads shadowing the Minho river which angles into Rias Baixas and then Ribera Sacra had its fair share of breathtaking views. Initially, the scenery was dominated by heath-land, small pines, eucalyptus, alders and the occasional clump of heather, but further inland the landscape alters dramatically: the pines became bigger, small hills become mountains with tiny settlements clinging to the terraces. The river (Minho) cut deep gorges and created impromptu lakes. As we approached Bierzo the landscape became more arid with stunted trees and bushes and the greens slowly turned to browns.
Eventually we arrive in Arganza, a small town in the heart of the region. There are quite a few backpackers to be seen. Iago explains that this road is one of the favoured routes on the pilgrim’s way to Santiago di Compostela. We rendez-vous with Alfredo Marques Calva, the director of Bodegas Pittacum; the bus winds along some back ways, ascends a steep hill and deposits us on the hot, dusty road amidst a sea of scrubby vines. The views across the valley are magnificent. Alfredo shows us one of the many vineyard plots from which the Mencia grapes are sourced. It is not really a vineyard as one might imagine; no trellising, no neat rows, just clumps of tiny bush vines nibbling at your ankles with bunches of grapes literally scraping their feet on the soil. Alfredo explains that the development and quality of the grapes reflect the micro-climate; on the west facing slope of the hill (which receives more sun) the juice is softer and sweeter, whilst on the east facing slope (less than 50 metres away) he invites us to bite into a grape to experience the contrast. A delicious gust of acidity bursts onto the palate. Yet the grapes are ready to harvest on both sides of the hill - they have all reached their respective optimal maturities.
In Bierzo the vineyards are scattered over innumerable plots with different orientations and micro-climates at altitudes ranging from 500m to nearly 1000m. Alfredo visits all the individual sites owned or leased by Bodegas Pittacum, constantly assessing the maturation of the grapes. His test, he tells us, is to put the grape in his mouth and “feel when it is right”; it is the texture and quality of the skin not the juice that tells him the correct time to harvest.
Alfredo, although part of his technical responsibility lies in the winery, is a man whose soul is definitely in the vineyard. He is also of the region and you feel that he is as rooted as the vines themselves. His knowledge of the vineyards is based on scrupulous observation and intuition; philosophically, meanwhile, he wants the wines to express something of the flavour of Bierzo. The nebulous quest (is that the right word?) for terroir is a kind of striving for an elusive truth. Just an artist knows that the act of creation is constantly compromised by intellectual straining to create a better composition, so the winemaker knows that the eventual wine is a series of “improving” interventions that modifies and remoulds something which is natural. It boils down to a matter of taste: taste the grape, taste the fermented grape juice, taste the wine in the barrels and decide whether the interposition of the winemaker has yielded a final product that can still be traced back to the grape and the soil. The true exponent of terroir decides to work largely with the ingredients that nature has given him or her (no chaptalisation or acidification or use of artificial yeasts or enzymes). Alfredo tries to keep interventions to a minimum, but is still looking to find that balance between benign neglect and actively shaping the product. He seems proudest when he talks about the vines and holds the soil in his hands - this is where he most connected to the wine.
Mencia is the local grape. Whilst other wineries are beginning to plant Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon and make more international blends, Alfredo is champion of the local varieties. He may - in the future - work with other indigenous varieties such as a regional variant of the Alicante Bouschet grape. Most of the Mencia vines are old; and the vineyards are scrappy and ill-tended; Alfredo’s plan is not to plant new vineyards - if possible - but to buy old plots and restore them to life.
The grapes are harvested in small boxes and transported back to the winery where they undergo a triage on a selection bench (or belt) before going into the destemmer and pumped into the steel fermentation tanks. The Pittacum wine is all about blending the different properties of the grapes from the different vineyards. The wines from the higher vineyards tend to give the higher tones to the wine plus a marked acidity; those from the vineyards closer to the valley floor give richness and alcohol.
After further tasting and assessment all the wines go into barrel, a mixture of new and used, most French with some American, all of medium toast. Alfredo is constantly experimenting with different types of oak, and, in an ideal world believes the ideal recipe would be for six different types of wood. Interestingly, there have been recent trials with Spanish oak.
In the pleasantly cool tasting room (outside the temperature was over 35C) we tried the Pittacum tinto 2004 & 2005. The vintages were completely different. The former was savoury and pepper (green peppercorn) with bitter plum flavours; it displayed discernible herbal notes (dried rosemary, for example) and pleasant acidity. I found it a touch on the astringent side, but with food this was less apparent; in fact the astringency was a bonus. The 2005 reflects the greater ripeness of the vintage. Still an unfinished article it booms with sweet damson fruit and vanillin, almost cinnamon-scented oak and on the palate displays powerful yet ripe tannins. After twenty minutes in the glass all the components were harmonious; this will be a vintage that offers enormous pleasure to everyone. Alfredo seemed to suggest that 04 had greater typicity, but then implied that 06 would be like 05, so I think we can say these are all his children and he has no especial favourites!
The wines of Bierzo are dark with a good tannic structure. The Mencia is a stout yeoman of a variety; you can taste in the wines the dusty, hot vineyards and a kind of astringency which is surprisingly digestible. Despite the veneer of oak the wines truly register their terroir.
We also tried a real novelty: a Bierzo rose. This was made by Alfredo for Alfredo as apparently he loves fishing and needs something to drink with his catch of the day! The wine itself was on the dark side of pink, but with that pearliness that seems to indicate quality. It offers a suggestion of leafiness on the nose (the Mencia character) and then a flavour of mentholated cherries with a surprisingly fresh finish. I was expecting a blockbuster and was delighted by the comparative finesse of the wine.
The food came thick and fast. Squidgy empanadas stuffed alternately with tuna or meat; piquant peppers flecked with tuna flesh; thick rounds of spicy chorizo, country sausage and cecina - air-dried beef and a simple tomato salad humming with flavour. Good yeoman fare. The wine disappeared at a fair lick; post-analysis necking.
The return journey offered nothing extraordinary other than a brief traffic jam owing to the fact that a lorry had careered through the central reservation and spilled its load: a colossal number of yogurt cartons. Whether they were of the fruit or sour variety I could not ascertain.
That night Augusto took us to a new restaurant in the centre of Vigo. Most of the restaurants in the city are fairly commercial; the food tends to be oily and bland. There is a propensity for bars to advertise pictures of each dish, which given that everything looks fried in gasoline hardly seduces you across the threshold. This place, however, was rather brilliant and modern and the meal contained myriad highlights. Griddled octopus had a texture that was utterly tender yet with a crisp edge to it; quails� legs were barbecued in a sauce and were fingerlickin�, bone-suckin� delicious; carpaccio of venison had barely introduced itself to one�s tongue before dissolving into a rare meaty memory; hunks of slow cooked lamb, the skin scored to give a crunchy texture, melted off the bone. Cue lots of oohs, ums and yums and wrestling for every morsel. Good food should be fought for. I�ve always thought it would be fun in a stuffy Michelin-starred restaurant to attack someone on a neighbouring table because you fancied their food more than your own.
FINAL DAY - BODEGAS TERRAS GAUDA
Manana was as sun-baked as the previous days and brought us to Terras Gauda. We trundled up into the heart of the vineyards to have a dekko at the vines (big leafy canopies here) and taste the three different grape varieties that make up the Terras Gauda blend.
The Bodega lies in the south of Rias Baixas just above the Minho river which divides Spanish Galicia from Portugal. The microclimate is warm, sheltered by a range of hills and forests and plenty of flowers and fruit are grown here. Terras Gauda owns about 85% of their vineyards with the remainder of the grapes provided under strict quality control agreements with local growers. Having this control allows the estate to pick later and more selectively (and over a greater period of time) than most others ensuring greater maturity and higher sugar levels in the grapes.
The three grapes of Terras Gauda are the well-known Albarino, the Loureira and the Caino. The first of these confers the classic aromas and flavours and fresh citrus fruits. The best Albarinos are strikingly clean, they smell of lime zest and pink grapefruit; they dazzle the taste buds with sherbet freshness and the citrus can turn to passion and kiwi fruit. Loureira, named after the laurel tree that flourishes in Galicia, confers aromas of white flowers; its juice is soft and round in the mouth. The joker in the bunch is the Caino; this indigenous Galician grape is virtually a monopoly of the Terras Gauda estate. Despite only accounting for roughly 10% of the Terras Gauda O Rosal blend Caino makes a huge difference lending the wine an edge of singing minerality. Recently the bodega planted a whole vineyard of Caino on some poor slatey soils on very steep slopes. This year we tasted an experimental wine made from these grapes.
Because of the favourable location of the vineyards and because Terras Gauda has absolute control over the quality of the grapes the wines are very consistent. They also taste beautifully fresh and natural, which is not always the case with wines from this region. Some Albarinos are under-ripe and smell and taste of celery salt; others undergo malolactic fermentation and suffer, in my opinion, from an excess of “tanky odours” and confected flavours: banana and tinned pineapple. Terras Gauda produces wines that are resolutely zesty (no malo here) with “hail-fellow-well-met-acidity”, and the O Rosal, as the blend is known, has that extra dimension which makes it a truly satisfying wine.
Wines from this region, and Albarino particularly as a grape, have become remarkably trendy in London. This is partly the yearning for new things, but also the flavour profile of the wines. As consumers are gravitating away from big, blowsy, alcoholic wines they are looking for something which is relatively light-bodied, gratifying and refreshing.
The perfect accompaniment to a whole range of fish and shellfish from mussels, clams and oysters to sardines, mackerel, skate and hake, Albarino is the product of its environment, a true wine of the sea. It is a reminder of where water, sky and land meet; it quenches the thirst, lifts the spirits and can transport you to a wild, beautiful landscape.
After a whistle-stop tour of the winery (tanks for the memory) we repaired to a tasting room to deliver our final analytical verdict on each wine. Considering that we had been drinking the Albarino and the O Rosal as if they were water over the past couple of days I doubt we mustered an intelligent comment between us. However, we were introduced to the experimental Caino blend and eyes lit up like fruit machines in a Las Vegas casino. Spanish white wines are liquid gold; there are so few of them which you really want to drink other than Albarino, Rueda (from Verdejo) and a few odds and sods from Catalonia. Oh, and the irrepressible Txacoli from the Basque country. The Caino was sensational. The sample we tried was probably not finished but it hinted at great complexity with crunchy nectarine flavours seasoned with ginger and pepper, high in minerals and soothed by slick acidity. Bring in on, as it is now fashionable to say.
And finally to the dining room where we inspected a gallery of posters designed in homage to Francisco Mantecon, a famous Galician artist and friend to Terras Gauda. Each year there is a competition open to any aspiring artist to design the poster of the year.
“A pintura remata en si mesma, o deseno forma parte dunha engranxe industrial”
[A painting is an end in itself, a drawing is a piece of industrial gearing]
Francisco Mantecon
We sat down and bolted (owing to the constraints of time) a delicious fishy lunch. There was a stuffed crab dish, some carpaccio of octopus and a hunk of merluza (hake) cooked to flaky perfection. The classic way of treating hake is to fry it quickly and marinate it in warm oil - and in that order. Actually, this brings together a centuries-old recipe and a common cooking method usually reserved for salt cod.
Having Your Hake And Eating It - A Piscine Digression
Merluza a la Romana (fried hake) is a dish that every apprentice cook knows how to make. The fish is dipped in flour and egg, then deep-fried in olive oil whilst “Templar”, or tempering, is a form of gentle poaching in oil that is a favourite Basque way of preparing bacalao.
By choosing a specific cut of fish and filleting it in a certain way the cook creates a cut thick enough to sustain the two apparently contradictory techniques. First the fish is deep fried, but for a few seconds only, just long enough to set the flour and egg coating. Then it is transferred to an oil bath that lets the temperature through the core of the fish without any drying. The result, like meat that’s slow-cooked at low temperatures, is a piece of hake that is evenly and lightly cooked all the way through and is uniquely juicy.
It was time to leave. We were all given personalised magnums of the O Rosal as a parting gift, a lovely, thoughtful touch. Then we piled onto the bus for the final time for the journey to Oporto.
A simple trip fulfils a variety of functions. It is important to see your customers outside the business environment of the restaurant or a trade tasting. The trip further enables you to focus on one or two growers and acquire a profound understanding of what they are trying to achieve. It is educational - you pick up on the history and the culture of the region and you experience the gastronomic traditions. The vineyards are where the life of the wine begins: standing in them amongst the vines allows you to sense the spirit of the place; whilst in the winery you witness the transformations before finally tasting the finished product - with food, as nature intended. At home we often taste wine in a sterile environment with people who believe their sole function in life is to provide a negative running commentary. Because they do not know the wine in the round they dissect it component by component and hold each one up to the light. Good wine is not meant to be measured to a fault; our apprehension of it should be sympathetic and we take into account how it came to be. The Terras Gauda trip was not just instructive, but very pleasurable, and surely one of the chief functions of wine is to give pleasure to as many people as possible