The Art of the Blend
I’ve been getting into blends lately–wines made from varieties that had seldom if ever in all of history met each other until they migrated across The Pond from Old Europe and then found their way to California, where some wacko winemaker got the idea to mate them up and see what happens.
For example, Paraduxx’s 2010 Napa Valley Z Blend is a Bordeaux blend of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot with enough Zinfandel in it to make it briary and robust. Lone Madrone, in Paso Robles, threw everything but the kitchen sink into their 2011 Calon: Counoise (a little known Rhône variety), Grenache Noir, Sangiovese (hello, Tuscany) and Syrah. Way down south in Santa Barbara, Matthias Pippig, at Sanguis, grafts a Northern Rhône-style Syrah and Viognier blend onto Grenache and Cabernet Sauvignon, and gets a stylishly unique 2010 Couture. ONX’s 2010 Moxie, another Paso Robles wine, shakes it up with Zinfandel, Syrah, Tempranillo and Cabernet.
These are only a few high-scoring examples; I could go on and on. It’s funny how the cycle of history deals with blends. Once upon a time in California, blended wines were the norm, from the so-called “field blended” vineyards that immigrants planted in the 19th and 20th centuries from Mendocino down through the Central Coast, but especially in Sonoma and Napa. They didn’t care about varietal labels, they were looking for two things: a wine they could make regardless of what the vintage conditions were like, and one moreover that was hearty and tasted good. It wasn’t until the U.S. government, beginning in the 1970s, came up with our current regulations concerning varietally-labeled wines that consumers became obsessed with particular grape names.
Why did that happen? Because as soon as Prohibition was repealed, wine writers announced that wines made from particular varieties were the best. Several generations absorbed this lesson, from the 1930s right through the boutique winery explosion of the 1960s and 1970s and continuing into the 21st century.
As I look at my reviews for these unusual blends, I notice a few things. One is that my scores are not as high as for Cabernet Sauvignons, Pinot Noirs and scattered Merlots and Syrahs. Another is that I almost never suggest that these wines be aged. Beyond their particular flavors and textures, they are above all wines of youthful polish and immediate gratification. I suppose I do subscribe to the notion (common among my generation of wine writers) that ageability is a requirement for a very high score.
It may be time, however, for us to begin to recalibrate our approach to evaluating wines. Few people bother to age wine anymore. I believe that the best California Pinots and Cabs do get better with age, but they don’t “require” it, in the sense that, say, old-time Bordeaux was virtually undrinkable in its youth because it was so tannic (which isn’t really the case anymore). The consequence of people not wanting to age wines is that winemakers are making wines that don’t need to be aged. These blends are perfect examples of winemakers seeking to do something new, in a state (California) where it’s increasingly harder to find new things to do with wine, because consumers tend not to reward novelty
I think writers now have the challenge before them of educating the public to understand that a well-made blend need not have a varietal name in order to be charming. Older consumers may be resistant to receiving this message, but younger ones get it. We don’t need to recreate Old Europe’s template, especially in California. We’re the nation’s most diverse state, a rainbow quilt of humankind. Our wines increasingly are reflecting that diversity.