I’ve held off commenting on Peter Mondavi, Sr.’s death, because it’s been well covered elsewhere, and also because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to bring to the conversation.
It’s already been noted, for instance here in Wine Spectator, how much Mr. Mondavi contributed to modern winemaking techniques, such as cold fermentation and the use of French oak barrels. Important as those were, on reflection I think his greater contribution was to the sense of continuity he brought to a valley in which well-heeled newcomers enter the arena all the time, often acting as though Napa’s history hadn’t really been complete until they arrived.
This is not to say that Mr. Mondavi’s importance simply was longevity, although that, in itself, is an achievement. It also was an achievement of the first rank that he, together with his family, was able to keep Charles Krug Winery strong and in their hands; this was one outfit that, no matter how hard things might have been here and there, refused to sell out, although I’m sure they had opportunities aplenty.
But perhaps Mr. Mondavi’s greatest achievement—which he has bequeathed to Napa Valley—was that of a vision held steadfast. It can be difficult to define “vision.” Wealthy newcomers to the valley have visions, too; of Parker 100s, $300 wholesale prices on their wines, and all the glitz and glamor that go with the cult wine lifestyle. That is, to paraphrase Churchill, at least a vision…but it is not a particularly savory one.
The vision Mr. Mondavi possessed, he inherited from his parents, Cesare and Rosa, themselves saturated in the traditions of grapegrowing and winemaking. From their humble beginnings in Lodi, in the darkest depths of Prohibition, they were practically the living incarnation of the modern evolution of California wine. Peter Mondavi, Sr. and his brother, Robert, you might say, were born in barrels.
Why does continuity matter? It may be that I perceive its value more today than I might have twenty years ago. Continuity, in the person of a man or woman, is the residual compilation of all that has occurred up to that moment: the person becomes the living embodiment of it, and thus worthy of respect. If a wine region such as Napa Valley can be said to have a soul, then that soul resides not so much in its terroir, nor in its buildings, and certainly not in its newcomers, but in its enduring legends. And Mr. Mondavi was an enduring legend.
You know, in the last several years of Mr. Mondavi’s life, his family made a great deal of him walking up and down that famous flight of stairs on his way to work, even at his centennial age. They were proud of his health and grit, as well they should have been. But whenever I read that he was still climbing those stairs, I thought, not just about a single individual, but about Napa Valley. That it is still there, ascending, persevering, reporting to work every day, despite the nonsense that sometimes threatens to overwhelm it and, in our lemming-media culture, usually does. In that sense, Mr. Mondavi was a metaphor for Napa Valley itself. Just imagine what his eyes perceived over his long lifetime: the events, personalities, achievements, the drama, the ups and downs and tumult–a sweep of history encompassing, through his parents and his own life, most of the twentieth century and, through his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, born and not yet born, what likely will be a good part of the twenty-first and even the twenty-second. That is what Mr. Mondavi means to me. If I ask myself who else in Napa Valley is like him, or ever will be, the answer is: No one.
I can hardly believe the news that Rich Smith has died.
I’ve known Rich for so long, I can’t even remember when we met. He was instrumental in educating me about the appellation he helped to pioneer, the Santa Lucia Highlands, and was a good person to ask about all things viticultural. As for hospitality, Rich always welcomed me to the winery. He was as helpful and friendly as anyone in the wine industry I’ve ever met.
Rich was the founder of Paraiso Vineyards [formerly Paraiso Springs]. As the Monterey County Vintners & Growers Association eulogized, “He was one of the fathers and visionary pioneers of the Monterey wine region and continually championed sustainability and research to foster the success we all share.” Rich was one of those people a wine reporter naturally bonds with. He had a wry, inquisitive sense of humor in addition to his vast knowledge of wines, vines and local history, a salt-of-the-earth guy who was fundamentally a farmer at heart. He shunned the limelight, even though he was frequently in it—a guy you were drawn to for the dignity and centeredness he projected.
He and his winemaking team made fantastic wine at Paraiso. Rich’s Wedding Hill Syrah was, to my mind, his best wine, but the Pinots, Rieslings and Chards were fine, and Rich was generous enough to share fruit with other wineries, such as La Rochelle, Morgan and Manzoni.
Rich was only 69 years old when he passed away on Dec. 27. He will be missed.
Santa Barbara County has been much on my mind lately. Last month, we at Jackson Family Wines did our “Sand & Fog” event in L.A. that focused on the Pinot Noirs of the Santa Maria Valley. I followed that up with a small private tasting of additional Santa Maria Pinots. Next week, I’ll do Santa Rita Hills Pinots, up at the company in Santa Rosa. Since Jackson Family Wines has no properties in the Santa Rita Hills, I’ve chosen the following eight wines, which I think give a good representation of the region:
Siduri 2012 Clos Pepe
Loring 2012 Cargasacchi
Brewer Clifton 2012 3-D
Brewer Clifton 2012 Machado
Domaine de la Cote 2012 Bloom’s Field
Lutum 2012 Sanford & Benedict
Foxen 2012 La Encantada
Foxen 2012 Fe Ciega
As you can see, the vineyard sourcing is from all over the appellation, north to south and west to east. There’s also a good spectrum of clonal material ranging from the Dijons to older selections like Pommard and Calera. Some of the wines were fermented without the clusters while others, notably Greg Brewer’s, were whole cluster fermentation. And alcohol levels—always of such interest—range from the Cote’s 12.5% to Siduri’s 15.6%. All of the wines are, of course, sourced from individual vineyards or from specific blocks within vineyards.
Does a blended wine give a better representation of regional terroir than a single-vineyard wine? This is a tough question to answer. A blended wine—say, a Pinot from La Encantada, Cargasacchi and Brewer-Clifton—is hard to imagine in the real world. But if you had no idea what the Santa Rita Hills was like for Pinot Noir, such a mythical beast would undoubtedly give you a good idea. On the other hand, it’s terrific fun to explore individual vineyards, especially provided that you’re able to do so over many vintages. Fortunately, I can always go into my database and see what I’ve said over the years about most of these vineyards. Encantada, Fe Ciega, S&B, Clos Pepe, Cargasacchi—I have a history with these wines, which are all very great expressions of their terroir.
For this Santa Rita Hills tasting, I think we’ll do it blind. It will be instructive to see if, for instance, we can tell the Domaine de la Cote and the Siduri because both are the outliers in terms of alcohol level. I, myself, am not always to detect highish alcohol in a California wine. I always try to, before peeking at the label, but I’d say my batting average is just that: average. I also want to see if we’ll be able to detect the whole cluster wines blind. I’d look for more body, more spiciness and a different feeling to the tannins. I don’t think Greg Brewer would whole-cluster his Pinots if the stems weren’t fully lignified. I’ll be looking for that architectural element that stems can give, which you can feel in the mouth.
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Speaking of Santa Barbara County, just as I was writing this post, I got an email that Daniel J. Gainey, the founder of Gainey Vineyard, has passed away, at the age of 89. I had a great deal of respect for Mr. Gainey, although I was closer to his son, Dan H. I was a frequent visitor to their lovely winery, which was just down the road from Santa Ynez town, where I often stayed at the Santa Ynez Inn. Gainey made excellent wines, from cool-climate Pinots and Chards grown in their Santa Rita Hills vineyards to the Merlots, Syrahs and Sauvignon Blancs from warmer vineyards in the Santa Ynez Valley. As a matter of fact, before the advent of Happy Canyon of Santa Barbara, I used to write that Gainey made the best Merlot in the county. Over the years, I gave 48 Gainey wines scores of 90 points or higher. Not bad.
Mr. Gainey was a true pioneer, having founded his winery in 1984, when practically no one had heard of the Santa Ynez Valley, or of Santa Barbara County wine, for that matter. He was a true wine lover and a gentleman. My sympathies to Dan H. and the entire family.
It’s important for us to have a conversation about drinking too much—about alcoholism—for two reasons. One is because there’s always been, and still is, a neo-prohibitionist mindset in this country that frowns on any use of alcoholic beverages at all; and so, as if in advance of an impending flood, we have to pile the sandbags around the door and be ready for anything. The second is because we Americans are rightfully concerned about our health, and while the debate rages on concerning whether a glass or two or three of wine a day is good for you or not, even people who drink moderately have to wonder, in the back of their minds, if somehow or other they’re actually bringing on diabetes, or cancer, or stroke, or heart disease, or something else we don’t want. The situation isn’t clarified—in fact is exacerbated—by conflicting studies that come out seemingly weekly, contradicting each other and leaving us more bewildered than ever.
No wonder more and more people are taking “Are you an alcoholic?” tests. The key phrase in this latest “self-questionnaire”, from England, is, “If you find that you ‘need’ to share a bottle of wine with your partner most nights of the week, or always go for a few pints after work, just to unwind, you’re likely to be drinking at a level that could affect your long-term health. You could also be becoming dependent on alcohol.” By this metric, I suppose you could say I’m “dependent on alcohol.” But what does “dependent” mean? I’m also “dependent” on breathing and eating. I’m dependent on Gus to bring joy into my life. I’m dependent on warmth in winter and dryness in the rain, on a certain amount of social intercourse, on being creative. I’m certainly dependent on going to the gym. Heck, I’m dependent on PG&E for almost everything! So this notion of “dependency” is a “slippery” one, as even the English questionnaire concedes.
I don’t doubt that some people have a drinking problem. But what gets me is this incessant stream of “self-questionnaires” published in magazines, newspapers and online, in which we’re asked to constantly question ourselves about our habits. The suggestion is that everything we do is potentially some kind of problem. Armchair psychologists make a living at this sort of thing, and they find publishers who are happy to give them exposure.
Another one bites the dust
Many of you knew Harvey Posert, who died last week at the age of 84. I met Harvey many years ago, when he was running Robert Mondavi’s P.R. shop. Then he went over to Fred Franzia’s outfit, Bronco. We had fewer contacts after that, but one was memorable. I’d long wanted an interview with Fred, who was notoriously shy of publicity. I called Harvey for years, but the answer was always “No.” One day, I was in San Francisco, and picked up the free weekly paper. Guess who was on the front page? Freddie, and they had a very long, interesting interview with him. In the free paper? So I called Harvey back and asked, what’s up? How come a throwaway free paper that has nothing to do with wine scores an interview and I don’t? Harvey arranged for a get-together with Fred, at his gigantic bottling facility in Napa. Well, to make a long story short, it didn’t work out. I never got that interview and I never saw Fred again (although I did get to spend a fascinating day with his son, Joey, a few years later), but I did hear from Harvey. He was apologetic, but after all, it wasn’t his fault: Fred Franzia can be a very stubborn individual. Anyhow, Harvey put in his time, the good, the bad and the ugly. He did a fine job the old-fashioned way, pre-Internet, pre-social media, in an era of press kits and controlling the message, and he always sat in on interviews with whoever was his boss (which I always hated). Harvey was one of the last of his breed. To paraphrase an old saying, winery P.R. people never die, they just go to some heavenly lounge and hang out. There are worse ways to spend eternity. R.I.P. Harvey!
My goodness, we’re losing the founding fathers and mothers of our modern wine industry at an alarming rate! But that’s life. Frank Woods began his career as a marketing man (Proctor & Gamble), went on to become a staunch supporter of Ronald Reagan’s early political career (he was responsible for drafting southern delegates for Reagan’s failed 1968 campaign) and then, in a remarkable feat of self-invention, co-founded Clos du Bois Winery, in 1974.
His initial purpose was to sell grapes, primarily to Rodney Strong, but the lure to make wine proved too strong. That era, the early- to mid-1970s, saw the crescendo of the boutique winery movement in California, and Clos du Bois was right up there with the best of them. They were one of the earliest wineries to specialize in proprietarily-labeled bottlings that promoted individual terroirs and approaches to winemaking. Most exciting were their various Cabernet Sauvignons—Briarcrest and Marlstone—and their Chardonnays—Calcaire and Flintwood. Critics loved them; the wines showed that visionary winemakers could produce terroir-inspired varietals at the highest levels of performance. Clos du Bois also made fine Merlot, Sauvignon Blanc and Zinfandel, and dabbled in Pinot Noir (not so good, alas), Riesling, Malbec and Gerwurztraminer; the latter, made in a botrytised, late-harvest manner, was one of the greatest California dessert wines of its day.
Woods sold Clos du Bois in 1988, to Allied Lyons. People familiar with Clos du Bois today might see it as simply a commodity brand now owned (since 2007) by giant Constellation; and, in truth, it is a shadow of its former self. But we shouldn’t forget what Clos du Bois set out to be, and Frank Woods, who served as chairman of the Wine Institute, was the guiding light behind Clos du Bois. He is not in the Vintners Hall of Fame, but he deserves to be.
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On lighter note, I read with great interest Dan Berger’s recent column in the Napa Valley Register on “the decline of cabernet-ness.” I take his point that Cabernet Sauvignon may no longer taste the same as it did 30 and more years ago, when oldtimers like him and me (!!) first experienced these wines. Back then, Cabernet was generally under 14% alcohol by volume. Dan seems to be hopping onto the In Pursuit of Balance train, and objects to what he feels is the loss of varietal character in wines that possess “a lot of oak, high alcohol, low acidity, and a lot of tannin.”
I defer to no one in my respect for Dan Berger, a true icon of modern wine writing, whose long career is the envy of wannabe wine writers. But I have to respectfully disagree. While I grant that there is a boring sameness in many California Cabernets, I just can’t go along with the notion that “the more you pay for a cabernet sauvignon, the less like cabernet sauvignon it smells and tastes.” I’ve tasted most of the same high-end Cabs as Dan has, and at the top level, these are wines that dazzle, some of the greatest Cabernets the world has ever known. I just get impatient sometimes with all this criticism of alcohol levels and oak, which seems to currently dominate the conversation. As for the critique of Pinot Noir “being made so dark that they taste more like syrah,” yes, there are some out there. But not as many as the current buzz would suggest. This sort of remark makes it sound like most California Pinot Noirs are un-varietal when the fact is that the better ones–and there are hundreds of them out there in any given vintage–are gorgeous, world-class wines.
I have just learned of the death of Terry Wright last month.
Terry, a Ph.D. (his website is here), was a longtime professor of geology at Sonoma State University, in which capacity he was of great help to me during the writing of my first book, A Wine Journey along the Russian River. In addition to his academic work, Terry frequently consulted for wineries on vineyard soil issues.
In my book, I had determined to tell the geological history of the Russian River, since no one apparently had ever done so. Everyone knew that the river’s turn west, below Healdsburg, was hugely crucial to the terroir of the Russian River Valley; but no one knew quite why the river made that strange turn (the only one in California to do so), or when or how the river had begun flowing.
In the book, I wrote about all this, with the help of several geologists, none of them friendlier or more interesting than Terry. He was “a real character,” a larger-than-life guy with an Indiana Jones canvas hat, big, booming voice, hearty laugh, bushy Mr. Natural beard, an off-the-grid lifestyle and a gourmand’s love of wine and food.
Terry lived in a funky little wooden shack in the hills above River Road, in the heart of the southern Russian River Valley. Not just his yard was filled with rocks and dirt: the house, too. It was as if there were no dividing line between “indoors” and “outdoors.” Terry loved rocks with a crazy passion. On our frequent excursions around and about the river, I liked to pick up interesting stones and hand them to Terry. He could identify them at a glance, telling me what they were made of, how old they were, and how they came to be in that spot.
Terry also was an adventurer. He’d rock-climbed, hang-glided, shot whitewater rapids and in all respects lived a pedal-to-the-metal life. He invited me one spring day to take a canoe trip with him down the Russian River. We figured I could get a unique perspective on the river and its terroir from that vantage. We met up one morning at the Geyserville Bridge, where we parked our respective vehicles. Terry had arranged for one of his SSU students to drive us north to near the Mendocino County line, where we dragged a canoe down to the water and shoved off for the 15 miles or so back to Geyserville.
It was a cool, clear morning. The river was running high; there’d been near record snowfall that winter in the High Sierra, and all that mountain snow was rapidly melting. There were even whitecaps here and there. It made for some bumpy moments, but Terry reassured me that he was a consummate outdoorsman and knew what he was doing. I believed in him and relaxed, despite the fact that I, Bronx-born, am not an outdoorsman, and the life jacket he had lent me was missing most of its clasps.
We got to just south of Asti when we passed a sandbar upon which a few people were waving to us. We paddled over to them and they explained that they’d capsized in rapids; their boat was lost. Since there was little we could do to help them, we wished them well, and moved on. A moment later, we heard rather than saw what was ahead. It was the sound of a dull roar, like a subway train in the distance.
Suddenly I saw the white water. It looked like detergent, foamy and bubbly. The wave crests had to be two or three feet high, and we were plowing right into them. I had one oar and Terry had the other. He began shouting directions: “Right! Left! Paddle harder!” Time became very shortened, as things sped up. We were no longer headed straight down the river’s middle, but were veering rapidly toward the bank. I had just started to ask him, “Terry, why are we headed toward the bank” when the canoe upended and I found myself underwater, upside down, the top of my head scraping the gravelly bottom, in what is called “the rinse cycle.”
It took Terry and me 30 minutes to extricate ourselves from that mess. He ended up stranded on a gravel bank. I managed to grab onto a fallen tree, or “strainer,” by the bank. By a stroke of luck, I’d snagged the back of the canoe, which was rapidly being swept away, with a leg. I was hanging onto the strainer, holding onto the canoe, while the water kept trying to undo me. The bank to my back was eight feet in height, all scummy, muddy slipslide.
Both of us easily could have died that day. That Asti stretch of the Russian River has claimed lives before. As it turned out, being trapped in the cold snow-melt water for half an hour (and then it being another two hours in my wet clothes before I got home to Oakland) gave me a case of hypothermia that permanently discombobulated my body’s internal thermostat.
Terry, of course, was profusely apologetic. I took it all in good humor–actually, good stuff to write about–and teased him about it for years. He was a funny, loving, smart, sweet, eager guy, making his way through this life. There are lots of people who will miss and mourn him.