One of the most interesting and controversial topics of the modern wine industry is the phenomenon of the “flying winemaker.” This is the term, which I first heard in the 1990s, that refers to a class of men and women who hire themselves out to wineries as consultants; they are “flying” because their preferred mode of transportation is of course the jet plane.
But they are much more than mere consultants. Their name, attached to a wine on a press release, automatically confers prestige, the way, say, Steven Spielberg’s name as producer of a movie is a sort of guarantee of the film’s pedigree.
The name most often conjured up by “flying winemaker” is that of Michel Rolland. I knew he consults for a lot of wineries around the world, but I never knew that the number was up to two hundred, according to this article in Harpers. Among his Napa Valley clients, current and/or previous, I’m aware of are Harlan, Screaming Eagle, Alpha Omega, Dancing Hares, Staglin, Dalla Valle and Sloan—in other words, absolutely the peak of Napa Valley (if not the New World) in terms of price and quality (at least, as judged by the top critics). These are the famous “cult wines” that define a region’s reputation and in fact establish its upper or outer limits of quality and perception by the wine world’s cognoscenti.
This would be all well and good, except that over the last fifteen years or so—let’s say, roughly from the start of the new century—a certain drumbeat of criticism has arisen among some critics, to the effect that an increase in the activities of these flying winemakers has resulted in a standardization or sameness in all the wines with which the consultant is associated. In fact, this critique goes even further: it says that all flying winemakers bring a similar approach to all their client wines, making these wines all taste similarly to each other, regardless of who made them or whether they are from Napa Valley or Pomerol or Chile. This sameness has been referred to as the “globalization of wine” or “the international style,” terms meant to suggest that all wines of the same varietal type—most usually, Cabernet Sauvignon and its allied varieties—smell and taste alike. In the eyes of the critics of such globalization, this is tantamount to a crime, since it obliterates the notion of terroir.
This is a serious debate and a good one to have. I’ve never been one to take an extremist position one way or the other, as some American critics and newspaper columnists do in utterly condemning these “international” wines. Their criticisms usually also have to do with what they perceive as excessive ripeness, over-oakiness and an alcohol level (often approaching if not exceeding 15%) which, they claim, elevates technique over terroir.
My reluctance to join these reporters has been based on the simple fact that many of the Cabernets associated with Michel Rolland and other flying winemakers are, in fact, gorgeous. They are among the richest, most sumptuous wines ever produced in the history of the world, and it is churlish, if not somewhat childish, to object to them based on some philosophical or ideological notion. This deliciousness seems to be what Rolland himself referred to when he told Harpers that all he strives to do is to produce wines that are “intense, full bodied, balanced, harmonious, with delicate tannins and a long finish.” This description certainly fits the Napa Valley wines I’m familiar with that Rolland consults for, but the problem, which you see is obvious by now, is that the same description fits all of them, which seems to hoist Rolland on his own petard. He has provided us with the template for an international style of Cabernet Sauvignon. And here, I must say that, in California at least, there is an ersatz style that mimics the international style on the surface, but that on closer examination results in lazy, flamboyant but eventually tiring wines. One has to be very careful in approaching the international style, lest he throw the baby out with the bathwater!
Harpers headlines their article “Michel Rolland defends his ability to manage wines on up to 200 wineries around the world,” and while the word “defends” is perhaps hyperbolic on Harper’s part, Rolland no doubt feels a little beleaguered. He must be aware of the criticism (although one suspects he cries all the way to the bank). Supporting the critics is the commonsense notion that one can only be in one place at a time, and even in this age of the jet plane, to have to be in so many places all over the world, having to apply one’s conscientious attention to so many properties, especially at the harvest, must be challenging to say the least. Heidi Barrett, herself one of California’s most famous flying winemakers (although she more properly might be called a “driving winemaker,” for she only accepts clients that are “within a half hour” drive of her Calistoga home), notes that she limits her number of clients for the most pragmatic of reasons. “Realistically, when things are fermenting I must taste every tank, every day, and so I’m going to four locations, and that maxes me out. Some days I barely get everywhere.” (These quotes are from my 2008 book, “New Classic Winemakers of California: Conversations with Steve Heimoff.”)
Historically, we are at a point now where there is more or less an equilibrium between the international or global style, which admittedly is a ripe, expressive one, and a more restrained (one could almost say timid) approach, encouraged if not caused by the critics of the international style, who tend to have big platforms and the egos to fill them. I said we’re at “a point,” not “a tipping point.” I don’t think the balance will alter anytime soon, one way or the other. The wine market is simply too big and fractured for any large-scale revolutions to happen, despite alleged claims from some quarters that one is underway now. In the midst of such a complex market, winemakers hedge their bets; better to stick with a style that’s worked for you up to now, than to throw the dice and risk unnecessary changes that might alienate your customers. Finally, we come to the cases of new entrants to the production game, a younger generation that’s decided to live the wine life. They have, it seems to me, two choices, in the widest sense: to appeal to the international style, or to make wines more severe and that will, they hope, win the praises of the newspaper columnists who like that streamlined approach. They might as well flip a coin, given the standoff, and follow their hearts—always the best thing to do.
It was old friend’s day at yesterday’s Bordeaux tasting, sponsored by Maisons Marques & Domaines. Not only was the wonderful Xavier Barlier there to greet me, but I ran into Fred Swan and Wilfred Wong, so there was also some nostalgic recollecting. But not too much—we were there for the wines.
I didn’t taste everything, but here are my abbreviated notes. [All retail prices are my own estimations, based on wholesale price.] As you can see, you can take the wine critic out of the game—but you can’t take the game out of the wine critic!
Chateau d’Armailhac 2010 [$120]: Great Pauillac structure on this 5th growth; firm, dur. Glorious stuffing, all black currants. Very complex and mouth-filing, a very good wine. Drink 2022 and beyond. Score: 95.
Chateau d’Armailhac 2000 ($175). A little lacking in depth, but with plenty of charm. Very pure and refined. Drinking beautifully now with, say, a fine grilled entrecote. Score: 91.
Chateau Clerc Milon 2010 ($200). Great depth, a real beauty, but so tannic. Heaps of blackberries and cherries. Fabulous acidity. Will make a great bottle after, say, 2022. Score: 93.
Chateau Clerc Milon 2006 ($170). Not a big wine, in fact a little thin. But it’s delicate and refined. Drink up. Score: 88 points.
Chateau Palmer 2006 Alter Ego de Palmer ($175). Fleshy, meaty, with blackberry and black currant flavors as well as a bacon fat, truffly richness. But very tannic. Seems best opened in the next few years. Score: 88.
Chateau Palmer 2004 ($320). A dramatic wine, in the midst of an evolution and not showing well right now. Neither hard nor soft, but the tannins are strong and there’s plenty of elegance. With lots of fruit, it should develop after 2020. Score: 90.
Chateau Palmer 1999 ($475). A gorgeous wine and a great success for the vintage. Surely approaching its peak now. So supple and rich in sweet cherry pie filling, with wonderful acidity and tannins. Silky and absolutely delicious, a standout in this tasting. Score: 96.
La Parde de Haut-Bailly 2008 ($39). Solid, masculine, still with hard tannins. The vintage was not great but the wine has good fruit and will drink well in, say, 5-6 more years. Score: 88.
La Parde de Haut-Bailly 2010 ($50). Solid, a litte gutsy. Very dry and tannic, some rusticity. Not an ager, but a clean, well-made wine. Score: 88.
Chateau Haut-Bailly 2010 ($180). A huge wine, with dusty tannins and good acidity. Lots of fruit, with a pleasant, Graves minerality. Needs many years. Drink 2022 and beyond. Score: 94.
Chateau Haut-Bailly 2003 ($110). The wine is showing considerable evolution, with the fruit revealing secondary notes. Still some tannins to shed. A good wine that should open further by 2018. Score: 90.
THE FOLLOWING WINES ARE FROM CHRISTIAN MOUEIX’S PORTFOLIO AND WERE POURED BY CHRISTIAN.
Chateau de Sales 2010 ($37). A lovely wine, round and feminine. Oodles of black currants and cassis, so sweet and tender. Significant tannins, but it’s soft enough to drink now and through 2022. A great value in a Pomerol. Score: 92.
Chateau Certan de May 2008 ($115). A hard wine, with big, tough tannins, but some lovely fruit. Tons of black currants and minerals. Needs time. Give it another ten years to come around. Score: 93.
Chateau Certan de May 2010 ($190). Far greater depth and complexity than the 2008, in fact twice the wine. Such opulence and craftsmanship. Very fine, balanced and elegant, but young. Wait until 2025, for starters. Score: 95.
Chateau Hosanna 2010 ($275). For me, a bizarre wine. Too oaky. Incredibly strong, spicy, black currants, chocolate nibs, anise. California style, fat, opulent. It is said this wine needs a great amount of time to come around, but I would not take the gamble, especially at this price. Score: 87.
Chateau Hosanna 2004 ($NA). Same style as the 2010, a big, oaky, New World-y wine. Beginning to show its stuff, but still nowhere near ready. I scored it 91 points based on potential.
Chateau Lafleur-Gazin 2007 ($45). A rustic wine, hard around the edges, but good fruit. Ready to drink now-2015. Score: 86.
Chateau Magdelaine 2008 ($105). Soft, fleshy, what you want a Saint-Emilion to be. Mainly Merlot, with lots of red cherries and red currants and a lovely mouthfeel. Needs time. Drink after 2020. Score: 93.
Chateau Puy-Blanquet 2011 ($27). A nice wine, with some lovely fruit, but for me, too sharp in acidity. I said this to Christian and he remarked, “Well, the vintage…”.
Le Petit Mouton de Mouton Rothschild 2007 ($300). This junior Mouton is delicious in black currants and cassis, although it lacks the power of the Grand Seigneur. Drink 2019 and beyond. Score: 91.
Chateau Mouton Rothschild 2005 ($950). Possibly it was just me, but this wine wasn’t showing well despite the vintage’s reputation. Primary fruits starting to evolve, but it’s a bit raw. But you have to give it the benefit of the doubt, especially considering the stellar reviews the wine has received from top critics. Undoubtedly it is going through an awkward phase. I did not rate this wine and would like to taste it again from another bottle.
Chateau Mouton Rothschild 2010 ($1500). An awesome wine, huge, magnificent, clearly a Great Growth. Masses of black currants, perfect oak, gorgeous acids and tannins. Will improve for decades. This was so stunning I swallowed rather than spit. Potentially a perfect wine. Score: 99.
In the Spring of 1969, Roy Andries de Groot, who turned to wine- and food-writing when he became blind, was sent to California by Esquire Magazine to write about the state’s wines, on the 200th anniversary of Junipero Serra’s planting of wine grapes in San Diego.
de Groot soon realized that what he really wanted to do was what he called his “immense project”: “a Classification of American Wines,” he called it, based on the sort of official hierarchy that had been developed by the French, in the famous 1855 Classification.
(de Groot also went on to classify the wines of the Pacific Northwest and New York State, hence his reference to “American Wines.”)
As he notes in his 1982 masterwork, “The Wines of California,” de Groot had pedigreed precedence for his audacious project. There not only had been the 1855 Classification, but, a century earlier, “in 1755, a first attempt had been made to rank the wines of Bordeaux,” he wrote, followed by another in 1833. So the project was neither as audacious nor as radical as it might have appeared.
Here in California, others have attempted, from time to time, to classify the state’s wines into quality tiers. Perhaps the most controversial has been Jim Laube’s 1989 book, “California’s Great Cabernets,” in which the Wine Spectator writer rather self-consciously established five “Growths” (just like the 1855 Classification), which he populated with dozens of wineries functioning at that time. It was a worthy effort—but one doomed to failure, as California, unlike staid Bordeaux, was in the process (and still is today) of sprouting new wineries like mushrooms after an Autumn rain. When Laube wrote his book, for instance, there was no Screaming Eagle, Harlan, Dalla Valle, Verite, David Arthur, Jarvis, Araujo. The book was destined for obsolescence even before it was published. (It does, however, remain an interesting read and is important as an historical document.)
de Groot established, not five, but four tiers in his classification, although he did not numerically denote them but instead used the adjectives “Great,” “Superb,” “Noble” and “Fine,” in descending order of quality. (The only wineries he put into the “Great” category were Heitz, Schramsberg and Stony Hill.) But, just as Laube’s book of seven years later was condemned to early obsolescence, so was de Groot’s, and for the same reason. As we look at his list today, we’re struck, not only by the non-inclusion of so many wineries that simply didn’t exist in 1982, but by others that were functioning at that time, but no longer are, or that continue to exist, but not at a very high level. The list, then, is sadly out of date, although like Laube’s book, “The Wines of California” makes for good reading.
I doubt that any wine writer will ever again attempt such a hopeless task as classifying the wines of California! But then, in this modern era of, say, the last 30 years, the public doesn’t need an official list. That task has been taken over, in practical effect, by critics. Can there be any question that California Cabernets and Bordeaux blends have been unofficially ranked already, through the reviews of Robert Parker, Wine Spectator and others? This ranking has the appearance of mathematical precision because it’s based on scores of the 100-point system. Thus, in order to determine the placement of any winery in the critical classification, all you have to do is look up its scores over the years, and that will determine its position in the hierarchy. Before you object that this is a pretty flimsy basis, remember that the 1855 Classification itself—which we all hold so dear—was based in part on the prices the wines had historically fetched. Since today, price and score are irretrievably intertwined, it’s not ludicrous to base a wine’s placement by its score: the highest-scoring wines will generally be the most expensive (although the opposite is not always the case!).
There’s one huge, qualitative difference, however, between an official classification, like that of 1855, and the unofficial one created by scores. The former can never change, or does so only agonizingly slowly (Mouton-Rothschild, originally a Second Growth, was not elevated to First Growth until 1973.) But the latter, unofficial classification is constantly morphing, as wineries come into and fall out of favor, reflected in their scores. The critical classification, then, has the advantage of a built-in resilience that makes it more adaptable to change and thus more descriptive of reality, as well as more useful. A critical classification can never become obsolete, by definition.
Where things get sticky, of course, is with the proliferation of critics. In 1855 the French had a single committee to make their classification. There was nobody to challenge it (although disgruntled proprietors always have complained about their placement). Twenty years ago we had only a tiny handful of critics to make their de facto classification, and few if any dared to challenge them. Today, everybody’s a critic. This is why we have the phenomenon of multi-source rating compilers, like CellarTracker, where consumers can track reviews from multiple sources side by side for the same wine.
What I find fascinating about the new order, with its proliferation of voices and the coming of age of a younger generation, is how impervious to change the old perceived hierarchy remains. In Bordeaux the First Growths still rule. In California, the Harlans and Screaming Eagles remain at the top, although they may have had to allow some room for a few other aspirants. Something about wine—or, rather, the way we perceive it—is remarkably conservative. I wish I had a time machine and could see what the top wines are fifty years from now. For some reason, I doubt if I’d be surprised.
Old friend Nick Goldschmidt braved the terrors of I-80 through Berkeley and Emeryville to visit me in Oakland yesterday. We grabbed some sushi to go and walked over to the park, where we sat on a bench by the lake, with all the seagulls and geese, and talked. (Yes, Gus came, too.)
What did we talk about? Wine, of course. I got caught up on his adventures (Nick seems always to be somewhere in the world making wine) and he got caught up with mine. We spoke about wine critics, and Nick made an interesting statement.
He said, in effect, that he thought wine writers/reviewers should actually live in the places they write about, in order to understand the culture. For instance, he said, when Nick travels to Chile, he lives with winemakers, not in a hotel, eats their food, plays with their kids, and in general absorbs the culture. Chileans eat a lot of sushi, which accounts for many of their wines. Argentinians, by contrast, eat a lot of beef.
So what about traveling writers, like Jancis, Parker, Galloni? I asked. They don’t live in the wine regions they write about but they seem to do a pretty good job. And, I pointed out, I don’t live in wine country either.
“Yes, but you live in the Bay Area and easily travel up to Napa and Sonoma,” Nick said, which is true; and it’s also easy for me to get to the Central Coast. On the other hand, lots of wine writers only visit overseas regions once or twice a year—and then they tend to go to the same old wineries over and over, and this, too, bothered Nick.
I suppose it’s true that living in or near the wine country you write about makes the writing somewhat more authoritative. I’m not sure I agree that an understanding of the “culture” is all that relevant, though. It can’t hurt, but I like to feel that I could take the skills I’ve learned—having a decent palate and all that—and apply them to the wines of France or Croatia or South Africa, if I was reviewing them.
Winemakers always want to feel that the people critiquing their wines have as thorough an understanding as possible of those wines—where they’re from, what the underlying philosophy is, how they were made and so forth. This is perfectly understandable. The relationship between a critic and the wines he reviews is a very intimate one. This is why many wineries—not most, but a lot—won’t allow critics to taste their wines, except with the winemaker on the premises. I personally don’t subscribe to that approach, as I think it’s short-sighted; but then, I come at this from the critic’s point of view.
I think Nick’s questions raise deeper issues, and reflect an ongoing uneasiness about wine critics on the part of many winemakers. They (winemakers) work their butts off to make wine, and then their success or lack thereof is in the hands of writers who are, let’s face it, largely uncredentialed. We also talked about where wine criticism is heading, as the Boomers fade from the scene and print publications continue to try to figure out how to stay relevant. Nick asked me what I thought, and I had to admit I don’t know. After all these years of kicking the subject around on steveheimoff.com, the jury’s still out on how Millennials (the future of wine) will be basing their buying decisions in 5, 10 years.
Speaking of Nick, whose wines I’ve adored for a long time (he’s so talented), I will miss tasting the fantastic range of great wines that used to come my way, not to mention the interaction with so many talented California winemakers, some of whom have been nice enough to contact me and wish me well. I was lucky in my job: I got to taste the best that California has to offer. Not that I’m complaining: I still get to taste some fabulous wines from Jackson Family. Long before now, I should have congratulated Virginie Boone for inheriting the Napa-Sonoma portfolio of my former job at Wine Enthusiast. Good for her: she deserves it.
We tasted through a range of Jackson Family wines the other day with the staff of the Sonoma County Vintners, and my oh my, what an impressive group they (the SCV staff, I mean) were. I remember a time when the staffs (such as they were) of these regional wine associations weren’t as professional or informed as they should have been. Of course, the Napa Valley Vintners always was the best organized, but the others—as hard as they tried—just didn’t seem able to pull it all together.
The problems were twofold: money and politics. It takes dough, and plenty of it, to run a successful regional association, and most of them, aside from Napa, just didn’t have it. Wineries didn’t want to pony up the dues, and besides, many of them felt they didn’t need a regional association—they could do all the marketing and P.R. themselves.
Then there was raw politics. You’d think that all the wineries in a region would be eager to work together to promote that region. But that wasn’t always the way it rolled. The smaller wineries would resent the bigger ones (whose money bankrolled the associations) and felt that they were getting short-shrifted. The job of Executive Director of these associations was a perilous one; people came, got in trouble with the membership, often through no fault of their own, and left after a few years, meaning that the associations were always in a state of drift.
Well, that began to change some years ago. I suppose it just took a maturation of the industry. Competition became fiercer, and winery owners began to realize that (in Franklin’s words), “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.”
I’ve witnessed the most astounding improvements in the last seven years or so. My most direct experience (aside from Napa Valley) was with the associations of Monterey County and Paso Robles. In both cases, I was impressed by the intelligence and passion of their leaders. Whatever improvements you’ve seen in the wines of these two areas have certainly been due, in part, to the energy of their regional associations.
I had less experience with the Santa Barbara Vintners because I tended to arrange my own travels down there (with the help of some local professionals who were glad to help me). Which brings us back to the Sonoma County Vintners. For some reason, while I was at Wine Enthusiast our/my relations had minimized over the years. I’m not sure why. Mostly my relationships were with individual wineries and winemakers in Sonoma County, and given my long history with the county, it just didn’t seem necessary to work closely with SCV.
After last Tuesday’s tasting, I wish I had. I can’t tell you how diligent and curious that group, which numbered about a dozen, was. They wanted to learn everything they could, and I felt that I could draw on my rich and varied experiences, so that our tasting was just as much about history, personalities and anecdotes as it was about the hedonics of the wines. One of the advantages of (how shall I describe it?) getting gray hairs is that you can look back over your adventures and get some perspective on things. It’s often said that younger people have no interest in History. I don’t agree, at least, from the point of view of wine. A twenty-something year old employee of a regional wine association does indeed want to hear tales of bygone times, just as much as she wants to understand how that Pinot Noir tastes and why that taste is the product of the terroir.
Actually, the two concepts—hedonic experiences of wine and history—go hand in hand. In Old Europe this has always been taken for granted. In Europe’s case, it sometimes impeded wine progress, because their cultures got so mired in traditionalism that they couldn’t move forward, even when the way to do so was obvious. Here in California, our lack of tradition—which at first the Europeans derided—turned out in retrospect to have been a blessing in disguise. That might have led some pundits to conclude that history isn’t important in California. But it is. The lines of transmission from, say, Tchelistcheff to Joe Heitz to Richard Peterson to Heidi Barrett to the entire gamut of today’s cult Cabernets are living; no proper understanding of California wine can occur without at least some understanding of how we got to where we are today.
When I was speaking last week at the Haas School of Business at U.C. Berkeley I alluded to this topic of history and one of the students asked me to recommend some books. I’m going to do that pretty soon, right here on the blog. Reading about wine is, to me anyhow, just about as much fun as drinking it!
We did my annual tasting and seminar last week at the U.C. Berkeley Haas School of Business’s Wine Club, “we” being myself and Randy Ullum, K-J’s head winemaker.
I’ve long been a fan of Randy. I included him in my 2008 book, “New Classic Winemakers of California,” which I organized by the decade when the winemaker began his or her career. Randy was part of the 1980s section that also included (for good measure), Bob Levy, Heidi Peterson Barrett, and the brains behind Shafer, Doug Shafer and Elias Fernandez.
What a decade that was. I’ll write more about it soon, but for now, I just want to say how the boutique winery movement of the 1960s and 1970s might have fizzled out, were it not for the energy the Eighties gave it. Like a shot in the arm, you might say, with the brilliance of Napa Valley now being—if not joined, then at least other regions were permitted to co-star in the play.
What I admired then about Randy, and still do, was his ability to craft small-lot wines alongside something like Vintner’s Reserve. And not just any small lots, but really great wine. Randy’s also a humorous, affable guy, and it was obvious the future MBAs at Haas liked him. The laughed a lot more at his jokes than they did at mine!
The cool thing about hanging out with the Millennials /Gen Yers who comprise the Haas Wine Club is that they offer a window into tomorrow’s smart wine consumers. They’re also tomorrow’s well-to-do wine drinkers; an MBA from Haas School ain’t chopped liver! So it’s interesting to know what they’re thinking.
Most wine tastings and seminars are given for an older crowd: for example, the folks who pay big bucks to go to something like the World of Pinot Noir. They are more or less settled into their ways. They’ll go to a Burgundy seminar because they like and collect Burgundy. Their minds are made up, you could say; older drinkers are not as open as younger ones to new wines, or from places they may be unfamiliar with. This is why there’s no event in California called World of Pinotage or World of Trebbiano or World of Croatia.
But Millennials are wide open when it comes to preferences. That’s why they’re such a huge target for wine marketers, who believe that, if they can catch a fan at a young age, they’ve got a customer for life.
Randy tasted the group, which numbered about 60, through five various tiers of Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay, from Vintner’s Reserve up to small production, vineyard-designated bottlings. The students were eager to learn, asking lots of good questions. I know, from having done this class for the last 7 or 8 years, that among them, you’ll find varying degrees of wine knowledge. Some are absolute neophytes, while others have done a lot of tasting and reading. When you’re doing a seminar like that, you have to try and make everyone happy. In the case of the Haas School Wine Club, it’s never hard. They’re a very un-snobby bunch, but at the same time they’re there to learn. I would rather speak to people like that, who have few if any preconceptions about what’s good or bad, important or unimportant, and just want to soak up every bit of knowledge they can.
I never rehearse for such classes. What’s the point? I like to keep things impromptu, on the theory that what’s real is better than a canned speech. And besides, those kids’ questions keep it real. I don’t have any problem thinking on my feet, which is probably partly because I’m from The Bronx (if you’re not on your feet in The Bronx, you’re on your back), but also because I have a lot of thoughts in my head all the time about wine—or about the particular wine topics I’m interested in—so it’s easy for me to expound on them. Just don’t let me go on too long!
I covered the first part of the two-hour class; these Haas students always are interested in things pertaining to being a wine critic. Then Randy took over, and he was smart enough to realize that the class would be interested in some of the business-related aspects of the K-J company. So he intertwined talk about that, even while he presented a thorough tasting and explanation of the various terroirs from which the Chardonnays came.
My favorite among the five Chards (with all due respect to the others) was the 2012 Camelot Highlands, from Santa Maria Valley. I’ve given that wine 90-plus scores over nine vintages, a pretty good track record for a Chardonnay. My readers know I’m a Chardonnay guy anyway, but that Camelot, which is from the so-called Tepusquet Bench of the valley, a hop and skip away from Bien Nacido (Cambria is inbetween), is one I could drink all the time.
As for my new gig, well, so many of you want to know how it’s going that I’ll report here from time to time. In short, it’s great. I’m settling into the new routine, which continues to evolve in the scope of my responsibilities. One of the best parts is that K-J encourages me to bring Gus along with me (for the most part—obviously there are limitations), whereas at my last job, Gus could sometimes be an issue. As I’ve said before, a challenge of my former profession was to get people to see me as me, not their image of me. I never liked that part of the job—being defined by my job. I respected people for seeing me that way, but I always tried to show them the real me. I think all well-known wine critics feel the same way. The job description comes with humility. Or at least, it had better.