If, as Bob told The Drinks Business (and who would know better?), Bordeaux en primeur futures are “largely dead,” then good riddance, says I. I never did care for this futures stuff.
I mean, what purpose did they serve? Maybe once upon a time wine lovers could get a “bargain” by buying en primeur, but those days are long gone. I’m not entirely sure what killed them off, but surely the Internet had something to do with it. eBay? I don’t know for sure, but I bet much, if not most, en primeur Bordeaux is bought strictly for flipping. Something drove prices up so drastically that, as Parker himself points out, “[producers] started raising the prices [on futures] higher and higher, so you were being asked to pay prices for unbottled wines two years before you received them for prices that will essentially be the same as when they came out…”.
That doesn’t make much sense—to tie your money up like that, in essence lending it to the chateau interest-free.
It’s funny how powerful is Parker’s influence. Even though people say his day is over, he’s still the 800-pound gorilla in the room, especially in Bordeaux. Decanter just wrote an article, How to buy en primeur, in which they said that, while the system can be complicated (involving not only the chateaux but negociants and merchants), “there seems to be little sign of change in the offing, and the system does work.” Well, not according to Parker, it doesn’t. And I believe Parker.
* * *
Meanwhile, speaking of Bordeaux, how long will they continue to hype their vintages? As long as there are enough gullible people around to believe it. Here’s the latest on the 2014s, “a ‘great, miracle’ vintage that is close in style and quality to the exceptional 2010s,” according to a Bordeaux winery general manager. (There’s objectivity for you!)
How many times have we heard of a “vintage of the century” or “the greatest vintage since [fill in the blank]”? And it’s not just Bordeaux, it happens in every great wine-producing region. P.T. Barnum would be pleased to learn that his admonition about suckers is truer than ever when it comes to selling wine.
* * *
Finally—to reprise both Bordeaux and Bob Parker—his stepping down from reviewing en primeur—which he announced after giving The Drinks Business his gloomy prognostication on Bordeaux futures—is not the earth-shattering asteroid crash some writers have made it out to be. It was time for him to move on, a decision only he could make, and one into which not too much should be read, except this: as many have pointed out, no critic will ever have Bob’s influence. On balance, that influence has been a very healthy one for the wine industry. Bob was responsible—not entirely, but largely—for wine’s explosion in popularity in the 1980s and 1990s, when media all over the world trumpeted his achievements. More than anyone else, he made wine important. He glamorized it—the way an Oscar elevates a movie. We here in California ought to thank him, too, for he was/is the ultimate non-snob. He said that California wine could be as good as French at a time when many people didn’t want to hear it (and still don’t). I, personally, never begrudged him, as did some critics. In fact I’d venture to say that if it hadn’t been for Bob, there might not have been a Wine Spectator or Wine Enthusiast—and even if there had been, they wouldn’t have become as influential as they did, because he blazed the trail. He cleared the way. He set the style—and will, even after he retires. Bob Parker was the Sinatra of wine critics: The chairman of the board.
* * *
I’m up in Sonoma Valley today, at Richard Arrowood’s Amapola Creek Winery, where he’s hosting a 40-year retrospective tasting of some of his wines. I respect and admire Richard so much. He was a big part of my first book, A Wine Journey along the Russian River. I’ll write about this historic tasting tomorrow.
I like beer, but didn’t have much of a chance to enjoy it when I was tasting and reviewing wine. Popping the corks on at least 15 different bottles a day, and then sitting there thinking and writing about them, took so much effort that I had little time or energy left over for any other kind of alcoholic beverage.
All that changed fairly dramatically a year ago, when I took my new job at Jackson Family Wines. Suddenly, I didn’t have to taste a gazillion wines anymore. (Not that I’d minded it—I loved, and still love, reviewing wine.) All the samples that had flooded my doorstep for so many years abruptly ceased.
Well, not 100%. Although Wine Enthusiast, and I personally, did our best to notify California wineries that I wasn’t working there anymore, wine still comes to me with some regularity. I always send it back, of course, but if you’re a California winery, and reading this, please take note: I DON’T WORK AT WINE ENTHUSIAST ANYMORE!
Anyhow, shortly after I started the new gig, I decided to get back into beer. Nowadays, you’ll always find a few bottles chilling in my fridge. Starting at 5 p.m.—Happy Hour, yay!–I like to have some in a frosty mug I keep in the freezer.
What kind of beer? It can be anything, but it’s often an India Pale Ale. I don’t claim to know much about beer, except that I like it (hey, if all there is on a hot summer afternoon is Bud Lite, count me in!). But I do know that I like that big, hoppy IPA style, which I also recognize as the California Cabernet Sauvignon-equivalent of beer: full-bodied, rich and heady.
This article, which appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle’s Inside Scoop online portal, gives a nice summary of where beer trends are at here in the Bay Area. The author is Jon Bonné, who recently announced that he’s stepping down from his fulltime gig as wine editor of the paper, although he’ll continue a monthly column of some sort. Now Jon, as we all know, made his bones by coming out against the prevailing style of California wine, which is ripe, sunshiney power. Jon favors the In Pursuit of Balance style of lower alcohol wines that many in the IPOB crowd consider more classic and elegant than your typical Napa Valley Cab or, for that matter, Pinots that are riper than—oh, I don’t know, let’s say 13.8%. So I didn’t find it surprising that, in his article, Jon came out against “the hoppy amping-up of American craft beers” as evidenced by “the style that defines most IPAs…”. In fact—just to make sure that we readers understand that hoppy IPAs and big Cabernets are crimes against their respective beverage groups—the craftsmen who produce them, according to Jon, are profiting from a “follow-the-money argument,” which means, presumably, that the producers Jon doesn’t care for are venal.
Well, I’ll let those producers make their own rebuttals. Here’s Jon’s: “The arms race of oak, extraction and jammy flavors, which proved successful for a previous generation of Cabernet makers, is a direct parallel to the hoppy amping-up of American craft beers.” Both drinks are “flavor bombs”; neither is part of the “avant-garde” which Jon so assiduously courts.
I should think Jon might have modified his views following his recent visit to Paris—his beloved France, source of “balanced” wines, and original home of the avant-grade—where he discovered, evidently to his dismay, that “the French craft brewing renaissance is currently populated by hopheads, and obsessed with IPAs…”. I guess forty million Frenchmen can be wrong.
But the real point is that Jon has not served the California wine industry well. He dismissed a large part of its best wines, in many cases refusing even to review them in the Chronicle despite being sent tasting samples, and thus distorting reality to his readers. This has disturbed many California winemakers, who were afraid to criticize Jon publicly for fear of retribution. My own position has been consistent: It’s unprofessional for a wine critic to throw so many wines produced in his own home region under the bus by refusing to even taste them. It’s a fundamental axiom in wine criticism that you don’t have to like a wine in order to review it fairly. You review it within the context of what it purports to be. For example, I might not like Sherry (in fact, I do), but even if I didn’t, I’d feel honor-bound to recognize what a good sherry is, and then to give good sherries good scores.
Jon never gave so many California wines the chance to just be what they are, simply because of a number—alcohol percentage by volume. Instead, he trashed these wines with epithets like “fruit bombs” and “male swagger.” Such snarkiness may have made him a hero to IPOB, but not to many of our state’s winemakers, who might be forgiven for being happy now that he’s gone. Personally, maybe I can finally get into the cool kids’ avant-garde club even though I like Napa Cab and IPAs!
Did my annual wine class last night for the U.C. Berkeley Haas School of Business’s Wine Club. It’s always so cool to go there, with the big banners celebrating their Nobel Prize winners, and those super-smart students who, one imagines, might be running the show someday.
One of the things they wanted to know about was the history of wine reviewing. Here’s what I told them.
Describing wine has a long and honorable history in humankind. People have always understood that wines differ greatly in quality and this seems to have been fascinating to even the earliest peoples we have record of. The Old Testament, Numbers 18:12 (1400 B.C.). refers to drinking “all the best of the wine.” From the New Testament, John 2:10: “every man serves the good wine first.” So these notions of “the best” wine and “the good” wine date to the earliest times.
The ancient Greeks divided wine into quality hierarchies. Socrates’ and Plato’s “symposia” were actually wine-drinking parties at which matters of intellectual interest were discussed. Aristotle praised the aroma of Limnio, a red wine still produced on the island of Lemnos. Later, in Rome, Pliny the Elder (first century A.D.) created one of the earliest rankings of wine, noting that the vineyard is the most important influence on the wine’s quality. In this he anticipates, by nearly 2,000 years, the French system of Grand Crus and Classified Growths, which also are based on vineyards. The greatest, or most famous, of the ancient Roman wines was Falernian, which was often mentioned by ancient writers: On the walls of Pompei, destroyed by Mt. Vesuvius in 79 A.D., is a price list [this must have been the equivalent of a Roman wine bar!]: For one denarius, you could buy an “as”–the house wine. For two, “the best.” For four, “Falernian.” Scholars think Falernian might have been a sweet white wine–rather like an ice wine. According to Pliny the Elder, in 60 B.C., Julius Caesar was served Falernian from the 121 B.C. vintage–the first vintage in recorded history that was celebrated for wine quality. However, as the physician Galen noted around 180 A.D., not all so-called “Falernian” wine could be genuine. There was simply too much being drunk and too little produced! Yes, even then, they had fake wines–a situation we’ve seen here in the states, with the recent Rudi Kurniawan scandal. Counterfeit wine also is notoriously frequent in China with Burgundy and Bordeaux.
Here in America, knowledge of wine all but disappeared due to 14 years of Prohibition. Following Repeal (1933), a plethora of wine books appeared to explain wine to Americans, and implicit in them all was this notion of a hierarchy of quality. It’s very easy for Americans to accept that some things are better than others: people understand that Cadillacs are better than Chevrolets. So they absorbed this notion of wine hierarchies, and it’s still hard to persuade them that a common, everyday wine can be better than a rare, expensive one, depending on the circumstances.
When the Baby Boomers—my generation–came of age with all their disposable income, the number of wineries was exploding exponentially. Consumers needed help deciding what to buy—and they wanted that help to be neutral and objective–so a new generation of “critics” arose in the 1970s. Newspapers in the major cities hired wine critics. Books and newsletters flourished. This was the genesis of where we find ourselves today. Two publications of note arose during the late 1970s: Wine Spectator magazine and Robert Parker’s newsletter, The Wine Advocate. My own former magazine, Wine Enthusiast, launched about ten years later.
With all of these came the advent and triumph of the American wine critic.
Lovely, inspiring article on the BBC’s website about about Andrew Hedley, a British-born New Zealand winemaker (Framingham Wines) who developed throat cancer and had to have his larynx removed, which had a devastating effect on his ability to smell and taste.
“Anything that goes into my nose or mouth now goes straight to my stomach,” he says, meaning, according to the article, that he “had to come up with a new way of smelling and tasting the wines he created.”
Andrew did indeed come up with a new way of smelling and tasting that works so well, he said, “We’ve actually won more awards since I had the cancer surgery.” This is indeed an inspiring story of the ingenuity and triumph of the human spirit.
As I read it I recalled the travails of my own wine-writing hero, Harry Waugh, who following a car accident in which he landed on his head lost his own sense of smell. Yet Harry, who was on the board of Chateau Latour in addition to his other considerable achievements which included writing some of the most influential books in the history of California wine, developed alternative ways of tasting that ensured his continuation as one of the great wine tasters and writers of the second half of the twentieth century.
What are we to make of great wine people who, suffering awful loss of a good part of their sensory equipment, nonetheless remain at the pinnacle of their careers?
Well, for me, the big takehome is that you don’t have to be the awesomest palate ever in order to be a big success. Both Andrew and Harry, and indeed anyone of us, had their limitations: they did what they could do with what they had. And yet something in their skill set enabled them to rise above their limitations.
I don’t know Andrew but I knew Harry. What made him great was his absolute devotion to the grape and wine as well as his ability to put complex thoughts into writing that was easy to comprehend. I have no idea how he managed to tell the difference between a vin ordinaire and a grand vin or vin de garde after his automobile accident, but he did. People still cared about what he said.
We make too much of “expertise” in wine and I realize I need to explain that. With all this attention to Masters of Wine and Master Sommeliers, we tend to think that you need some letters after your last name to be taken seriously if you opine about wine. While I bow to no one in my regard and respect for MWs and MSs, I have to say that when it comes to wine writing of the kind Harry—and a generation of wine writers of the last 30 years, including me—represented, there’s a case to be made that you don’t want so much expertise that it removes the reviewer from the common realm of the 99% who actually buy and drink wine.
There’s another important lesson to be learned from Andrew’s experience. The BBC reporter interviewed a head and neck surgeon who told him, “To be able to differentiate between subtle aromas and tastes of wines must be very difficult and to be honest, it almost never happens in cases where surgery has been performed.” Well, even if you haven’t had your larynx removed, “to be able to differentiate between subtle aromas and tastes of wines” is very difficult anyway! It’s not objective science; even professionals will disagree about what they’re smelling and tasting, which is why my recent blending sessions at Matanzas Creek have been so educational. Taster “A” may find quince and guava, taster “B” may find nectarine and white peach, who’s to say who’s right or wrong? No one, that’s who. But what we can all agree on—at least, I would hope—is that beyond specific flavor descriptors we can all recognize essential quality, which when all is said and done is a function of intellectual interest. For what is great wine, if not a wine that stimulates your mind? And it would seem that, even when your sense of smell or taste is impaired, your ability to be intellectually interested and flattered remains. How cool is that?
No one, not even an omnivorous reader like myself, can possibly see everything that’s published in the world of wine, so it was that I missed “the news [that] traveled around the Internet so quickly it was seemingly everywhere,” in the words of Cyril Penn’s Wine Business Monthly. (Oh, well, better late than never.)
That “news” was the launch of a new app, from a company called Next Glass, “touted,” in the article’s words, “as the app that scientifically chooses your next wine or beer” by “understand[ing] the flavor profile of a drinker” and then “tell[ing] the consumer (on a 100 percent compatibility or ‘enjoyability’ scale) how likely they are to love it…”.
The idea originated with the company’s CEO, who had dinner with friends a few years back. “The diners were having trouble selecting a bottle [and] a suggestion from the waiter didn’t go over well,” so the CEO “realized that science could be used to make accurate and reliable recommendations.” The “science,” in Next Glass’s case, includes mass spectrometers, chemical analyzers and algorithms, all of overseen by a Ph.D. The company’s COO says Next Glass goes beyond crowd-sourced platforms like Yelp and Trip Advisor because it can tell the consumer whether or not he or she will enjoy the specific wine chosen, and not just what other people thought about it.
Well, this is obviously controversial stuff. Penn wrote, in an introduction, that the announcement from Next Glass “prompted one of the world’s greatest wine essayists to pen a piece…saying, ‘You think an algorithm can replace a wine critic? Think again.’” Penn didn’t identify the wine essayist, but Google did: None other than Matt Kramer. I was not surprised, because Matt really is one of the world’s greatest wine essayists and is always worth reading.
You can guess as to the substance of Matt’s argument: he summarized his opinion with, “It’s individual critics who are the real app…”. Now, you can say that Matt is hardly objective; he writes for a magazine whose strength is its bench of famous wine critics. But I think to dismiss Matt’s position based on that is not valid. Too often, we look for conspiracies and ulterior motives in critics, when really, there are none; and Matt’s credibility quotient is among the highest in the field. Matt is correct when he writes that critics “offer authentic thought and insight rather than data sifting with a ‘skin’ that makes it seem individualized and personal.”
I don’t doubt that Next Glass will have some success. They certainly got a lot of free media: coverage ranged from business publications to the San Francisco Chronicle, CNN and the Wall Street Journal’s WSJ.DLive, an online digital conference.
People, especially younger people, like apps; they seem to fit in with today’s fast-paced, iPhone-connected world. As one of my tattoo artist friends explained to me, “If you’re the guy at the table with the app, you’re looking cool.” And Next Glass, in particular, appears to be “scientific” in a way that might appeal to folks who resent being told what to do and think by others, particularly older men and women whose lives bear little resemblance to their own.
Far be it from me to suggest that wine critics are the end-all and be-all of wine recommending. But I was one myself, for a long time, and I know that world pretty well; and some voice inside me, which I have learned to trust because it’s usually right, is telling me that the individual wine critic, with all his flaws and virtues, is going to continue to be important, because–let’s face it–everything that purports to replace it isn’t as good. When a Gen Y’er uses Next Glass to buy her next glass or bottle of wine—and doesn’t particularly like it, or finds her friends don’t like it—Next Glass’s limitations will be clear.
After 1918, when the General Theory of Relativity made headlines all over the world, and Albert Einstein was the most famous scientist in history, the theory became the basis, in the popular mind, for a singular misconception.
“The phrase ‘everything is relative’ became very popular. It was thought to mean that nothing is better than anything else,” writes Robert Cwiklik, in his little volume, Albert Einstein and the Theory of Relativity.
Under this misunderstanding of what the theory actually meant, people assumed that no opinion, idea, style or solution to any problem was better than any other. This certainly had nothing to do with Einstein’s own beliefs—he always stuck to his view of fixed, immutable truths in the Universe, and spent his life, futilely at the end, searching for them. But it did enable the masses to argue that, since everything is relative, one’s own views were as valid as those of any expert.
This strain of thinking has always been nascent in humans—it is the basis of the anti-intellectualism that runs through American history–but it has acquired particular force in the age of the Internet and social media. This is because anyone can, indeed, formulate an opinion and then promulgate it, instantaneously and universally, with the push of a keystroke. This had led to the notion that expertise is no longer valid—is, in fact, elitist—a notion that has particular traction in wine reviewing, which has always been viewed skeptically and even hostilely by certain segments of the public.
However, as Einstein would be the first to aver, this is simply not the case. As one who has repeatedly suggested that people drink what they want, with whatever they want, I defer to no one in my democratic [small “d”] beliefs. But the fact is, there is such a thing as quality in wine. Some wines simply are better than others, and this is always due to two factors: the excellence of the vineyard, and the diligence of the winemaking team.
Have I said anything earthshaking, or that you didn’t know? No. But I’m reading the Einstein book, and that quote led me to these thoughts, which you’re reading now. Of more pertinence, perhaps, to me anyhow, was my day in San Francisco. A picture-postcard day, Spring-like and sunny, with the beauty that S.F. is famous for. Maxine, Keith and I had planned to have oysters at Waterbar during Christmas week, but the flu hit all three of us, hard, and we had to postpone. Marilyn joined us at the last minute, largely because after Waterbar, we planned to walk over to Trou Normand, in the old Pacific Telephone Building,
South of Market. Marilyn worked there, long ago, as a secretary, and wanted to reminisce. Besides, Trou Normand was just chosen as one of Michael Bauer’s top ten new restaurants of 2014, and one of the chefs, Seth, is married to my friend Danielle, who’s the receptionist at Old Crow Tattoo. Trou Normand specializes in charcuterie—who could say no to that, except a vegan?—and, rare for downtown, they’re open all afternoon. So we had our oysters (a dozen each) at beautiful Waterbar, with a bottle of Domaine Chandon L’Etoile (a great wine), then walked over to Trou Normand and gorged on charcuterie and salumi. Here’s a photo essay.
It was clear and blue-skied downtown
The Ferry Building gleamed white
And the water was blue beneath the Bay Bridge
Mr. Gull was relaxing on an old piling
Waterbar looked warm and inviting
with its outdoor area by the bridge
The shellfish beckoned
Then it was off to Trou Normand
Located in a high-ceilinged former lobby of the telephone building
I wanted everything on the menu
Our server was very helpful!