The Day After Tomorrow (or, The Next Big Thing)

Coloradan Syrah is the next big thing. Spanish Txakolina is the next big thing. Arizonan Malvasia is the next big thing. Greek Assyrtiko is the next big thing. Californian Chardonnay is the next big thing. French Sauvignon blanc is the next big thing. Mexican Nebbiolo is the next big thing. Oregonian Pinot noir is the next big thing. There is no next big variety when it comes to wine. People who claim grape X is the next big thing are wrong. People who claim that the traditional big grape varieties are the only important grapes and "there's really no good reason for consumers to seek out esoteric wines" are also wrong. The closest thing to the next big thing in wine is variety itself: diversity.

Crossing the Border Guards

Wine appellations fascinate me because my of my interest and background in geography. I often feel like the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding because I think almost everything has its roots in geography (I mean, describing the phenomena of the Earth is what geography is...). In particular, American Viticultural Areas, or AVAs for short, really intrigue me. Not because they are great in and of themselves, but that they reveal the cultural and political aspects of wine appellations more readily than those in Europe. And yes, culture and politics are just as geographical at heart as soil and climate.

The Fallacy of Terroir

The fallacy of terroir is not that it doesn't exist, it is that people keep saying there is no English-language equivalent of the concept. Many people attribute, soil, climate and topography as the common denominator of terroir. According to the infallible Wikipedia, "at its core is the assumption that the land from which the grapes are grown imparts a unique quality that is specific to that growing site." Thus, terroir is often described as the set of special characteristics of a certain place. Depending on scale, that could be a region, a village, a vineyard or even a specific block within a vineyard. This is exemplified by the fact that syrah wines differ from Hermitage, Barossa and Paso Robles despite being made from the same grape cultivar. Perhaps the concept of terroir is best epitomized in Burgundy where famed climats like Romanée, Romanée-Conti and Richebourg in Vosne-Romanée are only meters apart and yield distinct wines all made from pinot noir.

Yes, the soils, climate (not so much in Vosne-Romanée) and topography vary in each of these places. But one thing that is too often left out of the terroir discourse is the anthropic influence. After all, grape vines don't decide where they grow, harvest themselves or stop fermentation before the product is vinegar. Some people, including myself, add the human element to the concept of terroir. Whether or not you include people as part of the terroir of a place, there is in fact an English word that covers all the definitions of the concept: geography. In English, the characteristics of a wine can be said to come from the geography of a place. Geography is more than just maps (actually, the study of maps is called cartography). Geography encompasses soil, climate, topography, geology, history and cultural practices of a place.

Wine critic vs. wine writer (which is more important?)

A few recent posts by W. Blake Gray got me thinking about the difference between wine critics and wine writers. Wine critiquing and wine writing are two different activities that are often confused as the same thing. Dave McIntyre, wine columnist for the Washington Post, eloquently explained that "the writer tells wine's story in a way that hopefully gets the reader thirsty, while the critic can tell the reader which wines are worth buying." This isn't to say that they are mutually exclusive, and in fact most wine critics will claim they do both. But can someone do both at the same time? To paraphrase McIntyre, critical analysis of wine (i.e., blind tasting) takes wine out of its context, but for wine writers context is the story.