Robert M. Parker describes it best: “. . . narrow, winding roads, sleepy valleys, photogenic hillsides . . . quaint old villages . . . enchanted mountainsides . . . one of France’s two most beautiful viticultural regions.” But Rudolph Chelminski, author of I’ll Drink To That who fleshes out the details—geological, historical, political, cultural, gastronomical—including crucial historical personalities like the 14th Century Philippe the Bold and the 20th Century Marketing Wizard, Georges Duboeuf.

Wine enthusiasts with a curiosity for the story behind a wine, will recognize those teases as pointing directly at Beaujolais, that bucolic, thirty-four mile long region in east-central France between Macon and Lyon. Philippe the Bold banished the Gamay Noir à Jus Blanc grape from his Duchy, the northernmost area of Burgundy now known as the Cote d’Or. Duboeuf, the marketing genius behind Nouveau Beaujolais, is the dominant producer/negociant in Beaujolais, the southernmost section of Burgundy. (The Cote d’Or remains home to Pinot Noir, while the exiled Gamay found its ideal terroir south in Beaujolais.)

Like most French wines, Beaujolais is a wine—and a region. And much like Bordeaux, which includes Pauillac, Margaux, St. Julien and other appellations, so too does Beaujolais have its own sub-appellations. Ascending the structure and complexity ladder, they are Beaujolais (where Nouveau is made), Beaujolais-Villages and the Ten Beaujolais Crus (crews). While the first two produce juicy, low tannin quaffs, it is with the Crus—virtually unknown in America—where complex wines of substance and character are to be found. They are as follows: Brouilly, Régnié, Côte-de-Brouilly, Chiroubles, Saint Amour, Fleurie, Chénas, Juliénas, Morgon and Moulin-à-Vent, with the last two being the most structured and age-worthy. Also, inasmuch as each Cru has earned its own appellation status, you will seldom, if ever, see the word “Beaujolais” anywhere on the label. “Red Burgundy Wine” occasionally appears in small print.

The word from France and career wine journalists, is that the 2009 Beaujolais vintage is quite special, if not spectacular. Georges Duboeuf proclaimed it the “Vintage of his lifetime.” He describes the Crus as, “Opulent, exceptionally full bodied and fabulous.” I have sampled many of them and tend to agree that they are something special—well balanced, nicely structured, age-worthy wines. They are not confected, steroid versions of Nouveau. Lastly, if your wine preference leans toward high alcohol, sledgehammer reds that are as dense as Port and nearly as viscous, the Beaujolais Crus are not for you. If, however, you yearn for a $15 to $30 wine that’s easy on the palate and pairs well with food, definitely consider pairing one of “Burgundy’s Other Red Wines” with your next roast beef recipe.

– Tom Barras

www.TomBarrasWineCommentary.blogspot.com/

“I’m no wine connoisseur, but I know what I like.” I cannot tell you how often I’ve heard that. I’ve been tempted to respond, “I believe you, but what do you like, and can you tell me why you like it?” Thank goodness, I’ve resisted that temptation, otherwise I’d be a very lonely guy. Wine drinkers, all of us, know what we like, but for the most part, we find it difficult to articulate.

Part of the reason, I believe, is that we simply don’t focus our attention on the details of what’s in the stemware. It’s like other aspects of our lives. How about that picture hanging over the fireplace? In detail, what is it that you like about it? The same can be said of music. Is it strictly in the background, sliding by your consciousness? Or are you paying attention and heard that waffling sound of the fifty-cent piece that the drummer spun gently on the drum? It’s definitely in the details, but wouldn’t we be more confident if we could articulate them?

Another reason for our inability to define our preferences, I believe, lies in the intimidating, sometimes off-putting, metaphorical vocabulary of winespeak; those descriptors that wine tasters and reviewers use that sound like they belong in a physiology class (legs, body), or a chemistry seminar (acidity, tannins, balance), or horticultural meeting (floral, herbaceous). No question those wine basics have to be learned. However, when the metaphors go to lofty extremes…

What if I can’t perceive, for example, that a Super Tuscan has the gentle fragrance of the “forest floor?” Or that a red from Provence evokes “garrigue” (that aromatic melange of herbs and shrubs that grow wild in the countryside)? Or that Bordeaux smells faintly of cassis, cedar, and tobacco? I don’t remember the last time I got on my knees and sniffed the undergrowth at Muir Woods. And a spice jar of Herbs de Provence might give me a hint of that red from Provence, but I doubt it. Cedar blocks are in my closet, but they don’t recall the aroma of wine for me.

Lastly, our palates are like fingerprints; everyone is different. What you perceive is not what I perceive. I’ve been to large group tastings, and the perceptions and descriptors vary widely. But that shouldn’t inhibit you from expressing your own opinion. One man’s “forest floor,” may be another man’s “mulch pile,” while an expert’s “garrigue” may be the beginners “weedy.” And “cassis”, well, blackberry preserves sounds pretty good to me. So, here’s a thought. Focus your attention, don’t be afraid to speak your mind, and have faith in your own palate. As one English wine writer says it, “Think while you drink.”

– Tom Barras

It’s that time of year. Short, cool days and long, chilly nights. I dislike it for a number of reasons. The weather primarily. There’s not enough sunshine, and green algae are sprouting on my barbecue bricks like outer space slime. Barbecuing holds no interest because there’s powdery mold on the briquettes, and there’s no more starter fuel. The golf courses are cold and uninviting, and it seems like I’m hitting rocks instead of golf balls. And the white wines lack important qualities like intense color, full body and serious, mouth-filling flavors.

Ah, but it’s wintertime. And I like it for many reasons. The weather primarily. It’s brisk and invigorating, especially on those quick morning walks. The sun is oblique and doesn’t jump into my face. In the evening I light my fireplace, mold into my easy chair, sip a Manhattan on the rocks, and search for truths in the flickering flames. At dinner it’s time for good old-fashioned comfort food, like meaty stews, hearty pot roasts, wine and broth braised chicken.

And being a wine kinda guy, I know it’s time to pair those dishes with the perfect cold weather wine, the type that slides down nice and easy and doesn’t require cerebral discussion to appreciate. A comfort wine. I won’t reach for that brawny Cabernet. I’ll pass on that slick Merlot as well as that smooth, aromatic Pinot Noir. And while a brambly California Zinfandel would work, I’m proposing a different wine, from a low-visibility French Appellation.

I’m referring to those user-friendly red “comfort wines” from the Southern Rhone appellation of Côtes du Rhône, which are near the more famous appellation of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Wine snobs may scoff at these wines, because, the mélange of grapes — Grenache, Cinsault, Carignan, Syrah, and Mourvdre — from which they’re primarily made, don’t generate a strong, recognizable aromatic profile like, say, a Cabernet Sauvignon or Pinot Noir do. But if drinking, rather than sniffing, is your priority then these wines will do you fine.

The reds of Côtes du Rhône are noted for their soft, round character. They are dark, ripe and full bodied, with hints of red and black fruits, and they’re the ideal mate for the multitude of flavors in stews and braises. Given their quality range, they’re very good values, with most usually selling in the $10 to $20 range. Some of the better known producers I have enjoyed over the years are Perrin & Fils, Guigal, St. Cosme, Santa Duc, Vidal Fleury and Jaboulet. If after sampling the basic appellation, you yearn for a bit more class and complexity, then move up to the Côtes du Rhône – Villages appellation, or to a specifically name village like Gigondas, Rasteau or Seguret. In any case, you’re sure to find one that satisfies your palate.

– Tom Barras

Let’s review some of the roads that one may roam trying to become an informed wine buyer. Some start out with the “intense staring and pick the prettiest label” route. This may introduce one to some great artwork, but little, if any, good wine. That route is a dead end. Also, buying solely on a price basis — nothing over, say $5.00 or $10.00 — will accommodate one’s wallet, but not one’s taste buds. That one-way street goes nowhere. And taking the short cut to the ABC’s of Wine — Always buy Cabernet, Always buy Chardonnay — while satisfactory for many wine buyers, can end up being a monotonous, round trip if the occasional vinous side trips are not explored.

Those periodic side trips are what I call the “Enlightened ABC’s of Wine” — Avoid buying Cabernet, Avoid buying Chardonnay (avoid buying ONLY them.) Alternately stated, try drinking something different every now and then. Sure, drink your favorites, but do your taste buds a favor and surprise them with some new flavors. There’s a world of wine varieties to be experienced and enjoyed. And grape variety — the wine’s name — is the flashing neon sign at the fork in the road that we will follow. Chardonnay is a distinct varietal wine, as is Cabernet, Pinot Noir, Zinfandel, and others. They’re named after the primary grape variety from which they’re made.

There are many variables that affect a wine’s flavor — where it’s from, the soil it’s grown in, the climate of the area, the age of the vines, the winemaker’s skill or lack thereof, plus a host of other variables that fill “How To” books. But the single-most important item that determines the flavor of a wine is the primary grape variety from which it is made. Moreover, grape variety affects the wine’s profile by influencing attributes like acidity, concentration, aroma, body, and aging potential. It’s that individuality — that genetic blueprint — that distinguishes a Chardonnay from a Sauvignon Blanc, and a Cabernet Sauvignon from a Pinot Noir.

Becoming familiar with the profiles of major and minor wine varietals, their similarities and differences, at least generally, is the first discriminating step — not wine snobbery — toward the increased and informed enjoyment of one of life’s more available and affordable pleasures of the table. And the good news is we live in California, which has, for all practical purposes, set the standard, and still follows the practice of wine labeling by grape variety, rather than the murky and challenging Appellation system of Europe.

Varietal labeling is inherently so easy to grasp and understand and so successful that many importers are now including the grape variety as a sub-heading on the bottle’s front label. A Bourgogne Blanc (White Burgundy), for example, will occasionally be labeled “Chardonnay,” for those not familiar with France’s appellation system. Do you suppose it’s similar to California Chardonnay? Do you think it’s different? Maybe it’s time to find out.

— Tom Barras

“I’m no wine connoisseur, but I know what I like.” I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard that. I’ve been tempted to respond, “I believe you, but what, in fact, do you like, and can you tell me why?” Thank goodness, I’ve resisted that temptation, otherwise I’d be a very lonely guy. Wine drinkers, all of us, know what we like, but for the most part, we find it difficult to articulate.

Part of the reason, I believe, is that we simply don’t focus our attention on the act of drinking. It’s like other aspects of our lives. How about that picture hanging over the fireplace? In detail, what is it that you like about it? The same can be said of music. Is it strictly in the background, sliding by your consciousness? Or are you paying attention and heard that waffling sound of the fifty-cent piece that the drummer spun gently on the drum? It’s definitely in the details, but wouldn’t we be more confident if we could articulate them? Why do always order that California Chardonnay? Or that Cabernet?

Another reason for our inability to define our preferences, I believe, is the intimidating, sometimes off-putting, metaphorical vocabulary of winespeak; those descriptors that wine tasters and reviewers use that sound like they belong in a physiology class (legs, body), or a chemistry seminar (acidity, tannins, balance), or horticultural meeting (floral, herbaceous). No question those wine basics have to be learned. However, when the metaphors go to lofty extremes . . . .

What if I can’t perceive, for example, that a Super Tuscan has the gentle fragrance of the “forest floor?” Or that a red from Provence evokes “garrigue” (that aromatic melange of herbs and shrubs that grow wild in the countryside)? Or that Bordeaux smells faintly of cassis, cedar, and tobacco? I don’t remember the last time I got on my knees and sniffed the undergrowth at Muir Woods. And a spice jar of Herbs de Provence might give me a hint of that red from Provence, but I doubt it.

Lastly, our palates are like fingerprints; everyone is different. What you perceive is not what I perceive. I’ve been to large group tastings, and the articulated perceptions and descriptors vary widely. But that shouldn’t inhibit you from expressing your own opinion. One man’s “forest floor,” may be another man’s “mulch pile,” while an expert’s “garrigue” may be the beginners “weedy.” And “cassis”, well, blackberry preserves sounds pretty good to me. So, here’s a thought. Focus your attention, don’t be afraid to speak your mind, and have faith in your own palate. As one English wine writer says it, “Think while you drink.”

— Tom Barras

“Wow, that’s just a little toooo dry for me,” I said recoiling from the bitter, astringent jolt of a young Cabernet Sauvignon. That unpleasant experience, as I was later to learn, had nothing to do with “dryness,” which is the opposite of sweetness. What it was related to was something entirely different. That harsh, mouth-puckering feeling was caused by a high level component in red wines known as “tannins.”

While most of us, I believe, can easily relate to the weight of “body style” and the crispness of “acidity,” things get a tad perplexing when it comes to tannins. But if you’ve ever crunched on a grape seed, chewed the skin of red plum or a portion of banana peel, or more likely, sipped strongly brewed tea, then you’ve experienced the eye-popping reaction to high level tannins. Your mouth feels like it has no moisture, and it’s been lined with scouring pads. Hence, the confusion with dryness.

Tannins are to red wines what acidity is to white wines. They’re a vital, life-giving component that supplies texture, structure and balance. While acidity has been called the “nervous system” of whites, tannins can be called the “backbone” of reds. It allows them to age and develop flavor and aroma nuances far beyond primary “berry” and “plumy.” And just as there are seasoned wine enthusiasts who are “acidity freaks”, so too are there those wine veterans who like the distinct, textural “grip” and strength of character derived from well integrated tannins.

Why mainly reds? The source of tannins is primarily from grape skins, (think crush and the long soak of fermentation), as well as the oak barrels used during the aging process. Tannin levels are also directly related to the type of grape, the duration of skin contact during fermentation, and the age of the wine. Pinot Noir grape skins, for example, yield lower tannins while Cabernet Sauvignons generally impart a more aggressive style. A very short soak on Zinfandel skins will produce that forward, fruit laden White Zinfandel, while a longer infusion will yield the more traditional, muscular Red Zinfandel. And if you store it for several years, those tannins will fall away and you will perceive a wine with a distinctly different taste and bouquet.

 Without an adequate level of tannins, reds would taste one dimensional, flabby and lifeless. With too much, they would taste unbearably sharp and bitter. With the right balance, they are described as “silky.” And just as acidity tolerance levels vary with each person’s palate, so does one’s reaction differ with various tannin levels. Also, much like acidity in white wines, tannins in reds refresh the palate between bites of crusty, grilled meats and thereby, in the context of accompanying food, genuinely fulfills its intended function.

— Tom Barras

Varietal labeling — naming the wine after the primary grape from which it’s made — is so prevalent that you might think that all wines are labeled that way. Not so. When you shop at your favorite wine retailer and consider buying a wine from France, Spain, Italy, Germany, and other European countries, you will notice that the wine is not named after the primary grape. Rather, it is named after the region where it is produced. As such, it may, for example, indicate “Chablis” (France), or “Chianti” (Italy), or “Ribera del Duero” (Spain). This method is known as the appellation method, and the wines are labeled with the name of the geographical region from which it came, rather than the underlying grape(s) from which it is made.

How did that come about? The flash-card answer is it’s an outcome of history. The detailed answer is the European winegrowers discovered centuries ago, through trial and error, that each grape variety does its best in specific types of soils, exposures, and environments. Eventually, those in the wine industry and, more importantly, their worldwide customers came to accept and acknowledge that, for example, the best Chardonnay originated in France’s Burgundy region (Bourgogne) as did the best Pinot Noir. And when someone was offered a Bourgogne Rouge (Red Burgundy) he/she was confident it was a Pinot Noir from that Region. It was, to be sure, the Real Thing.

The French appellation system, on which other European countries based their own system, was created in 1935 to protect growers in the most famous winemaking regions against the illegal “knock offs” from unscrupulous producers in other regions. Its goal was to give wine buyers a guarantee of origin and authenticity. Please note, it does not guarantee quality. However, overall, that has been the result. Without delving into arcane details, the appellation controls the following very important items: the permitted grapes, the geographical boundaries, vineyard yields, alcohol levels, and certain vineyard and vinification practices.

But does this system have any real consequence for you? You might notice while doing your supermarket shopping that some jug wines still carry the appellation names “Chablis” and “Burgundy”. Do you think you’re getting the Real Thing? Likewise California sparkling wine producers, who label theirs as “Champagne,” would have you imagine that theirs is identical to the French model. Think so? Don’t care? Well, suppose you’re drinking a bottle of red wine that is labeled “Napa Zinfandel,” but somehow it just doesn’t taste as you remember. It’s a lot cheaper, and seemed like a great deal at the price, but as you struggle through the last few sips, you pick up the bottle and spot some very small print on the back label that states “Produced in Yugoslavia.” Obviously, it’s not the Real Thing.

— Tom Barras

With my newfound navigator, “body style,” guiding me through the maze of wines, I began to notice that, in fact, wines did tend to exhibit their inherent body styles fairly consistently. I found, generally, that Chenin Blancs, Rieslings, Pinot Grigios and Sauvignon Blancs had lighter bodies than, say, Napa Chardonnays. For reds, I noted that Beaujolais, Pinot Noirs and Merlots were lighter bodied than Cabernet Sauvignons, Syrahs and Zinfandels. But I still needed more specifics before I could better distinguish one wine from another.

As I swirled and spilled my way through various tastings, I perceived differences that nothing to do with one being heavier or lighter bodied than another. I observed that Sauvignon Blancs, for example, had much more “zing” than, say, a Chardonnay. And further, I noticed that certain reds, especially Beaujolais and Pinot Noirs displayed, among other qualities, a livelier personality than, say, Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon. So why did certain wines have more zip on my palate than others? What was that lively boost, that pleasant, somewhat edgy palate tingle?

That distinguishing element was “acidity.” One noted British wine expert has called acidity “the nervous system of wine … it gives (it) purpose, life, zing, and finish.” If you’ve puckered up after biting into a Granny Smith apple, you know acidity. If you’ve ever spit out an unripe grape, you really know acidity. And if you’ve brewed yourself a cup of tea, you won’t experience acidity at all. That is, until you enliven it with a couple squeezes of lemon juice, the high priestess of acidity. Acidity in wines should be viewed accordingly.

There are several types of acid in wines, and without them, wine just wouldn’t be wine. At least not for long, because wine needs acidity to survive. The level of acidity in wines is determined by the inherent nature of the underlying grape from which it is made, as well as the geographical region where it is grown. Cool northern weather locations, in Germany for example, tend to produce higher acid wines than, say, the warmer southern vineyards of France’s Rhone valley. And while both red and white wines have acidity, it’s with the whites where it’s most important and where you should focus your palate’s attention. Wines with too little acidity are described as flat, dull, or flabby. Those with too much are lean, angular or tart. Whites with a balanced acidity level are “crisp.” Individual palates differ greatly, and one person’s soft, low acid wine may be another’s screeching, electro-shock ordeal. So, look for the ones that give you that crisp, lingering finish and refresh your palate between bites of your loved one’s latest gourmet creation.

— Tom Barras

When I first started to swirl, sniff and sip, it seemed that with the hundreds of American and French wineries selling wine that I would never ever be able to distinguish one from another. Considering the number of reds and whites as well as the ever-increasing vintages, the task seemed too immense, too confusing, and, frankly, quite daunting. “Why bother,” I thought. “Wine is wine.” It’s either red or white, and occasionally something in between. And, rather candidly, it all tasted somewhat alike. I was in a fog of blissful ignorance.

Then while browsing wine books in a bookstore I leafed through one whose contents grouped wines, and their underlying grape varieties, by body style. Up to that time my notion of body was ‘lean and athletic,’ ‘well rounded and cuddly,’ and ‘Oh my gosh Paul, look at that one.’ In this book, however, the divisions were on a more asexual vinous order. The author’s system seized my analytical mind. Hierarchy. Categories. Order. I loved it.

Body style became my navigator and the pivotal point in demystifying wines. I came to understand that wines, whether they were foreign or domestic, red or white, mono-varietal or blended, possessed an innate body style. Also, I noted that their intrinsic body (weight), very generally, tended to be light, medium, or full. And, at a closer, more attentive savoring, they would more likely be ‘light to medium’ or ‘medium to full’ or outright ‘full bodied.’ The haze was lifting. 

Body styles may be old news to you, but if not, be apprised that body relates to the impression or weight of the wine in your mouth. Certain wines, primarily because of higher alcohol levels, (there are other factors as well) have a heavier ‘mouth-feel’ than those at lower alcohol levels. (Generally, from 7.5% to 10.5% are considered light bodied; those above 13% are full; medium bodies are between those two.) Wines that have insufficient alcohol will seem thin and watery, and those with too much alcohol, while they might give you that cheerful buzz, will feel hefty and ‘hot.’ Neither makes particularly good food partners.

How does one distinguish the different body styles? Many suggest looking to milk for examples. Which has more mouth feel (weight) skim milk or regular? Regular or half and half? Half and half or whipping cream? Notice the movement up the viscosity scale? The same distinctions, though not quite so striking, are there in wines.

Those lactic examples are obvious because you know milk. That same awareness will evolve as you do slower, mindful savoring of your dinnertime wines. (Hint: check the bottle label for alcohol level and other winemaking details.) You will begin to discern, at least with respect to body, why you favor one wine over another. However, keep in mind that in a wine’s basic profile, body is but one component in its overall structure, just as there is more than meets the eye when boy sees body.

— Tom Barras

About twenty years ago or so I ordered wine from restaurant wine stewards and retail liquor store clerks in about the same manner: clueless and uninformed. At the restaurant, typically French, for they were the culinary wizards at the time, I dealt with the Sommelier, or as they’re now referred to, the Wine Steward. Formally dressed with a silver tasting cup dangling on a chain from around his neck, he handed me a multi-page wine binder and then dutifully edged away while I nervously flipped through the pages. I could not understand a thing. It was unsettling. What did it all mean? Bordeaux ? Burgundy? Weren’t they the same? They’re both in France, aren’t they? And the years … did it really matter what year one drank? Anyway, aren’t the younger ones fresher and tastier? Who pays for old wines, anyway?

Nevertheless, overcoming all those uncertainties, I assembled all my critical thinking skills and typically selected a wine that had the following important qualities: 1) easy to pronounce, and 2) one of the cheapest on the list. Inevitably the steward advised “Excellent choice,” and I sighed in relief that I pulled it off again. I made a shrewd choice. Well, as you can readily imagine, it was not shrewd at all. While the price may have fit my wallet, the wine didn’t fit my palate.

Similarly, when buying wine at the retail liquor store, I walked up and down the aisles, avoiding any assistance from Gomer Pyle behind the counter, and methodically stared at all the bottles. I waited for a subliminal message, some hidden persuader, to be emitted that would reveal the perfect wine to me. I studied Marketing in college and knew that companies spent millions of dollars on creative packaging. The wine label, which is the most creative of packaging, was designed to hint at the essence of what’s inside the bottle, just as the book cover insinuated at what’s inside the book.

After bottle-staring intently for long periods of time, I eliminated those that didn’t have the prettiest labels or those that didn’t evoke a warm, fuzzy vinous response. Finally, I made my choice and carried it to Gomer. I was very systematic, and I knew that my combination of intense bottle-staring, wishful thinking, educated marketing insights and my usual perceptive price comparison yielded a wine that would dazzle our dinner guests. Well, sometimes it did, and at other times it didn’t, and I was getting the feeling that wine wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Where did the fault lie? In my technique? Was there some other approach I should try? Or did the problem lie with the wines? Stay tuned.

— Tom Barras