Sharon Bowman
Sharon Bowman
or: A Return to Terroir
Lucky, lucky expats, we. Here come seventy of your finest natural winemakers from the Continent (plus an Antipodean). Here is a handsome brick-vaulted space on West 18th Street in Manhattan. Here is too-young Comté on the side, and some sliced bread. Here are the tables. Here are the bottles. Behind tables and bottles, people. You know, those people, the passionate ones. The ones who walk in vineyards without a coat at 0° temps. The ones who pour and talk, pour and talk, and whose passion for what they do seems to grow, rather than be diminished, by their encounters with us, the ones on the other side of the table.
I always get this whiff of anticipation. I get jittery. It reminds me of when I was a kid and I would walk into a bookstore. I would almost have to make a break for the outside—just another minute—and breathe in calmly before going back in amongst those objects of covetousness.
But today, I also felt that the sprawl was a sprawl, and with seventy growers to taste and only six hours to do them in, the math was easy and didn’t add up. I wouldn’t do them all.
So I whet my palate with some Nikolaihof. I don’t know much about Austrian wines, as the song goes (imagine Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis dancing to this as I sit moping in the back of the barn), but I found the wines of interest. 2010 Hefeabzug GV was a perfect starter wine, and was discreet in leaving the stage. 2010 Im Weingebirge Federspiel GV had interesting acidity—bright thing, you!—and left more of a mark. I fretted on nosing the 2009 Im Weingebirge Smaragd GV, which smelt hot. But on the palate, well: “Pretty material!” I did write.
On, perforce, to the Rieslings. A 2010 Vom Stein Riesling Federspiel was buckets of acidity. A more stolid 2008 Vom Stein Riesling Smaragd was pleasing. And finally, a 2006 Steiner Hund, that formidable pooch, was really complex and lovely. The pourer whispered to me, “If you can, seek out ’93 Vinothek.”
But I was interrupted in this impossible reverie by the arrival of one Ms. Lee C., whose brightness in the room eclipsed lesser suns and allowed me to make my escape.
Here I met my tasting partner in crime, Arno T., of WD fame. What would follow was a marathon. Let me catch my breath.
The thoughts and ideas and recommendations from those around us, this community of wine geeks, as well as our own directions helped both to direct and to misdirect.
Domaine Lafarge. I have been on a Volnay bender of late, but this was a curious little assortment available to taste from a well-known V house. 2009 Raisins Dorés Aligoté was as indifferent as customary aligoté but too soft for kir. Hrm. 2009 Meursault was closed and locked. 2009 Passetoutgrains missed my palate as I turned my head, so to speak. And 2009 Volnay was closed.
You get in, you get out, sometimes.
But there were Muscadets to inquire as to. Like those of Jo Landron, he of the nice mustache. A good vintage-indication nudge was had right away in the form of 2010 Amphibolite followed fast on by 2011 of the same. Now we see... While the 2010 was a pleasant and sprightly thing, the 2011 was a bit brackenish. Rot, or had they just left it lying sideways as the kelp came in with the tide?
A 2010 Domaine and we were back in form. Aside from some shaky-handed memories I had of having downed a glass of this in my slide to perdition at a recent Ten Bells oyster-and-perdition expedition, this was great. Classic Musc, argile & quartz. After, 2010 Hermine d’Or (sandstone) and then 2010 Fief du Breil (quartz/orthogneiss) played little brother and big brother. The Breil, big brother, was throwing bitter almonds and savory, savory notes.
Next was Domaine de L’Écu, where I joyfully told Fred, Bossard’s partner, that his business card was famous on Wine Disorder. To which he replied: “URL?” I promised to send it to him and pocketed another card.
These are great wines, and I can bring you the good news as only a Muscadet agnostic can—with that element of surprise a true believer lacks.
2010 Cuvée Classique is, well, classique. Gotcha. But... What about that 2009 Expression de Gneiss? Hey, you, with your interestingly long finish. Or the richer, more mineral 2009 Expression d’Orthogneiss? Compelling. The 2009 Expression de Granite was mineral in spades, on the nose, and was a mouthful of rocks, and given that by this point in the game I had already put down my $20 and was watching the cards move around, I believed.
However, interesting for me, too, in a completely different vein, was something called 2010 Taurus, a 4-5 yr barrel-aged wine that tasted “Like oaked Chenin!” (Arno), “Like white Burgundy!” (SB)
Rather than disliking it, I liked it, rather a lot. The NV Méthode Traditionnelle, however, I will leave to others.
Now, Mlle Joly beckoned (silently, without looking, but it was that force, you know). Her father was storming about trying to make a cell phone work, but it may be that too many biodynamic wines had deactivated it.
We tasted three 2009s, and my thoughts echo those expressed by SFJoe in his 2012 Loire notes. The 2009 Vieux Clos was hot and flabby and scary. The 2009 Clos de la Bergerie had more fruit, but it was also a bit eau-de-vie-ish. 2009 Coulée de Serrant was also outsized and imprecise, though one could see almost, squinting one’s palate, what was there beneath.
All right, enough of this funny business. Time for some champagne. And there were two exemplary and very contradictory growers standing right behind us. Françoise Bedel: working mainly in Meunier and in a slightly oxidative style with 6-7 g/l of dosage; and David Léclapart: a foot-stomper of Chardonnay whose rule book sets down the following: no dosage ever, always malolactic fermentation, mostly enameled steel cuves, except for barriques for the high-end.
I have a lot more to say, but I will leave you all here for just one minute.
Lucky, lucky expats, we. Here come seventy of your finest natural winemakers from the Continent (plus an Antipodean). Here is a handsome brick-vaulted space on West 18th Street in Manhattan. Here is too-young Comté on the side, and some sliced bread. Here are the tables. Here are the bottles. Behind tables and bottles, people. You know, those people, the passionate ones. The ones who walk in vineyards without a coat at 0° temps. The ones who pour and talk, pour and talk, and whose passion for what they do seems to grow, rather than be diminished, by their encounters with us, the ones on the other side of the table.
I always get this whiff of anticipation. I get jittery. It reminds me of when I was a kid and I would walk into a bookstore. I would almost have to make a break for the outside—just another minute—and breathe in calmly before going back in amongst those objects of covetousness.
But today, I also felt that the sprawl was a sprawl, and with seventy growers to taste and only six hours to do them in, the math was easy and didn’t add up. I wouldn’t do them all.
So I whet my palate with some Nikolaihof. I don’t know much about Austrian wines, as the song goes (imagine Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis dancing to this as I sit moping in the back of the barn), but I found the wines of interest. 2010 Hefeabzug GV was a perfect starter wine, and was discreet in leaving the stage. 2010 Im Weingebirge Federspiel GV had interesting acidity—bright thing, you!—and left more of a mark. I fretted on nosing the 2009 Im Weingebirge Smaragd GV, which smelt hot. But on the palate, well: “Pretty material!” I did write.
On, perforce, to the Rieslings. A 2010 Vom Stein Riesling Federspiel was buckets of acidity. A more stolid 2008 Vom Stein Riesling Smaragd was pleasing. And finally, a 2006 Steiner Hund, that formidable pooch, was really complex and lovely. The pourer whispered to me, “If you can, seek out ’93 Vinothek.”
But I was interrupted in this impossible reverie by the arrival of one Ms. Lee C., whose brightness in the room eclipsed lesser suns and allowed me to make my escape.
Here I met my tasting partner in crime, Arno T., of WD fame. What would follow was a marathon. Let me catch my breath.
The thoughts and ideas and recommendations from those around us, this community of wine geeks, as well as our own directions helped both to direct and to misdirect.
Domaine Lafarge. I have been on a Volnay bender of late, but this was a curious little assortment available to taste from a well-known V house. 2009 Raisins Dorés Aligoté was as indifferent as customary aligoté but too soft for kir. Hrm. 2009 Meursault was closed and locked. 2009 Passetoutgrains missed my palate as I turned my head, so to speak. And 2009 Volnay was closed.
You get in, you get out, sometimes.
But there were Muscadets to inquire as to. Like those of Jo Landron, he of the nice mustache. A good vintage-indication nudge was had right away in the form of 2010 Amphibolite followed fast on by 2011 of the same. Now we see... While the 2010 was a pleasant and sprightly thing, the 2011 was a bit brackenish. Rot, or had they just left it lying sideways as the kelp came in with the tide?
A 2010 Domaine and we were back in form. Aside from some shaky-handed memories I had of having downed a glass of this in my slide to perdition at a recent Ten Bells oyster-and-perdition expedition, this was great. Classic Musc, argile & quartz. After, 2010 Hermine d’Or (sandstone) and then 2010 Fief du Breil (quartz/orthogneiss) played little brother and big brother. The Breil, big brother, was throwing bitter almonds and savory, savory notes.
Next was Domaine de L’Écu, where I joyfully told Fred, Bossard’s partner, that his business card was famous on Wine Disorder. To which he replied: “URL?” I promised to send it to him and pocketed another card.
These are great wines, and I can bring you the good news as only a Muscadet agnostic can—with that element of surprise a true believer lacks.
2010 Cuvée Classique is, well, classique. Gotcha. But... What about that 2009 Expression de Gneiss? Hey, you, with your interestingly long finish. Or the richer, more mineral 2009 Expression d’Orthogneiss? Compelling. The 2009 Expression de Granite was mineral in spades, on the nose, and was a mouthful of rocks, and given that by this point in the game I had already put down my $20 and was watching the cards move around, I believed.
However, interesting for me, too, in a completely different vein, was something called 2010 Taurus, a 4-5 yr barrel-aged wine that tasted “Like oaked Chenin!” (Arno), “Like white Burgundy!” (SB)
Rather than disliking it, I liked it, rather a lot. The NV Méthode Traditionnelle, however, I will leave to others.
Now, Mlle Joly beckoned (silently, without looking, but it was that force, you know). Her father was storming about trying to make a cell phone work, but it may be that too many biodynamic wines had deactivated it.
We tasted three 2009s, and my thoughts echo those expressed by SFJoe in his 2012 Loire notes. The 2009 Vieux Clos was hot and flabby and scary. The 2009 Clos de la Bergerie had more fruit, but it was also a bit eau-de-vie-ish. 2009 Coulée de Serrant was also outsized and imprecise, though one could see almost, squinting one’s palate, what was there beneath.
All right, enough of this funny business. Time for some champagne. And there were two exemplary and very contradictory growers standing right behind us. Françoise Bedel: working mainly in Meunier and in a slightly oxidative style with 6-7 g/l of dosage; and David Léclapart: a foot-stomper of Chardonnay whose rule book sets down the following: no dosage ever, always malolactic fermentation, mostly enameled steel cuves, except for barriques for the high-end.
I have a lot more to say, but I will leave you all here for just one minute.
