The Wonderful Wines That Weren’t

Originally posted in My Cellar Notes in 2003.

I began making wine in the early 1980s, and, fortunately, I have kept pretty decent records of my wines all along. I sat admiring my stack of “cellar notes” recently, thinking how much foresight I had shown keeping these meticulous records. Surely my recent successes in wine competitions and more informal tastings were due, in large part, to the lessons I had learned over the years by capitalizing on early successful efforts.

Talk about selective memory! Or fading memory! Or, maybe, no memory at all!!  I sat down with a delicious (if I say so myself) glass of a 2000 Bordeaux-style red blend, and began reading through the dozens—perhaps hundreds—of batch notes faithfully rendered over the years. And the floodgates opened. I began to be overwhelmed with the deeply repressed recollections of some seriously bad beverages I had concocted in the past. Undoubtedly these were traumatic events best left buried in the trash pile of personal history. I won’t bore you with all the details, but here are some bare-bones sketches.

First there was the Mycoderma-From-Hell! Well, it was supposed to be Seyval blanc, but nobody ever told me that air was the deadly enemy of wine. That wine was simply a milepost on the journey between grape juice and vinegar! I can remember now calling my winemaking mentor way too late one night, barely able to choke out the question about why there was nearly a quarter-inch thick layer of gauzy-looking spider webs all over the surface of my three-quarters-full carboy. I had already pulled the stopper and taken a sniff. I already suspected that my prize white wine would most likely be “bottled” in the salad dressing cruet, if at all.

That furry wine was nowhere near as disturbing as the Chamboursin I made one year that turned “ropey”—that’s the term my mentor used. The contents of the carboy looked more like petroleum than wine. Or like liquefied snake skin—alternately oily dark and shiny silver slime, depending on the light. He tried to assure me that it was probably a “treatable disease,” but I knew just looking at it that I could never drink it, nor could I ask friends and family to do so. I used it to soak the compost heap.

And, oh yes, there was the “mouse fur” Cabernet Sauvignon. I properly noted—and now I too clearly remember—it was “cloudy, stinky, and vile.”

These stand out among any number of wines for which there are just those tell-tale short descriptors near the end of my log entries. “I let this stay on lees too long. Cheesy” “This may be salvageable as sherry.” “I never should have blended this with the chardonnay. Now they’re both funky” I especially like one note in which I had begun to sound like an aspiring sommelier: “I detect an abundance of ascessence in this wine.” That means “vinegar!”

Not all screw-ups are total losses. That is, sometimes a sow’s ear can make a silk purse. There was one 10-gallon batch of metheglin mead I fermented back in 1983. It was made with some old dark honey, and I thought I had used a rather heavy hand with the spice additions. For the first few years it was simply abominable. A few years later it had begun to taste like cough medicine or horehound candy. Ever the optimist, I left it in the carboys, stored away in the dark. Eventually the flavor started taking on slightly sweet and nutty tones. I then deliberately put it into half-full carboys, fortified it with grain alcohol, and let it sit a few more years to oxidize further. Last year I drank the last of that “sherry mead,” now 20 years old, and all who tasted it thought it was just fantastic!

What’s the lesson learned? Keep good notes to help improve your wine making, and read them every now and again for a reality check when a new batch of medals or ribbons appears in the mail. Finally, if you’re not sure, keep it for twenty years. You might be surprised.

A Rosé By Any Other Name…

Copyright L. Daniel Mouer 2004

In 1963, when I first experienced the romance of wine, it was in the form of a basket-covered, globular, cheap Chianti bottle, stuffed with a candle and covered over by dripping wax. It sat upon a red and white checkered tablecloth in a dimly lighted coffee house across the street from my dormitory at the University of New Mexico. Four years later, when I returned to the U.S. following an overseas tour of duty in the Army, I was pleased to find that both checkered tablecloths and the wine-bottle-as-candleholder still persisted as symbols of youthful romance. Now, however, Chianti had been replaced by pink Portuguese interlopers. Every coffee house and every friend’s bachelor-pad had their dining tables bedecked with wax-covered flask-shaped bottles from Mateus Rosé, or faux stoneware jugs from spritzy Lancer’s Rosé. Chianti was out. Rosé was in.

A Rosé is a Rosé is a Rosé…or is it?

It was 1972 when Sutter Home Winery’s Bob Trinchero attempted to intensify his dark red Zinfandels using an Old World trick of drawing off some of the just-pressed juice, leaving a much higher ratio of skins in the remaining macerating must. The drawn-off juice was fermented as white wine, but showed a slight pink-amber color cast, similar to that which Europeans call Oeil de Perdrix (Eye of the Partridge). That, in fact, is what Trinchero named his creation: Oeil de Perdrix. It was a light pink, fruity, off-dry, refreshing wine, and it was very soon a smash hit with North American consumers. Sebastiani followed suit with “Eye of the Pidgeon,” but the public didn’t seem as impressed with the bird’s-eye names as they were with the wine itself. By the late 1980s Sutter Home’s renamed “White Zinfandel” had become the most popular premium wine in the United States. It spawned a whole generation of folks who believe that all Zinfandel is “white.” It also added a new term for pink wines to our vocabulary: “blush.”

Today, supermarket shelves are filled with “blush” wines—white Zins, white Merlots, white Cabs—that no longer aim for that delicate pink blush, but often sport the blazingly bright red tones of a tart’s lipstick. Rather than being dry or slightly off-dry and fruity, as pink wines have traditionally been, these new pinks tend to range from somewhat sweet to positively cloying. These wines often carry the reputation of being “wines for people who don’t like wine.” But there are also some real gems there.

In Europe, the old traditions continue. Dry or off-dry, light pink wines are the ones that carry the names “vin gris” (meaning “grey wine”), “blanc de noir” (“white from black”), “rosé,” “rosado,” or “rosato”. They are often very inexpensive, everyday wines—Mateus and Lancer’s can each still be bought for about $US 6.00—but they can also be very deluxe, indeed. Consider, for instance, a ’97 Perrier Jouet Fleur de Champagne Rosé will set you back about $US150.00. Rosés are made nearly everywhere that red wine grapes are grown.

While most Old Word pink wines are meant to be drunk while young and fresh, that is not always the case. Rosé Champagne may be bottle aged on its lees at the winery for five years before it is clarified and released. Vins gris are sometimes aged in oak and may be matured in the bottle for some years before they are ready to drink.

Some pink wines are known for their sparkle: from zillions of bubbles in Rosé Champagne to the more lightly spritzy wines like Lancer’s. The latter are called petillant or cremant in France or frizzante in Italy. The vast majority of rosés, however, are still wines.

Grapes for Rosé

With a few exceptions, rosé wines are made from red grapes rather than from blends of white and red grapes. The principal exceptions are some mass-market California blush wines, and rosé champagne, which is made by adding a bit of red Pinot Noir or Meunier to a white base wine. Sometimes “blanc de noir” Champagne, which is made entirely from Pinot Noir, has a very slight blush of pink.

In the Loire Valley of Northern France, rosé wines are made primarily from the Groslot, Cabernet Franc, and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes. The best-known Loire rosés are off-dry, fruity wines from Anjou and Saumur. The south of France, including the Southern Rhone Valley, Provence, and Languedoc-Roussillon, produces oceans of pink wines made primarily from Grenache grapes, often blended with some Syrah, Carignan and Mourvèdre as well.

In Italy, nearly every type of red grape grown is made into some pink wine, or rosato. These include Canaiolo, Sangiovese, Montepulciano, Anglianico, Barbera, Cabernet Franc, Merlot, etc. Pink wines can be found in all of Italy’s winemaking districts. The same can be said of the Iberian Peninsula, of course, where pink wines are likewise made from a variety of grapes. Perennial favorites, however, are rosado wines of Spain’s Navarre Province, made from Garnacha (Grenache) grapes. Good pink wines based on Tempranillo are made in the famed Rioja wine district, as well. Spain also produces some very good, and very reasonably priced Cava rosado, or pink bubbly, especially in the Penedés region south of Barcelona.

Besides the deluge of white Zinfandels and White Merlots, California produces some good traditional pink wines from Grenache, Gamay, Gringolino, and the two Cabernets. There are also a lot of generic rosés from the state, mostly sweet, made from various Central Valley grapes.

How Rosé is made

While there are a few red-skinned grapes that have pink-tinged juice, most do not. That is why it is possible to make white and pink wines from red grapes. Once the grapes are crushed, however, the secret for making a white or lightly colored blush wine is to remove the juice from the skins, stems and seeds as quickly as possible. Such a wine can be called blanc de noir, or “white from red,” a term that is usually reserved for Champagne-like sparkling wines made entirely from Pinot Noir.

By allowing the juice and skins to macerate together for a while longer, the winemaker achieves greater levels of color in the juice. If the primary product is a pink wine, then, once the pressing is completed, the grape skins may be discarded or recycled for feed or fertilizer. Traditionally, these skins were often placed in sugar water to ferment and become “piquette,” a tart, lightly alcoholic beverage often served to children. More typically, however, one batch of red grapes is destined to make both a red and a pink wine. After the grapes have been crushed and allowed to macerate for a short time, part of the juice is drawn off and fermented in the same manner as white wine. This will become the rosé. The remaining juice continues to macerate with the skins throughout fermentation (and, perhaps, through a period of extended maceration). By reducing the juice-to-skins ratio, a more extracted wine will result, with deeper coloring, and depth of flavor, as well as fuller body from increased tannins. In this case, pink wine is a byproduct of making a dark red.

Finally, as I noted earlier, there are some pink wines made by either adding small amounts of red grapes to fermenter, or, more commonly, by simply adding red wine to the finished white wine. This latter method is used for some of the cheapest and least interesting pinks—jug wines from California’s Central Valley—as well as for some of the world’s finest: rosé Champagne.

Styles of Rosé

As you might imagine, with a whole world of pink wines out there, made from dozens of different grapes, there is no single stylistic standard. Despite that simple fact, it is very common to see pink wines touted as being “perfect for back-porch summer sipping,” or “refreshingly thirst-quenching.” Folks who write this kind of advertising copy may be mistaking pink wine for pink lemonade! What’s more, I have read an awful lot of nonsense about pairing pink wines with pink foods, from molded gelatin salads to medium-rare steaks, to poached salmon and Smithfield ham! There is no single style of pink wine, so, naturally, there can be no single set of food-wine pairings.

While there are as many gradations in styles as there are shades of pink in the rosé world, we can think of these wines as falling within four style classes:

Anjou Style (named for the famous pink-wine district in Northern France’s Loire Valley): These wines emphasize fruit. Alcohol levels are moderate, and the finish is dry to medium dry, but never crossing into “sweet.” Acidity is moderately high, and tannins low. Aromas and flavors that suggest cherries, fresh red berries, roses and violets are characteristic. These wines truly are wonderful summer refreshers. They will complement picnic spreads that include smoked meats, ripe cheeses, and fresh fruit.

Tavel Style (named for the major rosé-producing village of the southern Rhone Valley in Southwestern France): The pink wines of the hot southern areas of France, as well as Spain and Portugal are anything but picnic wines! Made from the same grapes that produce bold reds like Chateuneuf-du-Pape, these wines are usually bone dry, high in alcohol, low in acid, and relatively low in fruit. Their coarse, earthy flavors and the warmth of alcohol are part of their attraction. These wines often have a bit of tannic burr, as well. While young southern rosés will exhibit some fruit, as they age—and many argue they should be well-aged—they take on nutty, rich flavors that distinguish these wines from all others. For food pairings, I first think of well-herbed seafood fare from Provence, mild goat cheeses and country patés, but I’ll bet it would wash down a Texas barbequed brisket right nicely, as well.

Blush Style (named for the common American term for California’s popular “pop” wines): While many folks call these wine’s “fruity,” I often find whatever fruit character they have to me masked by low acidity and too much sweetness. This is a distinctive style that has certainly captured the favor of the American wine market. Like Tavel-style wines they may have the elevated alcohol and low acid levels of their warm-country origin. What sets blush wines apart is their typical sweetness, which makes them suitable to stand up to, and complement, spicy Southwestern dishes, curries, and Thai barbeque.

Pink Bubbly: There is just something attractive about bubbles in pink wine. Wherever rosés are made, there is usually a bubbly version being bottled nearby. The amount of bubbles range from a slight spritz detected more by the tongue than the eye to the full-blooming mousse of fine rosé Champagne. Most bubbly pink wines are finished off-dry, with at least light fruit in the aroma. What should we serve these sparklers with? Why, with love, of course!

Making Rosé at Home

Below are some brief tips for making these styles of rosé. In each case, the level of color in the wine is your choice. In general, more color can also mean more cherry or rose-like flavors and aromas in the final wine. In some styles this is more appropriate than others. To increase the color in wines made from red grapes, just increase the amount of maceration time. Conversely, to minimize color, press the grapes earlier. No hard and fast recommendations can be made, because color extraction rates will vary with grape varietals, temperature, ripeness and many other factors. In most cases, however, you will need no more than two or three hours of maceration to achieve an appropriate color level. Remember you can always add color later, but it’s not too easy to remove it!

I discuss here making pink wines from red grapes. To make these styles from white grapes, just try to select varieties that come close to the recommended red ones in sugar content and acidity, then add color, aroma and flavor by adding a bright, fresh, fruity red to the finished wine.

Tavel Style

First, we have to decide what style of pink wine we want to make. Leaving aside, for the moment, using kits or concentrates, our decision will depend somewhat on what kinds of grapes we have available to us. If, for instance, we can get our hands on fully ripened Rhone Valley grapes from California, then a Tavel-style is a natural. Other “big” red grapes that are appropriate for this style include Zinfandel, Petite Sirah, Touriga Nacional, and perhaps Nebbiolo. I suspect fully ripened Norton/Cynthiana could do it as well!

If you want to make a Tavel-style wine, but don’t have access to fully ripe Rhone-like reds, then I recommend using grapes that come the closest to these. Ameliorate acids by diluting with water until you have total acidity (TA) at about 6 grams per liter, or slightly lower, or plan on conducting malolactic fermentation (MLF), which is preferable for the Tavel style. Of course, don’t let Ph rise higher than 3.7 or 3.8 at the most. Chaptalize your must to 24-25 degrees Brix if the grapes don’t contain sufficient sugar.

Choose an attenuative, neutral, yeast, such as Prise de Mousse, or one that favors full-bodied mouth feel, such as Montrachet, D-47, or D-254. A relatively warm fermentation is appropriate for these wines, as is an extended period of contact with lees. Cold stabilize over winter. You can let this wine continue to bulk age for several more months, or bottle when clear and stable. Bottle age from 6 months to several years.

Anjou Style

For an Anjou style wine, I think the perfect choice would be Cabernet Franc, especially if grown in a cooler region. Cabernet Sauvignon, Tempranillo, and Pinot Noir will do fine, as well. This style doesn’t require the extent of ripeness needed for Tavel. For that reason, it may be better suited to Eastern and Northern winemakers, where preserving freshness, acidity and cherry-like fruit is much easier than getting deep, dark grapes at 24 degrees Brix or higher. I have limited experience with French-American hybrids used for rosé wines, other than Chamboursin, which does a great job. I suspect that Foch, Chancellor, and many others would also make excellent, fruity, pink wine.

Grapes at 20-22 degrees Brix are appropriate, with total acidity that could range from 6.5 to 7.5 or higher. A cool fermentation is best. Use gentle yeast that preserves or enhances varietal fruit aromas, and which will preserve a little residual sugar. I like Lalvin’s 71B for this application; however, I believe that RC-212 and Red Star’s C ôte de Blancs would work equally well. Adequate sulfite will insure prevention of MLF, which is not desirable for this style. To preserve the freshness, rack early, and with minimal oxygenation. Fine, sweeten to taste and bottle as soon as the wine is stable (including cold stabilization). Be sure to use potassium sorbate if bottling wine with residual sugar.

Make your own Blush Wine

If White Zinfandel, White Merlot, or similar wines are your goal, begin with the appropriate varietal grapes. Of course, you might also want to try to match the style using any red grapes you have available to you. After all, how many folks out there have ever had the joy of drinking a White Lemberger or White Catawba?

In this case the trick is to blend aspects of the Anjou and Tavel methods. Your goal should be a lower acidity—say, TA around 6 g/l—but this should be achieved preferably without malolactic fermentation. Ameliorate acids by diluting with sugar water if need be. MLF tends to mute the fresh fruit flavors, and it is not suitable for home wines that will be sweetened. It is not a good idea to add sorbate stabilizer to wines that have undergone MLF. The sorbate interacts with MLF byproducts to produce “geranium fault,” a flavor and stench that inevitably destines the wine to be dumped down the drain. Believe me, I know this from personal experience! You also want to achieve final alcohol of at least 12% to 13.5% by volume, so use well ripened grapes if possible, or chaptalize if necessary.

Cool fermentation, aroma-enhancing yeasts, and early racking from lees are best for blush wines. As soon as the wine is stable, fine, sweeten to taste, add sorbate, and bottle.

Roll Your Own Pink Bubbly

Guidance in the méthode champenoise is beyond the scope of this article, but see the fine introduction to this method found in excellent Wine Maker articles by Alison Crowe (Fall 1999) and Tim Vandergrift (April 2003). The first step in making bubbly, however, is to make the still base wine that will later be filled with bubbles.

I recommend that you make a base wine following the guidelines for Anjou style rosé, above, but make certain to keep the sugar content of the must at just 18 or 19 degrees Brix, at most. Remember that sugar will be added for the bottle fermentation later, and that will bring alcohol up to the appropriate level. Be sure, too, that TA is on the high side; 8 g/l or higher. Sparkling wines require high acidity in order to stand up to all those bubbles, as well as to the slight sweetening that is usually carried out at the end of the process.

Pink Wine From Kits

There are not a lot of rosé wine kits available on the market, and most of those that can be found are nominally of the “blush” style When choosing a kit, look carefully at the manufacturer’s description to get an idea about the stylistic qualities of the finished wine. For instance, Winexpert offers both a “Blush” kit and a “White Zinfandel” kit in their Vintner’s Reserve Series. Their literature notes that the blush is slightly drier than the Zin. They also offer a White Merlot in their upmarket Selection Series. This, too, is described as less sweet.

R.J. Spagnols offers a White Zinfandel in their deluxe Cru Select Gold Series. This wine is described as “clean and crisp with a prickle of acidity,” while the same company’s more modest Cellar Classic line offers a White Zinfandel described as “light,” “soft,” and “slightly fruity.”

Alexanders offers a canned concentrate of Grenache Rose. This, made up to proper strength, actually makes a rather substantial Tavel-style wine. They also make a Gamay Rosé, which I haven’t tried. The product description sounds like it is meant to approach an Anjou style.

Get in the Pink!

Like the late comedian, Rodney Dangerfield, Rosé wines just don’t get the respect they deserve. There may be oceans of pink plonk lining supermarket shelves, but the savvy wine lover embraces the classic rosé styles of Europe, as well as the better-made blush wines of California. Every home winemaker should try his or her hand, at least once, in making a good rosé. You may just find that, in the huge space between snow white and garnet red, there is a whole spectrum of colors and flavors to delight your senses.

Meritage: What Flavor Wine is That?

Copyright L. Daniel Mouer 2004

What’s in a name?

One evening this past winter a friend one evening was perusing my “trophy shelf” where I have exhibited bottles of my wines that have won medals or ribbons in amateur winemaking competitions. He picked up one bottle which was bedecked with a blue ribbon awarded by the Virginia State Fair. The wine was my 2001 Meritage. My friend scrunched up his forhead, trying to make sense of this strange, unfamiliar wine name and asked, “Meritage…what flavor of grape is that?”

Have you been browsing through the shelves of California wines lately and found yourself staring curiously at a bottle whose label proclaims it to me a “Meritage?” Are you even further confused when you see two bottles right next to each other—one a deep garnet red wine and the other a pale straw white wine—and they both claim to be “Meritage?” Perhaps in these pages we can clear up your confusion and point you the way—both as wine lover and wine maker—to see a little Meritage in your own future.

First, let’s tackle the name. It isn’t French, and it isn’t pronounced “mare-a-TAZH,” but, rather, it rhymes with “heritage.” It is a wholly made-up name, and it is the registered trademark of The Meritage Association (http://www.meritagewine.org/), a non-profit group of commercial winemakers, from thirteen of the United States and two Canadian provinces, devoted to producing blended wines in the manner of Bordeaux. The word is a composite of “merit,” suggesting the best wines these wineries produce, and “heritage,” reflecting the blending tradition of Bordeaux. Commercial winemakers may not use the term on their labels unless they become members of The Meritage Association, win license approval by adhering to Association guidelines, and pay a $1 per case fee. Home winemakers, on the other hand, can feel a bit freer using the term on their labels, but whether or not you ever call one of your own wines a “Meritage,” it is good to know what the term represents, and aiming to make fine Meritage-type wines is a goal well worth pursuing.

Blends vs. Varietals

History, tradition, and law dictate that, until quite recently, French wines, excepting those of Alsace, are not named for the grape variety used in their making. Instead, they are named for the place where they are made (e.g., “Graves” or “Chateau Palmer” or, simply, “Bordeaux” or “Burgundy”). When you see a French wine with a grape name on its label, you can be sure it has been packaged that way to sell in the grocery stores and wine shops of North America. The same holds generally true for the wines of Spain, Portugal and (with more exceptions) Italy. In the New World, on the other hand, fine wines are typically named after the variety of grape that makes the wine (e.g., “Cabernet Sauvignon,” “Merlot,” or “Semillon”). Most Western European wines are blends of two or more (sometimes many more) grape varieties. New World wines, as a rule, contain at least 75% of a single grape, and other grapes that may appear in a blend are typically not mentioned on the label. Central European countries, such as Germany, Austria, Hungary and the Czech Republic also tend to use varietal labeling.

There are benefits and drawbacks to each system, but for some North American wine makers or wine buyers, blending may seem a bit mysterious. A commercial winemaker trying to sell in our markets naturally wants to label his or her wines with names that are meaningful to customers, so if customers are looking for “Merlot,” the label needs to say “Merlot.” On the other hand, winemakers—professional or amateur—want to make the best possible wines they can make from the raw ingredients they have available to them. So, if a winemaker believes that blending his Merlot with some other varieties can make better wine, but fears that nobody will buy it, he’s got a dilemma. One answer is to invent a new name, promote it heavily, and hope that it will become at least as marketable as “Merlot” or “Cabernet Sauvignon;” and that is how we got “Meritage.”

You might wonder, of course, why winemakers who want to produce wines like those of France don’t simply call their products “Bordeaux,” “Claret,” or “Burgundy,” etc. With a few grandfathered exceptions, French law and international trade agreements protect these place names, or appellations. They are, in fact, trademarks (which is also why North American firms can generally not produce and sell “Dijon” mustard and “Roquefort” cheese). It is also why wine kit manufacturers now sell “Chamblaise” kits instead of “Chablis,” which is the protected name of a type of white wine made from the Chardonnay grape in a tiny part of northern Burgundy.

The Blended Wines of Bordeaux

It is true that blends, skillfully done with complementary grape varieties, often far surpass pure varietals in quality, which is why the great winemaking countries of Western Europe typically produce blended wines. The one wine-producing district in the world that has been the subject of more imitation than any other is certainly Bordeaux, which lies along the Gironde River in southwestern France. There are three principal styles of wine made in Bordeaux. The dry red wine is sometimes called “Claret,” or simply “red Bordeaux.” There is a dry white wine style, mostly from the Graves region, and a sweet white wine style, the latter principally from the villages around Sauternes and Barsac. The best of these wines are generally accepted to be among the very finest (and most expensive) wines in the world. No wonder grape growers and winemakers in California, British Columbia, New Zealand or South Africa want to emulate them. So let’s look at what goes into them.

Red Bordeaux table wines are usually made from a large percentage of Cabernet Sauvignon. This is the principal red grape of Bordeaux, especially the regions of Pauillac, Margaux, The Medoc, St.-Julian and St.-Estephe. Merlot and Cabernet Franc are more prominent in the regions of St Emilion and Pomerol. Red Bordeaux wines are blends of these three great red grapes—Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Cabernet Franc—in varying proportions, along with small amounts of Malbec, Petit Verdot, and a few others. Red Bordeaux wines typically complete malolactic fermentation and spend some time aging in new and/or old oak.

Dry, white Bordeaux is best represented by the wines of Graves, which are made from Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon grapes, sometimes with a small addition of the floral Muscadelle grape (known in California as Sauvignon Vert). There are other dry and off-dry wines made in Bordeaux from lesser grapes, such as Ugni Blanc (Trebbiano) and Colombard, but these are not the concern of folks trying to make the likes of the great wines of this region. White Graves do not undergo malolactic fermentation and are rarely fermented or aged in oak. Freshness and crispness are the qualities that best describe these wonderfully refreshing and aromatic wines.

The rich, sweet wines of Sauternes are also made from Sauvignon and Semillon, and here a touch of Muscadelle is especially welcome. These differ from the dry Graves by being late-harvest, botrytized wines. They are long-lived, and full of complex character: and the epitome of dessert wines.

What Makes it Meritage?

To go back to where we began, what, exactly, is a “Meritage?” In principal, it is a blended wine, made in the spirit of, and using the primary grapes of Bordeaux. Specifically, the Meritage Association defines a Meritage wine as follows:

A red Meritage is made from a blend of two or more of the following varieties: Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Malbec, Petit Verdot, St. Macaire, Gros Verdot, and Carmenere. No single variety may make up more than 90 percent of the blend.

A white Meritage is made from a blend of two or more of the following varieties: Sauvignon Blanc, Semillon, and Sauvignon Vert (Muscadelle). No single variety may make up more than 90 percent of the blend.

While it is unlikely most of us will come across St. Macaire or Gros Verdot, it won’t be hard to come up with the biggies: the Cabernets, Merlot, Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon. Malbec, Carmenere and Muscadelle may be a bit difficult to find, but they are available. If you don’t have access to locally grown Bordeaux varieties, they can be purchased as kits, concentrates, and as pasteurized or frozen juice or must, with sources as diverse as California, New York, Ontario, France, Italy, South America, and Down Under.

Cabernet Sauvignon will typically provide the basic structure for the red wine, although Cabernet Franc can do this as well if grown in a favorable environment. In addition the Cabernet Franc provides spicy flavors and a heady, violet-scented aroma. Merlot rounds and softens the blend while harmonizing the dark-fruit cab flavors of cassis and blackcurrant with bright red-cherry notes. Petit Verdot adds color, tannin, and depth. If you are going for a St.-Emilion or Pomerol style (think Cheval-Blanc or Petrus) then you may want to use Merlot or Cabernet Franc as the lead grape.

For red Meritage, the goal of your blend can be either an understated wine with full, vinous aroma and tons of finesse, or it can be a big, somewhat tannic bruiser with gobs of fruit and lots of complexity. It helps to become familiar with good examples of Bordeaux wines before trying to emulate them. Personally, when I make red Meritage, I avoid the highly extracted, chewy California model and also the big plum-fruited soft type typical of some Aussie wines. Bordeaux, even when it’s “big,” tends to be delicate, complex, and just slightly understated. The Holy Grail in making a red Meritage is to achieve a wine with great finesse. Do complete malolactic fermentation (unless you are using kits), and don’t over-oak. Good Bordeaux wines are not dominated by oak! Acids can be a touch higher than we are used to in California wines, and both color and body can be a bit lighter.

For dry white Meritage, use cool fermentation temps, avoid malolactic fermentation and oak, and bottle as soon as possible. The Sauvignon Blanc grape varies tremendously, depending on where it is grown. In Graves it typically has grassy-herbaceous and mineral notes along with a lemony fruit. This contrasts with the pineapple tones of California Sauvignon. New Zealand Sauvignon comes close, but sometimes gets too much of a haystack-and-straw character. You want fruit, but it should be clean, light, noble fruit. Total acidity should be a good bit higher than you would normally get from California grapes. “Crisp” is what you’re looking for. The Semillon is a very important element, for it offers a counterpoint of depth and roundness to the flavor. Semillon can be somewhat nondescript from some West Coast sources, but France and Australia produce really good Semillon. At its best it is full of flavor and aroma, and most agree it marries beautifully with Sauvignon Blanc.

Sweet, white, Sauternes-style wines require late-harvest, botrytis-affected grapes with very high sugar concentrations. Semillon usually comprises the majority of the blend, and Muscadelle is used in very small doses: just enough to add a floral-spice note to the aroma. Use a vigorous yeast and nutrient, and be prepared to let this wine rest in the cellar for a a few years before it begins to show its true deep golden color and rich apricot lushness.

The term “Meritage” describes a wine’s general style and specifies the component grapes that may have contributed to the blend. Some commercial producers use “Meritage” on their label as a descriptive term, while choosing to use a proprietary name for the wine that they hope will gain its own recognition. For example, Rodney Strong Vineyards in Sonoma County calls their Meritage “Symmetry,” and Guenoc Winery of Middletown, California calls theirs “Langtry.”

Blending strategies

Making Meritage is a matter of having component wines available from the appropriate Bordeaux grapes, and then creating a blend that brings them together in a whole that is greater than the sum of the parts. There are a few basic ground rules in wine blending:


Ferment the grapes separately. Blend only after all the wines are stable.

• After blending, allow at least a few weeks of additional bulk aging before bottling. Blending two or three stable wines can produce an unstable blend. You may need to consider further aging, fining or filtering.
• NEVER blend a defective wine with better wine in order to “lose” it in the blend. Wines with excessive volatile acidity, microbial infections, geranium fault, or similar conditions will most likely ruin any wines they are blended with.
• Do not blend wines that have undergone malolactic fermentation with those that have not done so. If you do, you will have to add very high quantities of sulfite to your wine to try to keep it stable in the bottle for long aging. Otherwise, you can let the new blend complete MLF before bottling, but you may not like the results.
• While your wines are bulk aging, experiment with some different blends. Make careful measurements and keep good notes. By the time the component wines are clear and reasonably stable, you will have developed a good idea of their individual characteristics. Be sure to de-gas your samples before tasting. Carbonic acid (dissolved CO2) or a little spritz will highly effect your wine’s perceived flavor and aroma profile.
• Blend for balance. Blend over-acidic wines with low-acid wines to achieve a proper balance. Blend deeply colored wines with those that are too light in color. High alcohol wines can be blended with those that are deficient in strength.
• Blend for complexity, especially when making a Meritage. By carefully tasting and smelling your component wines you will develop an idea of their strengths and weaknesses, in terms of aroma and flavor. Fill out a long, thin wine with a one that provides a deep, full mid-palate flavor. Balance spiciness with richness.

There are a few special things to consider if kit wines are among the constituents of your blend. Allow the wines to bulk age for the full time recommended on the kit plus a few more weeks. Add the finings and the final dose of meta, but don’t add any sorbate or extra “flavor packs” that might introduce sorbate or additional sugars. After blending and allowing a few weeks to be certain the new wine is reasonably stable, you may add sorbate and another small meta dose before bottling if you like, but these should not be necessary. Because kits are engineered products, unexpected results might accompany blending. Allow plenty of time for the blend to stabilize. Additional fining and/or filtering may be needed before bottling. Do not blend a kit wine with a wine made from grapes or frozen must unless the latter has been kept adequately sulfited to prevent MLF and the build up of malolactic bacteria. You do not want a kit wine to undergo MLF under any circumstances.

Home winemakers have access to a world of good ingredients. We can buy grapes locally in many areas of North America, and we can order grapes or stabilized musts and juices from various quarters of the globe. We also have access, via local dealers or online shops, to quality wine kits. We are free to blend Cabernet Sauvignon from Lodi, California with Merlot from Italy, Cabernet Franc from Ontario and a kit blend of Carmenere and Malbec from Chile! I suspect that the French winemakers of Bordeaux would argue that we cannot make a Bordeaux-like wine simply because our grapes aren’t grown in Bordeaux. We are missing that essential terroir. Perhaps that is true. We can, however, develop expertise in blending those noble grape varieties to make our own wines of great merit true to the venerable heritage of Bordeaux. In short, we can produce our own red and white Meritage wines. The challenge then is to respond to our friends’ puzzlement when we serve them our creations and they look at our homegrown labels and say, “What flavor of grape is that?”

ArchaeoBeer: Digging up Ancestral Brews

copyright L. Daniel Mouer 2007

By

L. Daniel Mouer, PhD (archaeologist) 

and his alter-ego, Dan Mouer (home brewer)

Archaeology and beer just seem to go together, and it’s not just because a cold brew helps wash the dust from your teeth after a long day on the digs. I’m an archaeologist by profession, and a home brewer by avocation. Lots of archaeologists brew their own, and those who don’t often have a passion for the finer, more exotic commercial brews. A few years ago I helped to organize a conference that would bring over 1000 archaeologists to my home town. When my colleagues and I spoke with the staff of the hotel where the conference was to be held, we repeatedly stressed that they should be certain to have LOTS of beer on hand in the restaurants and bars. And not just any beer, but the “good stuff:” microbrews and specialty imports. Despite our warnings, the beer ran out very early on the first night of the conference. The conferees were thirsty and surly; the organizers were angry; and the hotel staff members were chagrined. The next day the beer trucks were lined up around the block from the loading dock, and everyone was happy.

It is fortunate that more than a few brewers and scientists with skills allied to the brewer’s profession seem to like archaeology as well. The resulting interplay between the science of discovering the past and the art of making better brew has produced a handful of novel beers from home brewers and commercial breweries alike.. Now a creative interpretation of the oldest fermented beverage ever discovered is available in bottles, and awaiting the cloning skills of home brewers everywhere. But why the love between archaeologists and brewers? Well, let’s dig into a little history—or, rather, prehistory—to get to the heart of the matter.

 

The Neolithic Revolution: Daily Bread or “Party Time?”

 

Long before radiocarbon dating similar techniques, the first serious archaeologists divided Old World prehistory into the Stone Age, the Bronze Age, and the Iron Age. The Stone Age was further divided into the Paleolithic (Old Stone Age), Mesolithic (Middle Stone Age) and Neolithic (New Stone Age). The Neolithic period was characterized by newer forms of stone tool technology; specifically, by the presence of ground, rather than chipped, stone tools. However, by the middle of the twentieth century, archaeologists understood that the Neolithic was about a whole lot more than tool-making technology. It was about a thorough revolution in the way human beings lived on this earth. After millions of years of depending on wild plants and animals, people settled down into permanent villages, and they supported themselves with herds of domestic animals and fields of cultivated crops. This process led, over a relatively short time in archaeological terms, to the rise of cities and all the complex trappings of civilization.

Of course, there was not just a single Neolithic Revolution; we now know that this process of domesticating plants and animals happened repeatedly, often independently, throughout the Old and New Worlds. The process continues today in some areas. The key ingredient that seems to anchor the switch from hunting and gathering to gardening, herding and farming, is the domestication of starchy staple foods. The first of these were the grains—particularly wheat and barley—domesticated in the Near East and Asia Minor beginning around 12,000-10,000 years ago. Wheat and rice were largely responsible for fueling similar cultural evolution in Asia. Likewise, sorghum and yams were domesticated in Africa; as were maize, potatoes and cassava in the Americas.

Domesticated starchy staples revolutionized life because they provided huge amounts of energy and, especially, because they could be stored to feed folks even through lean seasons. As I noted, wheat and barley were among the very first domesticated plant foods. And what do we do with wheat and barley? Well, we make beer, of course, and for that reason some archaeologists have argued that beer was the reason that people settled down and began to farm in the first place. In this view, beer itself might have led to civilization. Certainly, no reader of BYO would doubt that life without beer could scarcely be called civilized!

Others have argued, using archaeological evidence in the form of pictures on pottery and the like, that bread was the primary product of early grain domestication. Back in the 1950s and 60s there was a Great Debate in archaeology over whether it was beer or bread that most likely fueled the Neolithic Revolution. Of course, these earliest domesticated grains—wheat and barley--can also be used to make gruel or porridge. Over the years, archaeologists have posited that beer was brewed by soaking bread in water, or by diluting porridge, to make a mash. But the big question was whether or not it was specifically the quest for beer that led to the enormous social, technological and economic changes we call The Neolithic Revolution.

In 1994, anthropologist Thomas W. Kavenaugh again took up the debate. Was his in-depth academic study published in some august anthropology journal? Nope, it appeared in Brewing Techniques, that beloved but now-defunct craft brewing magazine. After a thorough review of the arguments that had been laid out by archaeologists, Kavenaugh concluded that one key bit of technology was probably essential to the development of brewing. That technology was ceramic pottery, and as all archaeologists know, pottery was a product of The Neolithic Revolution. In other words, the Revolution had arrived before beer brewing became widely established. For those who are interested in the details of the Great Debate, you can read Dr. Kavenaugh’s entire article online at http://www.brewingtechniques.com/library/backissues/issue2.5/kavanagh.html.

 

Of Microbes and Molecules

 

Any attempt to store starchy staple foods has to deal with microbes. The world is filled with little buggers that are looking for a free meal, and nothing turns dried starch into food quicker than a little water and a little warmth. Warm water interacts with enzymes to convert starch to sugar and the microbes come to lunch. What happens next depends upon the microbes. If they are friendly yeasts, they will either make dough rise or they will turn grains—now converted to malt by the water and warmth—into beer. If they are other sorts of yeasts, or bacteria or molds, they may do something less useful. That’s called spoiling the food! Most successful forms of early storable foods rely to some degree on controlling the work of microbes to make useful, pleasant, and non-toxic products. Think about sauerkraut, cheese, yogurt, bread, wine, mead, and, of course, beer. 

We archaeologists could learn a lot about the dawn of brewing if we could track down and identify the work of these microbes. Fortunately, chemistry has found ways to identify specific molecules that relate to byproducts of distinctive fermentations: good stable molecules that can sometimes be found under exceptional archaeological conditions. It has been the curiosity of archaeologists and the chemists who work with them that has led to the discovery and recreation of historic and prehistoric beers.

 

The Ninkasi Experiment

 

Ninkasi…You are the one who handles the dough,

[and] with a big shovel, Mixing in a pit, the bappir with sweet aromatics…

You are the one who bakes the bappir

in the big oven…

Puts in order the piles of hulled grains…

You are the one who waters the malt

set on the ground…

You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar

The waves rise, the waves fall…

You are the one who spreads the cooked

mash on large reed mats,

Coolness overcomes…

You are the one who holds with both hands

the great sweet wort,

Brewing [it] with honey and wine…

The filtering vat, which makes

a pleasant sound,

You place appropriately on [top of]

a large collector vat…

Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the

filtered beer of the collector vat,

It is [like] the onrush of

Tigris and Euphrates.

Excerpts from The Hymn to Ninkasi, translated by Miguel Civil

Ninkasi was the Sumerian Goddess of Beer, and the Hymn to Ninkasi has come down to us on cuneiform tablets from the Sumerians of 4,000 years ago. Home brewers should have little trouble recognizing the brewing steps described here. While the hymn was written at least 4-5,000 years after beer brewing had become well established in the Near East and elsewhere, there is at least one line here that might tell us something unexpected about those earlier brews. That is: “You are the one who holds with both hands the great sweet wort, Brewing [it] with honey and wine.” We’ll return to that idea a little later in this article.

In 1989, Fritz Maytag, who salvaged the archetype of California Common Beer when he purchased Anchor Steam Brewing Company, became fascinated by archaeology’s focus on early brewing after reading an article on the bread-beer debate written by Dr. Solomon Katz of the University of Pennsylvania. Katz had mentioned the existence of Sumerian tablets with pictures of brewing and beer-drinking, as well as cuneiform texts related to brewing. Maytag contacted Katz and got him to visit Anchor. Maytag also managed to get Professor Miguel Civil, who had translated Ninkasi’s Hymn, to help work out some of the details of the recipe it contained. The result was a multi-disciplinary attempt to reconstruct an early beer from archaeological evidence.

Anchor produced Ninkasi Beer just one time. Barley was the only grain used in Ninkasi, although honey was also added. Ninkasi didn’t make a huge splash except as a novel idea. Perhaps Anchor’s interpretation of the ancient recipe was too realistic? Or, more likely, the beer-drinking public was not yet ready for a sweet-sour brew flavored with dates and no hops.

 

King Midas’s Funeral was a Beer Blast!

 

Sometime in the 8^th century BCE, a Phrygian King was buried under a suitably grand mound. With him in the tomb were hundreds of drinking vessels and dishes from the king’s funerary feast. This leader is thought to have been the inspiration for the legend of King Midas, whose gifted touch turned anything to gold. About ten years ago, chemical residues in the drinking vessels were analyzed by Dr. Patrick McGovern, an archeological chemist on the faculty of the University of Pennsylvania’s famed Museum Applied Science Center for Archaeology (MASCA). Among the ancient residues was clear evidence for a fermented beverage comprised of barley, wine grapes, and honey. What isn’t completely clear from just the chemical evidence is whether the beverage was a mixture of wine, beer and mead, or a single beverage with all of these ingredients fermented together.

Greg Glaser, writing in Modern Brewery Age, wrote that shortly after completing his analysis, McGovern attended a dinner at U. Penn at which the honored guest/speaker was none other than beer wonk, Michael Jackson. The next morning, Jackson visited McGovern’s archaeochemistry lab, along with Tess and Mark Szamatulski, homebrewers and authors of Clone Brews and Beer Captured. (Did I mention that archaeologists and beer go together?) Even though direct evidence hadn’t been discovered among the vessel residues, all the beer people agreed that some sort of spice had probably been added to help balance the sweet brew. The Szamatulskis produced homebrew versions of King Midas’s beer using thyme honey, varying three sub-batches by flavoring with Turkish figs, anise or saffron.

At the Michael Jackson dinner, McGovern had also spoken with “extreme brewer,” Sam Caglione of Dogfish Head in Milton, Deleware. According to Glaser,

Caligione made a 93-gallon experimental batch using malted barley, Italian thyme honey and white Muscat grapes, seasoning the brew with Indian saffron and fermenting it with mead yeast.. 

Unlike Anchor’s experiment a decade earlier, Dogfish Head’s Midas Touch Golden Elixir became a regular offering. In the November 2002 edition, BYO’s own Replicator, Steve Bader, produced a recipe for home brewers. Like the commercial version, it includes saffron and just a light touch of Willamette hops. I asked Sam Caglione if he had tried the Replicator’s version. He said that he had been given a bottle that he had not yet opened, but that his brewer friends claimed it’s very close to the bottled version. Michael Jackson described Midas Touch as “A wonderfully complex beer, a wonderfully delicate beer, a dangerous thing…”

 

The World’s Oldest Beer

 

The headline for the National Geographic News for July 18, 2005 read: 9,000-Year-Old Beer Re-Created From Chinese Recipe. The Neolithic village site known as Jiahu, in Henan Province, China, produced numerous ceramic jars. Once again, MASCA’s McGovern plied his analytical magic and reported finding evidence for rice, wildflower honey, Muscat grapes, barley malt, hawthorn fruit and chrysanthemum flowers. He was convinced that this, too, was the oldest evidence yet of an ancient fermented beverage. Having found the earlier collaboration a success, McGovern called, once again, on Sam Caglione. 

To make his brew, which he calls Chateau Jiahu, Caglione and the Dogfish Head brew staff mash rice flakes with barley malt. Then the sweet wort is augmented by the honey, grapes, hawthorn fruit, and chrysanthemums and boiled. The wort is fermented with shoji sake yeast, yielding a brew of 8% alcohol by weight. The commercial release of Chateau Jiahu was imminent as I was writing up this article, but there was not yet a drop for me to try! So I had to whet my imagination by tracking down Sam Caglione, who kindly agreed to talk with me about his archaeobeers.

DM: In creating Midas Touch and Chateau Jiahu, were you aiming at historical accuracy, or at producing exciting, marketable brews inspired by history?

SC: I’d say both. My intention was to stay accurate to the archaeological findings while appealing to modern, sophisticated tastes in beer. Fritz Maytag’s Ninkasa was faithful to the historical information, but it was awkward. I wanted to make beverages that were both romantic and historical. Of course there’s a lot of room for interpretation—things we really don’t know, or some liberties we can take. Those early beers probably lost their carbonation quickly, while ours are fully carbonated. We don’t know what the colors were of the ancient brews. We filter our beers; theirs were probably cloudy and maybe even chunky. We don’t know what alcohol levels they attained, and while we know what the main ingredients were, we don’t know what proportions they used. We don’t even know for sure if grains, honey and grapes were fermented together, or these were blends of beer, wine and mead.

DM: Why did you choose to ferment Jiahu with shoji sake yeast? Is that due to associations of shoji with the Far East in general? Or were you trying to capture particular flavor characteristics?

SC: This was basically a nod to tradition, and Patrick McGovern thought it a better match with the yeasts that would have been available to ancient brewers. The Jiahu is the more exotic of the two brews, with characteristics of sake and cider.

DM: One thing the Midas Touch and Chateau Jiahu have in common is that, despite the separation of their archaeological contexts by thousands of miles and even more thousands of years, they each contain fermentables from grains, honey, and wine grapes. Do you believe such combo brews were common in the ancient world? Or is this really a new kind of product springing from your creative brewing imagination?

SC: I think the evidence is starting to suggest this was a common thing.

DM: Do you want to give homebrewers any hints about how to come close to replicating Chateau Jiahu?

S.M. I’ll get together with the brewery staff and we’ll work up a recipe for homebrewers. Promise! Please tell homebrewers how much we appreciate their support. They’re the real beer champions. I still think of Dogfish Head as a 100-barrel home brew kit!

So what was ancient beer really like?

 

Using a detailed handwritten and archaeological evidence from the kitchen/brewhouse of the housewife/alewife who penned it, I found many challenges in trying to recreate beer just 300 years ago. (See Colonial Beer in the January 2003 BYO). I concluded that we can not avoid the need for interpreting, for reading between the lines of history. Nonetheless, by paying attention to details, from inscriptions on clay tablets to molecules recovered from inside clay jars, we can learn things we otherwise wouldn’t know about the past.

The hymn to Ninkasi reveals that Sumerians, living in Iraq 4000 years ago, made a sweet wort from loaves of bread and malted grains, and this, in turn, was brewed with honey and wine. The Phrygians, living 2800 years ago in the Anatolian Highlands of Turkey, buried a king with drinking vessels containing evidence of a beverage made of grain malt, wine grapes and honey. Early Neolithic stone-age farmers living in the cradle of Chinese civilization 9000 years ago used rice, honey, and wine grapes for their daily brew. Could it be that the ancient brewers simply used anything an everything they could find to provide sugars for those hungry beer-making microbes? 

 

When Fritz Maytag experimented with Ninkasi, the North American microbrewery and homebrew renaissance was still in its youth. Today, devoted brewers and tipplers are familiar with, and hungry for, wine-like beers flavored with fruits or spices, even modified by “bad” microbes that might have been very common in ancient brews (e.g., Brettanomyces and Lactobacilli). And who doesn’t like a little honey in the brewpot? Perhaps what is old is new again. Perhaps our Homebrew Revolution is just the Neolithic Revolution, version 2.0.

Norton: America’s Wine Grape

Copyright L. Daniel Mouer, 2007

Zinfandel is often described as America’s first and most original gift to the world of wine. Actually, it’s Norton.

Paul Roberts, author of From This Hill, My Hand, Cynthiana's Wine

Virginia Claret?

The year was 1980. It was payday, and, as usual, I stopped around to my favorite hole-in-the-wall wine shop on the way home from work. I figured I might as well pick up a bottle of whatever looked really special before shelling out my paltry paycheck on secondary things like rent or utilities. I still remember more than one occasion on which I would eye a special bottle and wonder if my sweetie and I could postpone paying the light bill two more weeks. After all, a fine wine is even better by candlelight…

The proprietor, a friend of mine, came running up to greet me as I entered the little shop, holding in his hand what appeared to be an antique bottle of wine. The label was worn and faded with age. This was a fine prize my friend had won at auction the night before, and he was brimful of himself! He wanted to know if I’d ever seen or heard of anything vaguely like this before.

I took the bottle and looked it over. Time had not been kind to this wine. The liquid was nearly clear and colorless, and a huge mound of dark, flaky sediment sat at the bottom of the bottle, not unlike the “crust” dropped by an ancient flask of port. It was, however, the label that was so interesting. It was festooned with medals announcing that this fine wine had won major accolades in prestigious competitions held in European capitals. The winery was “Monticello,” the name of Thomas Jefferson’s Virginia home. The name of the wine was “Virginia Claret,” and the date on the bottle was 1887. What, in Heaven’s name, had my friend discovered: world-class, award-winning Virginia wine from the 19^th century? Was that possible?

Just a couple years ago, I made my own first 20-gallon batch of “Virginia Claret,” using the same grape that had been the dominant component in that antique wine. This grape has the singularly unsexy name “Norton,” or, in some locations, the slightly more attractive “Cynthiana.” It is unlike anything else out there. A true American grape, possibly hybridized with V. vinifera, but genetically and ampelographically classified as a cultivar of the native Vitis aestivalis. And it can make world-class wine!

The Norton Story

In 1824, Thomas Jefferson received some grapevines from an amateur horticulturalist living in Richmond: Dr. Daniel Norton. The grapes were intended for Jefferson’s grandson, who was helping to manage the farms of Monticello. It’s tempting to wonder if the grapes were destined for Jefferson’s growing experimental vineyard. After his term as ambassador to France, Jefferson had returned to Virginia determined to promote a vigorous development of fine-wine production in the Old Dominion. We don’t know, for certain, which grapes had been ordered from Dr. Norton, but it’s possible that either Jefferson or his grandson were looking to add Dr. Norton’s “Virginia Seedling” to the Monticello collection.

Many folks have tried to unravel the history and horticultural ancestry of the Norton grape over the years. We are very fortunate to have the fine, recent, scholarly detective work of Rebecca and Clifford Ambers, both of Sweetbriar College, in Amherst, Virginia. The Ambers have uncovered some of Dr. Norton’s papers, and their interpretation of his life, his gardens, and his grape makes fascinating reading. See Ambers, Rebecca K. R., Ph.D. and Ambers, Clifford P., Ph.D., Dr. Daniel Norborne Norton and the Origin of the Norton Grape, American Wine Society Journal, Vol. 36 (3): 77-87.

Dr. Norton was a physician whose small suburban farm was located in what is now the Carver neighborhood of Richmond: my old neighborhood! Among his hobbies was the horticultural effort to develop strains of wine grapes suitable for producing world-class wine in Virginia. The Jamestown colonists had attempted to make wine as early as 1608, but repeated experiments proved unsatisfactory. Nearly a century later, in 1699, a colony of French Huguenots settled along the banks of The James River just 15 miles west of the frontier English outpost at what is now Richmond. Their attempts also failed. The native Virginian grapes (principally Vitis labrusca and Vitis riparia) made wine that was unpalatable, and European wine grapes (Vitis vinifera) simply were not well suited to Virginia’s climate.

Thomas Jefferson and Daniel Norton were simply two among many Americans hoping to find the secret to a successful wine crop in the new republic. Dr. Norton discovered a seedling growing in his experimental vineyard and soon recognized it’s extraordinary qualities. He made this discovery sometime between his marriage in 1818, when he first received the 27 acres that would become his “Magnolia Farm,” and 1828, when the variety appears listed in Norton’s own description of his viticultural enterprise at the farm. Two years later, Norton’s Virginia Seedling was described and offered for sale in William Prince’s A Treatise on the Vine. Prince owned the Linnaean Botanic Garden, in Flushing New York.

Over the remainder of the 19^th century, Norton’s grape variety grew in stature and importance as a wine producer especially well adapted to the conditions of eastern and midwestern North America. The Norton was established throughout Virginia, Missouri and Arkansas by the 1840s. According to author (and Norton grower) Paul L. Roberts,

In 1873, a Norton made just south of St. Louis was declared the “best red wine of all nations” at a worldwide competition in Vienna. The following year, a French commission studying American wines at [the French academic enological center] Montpelier gave Missouri’s Norton wines the same high marks. Many of the nation’s finest hotels and restaurants stocked Missouri and Virginia vintages…President U. S. Grant is known to have kept a righteous supply in his White House cellars.”

Paul L. Roberts, Norton, America’s True Grape…Whence and Whither?, http://www.thewineman.com/nortongrape.htm et. seq.

Norton or Cynthiana?

Many hundreds of pages of ink have been spilled in the sometimes controversial discussion about whether the Norton grape and the Cynthiana are the same or different. No need to beat that dead horse here other than to note that the scientists say they are genetically the same thing. However, there may be slight differences. Many argue that Cynthiana ripens slightly earlier than Norton. Possibly, Cynthiana is a distinctive clone. Call it what you will, but this author is a Virginian from Richmond, and, in my story, Dr. Norton gets to have his own name on his own grape!

What’s the Wine like, anyhow?

All this history and botany is entertaining, but we’re here to make some wine! Question is: what can we expect from Norton grapes, assuming we can find some? Anyone who regularly makes red wines from grapes grown in Eastern North America knows that it can be difficult to get the “phenolic” ripeness and the color of a big, rich, full-bodied wine. With Norton, it’s a snap. Even when not fully ripened, Norton tends to produce a deeply colored red wine with mouth-filling texture.

Many folks like to compare Norton with Zinfandel. Like Zin, Norton has a spicy, brambly character, but it is more deeply colored, and it often emphasizes dark fruit, coffee, and chocolate-like flavors. The texture is medium-to-full-bodied, and it can range from somewhat rough to silky smooth. Sound good? Most experts agree that Norton wines age very well and improve over several years in the bottle. How, then, do we account for the sentiments of one Virginia wine wonk (whose anonymity I will mercifully protect) who wrote, “People either love Norton wine, or they hate it. I’m a hater.” Compare this sentiment with those of Jennifer McCloud, proprietor of Virginia’s Chrysalis Vineyards:

…We’ve undertaken a serious commitment to restoring the native American grape, Norton, to its position of prominence as a source of world class wines… The Norton is dark in color with big fruity flavors, firm acidity, and a sweet taste that does not deliver typical "foxy" flavors and fragrances. It is very Bordeaux-like…the very best drinks effortlessly, ages magnificently, and no American wine cellar is complete without it.

Even quite ripe Norton can sometimes exhibit rather high total acidity levels, which makes it unusual for a red wine. What’s more, it can also weigh in at a high Ph, even without being overly ripe. Attempts to control Ph can lead to even greater additions of acid. The malic/tartaric acid ratio is unusually high in Norton, and there are concentrations of some flavor compounds that are not typical of “normal” (i.e., V. vinifera) grapes. The result is a big in-your-face hit of firm acidity, along with the deep, darkly rich fruitiness we usually associate with low-acid wines, like Aussie Shiraz or Amador Zinfandel. To some this “Norton twang,” as I like to call it, is just a bit too odd.

Like most grapes, Norton doesn’t make the same wine everywhere it is grown. Because it is a native grape, Norton is very resistant to many common vine diseases, including the infamous Pearce’s Disease, which keeps most Old World vines out the South. Norton can flourish as far south as the Mississippi delta, but there it produces a pale shadow of itself. According to Joe O’Neal, of Bayou LaCroix Vineyard in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, “color in the Norton here is almost muddy. The flavor is just flat as well, seems the extreme heat tends to cook most of the flavor out of the grapes.”

One of the joys of growing Norton grapes is that they are very hardy. They can even tolerate occasional temperatures as low as minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit. This might make you think that Norton would be found throughout the Northeast, or even the Northern Plains, but that isn’t the case. To develop fully, the Norton vines require a reasonably long growing season. Many growers feel that the best qualities only develop in Norton with plenty of “hang time,” even after optimal Brix levels have been obtained. For that reason, the Middle Atlantic States are generally the northern extent of production. Nowhere is Norton more at home, however, than in the neighboring states of Missouri, where Norton is the “state grape” and Arkansas, where it is usually called “Cynthiana”. I personally count some Norton wines produced from old Missouri vines as one of the “best red wine of all nations.”

Mike Oglesby, who grows Norton at his Meadow Creek Vineyards in Fox, Arkansas, notes the sensitivity of Norton to different terroirs:

Cynthiana from my vineyard has a distinctive brambleberry fruit-forward flavor that I find pleasing but is not to everyone’s taste. Norton/Cynthiana made from different vineyards seems to exhibit a wide variety of flavor characteristics depending on location and climate and the climate can very greatly from year to year at my location. I find my Cynthiana wines to be more Burgundy-like but have had St. James Norton, from Missouri, with deep chocolate and coffee overtones.

Most folks who make wine from the Norton are fans of malolactic fermentation, which helps reduce the high malic acid content. Mike Oglesby recommends using Lalvin’s 71B1122 yeast, which is also my top choice for this grape, because 71B digests a portion of malic acid during primary fermentation. Another option for moderating the acid profile of this grape is to use carbonic maceration, which also devours malic acid.

While many of the wineries that produce Norton bottle their products principally as varietal wines, one of Norton’s real strengths is as a blender. Mike Oglesby notes:

A two-thirds Chambourcin /one-third Cynthiana blend makes a complex, full-bodied wine with good balance. I am currently experimenting with adding grape tannins to improve this blend even more.

I like to blend Norton with Cabernet Sauvignon. The cab adds additional length and depth to the structure, which augments, and is in turn augmented by, the lush fruit and dark flavor tones of the Norton. I also find that additions of enological tannins can round out the mid-palate with these wines. Jim Ward, of Eno River Vineyards, in Durham, North Carolina, currently blends his Cynthiana with Malbec and Petit Verdot, and is contemplating possible future blends with Shiraz, Nebbiolo, Sangiovese, and Zinfandel. Just a little bit of Norton can provide color, body, fruit, and spice to a thinner, paler red wine.

Can I Grow My Own?

If you live in the Middle Atlantic or the Midwest, you might want to consider growing your own Norton grapes. Compared to V. vinifera varieties, Norton is relatively easy to grow. The vine is not without its quirks, however. For instance, even though Norton is a native grape, and can be grown on its own roots rather than on commercial disease-resistant rootstock, it is almost impossible to root from cuttings. Instead, you need to propagate the vine by “layering.” That entails making a purposeful wound in a vine and covering the wound with soil or some other growing medium. After a time, roots will sprout, and this rooted section can then be planted.

Norton will require a spray regime, but it won’t be as demanding as those of Old World vines. Whatever you do, however, don’t allow any sulfur spray to come anywhere near your Norton vines. Paul Honea, of Chestnut Ridge Vineyard in central Virginia, didn’t understand this unusual feature of Norton vines. He planted a few rows alongside his Cabernet Sauvignon, and shortly after normal sulfur spraying of the Cab, he noticed the tragic results in his Norton vines. The big-leaved, vigorous young vines suddenly looked “as though someone had walked down the rows with a flame-thrower burning all the leaves.”

Another drawback to growing Norton is its incredible vigor. In fertile soil, the vines produce lots of greenery. The Virginia Extension Service recommends planting Norton in poor, infertile soil, just to help control vigor. Plan on lots of pruning and canopy management if you want top quality fruit. Jim Ward notes also that the dense canopy and smallish clusters make harvesting Norton just a bit more work than for some other varieties. Despite that caveat, Jim says that growing Norton means you have to “spray less, fret less, and don’t bother cluster thinning.”

Not everyone recommends ignoring the cluster thinning, however. S.C. Wehner, a hobbyist grower and winemaker, is very pleased with the Norton he grows way down in Midland, Texas:

Surprisingly, I started 5 years ago because I’m originally from Missouri, and knew of the grape, and I love its wine. I wanted to just see how they would do relative to my other vines out here in southwest Texas. They are the healthiest no-fuss vines I have. They produce profusely—to the point this year I will do my best to thin. They need to be thinned back during the growing season in the future to improve on individual bunch yield, but without any attention they yield 80 pounds per vine!

So let’s make some Norton!

If you live in an area where Norton is grown, try to arrange to get some this coming harvest. If you have any influence over when the grapes get picked, try to shoot for “phenolic” ripeness, as indicated by woody rachises, brown pips, full fruity flavors, and softening skins and pulp. Properly ripened Norton will weigh in at 23-24 degrees Brix, but you can certainly make tasty wine with less sugar. I buy 15 pounds of grapes for each gallon of finished wine I hope to make.

--Crush your grapes and test the must. Test for Ph. If Ph is 3.7 or higher, plan on adding tartaric acid, in increments, until Ph is below 3.6. Now, if TA is higher than 7 g/l as tartaric, you can consider lowering acidity slightly through “amelioration.” That means adding sugar water to retain the Brix reading while lowering TA. With Norton, this may sometimes be acceptable practice, but it’s not one I recommend. Even if TA were as high as 1.0 or 1.1 g/l, I would not try to ameliorate acidity at this point. Using Ph as your guideline, add sufficient potassium metabisulfite to achieve a maximum of 20 ppm SO2.

--Should you cold soak? In order to increase extract and, especially color, many winemakers like to reduce the must temperature to about 40-50 degrees F., and allow it to soak, with or without color-extracting pectic enzymes. There is no shortage of tannins and colorants in Norton, so with grapes grown in their optimal zone, I see no benefit to this. The potential rise in Ph that sometimes comes with cold soaking would be undesirable.

--Pitch a yeast starter. If TA is high, and/or if fresh fruit emphasis is desired, use Lalvin 71B. If Brix is as high as 24 degrees, then consider using a different yeast, because 71B might leave more residual sugar than you want in the finished wine. I like D-254, a Rhone Valley isolate, for its contributions to rich mouthfeel and velvety texture. Aim for a warm fermentation with lots of punching down or pumping over.

--Norton grapes are chock full of seeds, and the seeds are full of bitter tannins. I have never had a Norton wine that was overly astringent or bitter; however, many commercial wineries believe that delestage should be used in making Norton wines in order to produce desirable velvety tannins and easy drinkability in the finished wine. (see Daniel Pambianchi’s Do the Delestage, Winemaker, June 2003)

--When primary fermentation ceases, pitch a culture of malolactic bacteria culture, along with some MLF bug food. Allow the wine to rest undisturbed, in a warm area. When malolactic fermentation is complete, as determined by an enzyme test or by paper chromatography, rack the wine off the primary lees.

--Now is the time to consider using oak in the finishing of your Norton wine. Norton responds very well to oak—barrel aging or tank aging with oak adjuncts. In fact, Norton can stand up to quite a bit of oak. I like to use enough to enhance the spicy qualities of the wine, but not so much as to eclipse the sweet fruit and rich cocoa flavors. However, many folks like to bottle Norton with no oak. This is a place where you can experiment and customize your own Norton wine.

--The large load of non-dissolved solids that is typical with Norton dictates a fairly lengthy regimen of racking-and-waiting in order to clarify and stabilize the wine. The wine is often quite drinkable just a few weeks after fermentation is over, but early bottling will lead to a load of pigment sedimentation in your bottles. You could rush the process by fining and/or filtering, if you prefer, but patience is well rewarded. This wine really improves with proper maturing.

--At this point, the choice is up to you: blend or bottle as a varietal. Your decision may depend on how extensively your wine exhibits that “Norton twang,” and whether you like it, or would rather subdue it in favor of more traditional flavors.

If you find you’re hooked on Norton, the adventure is just beginning. This grape begs to be experimented with, by blending, by making rosé, by trying out carbonic maceration, and by using different levels and types of oak aging. If you have, or are contemplating, a “backyard” vineyard, a few Norton vines might make a big contribution to your home winery. Norton is truly America’s wine grape. Try it out and see what you’ve been missing!

What Makes a Beer "Belgian?"

Copyright L. Daniel Mouer 2008

“I'm not a big Belgian fan,” says Barstool #1.

“Oh, Man!, You don't know good beer! Belgians are the best!”

Most home brewers and beer lovers know that some very unusual, very characterful, brews come from Belgium. Most know, too, that there are plenty of North American breweries doing their best to mimic certain Belgian brews, or to take inspiration from some Belgian beers for their own exciting and innovative brews. But what is it that makes a beer “Belgian?” {Note: by “Belgian,” I mean certain types of Belgian beers as well as brews that attempt to copy them, or which are inspired by their unique characteristics.}

Well, of course, if a beer comes from Belgium, then it's “Belgian,” right? Well, no. I don't think anyone would consider Belgium's best-known and one of it's best-selling beers—Stella Artois—as standard exemplary of “Belgian” beer! Nope. It's a global, generic, pale beer like thousands of others generally inspired by Bohemian and Bavarian lagers.

“Belgian” beers are all very high in alcohol, right? Well, no. German doppelbocks, American imperial IPAs, and British barley wines are all high-octane brews that no knowledgeable drinker would mistake for a “Belgian.” Likewise, De Koninck pale ale, the trademark brew of Antwerp, is a decidedly Belgian beer in many ways, but it is also a beer of very modest gravity. Most folks even recognize a distinctively English-ale heritage in De Koninck, but it is, nonetheless, quintessentially “Belgian.”

It must be spices, then! Don't all “Belgian” beers contain pepper or coriander or other spices? Well, no. Spices are used in a few interesting examples, but, by no means all.. That said, there is a certain “spiciness” that seems to be nearly universal in those beers we define as “Belgian,” (or “Belgian-like,” or “Belgian-inspired”). More about that later.

Hey, I got it! Aren't those “Belgians” all sour. Tart and funky? You know, full of lactic acid and Brettanomyces yeast? Well, this description is valid for some “Belgian” beers, such as the lambics, Flanders Sours and Oud Bruins, but those are really a special class of beers that are not what most folks think when they are thinking “Belgian.” As it happens, these funky beers do share some characteristics with the main line of “Belgian” beers, but those earthy and sour and woodsy flavors and smells suggest that we set them aside as a unique phenomenon distinct from the majority of “Belgians” we beer-loving home brewers seek out and try our best to emulate.

Okay, so what makes a beer “Belgian?” As I comb through my brewing library at the words of some of the masters of “Belgian” brewing, I find lots of weasel words. Most authorities recognize more variation than convergence in “Belgian” styles. There are wide ranges of variation within many of the most widely accepted style categories. As a beer judge in competitions, I share others' frustration when trying to pin down BJCP style guidelines while judging a flight of “Belgian” home brews.

That said, I love “Belgians,” and as I try to tailor my own home brews to express the qualities I find so attractive in “Belgian” beers, it dawns on me that there really are a few characteristics that define the category. Before I explore the specifics, let me clarify just what I mean by “Belgian” beers. In BJCP terms, I am referring to the following styles: Belgian and French Ales (Category 16) and Belgian Strong Ales (Category 18): Belgian Wit (16A), Belgian Pale Ale (16B), Saisons (16C), Bières de Gardes (16D), and Belgian Specialty Ales (16E), Belgian Blond Ales (18A), Belgian Dubbels (18B), Belgian Trippels (18C), Belgian Golden Strong (18D) and Belgian Dark Strong (18E) ales.

This is a lot of styles, and most folks concede that even within these styles, there is huge variation. I have not included the various sour beers. What's more, at least one style category (Belgian Specialty Ales) is a huge, open-ended catch-all that even includes fruit beers, stouts, and Scotch ale-type brews.

So what do these beers share? It might be easier to specify what they do not share. As noted above, it'd not all about alcohol, although many “Belgian” styles are strong beers. They do not share a color category, as “Belgians” run from the very pale trippels and blonds, through the strong goldens to the dubbels and big dark ales. Some catergories, such as saisons, can come in nearly every color of the brewer's rainbow.

“Belgians” are Ales!

One thing that they all have in common, however, is that they are ales. Some are bottle conditioned with lager yeasts after primary fermentation with top fermenting strains. Some, like bières de gardes, are actually lagered, but they are, nonetheless, fermented with ale yeasts. So, while the best-selling beers in Belgium might be global pale lagers, like Stella Artois and Jupiler, these are not the “Belgians” I'm talking about. Some “Belgian” ales are fermented warm, and some are fermented quite cool. Some begin cool and warm through fermentation. But all are ales.

As ales, they carry influences from other ale-brewing centers, especially England and Scotland, but many also share characteristics with German alts and Weissbiers. In fact, one of the best ways to discover what elements are truly “Belgian,” is to compare certain “Belgian” styles with their close parallels from other brewing traditions.

For instance, pour a de Silly Scotch Ale (a “Belgian” weighing in at about 8% abv) and drink it beside a Belhaven Wee Heavy (from Scotland with about 6.5% abv). The Silly is the “bigger” beer in alcohol content, and yet it is remarkably drinkable and refreshing. There is plenty of sweet malt character, but the beer slides down and finishes dry and clean. The Belhaven, on the other hand, is thick, rich, luscious, syrupy. Tasty, yes. But not exactly refreshing. It's full body and heavy sweetness almost makes a bottle feel like a whole meal! Yes they are similar, but the Belhaven is clearly “Scotch,” while the de Silly is certainly “Belgian,” and it leaves you hoping for more.

For another example, try a Schneider Edel-Weiss German Weissbier (white beer) alongside a bottle of Hoegaarden Wit, a “Belgian” white beer. Both are made with wheat (either malted or not), with very light pils-style base malt, and with a light hopping of German or Central European hops. The beers are similar in color and in cloudiness, but there the similarities end. The Schneider is full in body, rich in flavor, and redolent of rich cookie-like malt, clove phenols and banana esters. The Hoegaarden, tastes light, crisp, peppery, with a hint of tartness and the faintest suggestion of oranges. Finish the Schneider, and you don't even need dessert. Finish the Hoegaaden and you'll be looking around for a second glass.

Perhaps what makes the true characteristics of “Belgians” stand out obviously is the unexpected reactions we often have when drinking one of the stronger Belgian ales, such as a Trappist or Abbey trippel, or a a strong golden ale such as Duvel or Hoegaarden Grand Cru. The beers, with alcohol in the 8-9 percent by volume range, clearly leave a warm trail down your throat from the alcohol, However, they are not full of, say, barleywine-style fruity esters or treacally sweetness. They are very complex and full-flavored while, at the same time, being light, refreshing, zesty and very quaffable. They finish cleanly and leave you thinking about ordering a second 750mm bottle...uh, but don't do that unless you have a trustworthy designated driver!

What all these beers share are that they are ales brewed with a class of related yeast strains that promote spicy flavors, and that finish with relatively low terminal gravities. What's more, brewing techniques are selected to enhance the light mouth feel and refreshing clean, dry finish that sets “Belgians” apart. Mash temperatures are often on the low side, chosen to produce highly fermentable worts with low dextrins.

Hops are typically way in the background, often used for little more that to sanitize and stabilize the wort, rather than to add bitterness, flavor or aroma. Many traditional Belgian brewers use old hops that have lost much of their aroma and flavor, just for that reason. While hoppiness contributes to a dry sensation in many beer styles, “Belgians” are truly dry by having very low residual sugar content, by leaving spicy flavors in the brew, and by pumping up the bubbles! In fact, compared to a best bitter on tap in a British pub, a typical bottled “Belgian” has many times higher concentrations of carbon dioxide in solution.

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Another contributor to the light, dry mouth feel of “Belgians” is sugar. Relatively large amounts of brewing sugars (not, generally, the rock candy sugar sold in home brew stores) are used to thin the body and increase the alcohol content. If the mantra of German brewers is the Reinheitsgebot—nothing used but malt, yeast, hops and water—then the credo of the “Belgian” brewer is throw in anything that makes the beer lighter in body, drier in finish, and more complex in flavor. If the yeast isn't quite spicy enough, then a little coriander, or anise, or seeds of paradise might help. If your yeast doesn't produce fruity esters because your climate is too chilly for warm fermentation, then pare a little peel from a curacao orange into the wort at the end of the brew.