Mercurey

Mercurey is an appellation too easily passed by: when I visited Burgundy earlier this year, we drove straight from Santenay, the Côte d'Or's most southerly appellation, to Beaujolais, missing out on Mercurey and the other Chalonnaise and Mâconnais winemaking areas. At the time, I regretted not being able to explore these overlooked areas, but that's the way it goes sometimes. However, even passing through I was able to appreciate the green, pastoral countryside of the Chalonnaise, quite different from the wide, stony land of the Côte d'Or. In the Chalonnaise, there is less of an emphasis on winemaking than in the Côte d'Or: there are cows, sheep, trees, and grass, the vineyards spread out between villages and farmsteads.

It's also far less celebrated than the Côte d'Or, meaning its wines do not fetch the high prices of its famous neighbour. The wines attract less attention and fervour, but still retain the high quality expected of Burgundy. All this means great wine can be had for affordable prices, not always the case in Burgundy.

history

The Chalonnaise is to the west of the river port of Chalon-sur-Saône, a town whose importance dates back to Roman times. The name of Mercurey itself gives away the area's Roman roots: it's called after the Roman temple built there to Mercury, the god of commerce and thievery. The Saône is a large, historic trading river that winds its way through southern Burgundy and Beaujolais down to Lyon, where it connects with the Rhône. As ever, wine and trade are historically connected. The wines were highly valued by the Dukes of Burgundy - Philip the Bold called them "the best and most precious" wines in 1395 - but their relative distance from the centres of Beaune and Dijon kept them away from a proper appreciation of their quality, a situation which still exists today.

Côte Chalonnaise

The Chalonnaise winemaking region is just 25km long and 5km wide, a narrow stretch of land whose vineyards are scattered between farmers' fields. Its wines constitute 16% of Burgundy's total production. There are five villages which have their own appellations: Bouzeron (Burgundy's only senior appellation for the Aligoté grape), Rully (known for its sparkling wine under the Crémant de Bourgogne appellation), Mercurey, Givry, and Montagny, which produces the best white wine in the region. Although Chalonnaise is a continuation of the Côte d'Or, it has a variety of soils creating a real diversity of styles of wines around the region.

Mercurey

the vineyards of Mercurey, with wines tasted highlighted

The variety of soils is most realised in Mercurey, a small village to the north of the Chalonnaise. Vineyards face north/north-east, while others face south/south-west. Altitude is as important as aspect, as Mercurey is in a valley with styles of wines changing according to the vineyard's position in the valley. There are five different types of marl soils and another fifteen of limestone, changing from pebbly, stony, and shallow limestone to deep soils near the river without any limestone. It's a large appellation, which accounts in part for its diversity (only Chablis and Pouilly-Fuissé are bigger). 3.5m bottles are produced a year, 15% of which are white and the rest red. There are 32 Premiers Crus vineyards, covering 168ha (27% of the area); no Grands Crus, and no plans for any - Mercurey needs to get its wines better known around the world, rather than enter the painful world of French wine bureaucracy.

I attended a tasting of six Mercurey wines, one white and five red, which was interesting proof of the village's diversity, quality, and value. The wines were surprisingly fruit forward for Burgundy, meaning that they are likely to appeal to a wide range of consumers, but did not lack for complexity. The diversity may make it difficult to explain Mercurey to consumers, but the wines can be summed up in two words: fruits and acidity.

Mercurey wines

Maison Louis Max Les Rochelles 2013

From a co-operative producer, this was the one white we tasted, and it was a classy example of a Burgundy Chardonnay. A smoky nose at first, with fresh, ripe fruit aromas of pears, nectarines, and apricots. There was a dry, stony, flinty aspect to the palate, which is apparently characteristic of Mercurey, giving the wine a very nice texture, followed up with a crisp pear finish and white pepper spices. As with the reds, the acidity was high and refreshing, lightening the smoky, oak nature. ✪✪✪✪✪

Domaine de l'Europe Les Closeaux 2013 (c.$30)

The only village Mercurey we tasted, and the most fruit forward and immediate. The nose was very fruity and Pinot Noir, with raspberries and red cherries. The tannins were lightly grainy, with refreshing acidity. A simple, straightforward, if very pleasant wine: I was surprised to learn that the wine retails for a rather pricey $30 when one of the virtues of Mercurey's wines is its value. ✪✪✪✪

Domaine Nathalie & Jean-Claude Theulot Les Champs Martin Premier Cru 2013 ($37)

A darker colour and a much more complex nose, with restrained red and black fruit aromas of strawberries and blackberries. Taking time to open up, there were also subtle aromas of orange pith, paprika, and liquorice, as well as smoke and oak. On the palate, there was a refreshing acidity; the fruits were ripe and intense, with more liquorice and paprika aromas, while the tannins were firm and structured. An exceptional wine: and at $37 for a Premier Cru it reaffirmed my belief in the value of Mercurey. ✪✪✪✪✪

Domaine François Raquillet Les Vasées Premier Cru 2013

The reds we tasted moved further south around the appellation with each wine. The soils change, as does the elevation, and the difference between the wines was noticeable. This was much fruitier, ripe and rich, with vanilla and coffee beans also marking the wine out. A very open wine, with soft, unaggressive, but structured tannins. The vines are fifty-five years old, definitely adding a fruity concentration to the wine. ✪✪✪✪✪

Château de Chamirey Les Clos du Roi Premier Cru 2012

The use of oak varied in the reds: for me, 25-30% new oak seems optimum. This had 40% new oak, and it was too much, giving the wine a toasty, oaky character, augmented by clove aromas. Intense and tannic, the much-needed acidity lifted the wine out of its oaky heaviness. ✪✪✪✪

Domaine de Suremain En Sazenay Premier Cru 2012

Perhaps my favourite of the tasting and, in contrast to the previous wine, aged in just 10% new oak. However, the nose was quite closed and needed some thought to appreciate it. The palate really expressed the quality of the wine: the acidity was so lively and uplifting, indicating that it will last many more years, the tannins were ripe giving the wine a fruit quality that wasn't initially apparent on the nose, and the oak was balanced and integrated. ✪✪✪✪✪

The Value of Bordeaux

My difficulty with Bordeaux is that the wines I can afford to drink, I don't want; the wines I want to drink, I can't afford. Although the wines of Bordeaux are much imitated around the world, this is why their reputation has suffered in recent years. Inexpensive Bordeaux offers little of either the quality or value for money that similar wines from Australia, South Africa, Chile, or, indeed, other areas of France give, while the premium wines compete with more accessibly priced, yet still high quality, wines from all around the world (Napa is an exception to this rule, its market not too much different from Bordeaux's). Bordeaux relies too heavily on investors and the nouveaux riches of the US and China, instead of producing wines that the general consumer can afford to buy.

I went to a tasting in San Francisco that challenged this reading of Bordeaux's market, and which demonstrated that the Bordeaux wine industry is determined to compete at the lower end of the market by aiming to produce good-value, inexpensive wines. Whether those wines can compete with established New World brands remains to be seen.

whites

The dry white wine of Bordeaux has two advantages: it rarely fetches the exorbitant prices of the reds, making it often good value, and one of the two important grapes is Sauvignon Blanc, a grape riding the wave of international trends. The other grape is Sémillon, which back in the 1960s was the most planted grape in Bordeaux, black or white. Sémillon results in high-quality wines, but it's not fashionable, its waxy weightiness not always inviting. Put Sauvignon Blanc on a label, the wine sells; mention Sémillon, it stays on the shelf. As a result, Sauvignon Blanc is becoming more and more widely grown, and this is how the dry whites of Bordeaux are going to compete on the international stage.

There were sixteen dry white wines available to taste; eleven of them were Sauvignon Blanc dominant and these were the most inexpensive whites on show ($8-$20). They had characteristic grassy, vegetal aromas with a dry, refreshing acidity; simple, but pleasant and attractive wines. However, I am not sure how well they would fare on the international stage despite the affordable prices: the wines are not as pungently aromatic as New Zealand's, nor as steely and flinty as Loire's.

My overall impression is that $15 is when a dry white Bordeaux becomes interesting and engaging. That's also the price point when Sémillon becomes more involved in the blend, and the use of oak is more likely. My two favourite whites were Château Grand Abord (Graves, 2014; $17), which was 80% Sémillon and showed a creamy, lightly oaky spiciness and baked apples, and Château Respide-Médeville (Graves, 2013; $29), an almost equal blend of Sémillon and Sauvignon, with a little Muscadelle thrown in. The latter demonstrated everything good about white Bordeaux blends, with fresh, floral, stone fruit aromas, a nutty, spicy palate, with a refreshing acidity - but at $29 it's appealing to a very different market than the more inexpensive, green, vegetal Sauvignon Blancs.

reds

This is where pricing gets difficult and it's hard to find good-value wines. The inexpensive reds, which started at $10 at the tasting, just aren't that good. The tannins are bitter and green, the fruits far more restrained than similar wines from Australia or Chile, and there's little or no oak to give the wine structure or longevity. Most are not appealing, fruity, or forward enough for those consumers buying wine in the $10-15 range.

On the evidence of this tasting, quality red Bordeaux begins at around $25-30 and really kicks in at $30-40. That's a very difficult price bracket: more expensive than most consumers are willing to spend, competing with high-quality, arguably better value wines at the same price from around Europe and the rest of the world, but not expensive enough to attract the wealthiest customers.

Nevertheless, there are some good-value wines to be had for those willing to spend in that $30 price range. I was pleasantly surprised by the Bordeaux Supérieur appellation, which I had always dismissed as being rather basic (it can come from anywhere in Bordeaux, but has a slightly higher minimum level of alcohol than standard Bordeaux AC) - but it was only the pricey ones ($25-30) that impressed. The major appellations that offered good value were the Right Bank: being Merlot based and less aggressively tannic than the wines of the Haut-Médoc, they are fruity and inviting to drink at a young age. Château Moulin Pey-Labrie's 100% Merlot from Canon Fronsac ($28) had a lively acidity lifting the gripping tannins, with bright red plum and violet aromas, while Château de Viaud-Lalande's 2010 Pomerol ($30 - also 100% Merlot) had tannins well integrated with the ripe but not plump red fruits, with a nice spicy finish.

One more thing: Bordeaux's labels are hopelessly old-fashioned, most with a château seemingly drawn by a destitute artist from the nineteenth century possessing only a blunt pencil to draw with. In Bordeaux, a château simply refers to any winemaking enterprise - "a straggle of sheds," as Kingsley Amis puts it in On Drink, rather than an actual castle - but it devalues the whole Bordeaux brand when it's used with $10 bottles of wine. If Bordeaux is truly to compete with inexpensive wines from around the world, it needs to rethink its packaging as much as it does its quality.

Kingsley Amis on Drink

Kingsley Amis was a very funny writer, though he's rather unfashionable now for his middle England conservatism. This insularity, however, is part of the charm of On Drink, a book he wrote in the early 1970s. A very personal guide on how to drink properly, the book reveals the still nascent drinking habits of the new British middle class as well as Amis's own, often rather peculiar, tastes.

Amis centres his advice on drinking at home, in part because, in his view, "the pub is fast becoming uninhabitable" due to the constant presence of piped music and televisions and the rise of theme pubs. Amis was also writing in the 1970s, when middle-class dinner parties were becoming increasingly fashionable, and it is at would-be hosts that Amis aims his advice. His main concern "is not being given enough" to drink at such parties, but he goes on to tell exactly what should be bought, how it should be served, and, most importantly, how it should be drunk.

Kingsley Amis

He recommends a series of cocktails, or short drinks as he calls them, some of them classic - the martini or manhattan, for instance - some of them his own inventions, all described with painstaking and very precise instructions on how to prepare them. The Lucky Jim, named after his most famous novel, is "12 to 15 parts vodka, 1 part dry vermouth, 2 parts cucumber juice," with cucumber slices and ice cubes; Queen Victoria's Tipple is half a tumbler of red wine with Scotch: "The original recipe calls for claret, but anything better than the merely tolerable will be wasted. The quantity of Scotch is up to you, but I recommend stopping a good deal short of the top of the tumbler. Worth trying once," he concludes, advice I have yet to follow. Another, The Iberian, calls for Bittall - apparently "a light (i.e. not heavy) port flavoured with orange peel" which Amis seems to like - dry sherry, and an orange slice, to which Amis adds: "I can hardly stop you if you decide to make your guests seem more interesting to you and to one another by mixing in a shot of vodka." He also recommends punches that would knock out the hardest drinker: The Careful Man's Peachy Punch contains 5 bottles of medium-dry white wine, 4 bottles of champagne cider, 2 bottles of British peach wine, 1 bottle of vodka, and 2lbs of peaches (Amis probably found the metric system a little too European).

Amis's advice to the nation's population of inexperienced hosts is so precise that it extends to listing the essential items a home bar should have, as well as the types of glasses it should be stocked with, for example: "A wine glass holding about eight ounces when full, though it's a sensible general rule not to fill it more than about two-thirds of the way up." There are still restaurants in the UK who could do with following the latter instruction.

Despite the many pages spent detailing how to prepare cocktails, for Amis, serving wine is "a lot of trouble, requiring energy and forethought," and he prefers the simplicity of taking a beer out of the fridge and opening it. Unfortunately for Amis, in early 1970s Britain, "The pro-wine pressure on everybody who can afford to drink at all is immense and still growing. To offer your guests beer instead of wine ... is to fly in the face of trend as well as established custom." Nevertheless, Amis has plenty of advice on how to buy wine and what to buy. Beaujolais "should be attacked in quantity, like beer, and, like beer, slightly chilled, and, like beer, as soon after bottling as you like." Italian wines, it would seem, were too much for drinkers in the '70s: "Some people will find some of the reds a little heavy (cut them with Pellegrino mineral water)."

Amis is at his funniest in describing an inevitable consequence of drink, the hangover. He divides the hangover in two: the physical and the metaphysical. The physical hangover is immediately recognisable, and needs to be dealt with on waking: "If your wife or other partner is beside you, and (of course) is willing, perform the sexual act as vigorously as you can. The exercise will do you good, and - on the assumption that you enjoy sex - you will feel toned up emotionally." After a morning of eating and doing as little as possible, at 12:30 "firmly take a hair of the dog that bit you." The dog does not have to be of a "particular breed," but "a lot of people will feel better after one or two Bloody Marys simply because they expect to."

The physical hangover dealt with, the metaphysical hangover is then addressed, firstly by recognising that it is only a hangover and nothing worse: "When that ineffable compound of depression, sadness (these two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future begins to steal over you, start telling yourself that what you have is a hangover." He recommends reading, particularly something gloomy: "I suggest Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich ... its picture of life in a Russian labour camp will do you the important service of suggesting that there are plenty of people about who have a bloody sight more to put up with than you (or I) have or ever will have." He also recommends music - Tchaikovsky or Brahms, or "any slow Miles Davis track. It will suggest to you that, however gloomy life may be, it cannot be possibly as gloomy as Davis makes it out to be." I have to say that I prefer my own hangover entertainment to be a little lighter than Amis's.

Of course, the best way to avoid a hangover is not to get drunk, and Amis has plenty to say on this too. He advises not expending too much energy while drinking, especially by dancing: "A researcher is supposed once to have measured out two identical doses of drink, put the first lot down at a full-scale party and the second, some evenings later, at home with a book, smoking the same number of cigarettes on each occasion and going to bed at the same time. Result, big hangover and no hangover respectively. Sitting down whenever possible, then, will help you, and so, a fortiori, will resisting the tempation to dance, should you be subject to such impulses." Amis feels the importance of sitting down and not dancing so strongly that he italicises the instructions to stress their signficance.

He also makes the salient point that to blame a hangover on mixing one's drinks is to miss the real reason: "After three dry martinis and two sherries and two glasses of hock and four of burgundy and one of Sauternes and two of claret and three of port and two brandies and three whiskies-and-soda and a beer, most men will be very drunk and will have a very bad hangover. But might not the quantity be at work here?"

His final conclusion is one that any reader of this blog will find as equally difficult to follow as Amis did himself: "If you want to behave better and feel better, the only absolutely certain method is drinking less. But to find out how to do that, you will have to find a more expert expert than I shall ever be."

When Zinfandel isn't Zinfandel

I am just about old enough to remember when it was officially declared in the mid-1990s that Zinfandel, California's most Californian grape, was the same as Italy's far less heralded Primitivo. This came as a blow to advocates of California wine: Zinfandel, grown throughout California since the nineteenth century, is, in its fruity, blowsy, unabashedly alcoholic way, California in a glass. In contrast, Primitivo comes from Puglia, the heel of Italy's boot, a region whose reputation rests on producing fruity, alcoholic wines to be anonymously blended into those from other cooler parts of Italy. It was like saying that Zinfandel is, ultimately, only good for White Zin.

As ever, the truth is a little more complicated. The DNA fingerprinting that confirmed the connection between Zinfandel and Primitivo also showed that the two are actually non-identical twins, and that neither originates from Italy. Furthermore, despite the clear similarities between the two grapes, the wines taste distinctly different: Zinfandel remains very much its own Californian thing, as winemakers firmly appreciate.

how did Zinfandel end up in California?

There's still a lot of speculation about the origins and etymology of Zinfandel, and many of the discoveries about where it came from have only emerged in the last twenty years. But a narrative has emerged: in the 1820s, an American called George Gibbs imported cuttings from Europe and one of the varieties was probably what we now call Zinfandel - called Zanfandel and Zinfindel in New England (Zinfandel's name may be because the grape was misidentified as being called Tzinifándli, which is actually an obscure Hungarian white grape). He took it to Boston, where it was grown in greenhouses and used as a table grape. It's difficult to think of a climate less suitable to Zinfandel than cool, wintery New England. Rightly overlooked as a table grape, Zinfandel crossed continental America during the Gold Rush, settling in the Sierra Foothills where gold was first discovered and then around San Francisco. This is what I love about Zinfandel: its history in California begins at the same point that California's own history begins, with the influx of American and European immigrants into the state in search of sunshine and gold.

After its arrival in Napa and Sonoma in the 1850s, Zinfandel quickly became the most planted grape in California. The wines, though, were not the single-varietal wines Americans are now most familiar with; instead, the wines were field blends, made from a number of varieties planted in the same vineyard. Most important in these blends were Petite Sirah, still an important blending grape in Zinfandel wines, Carignan, and inferior varieties such as Alicante Bouschet. Some wineries still make these field blends: Acorn in Sonoma make a wine from over 60 varieties, while Ridge, one of California's greatest wineries, make some of the state's best Zinfandel from old-vine field blends.

so where did it come from?

Mike Grgich is one of California's most important winemakers, emigrating to the US from Croatia in the 1950s. Upon seeing and tasting Zinfandel, he immediately thought that it was the same as a Croatian grape he had grown up with called Plavac Mali. When it was discovered that Zinfandel and Primitivo were both clones of a different variety, he and others urged UC Davis researchers to see if he was right: they found that Plavac Mali was actually an off-spring of Zinfandel. Encouraged by that connection, they tested other Croatian grape varieties and found one that was both identical to Zinfandel and indigenous to Croatia: Crljenak Kaštelanski. At the time, in 2001, there were just nine vines of the variety left in Croatia, all growing wild. It really is very impressive that Grgich was able to identify the Croatian background of California's most individual grape, and that the researchers were able to find the Crljenak Kaštelanski variety before it went completely extinct.

the twentieth century, lest we forget

Old-Vine Zinfandel is now a term much seen on wine labels, first used in the late 1960s. There are many plantings throughout California, dating back to the 1880s particularly in Lodi and Sonoma, and it's amazing that these plantings still exist. California was hit by phylloxera in the 1890s, and then Prohibition. Vines of all varieties were ripped up in the 1920s, and replaced by Alicante Bouschet, a dark, intense, simple variety that home winemakers could make easily and claim to be wine.

After Prohibition and the Second World War, California slowly began to rebuild its wine industry, but Zinfandel was not the focus of that renaissance. It was seen as too old-fashioned, simple, and rustic, and French grapes such as Cabernet Sauvignon were preferred for the higher-quality wines that were redefining California's reputation around the world. As much as I abhor White Zinfandel, the popularity of that style in the 1980s allowed the old vines to survive. Zinfandel was then subject to another trend: hang-time, allowing the grapes to stay on the vine beyond normal ripening to maximise sugar levels and therefore alcohol. The strongest Zinfandel, a grape naturally high in alcohol, which I have tasted is 16.5%.

That's fortified wine. But California and Zinfandel don't care. Part of the 2005 EU-US trade agreement allowed California wines to label their wines above 15%, which is the legal cut-off point for wine in the EU. California creates its own rules, which the rest of the world is sometimes forced to follow.

where we are now

I've been here in California for 15 months now, and I've come to the firm conclusion that wines from Zinfandel are some of the most expressive that California has to offer. The alcohol in the wine is slowly getting into balance - 15% for Zinfandel is natural and balanced, if high - and the use of French and American oak adds structure. And the great strength of Zinfandel is the old vines; not that many places around the world have 130-year-old vines, which result in wines with an intense, concentrated joyfulness.

Zinfandel? or not Zinfandel?

Croatia

Dubrovački Podrumi Crljenak 2012 ($27)

Croatia's vineyards are located near the Adriatic Sea, the cooling influence of which creates beautifully aromatic white wines and tannic reds. This maritime climate was apparent in the wine: the red fruits didn't have that alcoholic ripeness of Zinfandel and the palate had drying, rather than ripe tannins. Nevertheless, there was a rich complexity, with dried blueberries, prunes, paprika spices, cedar, and smoke, besides the red fruits. There was a subtle, difficult element to this wine, which emphasised just how Californian and upfront Zinfandel is, as did the 13.5% alcohol - there's few, if any, California Zins with this low alcohol nowadays. I don't like the terms "New World" and "Old World," as they simplify the complex variety of wines made around the world, but this was a case in point of how European wines can have such a different style from those made, for instance, here in California. ✪✪✪✪✪

Grgić Plavac Mali 2010 ($37)

As it's made by Mike Grgich himself, it's not surprising that this was a much fruitier and more Californian wine than the Crljenak. Plavac Mali is the grape that Grgich thought was Zinfandel, and he now makes a varietal wine from his native Croatia. The alcohol likewise was at Zinfandel levels, of 14.8%. Nevertheless, the fruits still weren't quite as jammy, and were much blacker. The wine too wasn't as spicy as either the Crljenak or a typical Zinfandel. I liked this wine, but I felt it could have benefited from being a little more Croatian and a little less Californian, as it fell somewhere in between. ✪✪✪✪

Puglia

Tenute Rubino Punta Aquila Primitivo 2012 ($16.99)

Much more like a Zinfandel, with its ripe red and blue fruits, smoky nose, and spicy palate. Primitivo, as its name suggests, is an early ripener, more so than Zinfandel. This means that the fruits here weren't quite as richly jammy as Zinfandel's, though the alcohol was still high (14.5%). Interest in Primitivo has soared since its identification with Zinfandel, with lots of single-varietal wines being made in Puglia. This has drawn more attention to Puglia, where the wines are slowly getting better and better. Although this is a good thing, Primitivo isn't Puglia's best grape - it's traditionally been used for blending - and the increased number of Primitivo wines doesn't necessarily showcase the best that Puglia has to offer. ✪✪✪

The grape identified as the same as Zinfandel produced the wine most unlike it, while the two grapes which are closely related but slightly different were most like a California Zin. Which, ultimately, just goes to show that the climate, the soil, and the winemaker are just as important in how a wine tastes as the grape variety itself.