Tour de Tanks. The very sound of that phrase demands a shift in my thinking for the next month. Gone are the weekends, gone is the inbox with only thirty messages to answer, gone is the focus on winemaking.
It's a tough sacrifice, but for those of us who aren't backed by tons of spare capital, you do what you have to do. The beauty of this Mason-Dixon Wine Trail event is that it brings the wineries up onto the radar of the local folks in the area. Sure, we get a lot of people coming from out of town to see what this new wine region is about. But for the wineries it's really about cementing our relationships with our neighbors, whoever they might be. And the fact that wine drinkers can compare apples to apples helps as well.
I've spent the past few years basically putting on a mini-show in the barrel area. (And, yes, I do barrels, even though it's called "Tour de Tanks." Part of my ornery spirit.....) At this point, we're finally at the point where at least 1/2 the people coming through have actually been out to our place before. We are off the beaten path, but thanks to the invention of GPS's, we now have more customers than before.
This year I am trying something different, and we'll see if it works. I'd like to think that a lot of our audience has experienced local wines at this point and has at least heard of us. With that in mind, I hope to avoid telling the basics of our winery's history and instead focus on questions people might have. People come out to the wineries during this event for an experience. For our part, we're hoping to share what we do with them and sell lots of wine at the same time. The question is, what makes for the best experience.
I've decided I'm going to try to stop talking at people and start talking with them. Hopefully we can get some lively conversations going. A little wine might help.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
My Wife is a Freak....
Turns out that I quoted my lovely wife the other day in an interview with a journalist. For years, Kris has said that Chambourcin tastes like millipedes. In general. Not all Chambourcins, just the ones that are over-cropped (and by that I mean, more than one cluster per shoot.)
Now, I'm not sure what she means by "millipedes" since it would seem to imply that she has tasted one. But just like I have never licked wet concrete, I still can relate to that character in wine. I suppose she is doing the same thing. But millipedes? Suffice it to say that this was a memorable read for some people. On top of that, I know what flavor it is in Chambourcin that she is referring to. Whenever she says a Chambourcin tastes like millipedes, I usually say, yes, it does taste like Chambourcin. (It's part of the flavor profile of Chambourcin that I struggle to minimize in my winemaking.
Anyway, it turns out, she can smell millipedes in a room. Always has. I know, I thought she was crazy, too. So, we started investigating what millipedes might smell like. Here's a passage from my favorite cloud-sourced knowledge base (Wikipedia):
"Many species also emit poisonous liquid secretions or hydrogen cyanide gas through microscopic pores called odoriferous glands along the sides of their bodies as a secondary defense.[8][9][10] Some of these substances are caustic and can burn the exoskeleton of ants and other insect predators, and the skin and eyes of larger predators. Animals such as Capuchin monkeys have been observed intentionally irritating millipedes in order to rub the chemicals on themselves to repel mosquitoes."
Hydrogen cyanide might be one of the secretions that she is smelling. Now, that seems like a toxic chemical, and in no way am I implying that Chambourcin has anything toxic in it. (Although some French authorities and New York's own vinifera pioneer Konstantin Frank used to claim that hybrids caused cancer--a claim that is pretty ridiculous.) We decided to delve into what this "hydrogen cyanide" substance from the millipedes might be. Again, it seems that it only causes minor irritations to humans, and is in no way harmful to humans in any significant way. But then we stumbled upon this (also from Wikipedia):
"HCN has a faint, bitter, burnt almond-like odor that only some people are able to detect owing to a genetic trait." Ah ha! So, my wife isn't crazy, she's just a freak of nature. (Turns out her brother can also smell these creatures.) Me, on the other hand, can't smell the damn things at all.
But it makes me wonder, first of all, if this is actually the compound that she is smelling, and if so is it actually in the wines themselves. And, secondly, is it the part of the wine that people object to (including myself.) Lastly, why is it in low-yield Chambourcins, rose-styles, and port-styles that this flavor profile is less prevalent? I don't know, and I think I may have just added to the mystery of it all. But it does make for an interesting story.
Full-disclosure: I do make Chambourcin as a winemaker, and I make it primarily because it sells. I think it's true calling lie in either a Port or rose-style wine, or perhaps a southern French tank-styled red. I think it's an important part of the grapegrowing landscape in this part of the world, just like it is in Beaujolais where it makes up a lot of the vins de table and vin de pays wines in France.
But when it comes to making a name for ourselves on the world's stage, I think I'll stick with my Cabs and Merlots....
Anyway, it turns out, she can smell millipedes in a room. Always has. I know, I thought she was crazy, too. So, we started investigating what millipedes might smell like. Here's a passage from my favorite cloud-sourced knowledge base (Wikipedia):
"Many species also emit poisonous liquid secretions or hydrogen cyanide gas through microscopic pores called odoriferous glands along the sides of their bodies as a secondary defense.[8][9][10] Some of these substances are caustic and can burn the exoskeleton of ants and other insect predators, and the skin and eyes of larger predators. Animals such as Capuchin monkeys have been observed intentionally irritating millipedes in order to rub the chemicals on themselves to repel mosquitoes."
Hydrogen cyanide might be one of the secretions that she is smelling. Now, that seems like a toxic chemical, and in no way am I implying that Chambourcin has anything toxic in it. (Although some French authorities and New York's own vinifera pioneer Konstantin Frank used to claim that hybrids caused cancer--a claim that is pretty ridiculous.) We decided to delve into what this "hydrogen cyanide" substance from the millipedes might be. Again, it seems that it only causes minor irritations to humans, and is in no way harmful to humans in any significant way. But then we stumbled upon this (also from Wikipedia):
"HCN has a faint, bitter, burnt almond-like odor that only some people are able to detect owing to a genetic trait." Ah ha! So, my wife isn't crazy, she's just a freak of nature. (Turns out her brother can also smell these creatures.) Me, on the other hand, can't smell the damn things at all.
But it makes me wonder, first of all, if this is actually the compound that she is smelling, and if so is it actually in the wines themselves. And, secondly, is it the part of the wine that people object to (including myself.) Lastly, why is it in low-yield Chambourcins, rose-styles, and port-styles that this flavor profile is less prevalent? I don't know, and I think I may have just added to the mystery of it all. But it does make for an interesting story.
Full-disclosure: I do make Chambourcin as a winemaker, and I make it primarily because it sells. I think it's true calling lie in either a Port or rose-style wine, or perhaps a southern French tank-styled red. I think it's an important part of the grapegrowing landscape in this part of the world, just like it is in Beaujolais where it makes up a lot of the vins de table and vin de pays wines in France.
But when it comes to making a name for ourselves on the world's stage, I think I'll stick with my Cabs and Merlots....
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Odd Man Out
It's how I feel these days.
I first came to Allegro as a wide-eyed, slightly naive winemaker. I thought I knew what I wanted to do, and how I wanted to do it. I met John who opened my eyes to a world of winemaking I never thought possible in Pennsylvania. I had never set my sights on anything more than just making good wine and being my own boss.
Because of this little miraculous place, I realized what we are capable of here in the Commonwealth. The possibility of someday joining the hallowed ranks of prestige wine regions is a very live one for us. John's old wines still continue to dazzle and amaze me. Some of my older ones are showing the same power and finesse.
Unfortunately that brings me to my point. When I first met John, he showed me his style of making wine to his tastes. It involved tannin, structure, some more tannin extraction, a good but more structure, some acid, and some more tannin. And fruit. Then he pulled out a ten year old Cadenza and I was hooked. It was beautiful! Soft, supple tannins with layers of savory fruit on levels of bottle bouquet. (It was the '91.)
I couldn't wait to make wines like this. Of course, waiting is really what I had to do. And even though his young wines were thought of as tannic mosters, you could see the quality of fruit and depth of winemaking subtleties shining through. These were wines made for the long-haul. Wines that would climb the steep wine-developing hill and plant their flag on top of it all and proclaim their glory. These were wines that would awe you in their youth with their quality, yet taunt you: "Will you live long enough to enjoy me in my prime?"
Which brings me to today. We were part of a tasting the other day. (I won't refer to it as a competition, as the controls aren't quite the same and the organizers don't refer to it as such either. Nonetheless, they did pick a winner. Spoiler alert: it wasn't Allegro.) The 2007 and 2008 Cadenzas were the last dry wines tasted. All the previous wines were of a diametrically opposed class and style. They were smooth, fruity, soft, and fruity and smooth. And for the most part, were of exceptional winemaking quality. Not necessarily what I would enjoy drinking, but I could tell that most of them were made by good winemakers on their game.
When the Cadenzas came around, things changed for me. Tannins showed up in the tasting, as did dark fruit and savory spice. I had to retrieve my crystal ball, because these were not here-and-now wines. (Even the judges, I heard, were able to easily spot the Allegro wines in the tasting in the prior blind judging.) I also noticed how they seemed to throw people for a loop. These wines needed explaining.
And here's my explanation. When you're trying to make good wine in a wine region that is on the edge of viability, where grapegrowing is pushing the envelope, where grapes struggle to hit peak ripeness, I feel it's imperative to extract as much sap, as much soul from the fruit as possible. In warmer climes, the grapes are naturally full of fruit flavors, but the soul of the fruit gets lost under layers of fruitiness. It leads to over-extracted wines when winemakers go for it there.
Here, to get to the heart of the grape, we do simple extended macerations and barrel-aging, but by going above-and-beyond, we find that we can peer inside the window of the wine and help its spirit escape.
Not a very good explanation, I know. And the wines still seem to fall on deaf ears. The most popular wine of the tasting was a no-tannin, 15 month-old Chambourcin fruit bomb. And the message is clear. The question is, do I care to listen.
At what point do we start to make wines for other people, to let them direct our creative and artistic impulses? I guess, it's when I start to go out of business.
But until then, I am sticking to what I do best, which is make wines for me....and John.
I first came to Allegro as a wide-eyed, slightly naive winemaker. I thought I knew what I wanted to do, and how I wanted to do it. I met John who opened my eyes to a world of winemaking I never thought possible in Pennsylvania. I had never set my sights on anything more than just making good wine and being my own boss.
Because of this little miraculous place, I realized what we are capable of here in the Commonwealth. The possibility of someday joining the hallowed ranks of prestige wine regions is a very live one for us. John's old wines still continue to dazzle and amaze me. Some of my older ones are showing the same power and finesse.
Unfortunately that brings me to my point. When I first met John, he showed me his style of making wine to his tastes. It involved tannin, structure, some more tannin extraction, a good but more structure, some acid, and some more tannin. And fruit. Then he pulled out a ten year old Cadenza and I was hooked. It was beautiful! Soft, supple tannins with layers of savory fruit on levels of bottle bouquet. (It was the '91.)
I couldn't wait to make wines like this. Of course, waiting is really what I had to do. And even though his young wines were thought of as tannic mosters, you could see the quality of fruit and depth of winemaking subtleties shining through. These were wines made for the long-haul. Wines that would climb the steep wine-developing hill and plant their flag on top of it all and proclaim their glory. These were wines that would awe you in their youth with their quality, yet taunt you: "Will you live long enough to enjoy me in my prime?"
Which brings me to today. We were part of a tasting the other day. (I won't refer to it as a competition, as the controls aren't quite the same and the organizers don't refer to it as such either. Nonetheless, they did pick a winner. Spoiler alert: it wasn't Allegro.) The 2007 and 2008 Cadenzas were the last dry wines tasted. All the previous wines were of a diametrically opposed class and style. They were smooth, fruity, soft, and fruity and smooth. And for the most part, were of exceptional winemaking quality. Not necessarily what I would enjoy drinking, but I could tell that most of them were made by good winemakers on their game.
When the Cadenzas came around, things changed for me. Tannins showed up in the tasting, as did dark fruit and savory spice. I had to retrieve my crystal ball, because these were not here-and-now wines. (Even the judges, I heard, were able to easily spot the Allegro wines in the tasting in the prior blind judging.) I also noticed how they seemed to throw people for a loop. These wines needed explaining.
And here's my explanation. When you're trying to make good wine in a wine region that is on the edge of viability, where grapegrowing is pushing the envelope, where grapes struggle to hit peak ripeness, I feel it's imperative to extract as much sap, as much soul from the fruit as possible. In warmer climes, the grapes are naturally full of fruit flavors, but the soul of the fruit gets lost under layers of fruitiness. It leads to over-extracted wines when winemakers go for it there.
Here, to get to the heart of the grape, we do simple extended macerations and barrel-aging, but by going above-and-beyond, we find that we can peer inside the window of the wine and help its spirit escape.
Not a very good explanation, I know. And the wines still seem to fall on deaf ears. The most popular wine of the tasting was a no-tannin, 15 month-old Chambourcin fruit bomb. And the message is clear. The question is, do I care to listen.
At what point do we start to make wines for other people, to let them direct our creative and artistic impulses? I guess, it's when I start to go out of business.
But until then, I am sticking to what I do best, which is make wines for me....and John.
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