Results tagged “South Australia”

Last Friday, I invited some friends over to the house so that we could open two wines, drink them together, and talk for a while about the differences between the two.

I'll start with some background: both of these wines were Verdelho. Being a Californian (and not an Australian), Verdelho basically means absolutely nothing to me. If I hadn't had spent so much time in Australia, I likely wouldn't have been familiar with the grape at all: it has no role in my nation's cultural history (whereas it absolutely does in Australia's). The first Verdelho I ever drank was most likely something I encountered whilst on vacation in Western Australia in early 2002; they seemed to be legion, with most wineries having at least one on offer. (Capel Vale, perhaps? Dang it, I should have taken better notes.)

After nine months' travels throughout Australia, I eventually came to know Verdelho as a generically rockin' good time: you could count on it to taste good in a simple, pleasing manner without giving you all too much to think about, and that was just fine by me. After returning home to California, I'd occasionally see Australian Verdelho gathering dust in the "miscellaneous white wine" bin in a shop; I usually picked up a bottle, took it home, and drank it mindlessly. Thanks to a strong US dollar and the utter unfashionability of the wines, prices never hit double digits and I never grew tired of them.

As always, however, I digress. I'm here to talk about these two wines in particular: the 2009 Mollydooker The Violinist Verdelho and the 2009 Scholium Project Lost Slough Vineyards Naucratis. These are both straight varietal Verdelho from the same vintage year, albeit from opposite ends of the globe. Climactically, both wines are produced from similar geographic origins; McLaren Vale, in South Australia, is relatively warm with daily summer temperatures around 90 degrees, Clarksburg, in California, is warmer still with daily summer temperatures in the high 90s. (For you Australians, that would be 32 and 36 degrees C, respectively.) In short, nothing too dramatically different.

Soils, too, are probably not wildly different; the California wine is presumably grown on poor soil, and I imagine the Aussie wine isn't that different either. In short, probably not hugely different either.

The major difference, then, at least superficially, would be between the two wineries. One is a spinoff (or, rather, the logical next step arising from) a once phenomenally successful Australian-American wine import business that made its name during the Bush administration importing, well, hedonistic fruit bombs; Dan Philips (and Marquis-Philips, his joint venture with the Marquis family, who became Mollydooker) had the brilliant idea of critter wines on steroids: double or triple the price of cheap and cheerful Aussie imports, but with vastly superior label design, bi-national critters (google Roogle if you'd like), and delicious, high octane, pleasurable wines that seemed just the perfect thing to serve at a megachurch BBQ celebrating to invasion of Iraq.

I will pause here for a moment and apologize for the intrusion of the political in to a nominally aesthetically oriented wine blog: one of these wines was a press sample, and God knows the generosity of the winemakers should not be abused. However, if one of the objectives of shipping samples is to potentially result in interesting ways of thinking about the wine, then I suppose they're getting their money's worth, even if obliquely. These sorts of wines - high alcohol, usually Shiraz, occasionally lavishly yet softly oaked - seemed to have sprung up shortly after that Mission Accomplished banner did, and it seems no mere coincidence that The Grateful Palate, Dan Philips' importing business, ceased to exist shortly after President Obama took office and not too much longer before the cessation of combat operations in Iraq. In short, I am unfairly and hopefully amusingly positing that there is an odd synchronicity at work here between the go-go Bush years, filled with foreign policy adventuring beyond anyone's wildest dreams, and the heyday of massive, plush, jammy, hedonistic wines (at this point, I am imagining someone with a distinctly non-West Coast accent spitting them into a football helmet on YouTube, for some reason), an odd crosstalk where one informs the other, a mad rush of consumption and decadence leading... well, I'm still not sure, exactly, except for the wines, which always, always led to massive ibuprofen consumption the morning after.

Of course, again, I digress.

The other wine, the Californian one, was produced by a small winery founded by a one-time professor from a notoriously obscurantist liberal arts college where they (shudder) still teach Aristotle... in the original Greek, no less. Again curiously coincident with the disastrous economic meltdown of 2008, his wines slowly but surely came to prominence not through glowing Wine Advocate reviews, but rather through one-off New York Times articles and general Terroir (the wine bar) fandom; most reviews I'd read were faintly reminiscent of early Dooniana , filled with remarks along the lines of "I can't drink this, but I'm excited that it exists." Much in the mode of recent newcomers such as Field Recordings, Abe the winemaker traveled California, hunting down vineyards that might produce interesting wines; in this case, a wine from a grape no one's ever heard of (here, at least) from an area that's generally as well regarded as Redfern (amusingly, the small hamlet of Woodbridge, which gave its name to an ocean of crappy wine that helped bring the Mondavi family to its doom, isn't too far away to the south).

But again: I digress. On to the tasting notes; these are courtesy of a group of six friends. Both wines were placed in the refrigerator Thursday night and removed about forty-five minutes before tasting; we were hoping for a happy medium between "cold and doesn't taste like anything" and "warm and tastes gross." Wines were served in two identical glasses (Spiegelau Authentis red wine); we drank slowly, talking about these for a good half hour, before finishing up for the evening.

• Both wines smell towards the sweet/syrupy end of the spectrum
• This wine... well, it doesn't quite smell like canned peaches because it doesn't have that tinned smell to it that California viognier does. It's kind of like viognier, but smoother, I guess.
• This almost has kind of a sugar cane factory, cut cane, simple syrup, pineapple effect here with not much spice, just a happy go lucky sugar factory really.
• It's a little bit floral to me, but hard to say exactly what I'm smelling here. There might be a slight amount of spiciness to it, almost a hint of black pepper... celery salt or perhaps something slightly green there? Really hard to say.
• Candied/salted spinach perhaps?
• Seems hot to me.
• Seems a much richer wine, more concentrated, perhaps even a bit of residual sugar here? Definitely very mouth filling, unctuous rich.. almost flabby. I think this might be going too far.
• This wine seems... whiter? More like white peach than yellow peach. Some minerality here, really a striking difference. Generally more "serious" and more northern Rhône than the other one; better acidity, tighter, just a tiny bit of astringency to it.
• Almost bitter, definite complexity on the finish, which lasts for quite a bit of time.
• This almost has a sort of quinine note, reminiscent of bitters, which it desperately needs to give it complexity and style.
• Strange to think these are the same grape from roughly similar climates; the simpler one has a deeper, richer yellow color, but the more complex one seems lighter, less imposing in the glass
  

There was, alas, one thing we all agreed on by the end of the evening: the one wine would have been just fine on its own, but it suffered by comparison with the other wine. It's funny how things go sometimes: often, in the midst of unbridled enjoyment, it's hard to imagine how an experience could possibly be better. I've personally bought both of these wines in the past - it was happy coincidence that I was given a bottle as a press sample - but having now had them simultaneously, I'm not sure I'd buy any more, especially considering that the pricing is roughly the same for the both of them.

What it boiled down for me was this: I know it's cliché to point this out, but every profoundly beautiful thing has to have a flaw - or at least something there that serves as a counterpoint, a foil, a dissonance to draw the beauty of the object in sharper, finer focus. The real reason I came away from this evening finding one wine profoundly beautiful and deeply satisfying was this: it showed restraint. Similarly high in alcohol, it seemed to have better acidity, more minerality, less residual sugar, but most of all that subtle, quinonic, bitter, savory edge that suddenly shifted it all into vibrant, ecstatic focus. You'd be hard pressed to expect more from a wine like this, especially at $20.

My advice to the other winemaker? Simple: The boom years are behind us. It's time to go beyond simple fruit ripeness, high alcohols, and straight-up appeal; it's time to find the subtle beauty that's probably always been there, time to experiment with phenolic aspects, time to consider the joys of Italianate bitter notes. I now know that there is Verdelho beyond the simple, fruity joys I've known from Australia from years; it's there if you want it. Go for it: if you do, I'll be there to buy it. And I'll even go out on a limb here and groundlessly speculate: the Americans that were buying your wines in the past were probably buying them using home equity loans on houses that have already been foreclosed. The days of reckless consumption of shiny pretty wines with high point scores seem to have gone missing over the last two years; instead, we're looking for subtlety, complexity, something with pain, something to match the anxiety and frustration we're all feeling in these, the empty, anguished dog years after the binge of the Oughts. Give us something we can relate to; your wines remind me too much of those years where we weren't thinking.

It feels a while since I last tasted some of Mike Press's wines. A quick search of Full Pour tells me I tasted the 2008 Shiraz in February of this year, but earlier vintages are more prominent in my deteriorating memory banks. I remember the splash made by the 2005 vintage wines, and bought a few myself. I've always been impressed by the easy styling of the red wines; at their best they convey a sense of sophistication that sits well outside their price points. Oak handling has historically been a slight sticking point for me, though I am pleased to see the oak flavours in this 2009 wine are much more to my taste.

I really liked the 2007 vintage of this wine, so approached the current release with some anticipation. As an aside, it amuses me sometimes to read winery press releases on wines from hot years - it seems no-one ever picks after a heatwave. And so it is with this wine, picked before the heat, with the intent of producing the lighter and more easygoing Dowie Doole house style. For the most part, I would say this is a success.

Curious, curious. First off, the sticker above the label on the back of this bottle appears to be in Chinese for some reason:

I've tasted this over a couple of days. At first, the aroma created an entirely positive impression, being both varietal and strongly regional at the same time. I value Coonawarra Cabernet's signature leafiness and fruit character, both of which this wine has in spades, along with a framework of rather glossy cedar oak. The reason why I let it sit for a while is because, on the palate, the acidity struck me as over the top; not outrageous, but a little peaky and unbalanced. 

I understand 2009 was a difficult vintage in some parts of the McLaren Vale. Certainly, compared to the 2008 Merlot, this wine shows less freshness of fruit character. It retains, however, the same sense of drinkability and charm, and for that I like it a great deal.

Whether it's the youth of this wine, vintage conditions or a stylistic choice on the part of its maker, the 2010 Chenin from Dowie Doole is a significantly more taut, edgy experience than previous vintages (for example, the 2009). And, as delicious as the softer, fruit salad Chenin style can be, this is something else entirely, closer to the reserve Tintookie wine than to its predecessors. 

I was excited to find this wine; I've been eagerly anticipating opening the bottle all week. From what I've read over the last decade, I was wondering: would it be a leaky bottle? Would the cork be too small? What would be wrong with it? And thankfully I was not disappointed: I'm now bleeding on the knuckle of my right hand as opening the bottle turned out to be a major production number: the too-small cork was firmly wedged in the bottle, and attempting to remove it using the standard methods resulted in failure along with a broken cork. Skittishly attempting to remove the final inch of it with a regular corkscrew resulted in a sudden burst of pressure and an accidental stabbing. Ouch. So how's the wine?

Thankfully, the wine isn't dead. I bought this sight unseen, not knowing how old it is: turns out it's a fairly old bottle. The bead is fairly anemic, but at least it's still there. The color is an awful lot like American root beer mixed with cranberry juice: alternately nearly brown and occasionally surprisingly translucently black cherry red. It's pretty, but could also be mistaken for Dr. Pepper.

The nose is distinctly old earth, dusty loam with hints of prune, chocolate, and an intriguing mentholated eucalyptus mint note hovers over the glass. On the palate, this isn't like any red sparkling wine I've had before: it's extremely dramatic, the vinous equivalent of Norma Desmond, beautifully lit from all sides, a wine from another era. At times, it reminds me of extremely old balsamic vinegar or shoyu, with almost caramelized, umami notes. At other times, there's a refreshing mintiness not unlike some Aussie sparkling chambourcin. The most amazing thing about the wine, however, is how long the finish lasts: minutes. Minutes, I say. Thinking about the wine long after I've swallowed it, I find myself thinking of hunting cabins in high meadows, cedar-smoked fire raising smoke in a starry sky, soft Spring flowers withholding the perfume for the morning.

This really is a beautiful, profound, satisfying wine in a way few wines ever truly are. More than anything, I can't think of anything else like it. This has got to be one of the most distinctive Australian wines there is - shame it's so damn difficult to find. At this rate, I reckon I'll next taste some shortly after retiring. Ah well!

Moscato has quickly become quite the lifestyle product - one look at the press release that came with this wine confirms its priorities (low alcohol, wines that reflect a "way of life"). I hope this doesn't appear cynical; although wine wankers (and I count myself amongst them) tend to revere authenticity and decry any hint of commercial reality, I'm resolutely in favour of wine styles that strike a chord with the mass market, if only because for some, perhaps, Moscato might be a gateway drug into a much wider world of wine. Even if not, I'm the first to admit some of these wines are damned refreshing and have found a place in my life.

Exotic and yet strangely familiar, this wine smells of California mission figs, damp soil in a shady redwood forest, freshly-baked German plum torte, the singing acidity of just-cleaved fruit, freshly baked brownies cooling in a suburban kitchen window, and cassis. It's so wonderfully complex that honestly? I could probably sit here smelling it for half an hour; it's as elaborate and fluid as a Guerlain perfume.

Texturally, it's fascinating, simultaneously hard and porous, with an initial impression of hard, ripe tannin quickly changing to a soft, slippery, sensual decay of just-melted chocolate. Beyond the texture, though, is still-present, still-youthful black cherry fruit, cheerfully slipping into warmer cigar box and cedar notes, finishing softly into a long, slow dissolve into dried herbs and dark bread baked in a wood-fired oven.

Ironically, it's the sweetness here that marks this wine as distinctly what it is. If that weren't here, it would remind me of a Loire red, given its firm tannin and wonderfully complex notes of cherry, mineral, and herbs. However, it's that beautiful, pure Australian fruit that elevates it beyond the merely really f***ing good and into the phenomenal. There aren't many wines that can convincingly walk the line between Old World and New; just as Ridge Monte Bello does, this wine is simultaneously everything good about the Old and the New.

I would imagine there's another five or ten years' life left here; simultaneously, I can't imagine this being any better than it is right now.

I love a nice Aussie Shiraz VP and this is certainly one. As an aside, I generally drink this style as a table wine, with food, and I feel it works tremendously well in this context. I guess that's why I have a soft spot for some over those overwrought, overripe red table wines that exist between medium bodied sanity and the delicious lunacy that is the Shiraz VP style.

I find it interesting that Viognier seems to polarise not only drinkers, but winemakers as well. It's perhaps not unexpected for a variety that is still quite new in mass market Australian terms, but there's a diversity of styles (see our recent mega-tasting for some examples) that, it seems to me, speaks more of uncertainty than confident choices. 

There's a reason why I've not posted recently, and it's not entirely related to a lack of time. I have indeed tasted several wines this week. And they were all crap. Which does wear one down after a while. The point of my drinking, or so I have convinced myself, is to enjoy moments of abstract sensual pleasure. I drink wine for the same reason I listen to music; to hear, feel, disagree, discover. In other words, I drink to experience beauty. So a series of ugly wines gives me absolutely nothing to write other than tiresomely self-reflective introductions like this.

Make no mistake, the Dowie Doole California Road and Reserve Shirazes from 2008 are very good wines. The single vineyard wine, in particular, is a beautifully characterful, limpid expression of McLaren Vale Shiraz. One could argue, though, this producer's stylistic philosophy finds its most satisfying expression in the regular Shiraz, reviewed here. 

The third in Yelland & Papps's trio of new release reds (Grenache and Cabernet Sauvignon reviewed earlier). I think I like the Grenache most of all, though this comes in a close second.

Two things to note up front regarding this wine: it doesn't smell or taste much like Cabernet, and I've personally struggled with it over two days of tasting. From which some readers may conclude it's a bad wine, or that I don't like it, neither of which is necessarily the case. It is atypical and difficult. It's also oddly compelling and quite drinkable. 

As nice as it was, the 2007 vintage of this wine pales in comparison to the current release 2008. This is seriously good Barossa Grenache in all respects.

In response to my write-up of the 2007 Shiraz, Colin Sheppard of Flaxman Wines very kindly sent me a bottle each of the 2005 and 2006 versions so I could compare the site and its wine across vintages. After having tasted all three, and quite apart from notions of quality, one thing I can confirm is this wine's transparency.

Q: What do you do in the event of an earthquake?

A: Well, if you're me, you quickly check to make sure none of the wine fell over and broke (it didn't) and then grab the first bottle you can find to calm your nerves.

Thanks to the vagaries of the international wine trade, the local bottle shop had a dozen of these for a meager $14 a couple of months back. Sadly, the first two bottles were corked and nonrefundable, but this one appears intact.

Not visibly old at all - it still looks bright and clean - the nose tells quite another story, with hazelnuts, burnt matchsticks, and pineapple clotted cream cake coming together to suggest a wine that's been around for a few years. Rich, unctuous, and ever so slightly overwhelming (think California style) in the mouth, there's a thick seam of rich, buttery pear and roasted nuts to be found here. The finish is plenty long, with just enough acidity to make it easy-going enough to please most anyone, I reckon. In short, this would be the ideal wine to serve in Qantas business class: rich, stuffed with enough flavor to register at even thirty thousand feet, and fat enough to please folks who don't enjoy their wine unless it's got a certain sense of luxurious, hedonistic plushness to it.

The only thing I am is surprised: I love Petaluma's riesling and viognier, both of which are wonderfully expressive and full of character - and yet this wine seems a bit vague (in the international style, at least). It doesn't compare well, I think. to the Grosset chardonnay (which is presumably made from fruit from the same general area)... but it is at least a surefire crowd pleaser. Shame about the dead tree stopper, though.

My acquaintance with Marie Linke of Karra Yerta Wines has been rewarding in all sorts of ways; it has provided me insights into the world of the boutique micro-producer, into the trials associated with just getting your wine out there in the public eye, into the challenges of juggling family and work life. And, not least, it has provided me with the opportunity to taste wonderful wines, borne of passion and commitment to regional tradition. My view is producers such as Karra Yerta are the backbone of the industry, providing a philosophical base around which trends and companies may come and go.