Why terroir is like a tree falling in a forest
If you talk about terroir outside of context of what you find in a glass, does anyone really care?
First, a stance: The concept of terroir as it pertains to wine means little outside the context of the sensory qualities of wines.
Stance #2: If you’re going to mention terroir in any way, shape or form, never talk about it without connecting it to the only thing that matters to consumers⏤what they can find in a glass.
What I’m trying to say is we can talk about terroir⏤the impact of natural circumstances and human input on any given vineyard or region⏤all day and all night, but unless we relate it directly to what ends up in a bottle, the concept means little to most people. It ends up, as many parts of the wine industry are now saying, being little more than an over-intellectualizing of wine. Creating barriers between dems-who-know and dems-who-don’t-really-give-a-damn.
This is why most of what I still read in books and print or online articles is so disappointing. At least to me. I’m well aware that I am expounding a personal opinion, but in my own defense, this originally came about after nearly three decades of working in restaurants as either a waiter, a sommelier, a wine director or manager/partner, where everything I did came down to pleasing guests. In that arena, degree of wine knowledge is far less important than delivery of optimal sensory experiences. People are never stimulated by deep thoughts in restaurants. They are stimulated by what they actually consume—what is appreciated through the senses.
Put it this way: A chef can think and talk about putting together dishes all day and all night, but unless those dishes reflecting those thought processes are manifested as vivid and well balanced dishes that actually “wow” guests on a sensory level, all the culinary knowledge, training and skill in the world means nothing. Tasting, and tasting only, is believing.
Hence, while working with wine in restaurants, the only thing that ever mattered to me was how a wine tastes. The French have always been good about making that easy for us restaurant buyers. We’ve always known, for instance, that Lafite tastes a little different from Mouton or Margaux, or that there is a big difference between a Chablis and a Puligny-Montrachet, or a Saint-Joseph and a Côte-Rôtie, even though all those comparable wines have pretty much the same grapes in common. “Sense of place,” or terroir, is important in wines from France; at least among the best of them.
Up until very recently, though, terroir has meant very little in most domestic wines. You can tell me, for instance, that this Cabernet Sauvignon comes from Rutherford in Napa Valley and this other Cabernet Sauvignon comes from the Stags Leap District of Napa Valley, but unless there are clearly delineated sensory qualities that distinguish the two Cabernet Sauvignons justifying the identification of their appellations, the fact that one is “Rutherford” and the other is “Stags Leap District” is neither here nor there. You might as well not have sub-appellations⏤i.e., “nested” American Viticultural Areas (i.e., AVAs)⏤if wines don’t readily deliver perceptible terroir related sensory distinctions in the glass.
And that, as it is well known today, is the crux of the issue of so many, if not most, of our presumed “best wines” of today. They are more a product of branding, or (in the case of most of the major varietals such as Cabernet Sauvignon, Chardonnay or Pinot Noir) degrees of ripeness, intensity or, typically, tremendous amounts of oak. Sure, “house style” is important to brands in order to compete out in the market. I’m not arguing against that; wine is a business, after all. But if you want to talk about appellations and terroir, you should be able to point out distinctions in bottles that are more than just ideas. Otherwise, what’s the point?
The problem with the press
Which is why, after all these years, I’m still disappointed by most of what is put out by wine media. Go ahead and re-examine this for yourself: Look at all the articles that talk about the terroir of this place or that, and then try to find some words, sentences or paragraphs that connect the actual taste of the wines with that information. You almost never find it. Instead, what you almost always find are intellectual discussions. Problem is, consumers don’t drink “intellectual.” They drink wine.
Yeah, it’s good to know all about the physical or geological attributes of places, or their histories, maybe how cool a winemaker or vigneron might be. But unless you can point a reader directly towards the differences those special attributes make in sensory profiles, the wine you’re talking about might as well come from Timbuktu. Readers learn nothing if you forget to put two and two together for them.
What is the point, speaking in terms of valuation, of saying a Chardonnay is fantastic because it comes from a specific region or vineyard if it tastes exactly like a Chardonnay that could come from dozens of other regions around the world? Sadly, that’s how most New World Chardonnays end up, mostly because writers and their point systems put actual expression of terroir way down on the totem pole as qualitative factors.
Many writers, ironically, have pointed out the fact that most American wines, when compared to counterparts from older European cultures, express very little terroir related distinctions. That’s mostly because writers themselves have always placed tremendous pressure on domestic producers to put out wines exactly like that by awarding the highest points to wines that express anything but sense of place. How do you expect wineries to survive, let alone flourish, if you don’t reward them for producing wines that are unique to their region, or respectful of the vineyards they draw from?
I remember, by way of still another example, sitting in on a blind tasting of several dozen Chardonnays put on by the Santa Cruz Mountains Winegrowers Association for a small group of influential wine writers, who were asked to “rate” the wines for the intellectual benefit of local producers. Virtually every one of the writers at the table evaluated those wines on the basis of how they tasted as “Chardonnays” rather than how they represented the unique circumstances of Santa Cruz Mountains. Therefore, the wines they rated the highest were the richest, fullest, densest, oakiest or most “opulent” Chardonnays.
In other words, they were picking out the wines that taste most like Chardonnays from the Russian River Valley or Sonoma Coast⏤for the longest time, the standard bearers for California Chardonnays in general⏤as if being grown in the Santa Cruz Mountains meant nothing. I seriously doubt the local producers learned anything from this tasting, apart from “how to please wine writers.” Never mind advising Santa Cruz Mountains producers to make Chardonnays that taste like they come from somewhere else. From a business standpoint, how does making a Chardonnay that doesn’t taste like it comes from Santa Cruz Mountains benefit a grower or producer in Santa Cruz Mountains? It doesn’t, of course, yet that’s the mentality of most of our opinion makers.
Terroir, the book
This is why most of what passes for wine journalism still drives me crazy. Even truly great and proficient authors are apt to disappoint me that way. Case in point: One of the most maddening experiences I ever had was James E. Wilson’s treatise on French wine entitled Terroir. What a great title for a book; in fact, you will find few books that dive nearly as deeply into the geological distinctions of France’s best known wine regions. In that respect, Terroir is a classic, belonging on every wine professional’s shelf.
The book itself, alas, has one gigantic flaw: In none of the passages, not even one sentence or paragraph, will you ever find a connection between what you read about a specific region and the sensory qualities you actually find in the wines that come from that region. Therefore, when you read Terroir, you become a helluva lot smarter about the wine regions of France, but you learn next to nothing about the wines. Which I always thought was a shame, because there is no better opportunity to talk about wines in-depth than in a book that goes into terroir from a geological perspective in greater depth than ever done before, which Wilson achieved
It goes without saying that, at least in respect to Terroir the book, connecting sensory qualities found in wines with geological distinctions was never the point. The book still sits in a prominent place on my shelf, but is opened only when I want to freshen my memory on the exact soil layering of vineyards in Champagne, Alsace, Burgundy, Bordeaux, et al.⏤which is almost never. What drove me crazy as a restaurateur reading that book, though, is I have to know the differences in sensory profiles in order to select and serve wines, because that is all a paying customer cares about!
Is connecting sensory qualities with intellectual conceptions of terroir difficult? I don’t think so. If you want a perfect example, just look at the book virtually all wine professionals know so well: Hugh Johnson’s original The World Atlas of Wine, which I practically memorized as a sommelier-in-training back in the late ‘70s. Heck, when working the floor and pouring bottles as a sommelier, I often quoted Johnson like someone who whistles while he works. Ironically, Johnson wrote the foreword to Wilson’s Terroir. I only wish Wilson made at least the smallest attempt at duplicating the seemingly effortless, succinct yet elegant and accurate ways Johnson wrote about the sensory qualities of wines in all the regions mapped out in his World Atlas.
Johnson not only furnished proof to me, during my earliest years as a wine professional, that it is perfectly possible to walk away knowing how a wine tastes when reading about terroir related distinctions, he inspired me to do exactly that. From the beginning, as a sommelier and restaurateur, I wrote all my wine lists with one-line descriptions of each and every selection, the way Johnson could summarize a great Mosel or Rhône with a few artful words. I’m not saying I was 100% successful at it⏤there is, after all, only one Hugh Johnson in this world⏤but it was never for lack of trying because, simply, I thought it was necessary. What’s the point, as I was saying, of knowing that this Cabernet Sauvignon comes from Rutherford and this Cabernet Sauvignon comes from Stags Leap District if you can’t give at least a little hint about the differences a guest might actually find in a glass, after we’ve opened and poured a bottle?
To me, wine list descriptions were important the same way stickers on cars or refrigerators are important when you do your consumer shopping. If you do not have at least some basic information on the differences between cars and refrigerators, how can you make an intelligent choice, one that’s right for you?
All is not lost—a day in Freestone
Enough grousing. How about something positive?
This past week I spent a day at Joseph Phelps Vineyards’ Freestone Vineyards, occupying a very specific pocket of West Sonoma Coast. The visit was long overdue, as it had been some 15 years since I last stepped foot there. The purpose was to become reacquainted with the estate’s two vineyard-designate Pinot Noirs, Quarter Moon Vineyard and Pastorale Vineyard, which are about to be introduced to markets across the country for the first time (up until now, Freestone bottlings of Quarter Moon and Pastorale Pinot Noir have been offered only to private club members).
The last time I was at Freestone, in fact, I had hosted just over 40 sommeliers from around the country, as part of a three-day “death march” study of West Sonoma Coast. In those days I was pretty brutal about these trips, which we called “Terroir Experiences.” I figured that if you were coming all the way from, say, New York, Chicago or Atlanta, you might as well learn all you can during the short time you are here. At Freestone, the first thing I had them doing is trudge to the top of the hills of the Pastorale and Quarter Moon blocks⏤the inclines range from 100 to 690 feet in elevation⏤so they can get a firsthand (or rather, “feet-first”) feel of the place, with an emphasis on feel.
This past week, though, Freestone Senior Director of Winemaking Justin Ennis had us taste the wines first, in the winery’s nice, cool cellars. Afterwards, we walked up the top of the vineyards; mostly via van rather than feet. The question is: Is it better to explore a vineyard first and then taste wines from the vineyard, or better to taste the wines first and then walk the vineyard? What is the best way to put two and two together?
As it turned out, I loved the way Mr. Ennis did it because, no matter what, Freestone Pinot Noirs are vivid in terroir related distinctions in almost extreme ways. Let me try to break down the 2023s of the estate’s two blocks:
The 2023 Pastorale Vineyard Pinot Noir⏤sitting on a lower slope on the east side of the property, further from the ocean (the entire estate is barely 8 miles from the Pacific)⏤is flowery, fragrant, ever so slightly herbal and red fruit scented; almost ethereal in a delicate, acid driven silken structure. While Pastorale’s growing season is slightly warmer than Quarter Moon’s, bud break and picking always comes a little later; hence, the acid driven, floral, lower key profile in comparison to Quarter Moon.
The 2023 Quarter Moon Vineyard Pinot Noir⏤occupying a higher elevation, slightly cooler climate site on the west side of the estate (closer to the ocean and, crucially, prevailing winds)⏤was distinctly deeper, lower toned (less floral), darker fruit (less red berry, more cherry cola-like) than its counterpart from Pastorale. Increased exposure to the elements, however, results in typically thicker skins, resulting in a denser phenolic feel (i.e., tannin and pigmentation) in the Quarter Moon, almost radically distinct from Pastorale’s delicate, gentle profile.
Those were the fruit-related aromatic and tactile distinctions, very representative of the shallow Goldridge series sandy loam soil found in much of West Sonoma Coast. Even more dramatic to the senses, however, were the terroir related scents of surrounded flora⏤predominantly redwood, native oaks, bay laurel, coyote brush and coastal manzanita⏤intertwined in both bottlings; more subtle, like underbrush or soft breath-on-a-shoulder, in the Pastorale, and more aggressive, vivid to the point of downright woodsiness, in the Quarter Moon.
After that, Ennis presented the drama experienced in the glasses tasted in the cellar by taking us out to the actual vineyards. Standing atop Quarter Moon, basking in a mid-morning March sun and surrounded by trees and chaparral on all sides, the woodsy, forest floor scents were almost intoxicating. It felt like we were drinking Quarter Moon Pinot Noir all over again, by just breathing in the air.
Then afterwards, standing on the lower slopes of Pastorale where the rows are a little more protected from the wind, you could sense the vines’ slower growth among the surrounding trees and profusion of wild birds, and the reason for the Pastorale Pinot’s more subtle woodsy aromas and gentle feel, marked by lower phenolic content.
Whereas 15 years ago I had sommeliers experiencing the vineyards before tasting the wines in the cellar, this week Ennis had us experience the wines first and then finding those sensory profiles in the vineyards. Honestly, I don’t know which way hits you harder. In both cases, though, you strongly experience the effects of terroir; not just as an intellectual concept but also in the nose and palate—sensed while tasting the wines from the glass, and while standing in the vineyards.
Freestone Vineyards, of course, is unique unto itself, unique within the scope of coastal California grown Pinot Noir, and unique among all wines made from the same grape grown all around the world.
Pastorale and Quarter Moon Pinot Noirs, occupying the same 180-odd-acre space, are different enough from each other. You cannot find anything resembling these two wines in, say, nearby Green Valley of Russian River Valley or Fort Ross-Seaview, let alone Santa Lucia Highlands, Sta. Rita Hills, Santa Maria Valley, Anderson Valley, any part of the Willamette, the Côte de Beaune or Côte de Nuits. When comparing the graphic differences among wines crafted with significant enough fidelity to their origins, they might as well be made from different grapes!
The point being, terroir as an intellectual construct is important enough to talk about⏤especially when going far beyond soil, climate, topography, human input, or arbitrary conceptions such as “varietal” character or “opulence”⏤but only means something when connected directly to what can actually be tasted from a glass. And vice versa—we better appreciate the taste of wines when we know their circumstances.
Nowadays it is said that the wine industry has a problem communicating the appreciation of wine to consumers. Evidently, they’re either bored or uninterested. Despite the fact that there is an endless fountain of amazing, compelling wines—more than in any time in the entire history of wine—from around the world that can be communicated. I suspect the big issue is that most of us are doing it wrong. Oh, we write tasting notes, and we talk about places and vintners. But you rarely read how these factors are actually related. Simply put, we’re missing the boat, and only hurting ourselves in the process.
Randy, I agree, but I’ve often noticed efforts to differentiate in Napa. You can taste the “Rutherford dust” in some producers, though not all. The overripe richness of many Oakville Cabs is easy to pick up, though again, not all. Cool-climate Carneros Syrah stands out clearly from other valley floor Syrahs. Howell Mountain and Diamond Mountain high-elevation Cabs taste completely different from valley floor AVAs. I could list more examples, but I think the issue isn’t with most producers—it’s with the wine books, magazines, and their judges and writers. The wine media seems stuck in the past, focused on technicality for its own sake, and clinging to a culture that’s losing relevance with modern wine drinkers.