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A tale of five Tokajs

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Tasted 1st and 4th September 2024

A recent trip to Hungary inevitably featured Tokaj, with a number of great wines from many producers.  However, the most historically interesting selection was a series from Grand Tokaj.  Grand Tokaj is the largest wine producer in the region, and is essentially the inheritor of the old Communist ‘Cooperative’ system (it remained owned by the state until recently); however, this history also means that it has a great library of old wines.  

Grand Tokaji 5 puttonyos Tokaji Aszu 2019

Like the 1988 aszu wine below, this is unusually blended from all six approved varieties available in the region – not just the three main ones of furmint, harslevelu and muscat.  Pale gold appearance.  Rather fresh and light for an aszu wine.  Elegant, well balanced; quite intense apricot jam, some citrus and honey though the most complex example of the style on the mid-palate – yet with an evident very attractive floral tone on the finish.  Fine balance.  A wine made by a winery in good form.

Grand Tokaji Museum Collection 5 puttonyos Tokaji Aszu 1988

Amber colour.  A quite lifted, honeyed, dusty nose, with hints of apricot jam and toasty caramel.  Sweet but not luscious (only 133 g/l residual sugar, which is not at all high by contemporary standards).  Neatly textured, and quite savoury on the palate (even some hints of marmite and nuts), and again toast and honey.  Long, a lovely wine which is trying hard but never quite reaches the stars.  This wine was made during the communist era, in the dying days of the old regime (the Iron Curtain came up the following year).  It would have appealed to the masses at the time – but was probably reserved for apparatchiks only.  The wine certainly gives the lie to the idea that all the ancien régime wines were of poor quality – but we could also see it as a harbinger of the better times which were to come soon after.

Grand Tokaji Museum Collection 5 puttonyos Tokaji Aszu 1964

Attractive hazelnut brown colour.  Fairly intense nose; caramel and caramelised sugar, coffee, savoury – like the 1988 some marmite hints – along with classic bitter marmalade and honey.  Well balanced, quite a clear, cleansing bitterness on the finish.  Despite the age it’s still a lovely wine in its own right.  A flash of colour from the height of the drab days of Communist oppression.

Grand Tokaji Museum Collection 5 puttonyos Tokaji Aszu 1956

Less overt on the nose but with a bit of volatile acidity.  Quite meaty, with a little dried soft yellow fruit like Mirabelle.  Very obvious acidity, nice texture but the fruit is dying rather.  Now a sad wine from a sad time.  This was made at the peak of the Hungarian uprising against Soviet domination, and as the Russians and allies were moving in to crush the population.  A wine which wants to forget where it came from.

Grand Tokaji Museum Collection 6 puttonyos Tokaji Aszu 1940

An awful year for Europe but Hungary was sill not officially at war.  Nevertheless, the dictator, Admiral Horthy, was increasingly fawning on Hitler, with a series of anti-Jewish laws (the Jews had been very significant the Tokaji region and in the local wine business).  This wine, maybe, is the last hurrah of an old regime and a place which had previously been comparatively open and tolerant.  Amber-nut brown, not apparently oxidised; savoury like the previous wines but with some lemon-meringue and pasty tones, as well as a little smoky and cedary.  Complex on both nose and palate.  Tastes dryish, very bright with racy but not excessive acidity.  They could really make wines then, before the catastrophe.

The star of Tokaj dimmed during the Communist era – but as this tasting made clear – it was never completely extinguished, allowing it to spring back into life after the Iron Curtain was drawn back.  Grand Tokaj itself has been modernised, and makes some very good wines today.

Midin Sekizli-Tamnath-Haştan

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Tasted 12th March 2024

Those of you who are familiar with your Bible will remember that, in the book of Genesis, it is recorded that Noah was the first man to make wine, following his survival in the flood, and the ark which he had built settling down at Mount Ararat.  (Sorry to everyone out there who believes it was the Georgians who got there first.)  

In a corner of southeast Türkiye, a little to the southwest of Ararat, the river Tigris runs.  In the area there are three Christian villages, whose populations speak Aramaic (the language of Jesus in the New Testament of the Christian bible).  One of these villages, Midin, is making its own wine – as it has done for millennia.  In the region there is another mountain, Cudi, and the legend is that after the Ark settled near Ararat, it came down the river Tigris and Noah moored it in the valley below the peak, a bend in the river right on the modern border with Syria.  This is where Noah first made his wine, after he had released all the animals from the boat.  The name of the wine – Tamnath in Aramaic, Haştan in Kurdish and Sekizli in Turkish – means ‘eight’ – and comes from the eight people in the Ark: Noah, his wife, his three sons Shem, Ham and Japheth, and each of their wives.  This place therefore can claim a continuous use of wine ever since it was first found by its discoverer, and the wine is dedicated to him and the other seven members of his family.  

Its produced predominantly from Boğazkere, a fairly widespread grape in this part of Turkiye, whose name means ‘throat scratcher’ or ‘throat burner’ (which says something of its tannic nature).  As one would expect with a name like that, this is a deep-coloured and fairly full-bodied wine with distinctive tannins.  There is some attractive black fruit however, much of it of a dried character – plum shading to prune.  A warm finish.  Not a wine for the faint-hearted, it must have been reviving (perhaps shaking Noah and his family out of lethargy) after the traumas of a flood and time in a huge ark keeping all the animals from fighting each other.  

The recent rejuvenation of wine production in Midin, including the development of commercially successful wines, has been pioneered by Markus Ürek.  His progress into the world of wine is not a typical one.  He has a PhD, has been an academic at Harvard, worked at the US Congress and, by his story, was persuaded to go back to Midin to plant grapes by his wife, who came from the village (‘she got me into this trouble’).  It hasn’t been easy, but he has won the support of the local people by has commitment to the place, so that now there are 23 people employed in different ways contributing to the wines he makes.

Molana Dry Red 2021 

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Tasted 31st March 2024

There’s a great story behind this.  I’m not entirely independent here, as the wine belongs, in part, to one of my MBA students – but this still cries out to be told.

A side-tag on the front label gives the hint: ‘Iranian winemaking in exile’.  The wine is produced by an Armenian company called Keush, owned by my student (Aimée Kueshguerian) and her family.  They have been developing their wine production in Armenia for some years now, producing a range of wines (their Areni is well worth seeking out), but Aimée’s father had another vision.  Armenia borders onto Iran, and – despite its Muslim heritage – Iran has a long history of wine production and wine drinking (think Omar Khayyam, but also of the Sufi poet Rumi, who also eulogized wine – at least metaphorically – as an aid to enlightenment and the understanding of God).  Nevertheless, since the Islamic revolution of 1979 the public use of alcohol has been impossible in the country – although it is probable that in a number of out-of-the-way communities, particularly amongst the Kurds of the north west, wine has been made for private use. Aimée’s father, Vahe, an Armenian born in Syria, raised in Lebanon, educated in Italy and then working in the United States has a broad vision for wine and what it can do.  He and his family have been contributing to the renaissance of the Armenian wine industry (lost for a time in the Soviet pursuit of cheap brandy), but he looks beyond his immediate heritage to the wider region in which he lives – and became focused on the now-prohibited tradition of wine in Iran.  It’s impossible, of course, to make it there – but why not make it over the border in Armenia but using Iranian grapes?  This wine is the product of that quest.  The journey to get the grapes was far more dangerous than most winemakers would ever contemplate undertaking; a flight to Teheran, negotiations with grape suppliers, then overland up to the western borders of the country to source the grapes, plus hiring a truck to take them more than 300 kilometres up to the Armenian border – finally crossing under inspection of customs officials.  All the while the danger that a tip-off to the authorities could land him in gaol.  The journey has been recorded in a film, ‘Somm: Cup of Salvation’ – it’s well worth seeing if you get the opportunity, and more of this in a future post.

So, what of the wine?  Medium deep ruby colour.  Quite a savoury nose with stewed black fruit and a rather meaty character.  Aimée tells me no oak has been used in its ageing – but I would have said it had spent a little while in older oak if I hadn’t been told this.  Yet it is also quite aromatic with hints of violets and blackberries.  Full bodied and quite warm (perfect for the wet Easter Sunday when we drank it with roast lamb!)  Very dense black fruit, a touch spicy, quite firm but not excessive tannin with a drying finish.  Not super complex but a very satisfying wine.

The name of the wine is given to honour Rumi; he had the honorific title of ‘Molana’ as a respected religious scholar and leader.  Here is one extract of what he wrote of wine:

I drank that wine of which the soul is its vessel.

Its ecstasy has stolen my intellect away.

A light came and kindled a flame in the depth of my soul,

A light so radiant that the sun orbits around it like a butterfly.

Finally, whilst I firmly believe that the quality of a wine has little to do with its label, this is the most beautiful and evocative label I have seen for a long time; intricately patterned, gorgeous colours, and perfectly representative of the style of this part of the world.  Not a bottle to turf into the recycling bin when the wine is finished.

Paltrinieri Lambrusco di Sorbara DOCG ‘Leclisse’ 2022

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I suspect that most people who read this blog probably haven’t let a drop of Lambrusco pass their lips for years – even decades.  Sickly, rather thin with big bubbles it’s more in the category of alcoholic, fruity cola than anything to do with wine.  I have, in the last decade, tasted some well made and well balanced Lambruscos, but it is hard to get most people to take the wines seriously.  Passing through Modena – the city at the centre of the region – on my way to Ravenna for the start of an Italian holiday I decided to use the opportunity to visit one of the more renowned producers of Lambrusco to find out more about the region and see what the preconditions for quality are.  My wife very generously agreed to this detour – and I even think she quite enjoyed the visit!

This is a medium sized, independent domaine.  It is run by the current generation of the Paltrinieri family, the dynamic Alberto, but he is third generation.  His grandfather, who was a pharmacist, began it as a sideline in the 1920s.  Historically all the wines were made by the ancestral method (having a current resurgence as PetNat).  Like almost all current Lambrusco much of the Paltrinieri production is now tank (charmat) method.  What was most immediately surprising was that with two exceptions (a white and a red) the domaines wines are all pink – of one shade or another. 

The family focus on producing wines mainly with the local sorbara grape, which they consider, because of its good acidity and fragrance, the best local cultivar.  Sorbara is a sterile grape – which means other grapes need to be planted near it to fertilise it a flowering – in this case salamino.  However, my ‘interesting wine’ is made with 100% Sorbara grapes.

All of the wines are good and it’s hard to pick one – but the one I’ve selected, the Leclisse – for its perfect balance, gently aromatic nose with some beautiful red fruit on the attach and excellent length.  The fizz is soft – although it’s charmat method it is given quite a long, cool second fermentation which keeps the bubbles small.  It’s dry, with – at 11% – an unintrusive alcohol.  This for me is almost the archetype of a delicious wine.  Profound, not really, complex – not very, but pure and focused and so easy to drink with gorgeous flavours.  And very neatly priced.

I want to note that the other wines from the domaine can be excellent; for me the Leclisse just shaded them, but the Radice (‘root’) which was my wife’s favourite was also very smart; it’s the ancestral version (therefore rooted in the old ways of making sparkling wine) and is not disgorged, so still with yeast lees.  There is also the excellent Grosso – a DOC wine made by the traditional method.  Nevertheless, for the first time in my life I’ve got to admit that I think a tank method wine is better than its traditional method equivalent.  That – plus the commitment of the family to maintain their heritage, and to prove that even in the most despised regions good wine can be made – makes it an interesting wine for me.

What gets planted where and why II: Franschhoek

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Most keen wine drinkers know that chenin blanc is the most widely planted grape in South Africa.  Those who follow the history will also know why – because as a non-aromatic variety with overt acidity it’s ideal for making brandy, and white fortified wine, long a staple of the South African industry.  What is less well-known is that a couple of centuries ago, before British imperial demands for those styles of wine came to dominate, semillon was the most significant grape in the Cape. 

Both, of course, came early to the region, brought either by the Dutch East India Company traders from the west coast of France, or by the Huguenot protestants who settled here when chased from their country by that most Catholic (and tyrannical) King, Louis XIV.  So, for over one hundred years semillon dominated.  Now the residual plantings of the grape are mainly used in blends.

Except in Franschhoek: the name means the ‘French Corner’.  It’s the bowl in a series of mountain ranges where 300 of those religious dissidents were first settled by the Dutch authorities in 1688.  They brought with them a good knowledge of how to make wine, which helped to kick start the Cape wine industry.  They created their refuge from persecution and began to make the wine which had comforted them back home.

And there I was too, at a tasting provided by the local wine producers, enjoying a bit of Southern Hemisphere warmth in mid-November, and not a chenin blanc in sight – but a whole range of semillons.  For some reason – the residual French memory perhaps – the grape is still there, making a distinctive range of wines, showing the texture of the grape to its best.  What’s more, they tend to come from older vines, giving lower yields, and therefore much more concentration.  A couple of the wines I tried were from the same vineyard with vines planted in 1905; others were from 1936, or 1942.  The young ones from the early 1990s or the beginning of this millennium.  This had a noticeable impact on their quality.  Most of the grapes used to be sold in anonymous blends or with no varietal name but in the last few years the local producers have decided collectively to push the wines (last time I was here, nearly 20 years ago, nothing was made of the grape).  It’s effectively their identity.  You could also argue that in marketing terms it’s a point of distinction, helping them to sell the wines – but as one producer said to me, ‘no one knows semillon; it’s a bastard to sell’.  Local attachment to the grape preceded any clear business plan.

Why this variety in this place?  No-one did a detailed soil analysis or hydrological study, nor a temperature assessment, to see if it was the ideal grape for the region.  It just happened to come with the original settlers, it reminded them of home, they planted it and the wine which they made was ok, and 235 years in its still there, because it seems to work, and it is now part of the heritage.

Finally, just before finishing this this otherwise sympathetic story, it’s worth remembering that the land given to the French had been occupied by the indigenous Khoisan people for a long time and was taken by the Europeans without anyone asking them if they agreed to it or wanted to have grapes planted there.

Piekenierskloof Heidedal Cinsault 2022

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After the presentation on the South African Old Vine Project we had a walk around tasting of 50 wines with the Old Vine designation.  Although we’d noted that the designation adds particular value to chenin blanc – and I especially like good South African chenin – I decided to focus on the grape which I think should be South Africa’s icon red cultivar – cinsault. I came to love some of these wines on my last visit and continue to believe that it is one of the world’s greatest undervalued grapes – at least when the vines have aged and it is not cropped too high.  Cinsault features as a major contributor to Old Vine reds as its tolerance of arid conditions meant that it was very widely planted historically and some other grape, most noticeably cabernet sauvignon, which was widely adopted in South Africa from the 1980s onwards – suffered badly from viral disease – so did not provide vineyards which lasted  long enough to make the 35 years required for old vine status.

Perhaps because the grape is seen as a lesser one compared with more trendy red cultivars no-one lavished excessive oak on it which was to the advantage of the wines.  One of the attractions of the grape is that on top of a very aromatic fruitiness the best wines have a dimension which is herbal – reminiscent in South Africa of the Cape Floral fynbos bushland.  In some wines this moves over to what the French might call a sauvage aspect, and this takes it beyond just being a pleasant mid-weight fruity wine.

There were four cinsaults, and three at least were delicious.  The one I’ve finally chosen to write about I selected because I love the name, but a call out also to Bellevue for their 1952 Cinsaut (obviously planted 72 years ago!) and Donkiesbaai for their version.

The Piekenierskloof wine comes from vines which were planted in 1972 at 700 metres altitude.  It was fermented at quite a cool temperature to preserve its fruit aspect and aged in 500 litre old foudres – so benefiting from a bit of oxidation for integration but not picking up any new oak flavour.  Very aromatic, sweet red fruit on the nose.  Slightly dusty tannins but not intrusive, and very, very long with some fynbos complexity.  Extremely good.

The South African ‘Old Vines Project’

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I’ve written before about the South African Old Vine Project.   That was based on a presentation in Germany.  This time I had the chance to explore it in place – and the whole idea is a fascinating cultural phenomenon.

Old Vines have become a topic of interest to the wine world in the last few years.  Jancis Robinson and her team especially have been discussing them and promoting their value in a number of geographies (https://www.jancisrobinson.com/articles/old-vine-registry-launched).  South Africa, perhaps more than any other country, has been in the forefront of this campaign.  Partly, it is because the country has a great heritage and it benefits from having a way to promote that heritage.  Partly it is because there is an organisation now known as SAWIS – SA Wine Industry Information and Systems – whose antecedents have, since 1900, been keeping very precise records of vineyard plantings, when grapes were planted and what cultivars were used.  If you search their statistical database you will discover that there is 0.81 of a hectare of harslevelu planted in the Swartland that is more than 20 years old, although that area pales next to the 33.16 ha. of bukettraube planted in the same age category.  (No, I haven’t heard of it before either but clearly it has much greater potential than harslevelu.)  SAWIS doesn’t run the Old Vine Project but its rigorously maintained database allows the certification of old vines – which in this case means those with more than 35 years age.

When I was there before Christmas we had three linked presentations on the Project, each from a different perspective.  The eminent South African viticulturist Rosa Kruger talked about the origins of the project.  In 2013 there were a mere 8 pioneer members developing the project; a decade on the number had grown to 140 – and with links now to similar groups in Spain, Italy, Argentina, California amongst others.  The Project keeps a registry of Old Vines, it teaches people how to prune them correctly (their age gives them special needs), and it tries to preserve the knowledge and memories of older farmers of traditional work methods and of the land.  Rosa also posed an interesting question: why have the vines which have survived remained alive?  What is specific to them or their environment or management which has allowed this to happen?

The second presenter was Jonathan Steyn, a business professor at the University of Cape Town and a friend, who wanted to talk about the value of old vines to producers. He asked what the value of the Old Vine category is in South Africa.  He noted that the label did increase the recognition of, and price paid for, chenin blanc.  This is significant given that this is a wine grape which is substantially undervalued for the quality it can deliver (and not just in South Africa) and that the label acts very much in a similar way to the designation ‘luxury’ in persuading South African drinkers to buy the wine.

The final speaker was the doyen of South African wine writers, Michael Fridjon.  He noted that, unlike Europe, there had been no traditional recognition that you get more concentrated flavours from older wines.  Cooperatives, who brought the majority of the fruit, used it to produce brandy for which wine age was irrelevant.  It needed the collapse of the cooperative system in the 1990s and a few far-sighted wine producers to rethink the approach to these vines – a form of resurrection for the industry, particularly in regions which had traditionally been viewed as producing lower quality fruit.  A heritage was (re)discovered – but it took the end of the old Afrikaner protectionist system to allow it to be found.  Many farmers had kept old vineyards for sentimental rather than economic reasons, because ‘grandpa planted it in the 1929s’.  This suggests a system that is a fault but individuals whose sense of identity has overridden that and leaves their individual heritage – the sudden emergence of ‘good’ wine.

What we see is a great idea rooted in history and creating a quality guarantee around its production, offering economic advantage, and in a sustaining story for the South African wine industry which talks of individuals leaving their mark despite the institutions.  Combined this makes an underlining mythology for the whole category. Don’t take that comment as being critical of what’s happening; there is no doubt as well, that ‘Old Vines’ can make for interesting and very enjoyable wines: see the latest ‘interesting wine’ I have posted.

And two afterthoughts.  SAWIS has seven vineyards older than 1900 in  its records, age unknown but all recorded as 1900.  These form the ur-myth for the whole idea, the vineyards lost in time which form the paradigm for what follows.  One of  these vineyards is ‘T Voetpad – source of a wine which I’ve already raved about before.  Meanwhile, the foundation of SAWIS itself has its origins in difficult – even dangerous – times.  In 1900 the British Cape Colony was in the middle of a bitter war with the independent Boer Republics to the north.  The year saw the British capture the key Boer cities, use a scorched earth policy and create a series of appalling concentration camps – provoking a Boer guerrilla campaign in response.  Over the following two years the brilliant Boer leader, Jan Christian Smuts, led a guerrilla campaign through the Cape Colony including some of wine regions.  It’s astonishing that anyone had time to worry about producing a vineyard registry but also maybe a sign that even in the darkest times the wine industry can manage to plan for the future.

What gets planted where and why I: Calitzdorp

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Why do particular varieties get planted in specific places?  The assumption most wine drinkers will have is that growers in the well-known regions of France, Italy or Spain spent centuries experimenting with different grapes until they worked out which made the best wines.  The truth is probably more prosaic; there were limited local varieties available, often arriving from somewhere else, and some from that local pot were given pre-eminence – usually based on their ability to give high yields within the specific ecosystem.

But when you get to other parts of the world the ‘why is it here’ question is open to much more random answers – as a recent tasting of wines from Calitzdorp in South Africa revealed.

In case your initial response is ‘where Calitzdorp?’ then no, I hadn’t heard of it before now either.  Calitzdorp is a small town in the Klein Karoo; a hot, dry area inland in the Western Cape of South Africa, traditionally know for grapes which went to making fortified wines and brandy.  I was recently tasting the wines from the region – a first for me, as it is hardly known outside the country, and came across its interesting story. 

Calitzdorp now has its own regional designation in South Africa – and this is partly due to its focus on Portuguese grapes.  My introduction to it was an alvarinho – the Portuguese white grape mainly responsible for vinho verde – and a very good wine it was.  I got talking with the producer showing it (it was not his own wine).  Naturally I wanted to know how a fairly localised Portuguese grape had ended up in the South African outback and the producer presenting the wine – Boets Nel – gave me the history.  Essentially, red Portuguese grapes were planted by mistake.  His father had wanted shiraz, went over to the Swartland near the Atlantic coast in the 1970s, and came back in error (a genuine mistake – or was he tricked?) with tinta barroca, which originates in the Douro Valley.  Rather than cursing their luck they decided to capitalise on this, and brought in other varieties – tinta roriz and touriga naçional – later the white alvarinho, which was made into this wine which I tasted by Boet’s cousin.  Boet then showed me his red wine, made from these grapes – and very good it was too.

No plan, a chance mistake – though grapes which work perfectly in that environment.  There are now seven producers in the area which use these varieties, with a rule that to label the wines as Calitzdorp at least 70% must come from these (originally) Portuguese grapes.  Based on the two wines I saw it works.

A new year, a new start

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Welcome back to my Wine, Culture and Society blog.  It’s been on hold for a while due to pressure of work and other personal commitments, but the symbolism of a New Year (even if it is ‘just another day’) makes this seem like a good time to restart; that – plus the build-up of a lot of interesting visits and thus stories and ideas over the last few months.

I have lots of exciting posts to pen, wines to talk about, and travelling to do; make sure you come along for the ride.  What can you expect over the coming weeks?  Some interesting developments on the story of old vines in South Africa, more on the current state of Tokaji, a bit of Vienna transplanted to the Adelaide Hills and the development of some of the previous ideas about wine as a symbol of dissent.  Wine and its role in forming identity generally is going to be one of my themes over the year or so. 

Klinker Brick Old Ghost Zinfandel 2018

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Anyone who knows me will be astonished that I include this wine in my record of ‘interesting wines’.  A rich, sweet-fruited touching 16% abv monster from a warm part of California?  Steve, you’re going gaga in your old age.  However, remember this is about interesting wines – not wines I necessarily like.  Having said that – this does have a certain appeal to me.

What’s interesting about this is that it’s a wine made by a producer in a less trendy region, trying to make wines which fit there, which characterise their place of origin, and which – within those limits – are honest and well-made.  And the story is good.  Why the ‘Old Ghost’?  Because the owner, Steve Felten, went out into the vineyard one foggy morning with his head trained vines barely visible; they peered as apparitions through the mist and it seemed as if a ghostly farmer had been working them.  The label is a pretty good representation of this.  The wine region is Lodi, in the Central Valley of California, the hot, irrigated centre of cheap wine production in the state (although having said that I remember Robert Mondavi saying that Lodi sits directly in line to a break in the hills leading out to San Francisco bay – so it benefits from some the cooling Pacific breezes swirling through the gap).  The point is that here is a producer who acknowledges that what they do best is hot climate, bold, dynamic wines, and within that context wants to make a balanced, representative wine.  They are committed to old vines, and it seems that these zinfandel grapes come from stock which is over 100 years old.  They are, to their credit, also trying to create some momentum for this approach and for regional identity in their part of California – a cooperative commitment which I admire.  They have the standing to do this: the family are fifth generation, having grown grapes since the end of the 19th century. 

So, what of the wine?  It fits expectations.  Quite deep – though not opaque – appearance, which is typical of zinfandel.  Very intense brambly red and black fruit aromas, a touch of dusty oak and a bit herbal.  Very sweet oak on the palate, only moderate tannins but extremely full bodied with a very warm finish but great length and a hint of bitterness.  Powerful and bold are overused wine adjectives – but they are correct for this.

Having said all this, let’s have a disclaimer.  The wine is represented by (amongst others) one of my former students, Jacylyn Stokes, who comes from Lodi and is passionate about developing the reputation of the region including her own family’s business.  You can use this to dismiss what I say as biased if you want.