I just started helping out at a local wine shop for the holiday season, and rediscovered the fact that the wine world is MUCH larger than the one I've been living in.  The last time I worked in a wine retail environment was nearly a decade ago.  Back then, I knew my wine preferences, but was open-minded enough to try just about anything.  It seems that somewhere along the way I developed a major bias against lots of regions and varieties - to the point that I had stopped paying attention to those categories altogether.  As a consumer, that's certainly appropriate... but as a wine professional, I have an obligation to know and understand all wine in context, and to recognize that there are other palates out there who not only like this stuff - but need help sorting through the oceans of wines they don't want to drink in order to find it.

So I've resolved to taste more wines that I wouldn't seek out to drink myself and to learn more about the producers who make them in an effort to be a better wine professional for those I serve.

I blame Frank Schoonmaker for making wine enjoyment so freakin' difficult. That's not completely fair, but he did have a lot to do with the American obsession with THE GRAPE. When I teach wine consumers, one of the first things I tell them is to forget about the grape. We have become fixated on grape varieties, and it was all Schoonmaker's doing.

A college dropout, Frank traveled to Europe and started writing guides on sites and restaurants. While in Paris, he made friends with Raymond Baudoin, editor of La Revue du Vin de France, and began his discovery of the world of fine wine. Together, the two of them influenced many changes in the wine world, most notably in Burgundy, where they helped develop the concept of estate bottling (prior to their involvement, most wine was sold in bulk to shippers and negociants). Schoonmaker developed some great relationships with a number of top grower/producers, and, following the repeal of prohibition in the U.S., began to import wines. It was easier said than done, though, as he needed to start educating American consumers about wine if he was going to be able to sell much of it.

The 1930s were growth years for new wine importers in New York; Frederick Wildman had begun an association with Bellows & Company, and he would later start up his own company; Julian Street and George Sumner were assembling their European contacts, and Schoonmaker was beginning to realize one of his own biggest shortcomings: he could select wine much better than he could sell it. Then along came a young Russian émigré named Alexis Lichine, an entrepreneur who had supported himself by running guided bus tours through Paris; he spoke several different languages and was already quite knowledgeable about wine. Schoonmaker interviewed Lichine for a job as national sales manager, and hired him shortly thereafter.

This was the start of a truly great alliance good one. Lichine was an ideal salesman, and opened up valuable new markets all over the country for the firm. Their company's expansion ultimately brought them to California, where in the late 1930s the industry was only just beginning to recover from prohibition. There was talk of war in Europe, and if that proved to be true, Schoonmaker’s business would ultimately have to draw from another source. Schoonmaker and Lichine visited several California properties, and convinced the owners to label their wines after the grape varieties that made the wines, rather than generics names like “chablis” or “burgundy,” which had been the practice for over a century. They suggested that only quality estates in California were planted in these noble varieties, and as they proliferated, so would the need to identify them without generic labeling. There was just the question of what to call these wines. Schoonmaker and Lichine decided to call them “varietals” – although it is not clear which of the two actually thought up the term. Wente (in Livermore Valley) was the first success. By changing the name of their best white from Graves to Sauvignon Blanc, Schoonmaker sold several times as much wine as before – and now they were being distributed in the east, an entirely new market.

But here's the rub... we have now become reliant on knowing the grape variety, which has become far more important to consumers than the wine style. Sure, I can say I love Riesling, but not all Riesling is the same. What I really love is crisp, mineral-laden wines that are, at once refreshing and a bit complex too. The fact that many are made from Riesling is beside the point - they could just as well be made from Sauvignon Blanc, Chenin Blanc, Albarino, or even Rolle. Taste with an open mind, and don't be so concerned about the grape.

And forgive me, Mr. Schoonmaker, you actually did contribute a lot to the enjoyment of wine... most of which I don't find frustrating at all.

I'm sure the wine industry holds no monopoly on bad websites. Lots of businesses suffer from poorly establishing themselves online, often because they lack any understanding of how tools like websites and social media platforms can be used most effectively. I understand why small mom and pop wineries tend to focus their efforts on wine production before marketing and sales, but I'm shocked at how many large, established wineries miss most opportunities to engage and inform current and future customers (not to mention their trade partners) by simplifying their website navigation and telling their stories more effectively. These, after all, are the two areas where winery websites seem to struggle the most.

Here are the basic questions I would ask wineries whose websites need help:

Who is the website intended for? Wineries should certainly know their audience, or at least know who they are trying to target. Are the demographics of their customers matched by the tone and content of the site? Twenty-something tweeters and sixty-somethings whose cell phones aren't of the "smart" variety require a very different approach.

What is your end goal with the website? Buy our wine directly from us? Come visit us? Learn more about who we are? Find our wines in the marketplace? Join our email list? All of these are perfectly appropriate goals, but if it isn't clear what the site is trying to communicate from the very moment someone arrives, chances are, they're not going to stick around long enough to figure it out themselves.

What's makes you so special? I cannot tell you how many wineries' website I've encountered which provide nothing but the most generic editorial about themselves. "We grow the finest grapes in the best soils with the perfect exposure." Honestly, this isn't gonna get me to try their wine. I want to know a story. Is the winery the result of someone's personal journey? Has it been a multi-century family tradition?  Is it a corporately owned winery focussed on producing wines of a particular character or style or for a specific audience?

There's certainly a lot more to read (and write) on this subject, but those where just a few brief thoughts I wanted to get off my chest. For a terrific ongoing discussion about winery websites, check out Michael Duffy's Winery Website Report.

I just read a post on a California winemaker's blog which included the following plea: “Next time you are in a restaurant and see no California wine…ask to talk to the wine buyer and give them a piece of your mind.  Understand that supporting your local winery helps preserve a heritage and make our local communities more diverse and therefore stronger.”

Before moving to Portland, OR, a stone's throw from a vibrant wine producing region, I lived near New York City, a 90 minute drive to two wine producing regions.  Yet, in all my years there, the "buy local" banner never got raised.  Here, in Portland, it is rare NOT to encounter local wine in shops and restaurants.  I've been to some Italian restaurants with tons of Oregon Pinot Noir and Pinot Gris, but only a token nod to Italian wine.  Honestly, the argument for buying local is fully understandable. In an economic climate like the one we are in today, we should support our local businesses. It helps our neighborhoods and, ultimately, ourselves, by keeping our spending money in our communities.  Of course, that's not to mention the issue of a smaller carbon footprint when you buy local.

On the other hand, a routine of buying strictly local can certainly limit one's choices. I have yet to come across a domestic nebbiolo, cabernet franc, chenin blanc, or riesling that approaches its European counterpart in quality, balance, etc. So what should you do the next time you are in a restaurant or wine shop?  Go for that cheap import or support the (often) more expensive local wine?  It's a tough decision, and not on for which I have the answer.

Several years ago, a highway was proposed in the Margaux region of Bordeaux, which would have resulted in having many historic vineyards ripped up in order to get cars from one place to another with more efficiency.  In the Northern Rhone appellation of Cornas, the mayor proposed a comercial development which would have overtaken a site called Les Mazards, owned and farmed by the great producer Auguste Clape.  Luckily, through petitions, both projects were abandoned, and the vineyards that were candidates for extinction have been saved.

Today, in Germany's Mosel River Valley, a similar battle between vineyards and capitol development is playing out.  A bridge, which has been in the works since the 1960s, is in the process of being designed and constructed between the towns of Rachtig and Urzig.  The Mosel, like many of Europe's great wine regions, has been producing world-class wines for around 2000 years.  Much of the region has seen little by way of major transportation development, and river crossings by bridge are less common than by ferry.  But the cold-war era plan to build a giant bridge (originally with military transport in mind) would be a major improvement in getting vehicles and equipment quickly to and through the region.  Of course, some vineyards would be caught in the middle.  In this case, the famed Urziger Würzgarten (over my shoulder in the picture above) would be right in the middle of the entire project.  Not only would vines need to be dug up to be replaced by the bridge's base support, but those vines which remain would have fewer hours in sunlight thanks to the giant shadows the bridge would cast.  The great vineyards in marginal growing climates like the Mosel are made great, in part, by their exposition to the sun - crucial for grapes to ripen and produce well rounded wines.

Of course, we have had 2000 years to enjoy these wines.  Maybe it's time for other regions to have their "day in the sun," so to speak.  Tradition and history have been the enemy of progress since the beginning of time.  Who is to say which is right and which is wrong?  Yes, I do absolutely LOVE the wines of the Mosel and would hate to see a bridge adversely affect the wines from Würzgarten, but I'd also love to be able to drive to the Mosel from the airport faster.  And I bet there are more than a few locals who can't wait for a Walmart to arrive soon after the bridge's completion.  Blasphemous, yes, but it's in the name of progress!

Several years ago, a highway was proposed in the Margaux region of Bordeaux, which would have resulted in having many historic vineyards ripped up in order to get cars from one place to another with more efficiency.  In the Northern Rhone appellation of Cornas, the mayor proposed a comercial development which would have overtaken a site called Les Mazards, owned and farmed by the great producer Auguste Clape.  Luckily, through petitions, both projects were abandoned, and the vineyards that were candidates for extinction have been saved.

Today, in Germany's Mosel River Valley, a similar battle between vineyards and capitol development is playing out.  A bridge, which has been in the works since the 1960s, is in the process of being designed and constructed between the towns of Rachtig and Urzig.  The Mosel, like many of Europe's great wine regions, has been producing world-class wines for around 2000 years.  Much of the region has seen little by way of major transportation development, and river crossings by bridge are less common than by ferry.  But the cold-war era plan to build a giant bridge (originally with military transport in mind) would be a major improvement in getting vehicles and equipment quickly to and through the region.  Of course, some vineyards would be caught in the middle.  In this case, the famed Urziger Würzgarten (over my shoulder in the picture above) would be right in the middle of the entire project.  Not only would vines need to be dug up to be replaced by the bridge's base support, but those vines which remain would have fewer hours in sunlight thanks to the giant shadows the bridge would cast.  The great vineyards in marginal growing climates like the Mosel are made great, in part, by their exposition to the sun - crucial for grapes to ripen and produce well rounded wines.

Of course, we have had 2000 years to enjoy these wines.  Maybe it's time for other regions to have their "day in the sun," so to speak.  Tradition and history have been the enemy of progress since the beginning of time.  Who is to say which is right and which is wrong?  Yes, I do absolutely LOVE the wines of the Mosel and would hate to see a bridge adversely affect the wines from Würzgarten, but I'd also love to be able to drive to the Mosel from the airport faster.  And I bet there are more than a few locals who can't wait for a Walmart to arrive soon after the bridge's completion.  Blasphemous, yes, but it's in the name of progress!

Everyone, these days, seems to be aware of the buzz around sustainable farming practices. From Whole Foods to Wallmart, grocers devote major amounts of shelf space to organic, ethically grown and raised foods. Product packaging has moved en masse toward "earth tones" in order to prove they are part of the solution. Consumers have bought into the idea that foods grown without chemicals are a good idea. And restaurants are going to great lengths to not only source their ingredients from farmers and other purveyors who focus on purity and natural processes. In fact, many restaurants take such pride in their sourcing, that they print the details of their food's provenance on their menus.

So if so many people are on board with the whole live green /eat green program, why has the same thing happened with wine? I talk to consumers and professionals regularly on this topic. Most are surprised to learn that wine isn't all made naturally (let alone always made without synthetic additives). Where I live, in Portland, OR, there is a lot of talk about and support of local wine. After all, the thinking goes, if it's local, it hasn't travelled a long distance, and is, therefore, sustainable. Right and wrong. We have many producers who work naturally in their vineyards and cellars (a larger percentage than in other North American wine regions), but there is plenty of wine made here from much more than blood, sweat, and grapes.


If only those restaurants who are so concerned about natural products on the plate would consider the same for their wine lists too.

Here is a great post from wine pro John Kafarski on the difference between natural wines and the various kinds of manipulated wines.

Food and Wine Magazine arrived in the mailbox recently, and I was flipping through the pages, checking out the latest celeb chef news, product promotions, and other such content, when I came across Lettie Teague's article entitled "Is Greatness Overated?" I like Teague's writing, often asking simple questions about wine and exploring the answer through calls to friends, both in and out of the wine business. She has explored such topics in the past as why steakhouses have such dull wine lists, what life as a wholesale wine salesperson is like, and when vintages matter (or don't). A series of columns she wrote about teaching her friend, movie critic Peter Travers, about wine was eventually turned into a lovely little book.

But her recent article on "good" wines vs. "great" wines bothered me. Based on the defining distinction offered to her by two very wine-knowledgeable professionals, wine "greatness" directly correlates to wine price. According to one of her sources, "A good wine costs $20 to $100 a bottle. And a great wine? Over $100." She later recounts the story of a "great wine" dinner party she is invited to in Chicago, where she brings a truly terrific Vouvray from a highly respected producer only to have her host suggest it might make for a good cooking wine for his risotto. Wine "greatness" for this crowd seems to center in Grand Cru Burgundy, First Growth Bordeaux, and Napa Cab priced in the three-figures. These may be great wines, but they have no monopoly on "greatness."


Even in the world of wine, where evaluating quality has been reduced to numbers on a 100-point scale (which are not arrived at scientifically, it should be noted), "greatness" can be found in the eye (or on the palate) of the beholder. There are truly amazing, and yes, "great" wines being made in many places throughout the world. Germany, Austria, Italy, Spain, North and South America, and yes, even New Zealand and Australia, just to name a few place, produce some wines of "greatness." And... many of these wines don't even begin to approach prices anywhere near $100, let along half as much. "Greatness," in wine, can be interpreted as one or several of many things: depth, strength, complexity, longevity, or maybe simply the ability to provide extraordinary pleasure.

For me, I'll stick to drinking wines I like (or love), even if others don't think of them a "great." Distinctive and tasty wines at $20 or less, to me, may be the greatest thing of all.

We recently uncovered two bottles from our cellar which had been sitting there for a while, waiting to be “enjoyed.” In the spirit of The Wall Street Journal’s Open That Bottle Night we decided these wines should wait no longer. They’ve been sitting around a) for the right occasion and b) because they are not the sort of wines we typically drink. Nonetheless, we had been to a winter farmers’ market, and picked up two tasty looking grass-fed porterhouse steaks (something we don’t eat often) – which required wines like these. What were the wines? A 1985 Stag’s Leap Napa Cabernet Sauvignon and a 1993 Ridge Lytton Estate Zinfandel.

We’re not big fans of Cali Cab, but well structured wines with breeding for aging have proven useful tools with grilled steaks. As luck would have it, this was not a well structured wine – and the bottle had also likely been poorly treated (I found it in my parents’ basement a few years ago). It had fallen apart, with an unbalanced tendency toward “old wine” fruit flavors with little else to back it up.

Fortunately, Ridge saved the evening. Zinfandel is not known as a grape with solid aging potential, but Ridge has always proven to be an exception to most Zinfandel rules. I bought this on eBay many years ago before they outlawed private sales of wine. The bottle was handed off to my wife by the seller on a street corner in Manhattan. With a touch of Petit Sirah the wine had solid structure, great zin juiciness to pair with the tender, bleu steak, and it morphed nicely over the evening producing a hint of elegance by the end. Seriously, just a hint.




Neither wine has convinced me to change my Euro-traditional-focused drinking pattern, but it was fun to open them up and discover what was inside. So the next time you discover some old bottle you’ve been putting off, create a reason to open it up and discover what is inside.

We’ve told our friends, and now my wife has publically announced it on her blog, so I guess it is time I did so as well. The winebaer (a.k.a. le loup) is westward bound. This May, after thirty-something years in New York, I’m heading to Portland, Oregon to explore a new lifestyle.

With the exception of my college years in “beautiful” Oberlin, Ohio, I have lived my entire life in and around New York City. My first career, in theatre and performing arts presenting, made NYC a natural place to want to be. New York has also been the ideal place to be since moving to the wine industry. It is, after all, the wine consumer capital of the world.


Nonetheless, as we’ve explored Portland over the last couple of years, we recognized that it offers a healthy amount of the elements we find most important in life – there is a wonderfully vibrant cultural scene, it’s a foodie haven, the town is pretty-darn wine-savvy, there are many – for the knitter in my life- top-notch yarn shops, and nature abounds all around.

We will naturally miss many things about New York, but to have never lived elsewhere for at least a few years, would be a big shame. We are very excited about our move… now we just need to find that perfect buyer for our lovely coop in Westchester. Any takers?

Last night Abby and I had another dinner at The Modern with some friendly folks in the wine business. The occasion gave us an opportunity share some great food, talk about the wine business, and, we thought, enjoy some tasty wine. We accomplished all three - but only to a point.

In plotting out our wine plans for the evening, we discussed the option of trying a wine from a great producer in an "off" vintage. Off vintages are ones where the weather conditions are such that wines can be tough to produce well. Too much rain, hail, heat, too little sunlight, or even the widespread introduction of some plant disease can all adversely affect a vintage. Talented winemakers have to make some tough choices in these years: either declassify or even sell off their wines or work hard to get around the problems that a vintage presents. Case in point, our choice for the night: Auguste Clape Cornas 2002. Clape is a benchmark producer for this Northern Rhone appellation - producing world class wines from Syrah. Since the late '80s, he and his son, Pierre-Marie, have been working together traditionally, using all used oak.

Our bottle, from 2002, was the result of a year that saw so much rain, that many vineyards, in areas just to the south of Cornas, were flooded, and entire crops were lost. Those producers who did produce in that year, turned out wines that were far less concentrated than normal (watered-down). Some wines proved to be thin and out of balance, while others were able to turn out some reasonably elegant wines.

When we first opened the Clape, we were all rather pleased with its gentle, pretty aromatics. It was a bit tight, but within about ten to fifteen minutes, it revealed some solid fruit flavors with great minerality and a hint of herbal character. The wine sat out, developing with the air, while we enjoyed our mighty tasty first courses - most of which were too delicate to have with Syrah. Occasionally revisiting the wine, it was clearly undergoing rapid change. By the arrival of our second course, however, the wine completely shut down. The aromatics were all but gone, and within a few more minutes, it had lost its fruit and was becoming totally herbal (and not in a good way).

Luckily, our dinner companion was also a wine producer, and, handily, had a delicious bottle of his South African Cabernet/Shiraz he had brought to share. It dutifully fulfilled its mission as a solid stand-in for a wine that had gone south far too quickly. The evening was saved (and we learned our lesson... experimenting with off vintages is a gamble which can provide great disappointments - but also great rewards).