My Palate Press article for this month is about why wanting authentic wine makes most of us hypocrites. I’m not talking about preaching wines of place in public and then buying Cupcake when no one’s watching at the grocery store, though there’s that. I’m talking about saying that we want wine to taste of its place, probably even truly believing it, but then really wanting wine to taste like the stuff we’re accustomed to liking. Drinking wine you like is fine — more than fine, in fact — but we run into real problems trying to compare or rank (formally or informally) wines from around the world: some authentic wines will always be underprivileged because their authentic flavors either don’t look like the established gold standards or just aren’t as nice. it leaves you one of three choices. 1. Drop ideas about wine tasting authentically of its place and look for producers who are just trying to match the global gold standards. 2. Burn the democratic wine flag and accept that some wines are the poor and downtrodden. 3. Stop comparing wines from different regions and love each in its own special, unique way. The argument in more detail, and with a cute dog picture, is here.
A few years back, a group of Auckland-based researchers established that machine-harvested Marlborough sauvignon blanc has higher aromatic thiol concentrations = tastes more intensely Marlborough sauv blanc-y = is better than wine from hand-harvested grapes. I don’t know how widely that logic is known amongst wine consumers, in New Zealand or elsewhere. Reading back labels in my local wine shop makes it clear that the hand-picked grapes = superior wine logic rules in the minds of marketers and, if they’re any bellwether (a worthwhile question), at least some consumers.
Marlborough sauvignon blanc aside, is that prejudice justified? My January piece for Palate Press addresses that question. The short answer is that hand-harvested grapes are in many settings more about feeling good about purchasing genuine artisan wine than about quality or flavor. The longer answer is here.
Saying that hand vs. machine harvesting is becoming less and less of a quality issue, with better equipment in the field and in the winery, isn’t the same as saying that the difference doesn’t matter. It does, to our perceptions of what we drink. But it’s also impossible not to see this as one more instance of Robots Will Take Our Jobs, and a particularly hard-hitting one with wine such a cultural icon. A lot of vacuous dithering takes place in the media around this topic (even in outlets like The Atlantic, though this piece from The Economist might be an exception) and, to be honest, I’m not sure that I have anything worthwhile to add. We’re headed, I think, for a major shift in how people work, earn money/obtain necessary resources, and spend their time. That shift may come in the form of an organized political (maybe governmental, maybe by large companies) decision to redefine work and money, or it may come as a necessary post-degenerate organic movement after the fall of Rome. Either way, being human, we’ll continue to find meaning in our work whether that means choosing to harvest grapes by hand because it’s meaningful to do so, even when a machine/robot can do a better job, by redefining wine quality such that the robot can’t do the job as well, or by understanding human winemaking as a conceptual art independent of the physical work of our hands.
My Palate Press piece for this month (which I really wish was entitled something involving “water” to make the subject more clear) is a bit about Waiheke Island, just off the coast of Auckland, and a bit about water footprints in the wine industry. The relationship between the two is that Waiheke — shockingly, for a North American accustomed to consistent public amenities like central heating and easy wi-fi (both unlikely propositions in New Zealand) — has no public water supply. In good years, residents and businesses and wineries meet their individual needs either by collecting and filtering rainwater (most folk) or with a “water bore” into the under-island aquifer (large and/or resource-full folk). In bad years, all of the above buy water from private companies with private water bores, and do laundry less often.
Waiheke is a good reminder, though, that whether water comes out of a tap or off the cistern parked next to your car, it’s always coming from the same two places: the sky, or underground (which isn’t to say that the two aren’t connected, but only that it’s helpful to think of the two compartments). Tap water is a bit like packaged boneless skinless chicken breasts from the grocery store. Someone else has done all of the hard work for us. Both distance us from the hows and wheres of the stuff we use. Butchering chickens is a pain*. It makes endless sense to divide labor, specialize, and let someone else with better equipment and skills and economy of do it for you. And bake your bread, change your car’s oil, and collect and filter your water. Still, all of these things make it easier to abuse the system. We don’t pay as much attention to our dinner’s living conditions when it didn’t live with us before it appeared on the table, nor to how it died if we didn’t kill it. I’d never really thought about water that way before wandering around on Waiheke; I try to conserve it, but I don’t usually think so graphically about what my convenient kitchen faucet implies. I’d never wish drought on anyone (and California and its people have my sympathy). But maybe it’s no bad thing to look for a drinking fountain in a place with no public water and find none, and remember that I should be just as conscientious about my water as I am about my free-range, local, organic Sunday supper.
More about my Waiheke visit, and about water, is on Palate Press.
*As I know from recent experience. The Great Chicken Experiment is, regrettably, over. The first two hand-me-down hens lived happily with us until the neighbor’s rooster discovered them and decided that they were his, after which they lived happily with the neighbor until she decided she was done with poultry and she invited me to dispatch the lot of them (after which they lived in my freezer and my stockpot). Save the (charming, darling) several month-old chicks, who we adopted. Unfortunately, having been raised entirely outside in our mostly fenceless environs, they’d learned to be very freely free-range. A trip through someone’s spinach was more than anyone was willing to tolerate (save, maybe, the chickens) and we handed them on to someone else. We miss them, though my garden does not.
My piece for Palate Press this month asks what California (proto-Davis) wine researchers were doing in the era before mass spectrophotometers and DNA sequencers and even automated pH meters and all the other fancy stuff wine scientists consider essential today. The short story is that they were trying to figure out what grows best where, and how, which is fundamentally what we’re still trying to do. The long story is on Palate Press.
The long story didn’t have space for me to really geek out over the fun of reading old research articles. I think it’s fair to say that science writing — of the by scientists, for scientists variety — wasn’t as dry then as it is now, not just because antiquated language is quaint but because the distance between normal-talk and science-talk was shorter then than it is now. It’s pretty accessible and often entertaining. There’s the simple, voyeuristic pleasure of being astonished at just how backward they sometimes were, and sometimes at realizing that they weren’t as backward as we tend to assume. And then there’s the higher-order pleasure of making stories by connecting what they were doing to what we’re doing and finding new meaning in both the historical and the modern.
But reading about someone else geeking out over light archival wine reading isn’t near as fun as doing it yourself, and the archives of Hilgardia: a Journal of Agricultural Science from the University of California, including much about wine, are freely available via the University of California Agriculture and Natural Resources Respository. When so much is pay-walled and protected, free access to land grant university resources — not just for subscribers, not just for local winemakers, and not just for the taxpayers of California or even the United States — seems increasingly meaningful, and a good reminder of this massive, excellent, egalitarian knowledge-sharing project we practice through land-grant universities and agricultural extensions. I won’t ask you to excuse my unfashionable patriotism.
An enormous lot has been said about the relationship, or lack thereof, between grape yield and wine quality. So why is my October piece for Palate Press about whether higher yields mean lower quality?
1. My Palate Press colleague W. Blake Gray took an interesting economic tack on the problem a few months ago, reminding me that I wanted to revisit what we know via the scientific approach.
2. I’ve been more than a bit obsessed with the contacts (and conflicts, and congruencies) between anecdotal and scientific knowledge of late. The yield-quality problem is a fantastic case of the scientific evidence we have strongly suggesting one position (higher yields ≠ lower quality) while some peoples’ experience suggests that more may be going on than science has yet to document.
3. It’s a perennial question for a reason (or two): it’s interesting, and it’s important. And revisiting interesting and important things is worthwhile.
4. Richard Smart wrote an article for Wine Business Monthly back in 2004 proving, via contrary anecdotes, that higher yields don’t always mean lower quality, and that the principle isn’t true from a scientific perspective. He also implied that anyone who thought that myth had a place in winemaking was 1) a moron, and 2) unscientific, and that riled my epistemological feathers enough to want to write on the same topic from a different (better)* perspective. More on myths another day.
The short version: the oft-cited yield-quality relationship is more about correlation than causation particularly from the perspective of the scientific evidence, but whenever we’re talking quality things get fuzzy (and social) and our perceptions about wine quality involve more than just measurable scientific variables.
* Yes. I’ve just compared myself to a highly-accomplished viticultural scientist and found him wanting. Dr. Richard Smart is a marvelous scientist. He also, by this single account at least (I’ve not tracked down more examples), has ideas about which forms of knowledge-making are valid that I find deeply misguided.
My September piece for Palate Press asks, “Is New Zealand the world’s most sustainable wine producing country?” to which the answer is: quite possibly, but the metrics we have don’t exactly say. The more important point is that sustainability is an excellent tool for industry self-improvement and a pretty terrible tool for comparisons between countries. It’s also not good at guaranteeing consumers of any particular pro-environmental or pro-community practices, though it still has a place in consumer communication: IF consumers understand that “sustainable” means “we’re thinking about what we’re doing (and usually trying to make it better)” OR if we let the marketing folk equate “sustainable” with “good!” and leave the right to use that word as an incentive to participate in sustainability programs. Which, even if they don’t guarantee vineyards full of happy children and chickens frolicking under thoroughly non-toxic vines, still do a great deal of good.
My August piece for Palate Press, up today, reviews some of the recent literature on what alcohol restrictions do for public health. I’d hoped, when I first logged in to PubMed, for one of two things. 1. Three or four reviews showing that placing restrictions on alcohol reduces consumption by “everyday” drinkers but doesn’t change heavy drinkers’ behavior. 2. Three or four reviews showing mixed evidence for whether anti-alcohol regulations improve public health that still argued in favor of those laws because all drinking is bad drinking.
What I found is the latter, sort of. Medical research is never as simple as you’d like it to be. Drinking can do bad things to people, and restricting when and where it can be sold reduces how much people drink… probably, most of the time, it seems. For researchers who dismiss alcohol as a health hazard and won’t see it for anything else*, that’s enough.
My argument is this: instead of chasing down exactly when, where, and how regulating alcohol sales might reduce deaths by liver cirrhosis or drunk driving accidents or domestic violence, let’s spend our resources on finding better strategies altogether. Drinking isn’t the problem, whether you’re considering just human health or (thinking more thoughtfully) human well-being in general. Heavy drinking — the kind people do to escape from other problems in their life or, less often, the kind people do out of ignorance for the harm it does — is the problem. We’re doing surgery with a log splitter by trying to decrease problem drinking by decreasing all drinking. There are better ways. Education. Better server training. Encouraging social pressure. Addressing the underlying social ills with which alcohol abuse tends to be associated, such as family instability. And my favorite: working, however slowly, on changing the prevailing American culture of alcohol-as-drug to one of wine and beer as food, and spirits as drugs with appropriate ceremonial and ritual functions**.
*Or for researchers who adopt that prohibitionist perspective for the sake of winning grants from misguided and uncritical public health organizations, though I’m inclined to think that most researchers have at least a little (and sometimes a lot of) personal investment in their work and its implications.
** Ceremonial and ritual taken broadly. Sipping whisky with your mates in the pub on Saturday night is ceremonial; it invokes a particular kind of social bonding and communication and creates and demarcates the space in which that happens.
With so much interesting research, so many papers published, so many nit-picky little things to remember about temperatures and acidity and bugs and the rest, it’s easy to lose the forest for the trees in enology. When the much-beloved chimpanzee expert Jane Goodall came to visit the Centre for Science Communication that I call home about a month ago, in talking about the African forests she actually reminded me to step back and look at the metaphorical enological ones, too. Maybe studying chimps isn’t all that much like making wine, but I’m not sure they’re that different, either: technology and training can get in the way of both, and stories win people over more than arguments whether you’re talking primates or pH. The full story of what Jane Goodall taught me about wine science is here on Palate Press.
My June article for Palate Press aimed to take a sensible look at rationale for allowing sulfur dioxide in “natural wines” when adding anything other than sulfur dioxide is widely accepted as not okay. (The short version: the only logical argument I can see is that sulfur dioxide aims to protect what the wine already has rather than add or change something; otherwise, we’re left with the entirely unsatisfactory argument that SO2 is extremely useful…but so are other additives.) Trying to pin down “natural wine” is trouble, but “authentic wine” is even worse. I’ve been thinking a good deal recently about both.
First, let me be clear: I think that the idea of authentic wine has a lot going for it. It’s intuitive: wine that’s less “messed with” seems as though it should have more soul, be somehow truer and realer than wine pulled and pushed through lots of chemical manipulations. And you can taste it. Revelatory wines — the ones that make you stop to think that wine is capable of more than just yumminess — are usually less manipulated, more authentic.
That said, talking about “authentic wine” as “wine the way it’s always been made” or wine made using traditional methods raises my hackles. “Traditional” is only ever relevant with respect to a specific time frame. I can say that a family cookie recipe is traditional, but at some point a grandmother must have come up with it or cut it out of a magazine, and in any case if we go back very far the grandmothers wouldn’t have had modern baking powder, so are my cookies authentic?
Russian tea cakes are a traditional Christmas favorite in my family, passed down from my mother’s side. What we call a Russian tea cake is similar to the nut balls or Mexican wedding cookies many folk make – a half dome-shaped mouthful of nutty, buttery yumminess dusted in powdered sugar – but no one else’s recipe is quite like ours. Betty Crocker and Smitten Kitchen and a pile of other bakers think they have a Russian tea cake recipe, but they’re wrong. Ours are the best. Unlike most, just a few tablespoons of flour are used to bind the nuts together and the concoction is only very lightly sweet: the flavor of the nuts and the butter is the point. And it is, of course, sacrilegious to make these at any time other than Christmas.
For as long as I can remember (until I moved to New Zealand and couldn’t come home for Christmas), every third week of December my mother and I have whipped up at least one and usually two batches in her 1980’s-era Cuisinart, first processing the whole walnuts (or pecans, for the second batch) into meal, then adding the butter, then the two tablespoons of flour and sugar and the all-important vanilla. But as a girl, the eldest of six children growing up in a tiny square house in semi-rural Ohio, it was my mother’s job to do the whole job by hand. Fail to chop the pecans (because in those days they were always pecans) finely enough and the cookies wouldn’t hold together properly. Naturally, my grandmother didn’t own a Cuisinart: I don’t think they’d been invented yet and, even if they had, I’m sure she wouldn’t have owned one with her tiny kitchen and tight budget.
One year when I was in my early twenties, I decided that I wanted to make a batch of Russian tea cakes for my friends before I flew home to my parents’ house for Christmas. I didn’t and still don’t own a food processor, so I chopped those nuts by hand – and the cookies weren’t as good. Doing it the traditional way made for frustratingly crumbly, uneven cookies. In this case, the machine could do a better job than me and my knife. I’m glad to have done it, for the sake of appreciating how my mother and grandmother operated, but I’ve not attempted it since.
I don’t know where my mother’s mother’s mother got the recipe, or if I need to add more mothers to that litany. I do know that my grandmother always used pecans because my grandfather had friends and family in Louisiana where they could get bountious bag-fulls of the genuine Southern article, and that my mother usually uses walnuts, because my father prefers walnuts and because they moved to California after getting married where walnuts came in bag-fulls and pecans mostly didn’t. I know that the cookies I’ve grown up eating aren’t the same as the ones my grandmother knew, not only because of the Cuisinart but because my rather well-to-do mother has switched to using excellent European butter and mail-order Tahitian vanilla instead of the McCormick’s stuff. My own innovation is to use whole wheat flour—the cookies are ever so slightly crumblier (only a problem sans Cuisinart), but the flavor accentuates the cookies’ nuttiness. Mine are the best.
Are my cookies inauthentic? I’m not sure, because if every woman in her turn tweaked the recipe a little, was there ever any such thing as an authentic Russian tea cake in the first place? Who’s to say? Did the Cuisinart technology corrupt the genuine article? Quite the contrary. No woman and her cleaver are going to be able to chop nuts as finely and evenly as a good food processor and, in this case, uniformity is a good thing.
I won’t make Russian tea cakes without a food processor…well, maybe I might twist my own arm on that one of these years if I continue to live food processor-less. What I definitely won’t do is make Russian tea cakes and add butylated hydroxyanisole to them to “preserve freshness.” Sure, these cookies go stale if you let them sit on a too-warm counter too long because all of those nut oils which you’ve liberally exposed to the oxygen-rich air will oxidize or, in other words, go rancid. (Mother-approved tip: this is why you wait until the first batch is nearly gone before making the second instead of trying to whip everything up in advance.) I won’t not add butylated hydroxyanisole because it isn’t in the traditional recipe. I won’t add it because it’s butylated hydroxyanisole. Ewww. To be perfectly clear here, I’m not cringing because BHA has a polysyllabic chemical name – there; the abbreviation solves that problem – but because it’s a synthetic laboratory product that never occurs in food. It doesn’t help that several lab studies say it causes cancer in rodents, even if those rodents were given far more than two or three mouse-sized cookies’ worth of the stuff. Maybe more relevantly, I wouldn’t add even the best concentrated nut flavoring to “beef up” the nut flavor because I want to taste the real nuts here. It’s important to take care to choose really good, fresh, flavorful nuts for this recipe, and it would be anathema to the spirit of the recipe to make the flavor about some artificially constructed ideal of perfect nuttiness. Moreover, the cookie wouldn’t be as good.
I’ve been talking cookies. What if I instead imagine a traditional family chardonnay recipe? If I’m staying true to the spirit of the recipe – maybe it’s a nutty, buttery little chardonnay – but using better technology because doing so allows me to make a better wine, splendid. Who cares whether it’s “authentic” or not (keeping in mind that we can only define “authentic” with respect to a specific version of the ever-changing recipe to call the wine), if it’s tasty and meaningful? Adding potentially dangerous non-food ingredients isn’t okay because people shouldn’t eat non-foods. Adding (or removing) extra sugar or acid might be a problem if the point of doing so was mimicking some ideal wine at the expense of doing justice to really good grapes. But using contemporary technology (does Cuisinart make winery equipment?) to make the wine taste better, or to make the wine more consistent?
The College of Humanities at the University of Utah produced a splendid poster featuring what has become one of my favorite maxims: science can tell you how to clone a tyrannosaurus rex; humanities can tell you why this might be a bad idea. Maybe authentic wine is made the way wine should be made, in contradistinction to the way wine can be made. Maybe that makes authentic wine a very personal concept, or maybe the well-educated wine philosophers and wine scientists among us can help establish a sense of universal wine ethics for us to live by. But, in any case, those judgements about authenticity have to come from thoughtful reasoning about the difference between what we can do and whether or not it’s a good idea. The historical argument is a lazy oenophile’s shortcut.
My March column on Palate Press, up today, takes a look at the practical side of biodynamics as its happening in Central Otago.
I think that biodynamics can become — well, if not dangerous, then at least unproductive or ill-advised — when it is a proscriptive set of rules that must be followed for specious reasons. But when it’s used as a theory for understanding the farm ecoystem, a tool for listening to the environment and strengthening connections between man and the rest of it, then it’s just good farming. And a lifestyle choice: biodynamics is the way these winemaker-growers want to live. But who wouldn’t want to live surrounded by flowers and bees and good-smelling compost? Looks more appealing than wearing face masks and gloves to protect yourself from the chemicals you’re going to spray on plants that will produce something you’re going to eat.