In response to my (now six-month-old) post, "The Place of Sherry": I was reading the transcript and notes for Acquerello Italiano, a useful and often interesting audio magazine for students of Italian. In an article about Marsala wine, the notes point out that John Woodhouse, a Liverpudlian, developed the fortification "recipe" for Marsala after having done the same for Port.

As far as I know, all of the great fortified wines - Spain's Sherry, Italy's Marsala, and Portugal's Port and Madeira - were developed by and for the English. And of course they had to ship the stuff back to England or one of its colonies for consumption by Englishmen. It being the 18th century, there weren't a lot of refrigerated container ships tied to the docks of Sanlúcar de Barrameda, Porto, or Marsala. So they shipped wine on sun-beaten, wave-tossed sailing ships. Heat and vibration are two of the major enemies of wine, so one can imagine that at least some of the barrels that arrived in London would contain wine that was in pretty sad shape. But add fortification with a little bit of neutral brandy (i.e., distilled wine), and what do you get? A sturdier wine that resists the rigors of shipping better (the additional alcohol makes the wine more tolerant of heat and vibration), a wine that ages tremendously well (because of the same sturdiness), and Englishmen who get drunk more quickly (higher-alcohol hooch!).

(You also often get a sweet wine, because alcohol added before fermentation is complete kills the yeast and thus leaves some unfermented sugar in the wine. But of course Fino-style Sherry is fortified and dry, so sweetness is not a necessary outcome of fortification. I add this caveat in order to avoid fortifying the prejudices of the "ooh, I don't like Sherry; it's sweeeet!" set. Not that sweetness per se is a bad thing in wine, but all of these digressions are fodder for another post.)

Anyway, if fortification came about as a way to protect wine during hot, heaving sea voyages, then it isn't as surprising that Sherry isn't a particularly apt beverage for an August afternoon in Jerez de la Frontera. But in foggy, frigid London - or the frequently foggy, frigid summer in the San Francisco Bay Area - what could be better?

I've been a fan of Sherry ever since my first visit to Andalucía in 1998. But my first visit to a Sherry bodega (Lustau) came only last fall.

I came away from that visit with the notion that, although Sherry is very much a product from its relatively small region of production, it's not especially suited to consumption there. It's true that Fino Sherry goes well with many of the tapas from Andalucía, including fried fish and olives. But the climate is too damned hot for a fortified wine. What's needed is a light, refreshing, fairly low-alcohol beverage - in other words, beer. Unfortunately, all of the Spanish beer that I've tasted ranges from insipid to awful. (I was actually happy to find Amstel on tap at a bar in Cádiz!)

Another conundrum: This blog claims to be about "site-specific (i.e., terroir-driven)" wine and food. All of the other wine loves of my life - Burgundy, Piemontese nebbiolo (Barolo, Barbaresco, and Roero), German riesling... - are all about vineyard specificity. Sherry is all about blending of multiple sites and multiple vintages. Sure, the albariza soils in the Sherry Triangle have something to do with the character of the best Fino-style Sherries. But have you ever seen a single vineyard Sherry? I haven't.

I'm still chewing on these questions - and still drinking Sherry.

Not all traditions are worth preserving - or revering. For example, I'm not a fan of the traditional Thanksgiving meal. The problems include the lack of flavor in commercial turkey (no matter what heroic efforts one makes to counteract that blandness, including brining), piling a lot of orange/brown food on one plate all at one time, and uninteresting or inappropriate wines.

So what did we do instead? No turkey - instead, guinea hens stuffed with chestnuts, pancetta, and dolcetto and draped in prosciutto. Not a particularly American preparation, perhaps, but it tasted great. We served the meal in courses and it lasted five hours. In between courses, several guests took the dogs for a walk. Now that's civilized. The same guests brought a wonderful mushroom gallette - seasonal and local.

Just for fun, and in the spirit of the holiday, we decided to drink all-American. My favorites: Elk Cove 2002 Pinot Noir 'Willamette Valley' and Chalone 1981 Pinot Noir. These wines demonstrated how new world producers who eschew the fetish for over-ripeness can make excellent wines that express their terroir - and in the case of the Chalone, wines that age well.

After spending two weeks working harvest with four Roero producers, I question the labels "modernist" and "traditionalist" that we often slap on producers in winegrowing regions like Piemonte.

I picked grapes and worked in the cellar with Mario Roagna of Cascina Val del Prete, a well-regarded "modernist" who ages most of his wines, including his Roero Arneis 'Luet', in barrique. And yet, his cellar methods are among the simplest that I've seen in Piemonte. The photo shows him using a plastic bucket and pasta strainer to do pump-overs. He has no special fermentation vessels and rarely uses the temperature controls that he paid extra for when he bought his steel tanks.

(Mario and I talked at length about what constitutes "technology". I argued that stainless steel definitely is technology, or the result of it anyway - not to mention pumps and plastic tubing. But his basic point is that all of the cellar gear and computerization that help automate winemaking for many other producers aren't necessary to make good wine.)

I also picked and helped a bit in the cellar with Mario's close friend, Angelo Ferrio of Cascina Ca' Rossa. Angelo puts a much smaller percentage of his wines in barrique. He's even stopped using barrique entirely for his Roero 'Mompissano', because he's decided that the nebbiolo from that vineyard is better-suited to aging in large, traditional oak botti. But Angelo's cellar is larger and more technologically advanced than Mario's, with specialized fermentation vessels and other technological innovations. (Not that Angelo and his crew aren't very hands-on in the cellar - we spent plenty of time moving grapes and hoses around!)

So who is the more "modern" producer? After drinking the wines of both producers many times over the course of two weeks, I'm not sure that I could say. I'm not sure that the question makes much sense, and I am sure that the answer is unimportant. Tasting and drinking the wines is what's important. And crashing through the forest on a rainy Sunday morning with Mario, Angelo, and Angelo's dog in search of truffles - now that's important!

My CruForge colleague, Dave Halsted, directed my attention to Mike Steinberger's Slate article, "The Wino in Winter: Robert Parker's influence is on the decline". It's a good, balanced article, but once again, I think there are much more interesting things to discuss than Robert Parker's influence. This quotation near the end of the article admirably sums up why:

While the number of 'Parkerized' wines (lavishly fruited, lavishly oaked) has unquestionably exploded, there are still plenty of winemakers unwilling to cater to one man's palate, and I still find plenty of subtle, distinctive reds and whites on my local retail shelves.

Me too, and not just at Paul Marcus Wines, the Oakland wine shop where I work part-time. The San Francisco Bay Area, at least, is blessed with lots of restaurants and wine stores that offer a wide range of interesting, distinct, food-friendly, not overblown wines. For example, Bodegas Luberri Rioja 'Albiker' 2004 (just to mention one bottle that I've enjoyed frequently in recent weeks).

More on the question of tasting notes and the modern tendency to recite a litany of fruit flavors: In issue #58 (Summer 2001) of The Art of Eating, Edward Behr writes: "The flavors that have been noted most often in Barolo in the past have been violets, tar, faded roses, and perhaps, leather. Curiously, fruit isn't on the list, but fruit is very much present, often including plums or cherries."

(An aside - I've always thought that someone in Barolo should start a heavy metal band named "Tar and Roses".)

Behr is right on both counts. How fascinating that fruit isn't on the list, despite the fact that fruit is very much present in the wines. The classic descriptions seem to studiously ignore the fruit associations in favor of other aroma and flavor analogies. It would be interesting to know how and when the classic descriptions developed.

Joe Dressner, in his blog entry Wine Tasting, expresses the skepticism that I'm feeling about modern wine tasting notes. He suggests instead:

Why not just sit down with one great bottle. Learn everything you can about the region and producer. Go visit them on a vacation. Immerse yourself. Learn to enjoy wine.

Bravo.