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November 2002
Dan’s Cellar Notes
What should I call my wine?
When I first began drinking “serious” wine, about 25 years ago, my most typical choices were French, Italian, German, Spanish, or Portuguese wines that were generally (or generically) known by the places where they were produced. They were named under laws and customs that the French call “AC” or appellation controlee (“regulated name”), the Italians label “DOC” or Denominazione d'Origine Controllata (regulated name of origin) or DOCG for Denominazione d'Origine Controllata e Garantita (regulated and guaranteed name of origin), and similar rules that govern wine names in other European counties. These wine-naming conventions stress names based on places, and they reveal little or nothing about what sorts of grapes make up the wine. The best European wines tend to be named after the vineyard in which the vines grow—sometimes even the specific field or slope within a smallish vineyard. Slightly less noble wines are named for nearby villages or communes, and more generic examples carry the names of broad districts or regions, such as “Cote d ‘Or” or “Bourgogne.”
At the same time, I learned to enjoy the occasional cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay, or Johannesburg riesling from California. These wines were named primarily for the variety of grapes that made up the juice from which the wine was created, but their labels often said little about where the wine came from. Sometimes, I admit, the wine variety was supplemented by a place name, such as “Sonoma,” “Monterrey,” “Napa,” or “Rutherford;” but with these so-called “varietal” wines, it’s the grape type that’s important.
This dichotomy, between appellations or place-oriented names and varietals, or grape-type names continues today, though the distinction is far less clear. It is no longer strange, for instance, to see a red wine from the Burgundy region of France labeled “pinot noir.” Some of the finest wines coming out of California now bear generic or brand names (e.g., “Opus One” or “Meritage”), with their labels yielding no information at all about the grapes that make up the wine in the bottle. Nonetheless, for the average North American wine consumer, wine names tend to be generic or varietal. We tend to go into a restaurant or wine store and ask for a “chardonnay” or a “Chilean Cabernet” or a “merlot” (or, if we are really in a low-rent joint, “Chablis” and “Burgundy”). We seem to want to believe that merlot is merlot is merlot, no matter where it comes from or how it is made.
When we wine-makers purchase grapes, juices, or concentrates, we most likely buy a box or can or bucket full of some particular grape variety, often without any specific knowledge of the origin of the grapes or juice we are purchasing. Still other times we may purchase generic types with names made up by the wine-kit industry to suggest a style without infringing internationally controlled appellations (e.g., “bordelaise”=claret or red Bordeaux). Just as some California vintners still call their jug wines “Chablis” or “Burgundy,” some wine kit makers continue to confuse us by using appellations as though they were generic names. Several companies, for instance, market “Chianti” or “Barolo” kits containing grapes that do not come from the zones in Italy where these names have real meaning and legal protection.
Each of these naming conventions—generic, appellation, and varietal—has advantages and disadvantages. A generic term, such as “bordelaise” suggests a red wine with the qualities of claret from Bordeaux, while the word “Liebfraumilch” suggests a modest, soft, moderately sweet everyday wine similar to some inexpensive German whites. Nonetheless, there is no necessary implication that two Liebfraumilchs contain the same sorts of grapes or come from the same part of the world, and there is really no guarantee that they even taste similar. Many generic names are virtually meaningless, or even misleading, e.g., Almaden Mountain Chablis bears very little resemblance to real Chablis.
Appelation names, when used properly and legally, serve as a kind of trademark. The wine buyer is guaranteed that customary, legally mandated grape varieties were used, and that they came from a specific region or vineyard. In some cases, the name may even carry a guarantee of grape ripeness, acidity, minimum alcohol content, etc. Even very broad appellations indicate a particular style profile to those savvy enough to know that region’s, bottler’s, shipper’s or blender’s trademark style. “Chianti” isn’t a really style of wine; it’s a region in Tuscany that produces a range of red wines that vary from light and crisp to mouth filling, deep, and tannic. Each of these can legally carry the Chianti name as long as they were made in the right place using the legally prescribed mixture of grapes, etc.
Varietal names give specific information: they tell what grape variety produced most (usually 75% or more, laws vary) of the juice that made the wine in the bottle. That is often helpful, often not. Have you ever watched a wine novice order a “zinfandel” in a restaurant, and then act shocked and amazed when handed a bottle of dark red wine? The varietal name doesn’t tell us all we may want to know. Is the zinfandel red or “white” (actually pink)? Is it garden-variety, full-and-flabby Central Valley zin that makes oceans of jug wines each year? Is a complexly vinous cool-weather zin carefully blended for finesse? Or, perhaps, is it an “old vines” zin black as tar, rich and plumy, full of leathery overtones? Similarly, sauvignon blanc can be crisp, green, and citrusy—an excellent aperitif or accompaniment to rich seafood—or it may be luscious, buttery, oaky, and full of smoky tones. Great sauvignon blanc comes from California, Bordeaux, New Zealand, and elsewhere, and each country and region has its own interpretation of how the wine should be made.
So what should you call your homemade wine? Obviously, no law limits your choices or your imagination. If you have bottled a single variety (or a blend that is clearly dominated by a variety), a varietal name is fine. Perhaps, though, you can augment the name a bit. For instance, a name such as “Nebbiolo Reserve” suggests a wine made in a style of one or more Northern Italian nebbiolos, and aged an extra year or treated with additional oak. I would, however, like to dissuade you from naming that wine “Barbaresco” or “Barolo” unless you know that the grapes came from one of those regions, and the wine actually approaches typical examples of those wine types. Even if you blended your wine trying to match the characteristics of a particular appellation, but did not use grapes from the legally defined region, I would suggest you use a name suggesting the region, without misleading. For instance, you might have made a merlot-dominated blend in which you aimed for the rich depth of a Pomerol appelation controlee. wine. You can always call it Pomerol-style, or something similar.
If you try to make the same style of wine each year, repeatedly blending wines or grapes in the attempt to hit a predictable target style, perhaps you may want to give your wine its own “brand.” Whenever I make inexpensive, fruity, semi-sweet kit wines of the sort I like to call “picnic wines,” I place a label with a picture of our two dogs on it and the name Vin Extraordinaire Les Poochez. Obviously, it’s a joke, and it tells those familiar with me and my wines, they are being served a light, unpretentious bit of refreshment.
What you call your wine is up to you. I can only suggest you try to communicate, as best you can, what is in the bottle through the wine’s name, and any subsequent descriptions you may choose to add to the label.