Cloudy with a Chance of Fizz

The formula behind Prosecco's undeniable mass-appeal isn't difficult to grasp. As a general rule, bubbles + cheap price tag= happy crowd.

That said (and pending accusations of snobbery), I pretty much do my best to avoid the stuff whenever possible. It's not that I find Prosecco to be categorically offensive; most of it just strikes me as, well, sort of insipid . Like drinking Ryan Seacrest's smile. Or, to adopt a phrase from Gertrude Stein, which doubles as an apt description for wines that lack a sense of place: "There is no there there."

If so much Prosecco tastes generic, this is because it tends to be generically made, using machine-harvested grapes from high-yielding vines fermented in giant pressurized tanks called autoclaves (a cheaper way to impart fizz than the bottle-fermented "metodo classico").  Sure, quality-minded exceptions do exist, typically hailing from the protected original zone of Prosecco di Conegliano e Valdobbiadene, whose hilly soils are more likely to be worked by independent growers. But with over 150 million bottles churned out annually— most coming from the recently established, flatter growing areas into which production has spilled— chances are you'll find yourself drinking something akin to vinous soda pop. The following photograph speaks for itself:

Up until a few weeks ago, my condescending attitude toward Prosecco remained unchecked. But while browsing through the "Cool Room" at Astor Wines & Spirits (a large, temperature-controlled cave seemingly designed to segregate the shop's geeky "natural" wines from the more conventional selections), I spotted an unfamiliar bottle, whose fascinating back-story I highlighted in a recent Tasting Table piece.

Reviving a hyper-traditional, lees-aged, unfiltered style of Prosecco known as "col fondo" (meaning "with sediment"), the 2011 Miotto Prosecco "ProFondo" ($14 suggested retail price) hearkens back to the "pre-autoclave" days of the region's past, when the wines were fermented in bottle with the yeast deposit intact. Sealed under a crown cap, with a pale and cloudy hue in the glass, the category might strike contemporary drinkers as Prosecco's answer to the pétillant naturel tend. In the cafés of Venice, it was customary to decant the wine before serving to separate the un-disgorged debris. Other examples of "col fondo" seem quite rare and hard to find, but I'm committed to investigating further. As it turns out, one of my favorite importers of natural wines, Jenny & François Selections, now carries a biodynamic "col fondo" in their portfolio (also available at Astor), which sounds particularly promising.

Whether you drink the ProFondo cloudy (as I prefer) or clear, you'll want to drink a lot of it.  Other than that, I don't have anything particularly momentous to say. Despite its name, profound statements seem antithetical to the ProFondo's spirit: let's just say this is exactly the sort of effortlessly gulpable libation that Prosecco aspires to be, yet so often falls short of becoming. A fresh, inexpensive, and— dare I say?— authentic alternative to the countless conventional versions crowding store shelves, with its yeasty fizz and pleasant hint of bitter apple, the ProFondo seemed like a natural fit for a simple lunch of shaved fennel with prosciutto and parmesan:

While this rather obvious pairing worked quite well, I'd gladly drink the wine with just about anything, or anyone, at any time, on any occasion. We're talking about Prosecco, after all.

Vinaugural Woes

Most of the wine-related coverage concerning Obama's upcoming inaugural luncheon has focused on the minor diplomatic kerfuffle over a bottle of Korbel (a lackluster California sparkler), which was mistakenly labeled "Champagne" in an official press release. On this particular issue, my sympathies lie with the Champenois: I certainly understand the desire to distance oneself from a brand whose reputation for inducing college hangovers might be surpassed only by Jägermeister or Andre Cold Duck. I have an entirely different bone to pick, however, with the oenological portion of the proceedings, particularly as a card-carrying New Yorker.

As Chairman of the Joint Congressional Committee on Inaugural Ceremonies, Senator Chuck Schumer proudly organized the menu to highlight ingredients from New York, including a flight of wines from the Finger Lakes and Long Island’s North Fork. Admittedly, my taste in wine remains fairly Old World, but when I heard the news, I felt my share of native pride: it's about time that the Empire State's fledgling wine regions shared some time in the national spotlight.

To be fair, I recognize that Mr. Schumer is a senator, not a sommelier; I'd expect him to be occupied with far more urgent affairs than the question of which local wine pairs best with Hudson Valley apple pie. But I have to say, when I saw the roundup of bottles destined for the president’s glass next week, they hardly seemed like New York's most credible vinous ambassadors. With this in mind, I decided to track down the inaugural lineup to judge for myself.

To accompany the first course of steamed lobster in a clam chowder sauce, the committee decided to pour the 2010 Tierce Finger Lakes Dry Riesling. Unfortunately, this particular bottle isn't available for purchase at retail in NYC at the moment, so I’m unable to provide a specific review. But here, at least, I’m willing to give the senator the benefit of the doubt, if not an overwhelming vote of confidence. With its cooler climate (somewhat similar to the conditions that make Austria and Germany the grape’s archetypal home), the Finger Lakes has established itself as one of Riesling’s finest domestic growing regions. That said, the Tierce label represents a collaboration between three different wineries— Fox Run, Anthony Road, and Red Newt— none of which, in my opinion, does complete justice to the area’s potential. Nevertheless, even if I might have gone with one or two alternatives, I imagine that a denser, drier style of Riesling (as the Tierce purports to be) would amply accentuate the lobster’s richness, while hopefully preserving enough of the grape’s classic acidity to wash down that creamy chowder.

Perhaps there’s an inherent contradiction involved when a "blue state" Senator finds himself tasked with choosing red wine, but the pairing for the second course, the 2009 Bedell Cellars Merlot from the North Fork, comes across as decidedly unpresidential.

Over the past several years, Long Island’s North Fork has transformed itself into a hotbed of innovation, as a handful of dedicated producers has been churning out some truly thoughtful efforts, often incorporating lesser-known grapes that seem better-suited to the local soils than the dominant plantings of Merlot. While the luncheon's theme might be “Faith in America's Future,” the Bedell strikes me as an unfortunate regression to Long Island’s past. In the glass, it’s a perfectly innocuous affair, with blandly inoffensive dark-fruited flavors and a generic whiff of oak that fails to communicate anything distinctive about the wine’s place of origin. A savvier choice would have been any of the area’s intriguing expressions of Cabernet Franc (Paumanok Vineyards crafts a lovely one, for example, as does the Shinn Estate), which has begun to define itself as one of the North Fork's signature varieties. With its musky earthiness and peppery, berry-laden spice, the grape would have formed quite a bipartisan alliance with the gamey, smoky notes of the main course, Grilled Bison with Wild Huckleberry Reduction.

Of course, I realize that none of this really matters. The meal will end, the plates will be cleared, and the distinguished guests will depart. With the last traces of that mediocre Merlot lingering on his tongue, the president will head back to the White House to resume another four years of steering our nation clear of what too often feels like imminent disaster. I only wish that he could have toasted the arduous road ahead with a slightly more inspiring dose of liquid courage.

A Jacquère To Remember

Lately, as happens so often this time of year, the majority of my Sundays (and some weekdays too) have been defined by that specific form of seasonal inertia that makes the couch seem like the only tolerable destination. After a whole lot of sitting, and reading, and sitting some more, I'll glance at my watch— only to discover that, although the window has been opaque for hours, the "little hand" still hasn't passed six or seven o'clock.

At this point, it's entirely natural to crave a bit of liquid diversion. By this, you might assume I’m talking about big, brawny reds from rustic, sun-baked climes— "a beaker full of the warm South," as a far more eloquent commentator once put it. But I've actually found myself gravitating toward whites: the richer, fuller-bodied versions capable of delivering just as much vinous comfort as their more obvious red counterparts.

A fifth-generation winemaker now at the helm of his family estate, David Dupasquier adopts a minimalist approach to his work in the vineyards and the cellar.  For one, he harvests entirely by hand, which, given the precariously steep vines he tends, must pose a considerable challenge. Among other praiseworthy practices, he also makes a point of fermenting with indigenous rather than commercial yeasts, which better allows the underlying materials of the wine to shine through. The result of such meticulous care is an unusually fleshy, complex, and profound expression of the Jacquère grape, which overturns expectations while remaining utterly true to its place of origin.

Personally, I love the high-altitude clarity possessed by so many wines from Savoie, and this particular bottle was no exception: clocking in at a relatively low 11.5% alcohol, it possessed a bright wash of acidity and a stony mineral core. This is probably a symptom of my overly susceptible imagination, but whenever I drink wines from this part of the world, I immediately envision myself in some unspoiled 19th-century pastoral scene, complete with herds of grazing cattle, sleepy little cottages, and the token babbling brook. A landscape, in other words, that looks something like this:

Technicolor fantasies aside, it can't be denied that, at their best, the area's wines communicate an indelible, unmistakable sense of place, all mountain air and meadow grass and wildflowers.

Despite its deceptively lithe and nimble frame, however, the Dupasquier Jacquère managed to deliver a sense of weight without being weighty, gesturing toward richness with its slightly honeyed tones and a fuller, creamier texture than any other expression of the grape I’ve encountered. In this respect, the wine seems to me like an Alpine version of some of the higher-end Muscadet cuvées I've written about elsewhere. While I can't say it was a perfect match, the bottle offered more than enough substance to hold up to the relatively hearty dinner I prepared for it: a juicy roast pork loin marinated in honey, garlic, mustard and thyme.

Why wasn't the pairing pitch perfect? Don't get me wrong, it was an excellent effort: the Jacquère's brisk acidity had no problem handling that crisp layer of fat, without being overwhelmed by all the intense porcine flavors and aromas.

I only mention the possibility of room for improvement because I suspect that an even lovelier counterpoint would have been the estate’s signature bottling, the Domaine Dupasquier Roussette de Savoie "Marestel," which is particularly appealing in the recently-released 2008 vintage. Based on the late-harvesting Altesse grape (known regionally as Rousette) and sourced from extremely old vines grown over 450 meters above sea level, it represents just the sort of unctuous-yet-chiseled, viscous-yet-fresh, unequivocally “wintry” white that I'll admit I was originally craving.

Fortunately, I have a bottle of each waiting in the fridge as I type. Next time, I'll be sure to invite over some company (another proven cure for seasonal lethargy) and serve both wines together.