Three hundred years ago, wine was made from a huge range of grape varieties that even changed as new cultivars were generated by cross-fertilization. It’s doubtful whether much distinction was made between varieties at the time. But the wine was mostly poor, thin stuff, with high acidity, challenged to reach a level of alcohol that would confer stability. The invention of chaptalization (adding sugar before fermentation) in the late 18th century helped resolve the alcohol problem.
Two hundred years ago, the differences between grape varieties were beginning to be appreciated. There was no such thing as a varietal wine, since grape varieties were intermingled in planting, but by the time of the 1855 Classification in Bordeaux, for example, there was at least knowledge of which varieties were making the wine, though they were somewhat different from those of today.
One hundred years ago, the trend to focus on grape varieties that ripened more reliably was well under way. This followed the move to planting vines in blocks of each variety that resulted from the changes caused by the need to replant in response to phylloxera. The focus on a narrowing set of grape varieties preceded the formation of the appellation contrôlée that solidified—one might even say stultified—the choice of what grape varieties to plant in France, followed by a similar trend all over Europe. Slowly this led to the concept of typicity, that each place should produce wines of a certain character.
Today, the need to conform to fashion has become a determinative factor. This creates a stranglehold on which grape varieties are planted in which region, by legal regulations in Europe, by market forces in the New World. As I pointed out last time (“Is the Clash between Modernism and Tradition Over?,” WFW 85, pp.126–27), this has led to some confusion over what really defines the character of a region—in particular, over the extent to which grape varieties contribute to a style that represents a place, as distinct from the extent to which they are the typicity. Olivier Bourdet-Pees, director of the Plaimont Cooperative, put it very well at a seminar in London, when he said, “Grape variety is a tool to express the terroir, but we have too often made it a brand.”
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The alcohol problem was of a different nature altogether when grape varieties were settled for each region. The difficulty was in getting to ripeness, which happened only occasionally; most of the time, an acceptable level of 12% or 12.5% was reached by chaptalization. The climate was significantly cooler then. Today the problem is that the combination of global warming and the fashion for phenolic ripeness (for which read high levels with regards to sugar accumulation) has pushed alcohol well beyond the traditional bounds for each variety: 16% is not uncommon for Grenache in Châteauneuf, Merlot can reach 15% in Bordeaux, and Pinot Noir can achieve 14% or even higher in Burgundy. There are varieties that carry high levels of alcohol quite naturally: Nebbiolo manages 14.5% without any distortion of balance, but it is difficult to maintain the delicacy of Pinot Noir at 14%. (I have focused here on increase in alcohol, but loss of acidity is just as serious a problem; in fact, in some regions, such as Champagne, producers are much more worried about loss of acidity than about extremes of alcohol.)
The problem of rising alcohol goes beyond the alcohol level as such. To producers who respond to criticism that alcohol levels have surpassed traditional bounds by saying, “But the wine is balanced,” I would say, “Yes, but that balance is different from the traditional balance.” Alcohol is a solvent, so if red wine reaches, say, 15% ABV for the last part of fermentation and maceration, extraction may well be more effective than it was when the limit was 12.5% ABV. They are becoming conscious of this in Bordeaux. Philippe Bascaules at Château Margaux says, “Having more alcohol in the wine, especially during the winemaking, changes our view of winemaking—we have to adapt.”
The change in circumstances produced by climate led me to suggest in my previous column that one way to maintain typicity, if it is defined by the historical character of wine from a place, would be to move varieties from farther south into more northern locations. An alternative would be to look into grape varieties that were typical for a region but that fell out of favor. Often they were abandoned because of failure to achieve ripeness. In today’s warmer climate, that might not be a problem. This has been advocated especially in southwest France, where there is plethora of old grape varieties that aren’t grown much anymore but that are still extant; it’s used to a minor degree in Bordeaux, where varieties such as Carmenère or Malbec are still legal though not in reality grown much, and it is practiced a bit in Champagne.
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Before I explore the possibilities further, I want to point out that regulations restricting the solution to resurrecting historical varieties really are an example of muddled thinking, or at least of thinking being constrained by the enormous bureaucracy that has grown up to administer appellation regulations. Why on earth should it be appropriate to consider increasing Carmenère in Bordeaux because of the historical accident that it was grown there in the 18th and 19th centuries, but to refuse to consider Syrah because it was merely imported to strengthen the wine but not actually grown in Bordeaux? To be bound by the historical accident of what grape varieties were or were not appropriate for place at a time when climate was very different is a terrible confusion of means and ends. (Are the regulations about making the best wine or trying to preserve the character of a region, or about trying to establish a brand monopoly that can hold in the marketplace?)
Be that as it may, recognizing the practicalities of adherence to what passes for tradition (I regard it as superstition), what are the possibilities of resurrecting old varieties? Two places in southwest France are reservoirs of old varieties. Spurred by the discovery of a small vineyard (a square of 12 rows) planted with a sizable set of previously unknown varieties, the Plaimont cooperative has made a specialty of resurrecting old varieties and reviving varieties that were almost extinct. The use of the old varieties accentuates a light style, sometimes even elegant, that is unexpected in the southwest of France. Gaillac has an even longer-established tradition of using old varieties, as well as modern varieties.
The Plaimont cooperative has achieved some Lazarus-like resurrections. At the extremes, Manseng Noir was revived from a single plant, and Tardif was recovered from two plants. Manseng Noir retains high acidity and makes a wine with low alcohol. (I tasted one vintage at 9%.) Tardif has the interesting property that it makes a lot of rotundone, which is a characteristic of Syrah. (Rotundone is a terpene, a compound that’s thought to be responsible for the peppery character of Syrah.) I suppose the unstated implication is that it might be a useful substitute for Syrah, but it has less aromatic lift on the nose and less generosity on the palate.
Tasting these and other examples from the area around Madiran, and also tasting old varieties that are grown in Gaillac, you can see why they fell out of favor: not just because of difficulties ripening, but because their aromatics are less distinct, flavor variety is more restricted, and there is a certain lack of the richness that fashion has dictated should be a feature of modern wine. It would be going back to tradition with a vengeance to suppose they could replace today’s dominant varieties. I am not sure how successful they would be in attenuating the problems of loss of acidity and gain of sugar in a blend without introducing significant change in flavor.
Champagne: Approaching a limit?
Champagne has done better than most regions in France in withstanding the challenges of global warming. “Global warming is not a problem—for now,” is the most common attitude in Champagne. The extent of manipulation in making Champagne admits other possibilities in addition to those of still wine producers; in addition to stopping chaptalization, it’s possible to block MLF to retain acidity, and to use lower dosage to compensate for increased ripeness and lower acidity. Zero dosage was barely possible before climate change: The fact that there are now zero-dosage cuvées that taste no drier than brut was with 12g dosage two or three decades ago says a great deal about Champagne’s ability to adapt.
There are two signs that the Champenois may be worried they are approaching a limit, however. The most obvious is that Coteaux Champenois used to be a (sometimes) interesting red wine made around Ambonnay or Bouzy. On a recent visit to Champagne, I was shown or told about a white Coteaux Champenois at almost every house I visited. It’s produced in small amounts and reaches an interest level somewhere around a good Mâcon, but one wonders if it’s a hedge to gain experience with still wines in case Champagne production becomes seriously affected by further rise in temperatures.
Champagne is a case where the authorities failed to ban some of the old varieties—Petit Meslier, Arbanne, Pinot Blanc, and Fromenteau (Pinot Gris). “It was a fight to keep them in the appellation,” says Benoît Tarlant, who has been planting the old varieties for his BAM cuvée—Pinot Blanc, Arbanne, Petit Meslier.) Planting of grape varieties other than Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier, and Chardonnay is still on a very small scale, but there are now new plantings of all the old varieties. This is partly done in a spirit of maintaining old traditions, partly for curiosity, and partly because varieties such as Petit Meslier and Arbanne retain high acidity and produce lower sugar at maturity. Given the tradition in Champagne for blending, the old varieties have so far mostly been used in blends rather than as varietal wines; it’s a question whether they will sufficiently retain the traditional profile of Champagne as varietals, because their aromatic profiles are different.
Resurrecting old varieties may involve a change in style. “The real question is, Are they as good as Chardonnay or Pinot?” says Michel Drappier. “The answer is no for the moment, and this is probably why they were abandoned, but they are getting better and better. The taste of Champagne may change a little bit, but we have to consider that it will just taste like the cuvées produced in the 19th century, though much dryer.” That really stands as a broader comment that applies to other regions: bringing back grape varieties that were abandoned not just because of difficulties ripening but also because of difficulties with flavor is not a panacea.
But sparkling wine made from the Pinots and/or Chardonnay is not much like Champagne either when it comes—either in the form of Crémant from elsewhere in France or from more distant locations as California—with alcohol levels of 13.5%. It is a fair question whether Champagne will be able to maintain its typicity if alcohol levels are forced over 12.5%. In fact, the legal limit for Champagne is 13%, which means in effect that it will be difficult to make Champagne if the base wine goes over 11.5% (which happened with some lots in 2022).
The south of France, from the Southern Rhône to the Languedoc, has never had the same reputation for whites as for reds, partly because of the difficulty of finding varieties that retain sufficient freshness when grown at the high temperatures of the region. Yet here more choices are allowed than in most appellations. Producers in Châteauneuf-du-Pape have been adjusting the blend for both reds and whites to try to keep alcohol down, but Gigondas has gone the whole hog and selected a variety previously little thought of to be its dominant white. Clairette has never had a high reputation—just a notch above Grenache Blanc, perhaps. “People took it out in the Southern Rhône because it wasn’t very expressive and then they planted more aromatic varieties from the Northern Rhône,” says Jean-Marie Amadieu. But in 2023, Gigondas allowed white into the appellation (previously it had to be labeled as Côtes du Rhône) on the condition that it is 70% Clairette. This is interesting because Clairette is not a particularly acid variety, but nonetheless it retains freshness well in the face of high growing temperatures, without accumulating very high sugar. So, there may be possibilities other than simply looking for high-acid varieties.
New World grape varieties and climate change: Reduced options?
Has the New World reduced its options for responding to climate change by focusing on varietal labels? Napa Valley is Cabernet Sauvignon, to the point at which the imprimatur of the valley carries nothing like the same weight on any other red variety. So, for Napa Valley to turn to, for example, Syrah would require a massive rebranding exercise that might or might not be successful. Bordeaux, by comparison, could probably introduce some Syrah into its blend without seriously affecting its market position. Burgundy, of course, also has the problem of any region that relies on single varieties: Change then becomes much more difficult.
The focus on a small number of dominant grape varieties has more than one cause. Tarlant sees the abandonment of the “old” varieties in Champagne after the second World War II as due to several reasons—not just later ripening but also more difficult regular yield and “failure to adapt well to the need of big companies and modern distribution.” He sees their resurrection as representing not just climatic history but “more about history, grower value, and sense of the place.”
It’s significant that the focus on old varieties mostly occurs in less successful regions. This is partly for practical reasons; economics have made them irrelevant in more successful regions (if they have not been driven out and banned anyway). Of course, the successful regions may become victims of their own propaganda: If they have achieved a perfect match between variety and terroir, how can they consider changing it?
Yet we have in fact got a precedent for the need for sweeping changes in viticulture and wine production. Before phylloxera, vines were planted on their own roots at high density in a higgledy-piggledy arrangement produced by layering. Over the course of something like three decades, vineyards switched to planting on rootstocks in a more orderly fashion—and the choice of grape varieties was determined not solely by tradition but also by the need to adapt to the new circumstances of the necessity of grafting onto a rootstock.
Climate change is unfolding over a comparable timescale. Surely the response should be the same as it was in the time of phylloxera: The question should be what should we plant to produce the best wine in each place? We should not be bound by the history of what was appropriate centuries ago in very different conditions. It is necessary to start afresh, with an open mind, just as they were forced to do by phylloxera.
