A singular, shining identity. The expression of a particular, unique place on the Earth’s surface—call it terroir—blessed by geological and microclimatic felicities, hallowed by a name rich in historical or at least local associations, through the prism of a noble grape variety.
This ideal notion carries much weight in the world of wine. You might recall Walter Pater’s dictum that “all art constantly aspires to the condition of music” and apply it to this luminous singularity. You can, however, already see that this ideal notion is fraught with complications or even contradictions. It may hold good for the greatest wines of Burgundy, the Mosel, Barolo, or the Loire, but it is clearly more problematic when applied to Bordeaux, Champagne, Rioja, the Douro, or even Napa Valley.
For a start, in those latter regions, varietal wines are the exception rather than the rule. Petrus may be (in recent times) a 100% Merlot wine, but I have yet to encounter a 100% Cabernet Sauvignon wine in Bordeaux, apart from experimental lots shown to me at Léoville-Las-Cases by Michel Delon. Traditionally in Champagne, Rioja, and the Douro, identity has been linked with brand or house style—a very different notion, you might think.
I was reflecting on these matters recently after a dinner showcasing vintages of Yalumba’s top red cuvée, The Caley, named after the horticulturist and adventurer Fred Caley Smith, introduced by winemaker Kevin Glastonbury. This blend of Coonawarra Cabernet (sometimes also Barossa Cabernet) and Barossa (sometimes also Eden Valley) Shiraz is a rebuff to the notion of singular identity. The thinking behind it is that the marriage of these two (sometimes four) very different entities, made from different grape varieties in regions hundreds of miles apart, results in something more satisfying than either on its own.
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I’m sympathetic to this thinking, having long felt, a little heretically, that 100% Coonawarra Cabernet can be too much of a good thing, too intensely minty and linear for its own good, and likewise (though with more exceptions, especially Henschke’s marvelous Hill of Grace and Mount Edelstone bottlings) that Barossa Shiraz can be excessively full and voluptuous, or somewhat too sensational, as Canon Chasuble might have put it.
Completeness and harmony were two terms I kept using in my notes on the 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, and 2018 vintages of the The Caley. Sometimes, the minty, blackcurranty notes of Coonawarra Cabernet predominated, sometimes the almost caramelly warmth and ripeness of Barossa Shiraz; often the two blended seamlessly into an elegant and satisfying complexity that promised a long, slow unfurling.
Quite bravely, I think, The Caley proposes an identity that is openly and shamelessly multiple. On the whole, the trend for “luxury” bottlings is to aspire to ever greater singularity. One might think in Champagne of Krug’s Clos du Mesnil or Philipponnat’s Clos des Goisses. I remember attending a blending session of base wines chez Krug at which Clos du Mesnil featured, along with a number of other crus. Was it “better” than the others? Hard to say, or rather contingent on whether it was being considered as a cru on its own—a soloist—or as a blending component in a “symphony.”
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Identity: Multiple benefits
My thoughts on The Caley were to some extent reinforced at a tasting dedicated to the three single-vineyard Malbecs made, at increasing levels of altitude, by Achaval Ferrer in Mendoza—from Finca Mirador, Finca Bella Vista, and Finca Altamira. They were truly fascinating to compare and contrast, with Altamira having a je ne sais quoi of complexity and salinity that put it just ahead of the others. But when, at the end of the tasting, winemaker Gustavo Rearte showed two examples of Quimera—Achaval Ferrer’s blend of four grape varieties grown in quite widely separate locations—I was captivated by the harmony, subtlety, and extra freshness from Cabernet Franc. Once again, multiple identity had the edge.
By a rather circuitous route, this brings me back to Burgundy. Surely Burgundy is the place where single identity reigns supreme. And within Burgundy, in no context more than the rarefied world of the grands crus—those 33 sites, most identified (even if not officially classified) centuries ago as the most illustrious of them all. They carry names such as Le Montrachet, Romanée-Conti, La Romanée, La Tâche. It was a rare privilege to attend a tasting devoted to one of them—Clos des Lambrays in Morey-St-Denis—presented by the admirably open-to-the-world régisseur of the Domaine des Lambrays, Jacques Devauges.
Unusually, Devauges wanted to take us not just into the engine room of one of Burgundy’s greatest wines, but into the engine itself. Metaphorically donning blue overalls, and getting his hands covered in grease, he disassembled the 2022 vintage of the cru into some of its cuvées parcellaires before showing us the assembled grand cru itself. Clos des Lambrays is 8.66ha (21.4 acres) in extent, which may not sound very much but is, of course, several times as large as Romanée-Conti, and there is a surprising variety of soil types. We were entranced by the violet, floral delicacy of the Plante Bas parcel, fell in love with the shy freshness of Le Cerisier, and then (in my note) found an “even higher degree of loveliness” in the 80 Ouvrées Haut. In the end, though, the assembly of all the 11 parcels in the grand cru had it all: energy, freshness, all manner of fruits and spices, voluptuous mouthfeel… “The final wine is always better than the cuvées parcellaires,” said Devauges, with the conviction born of empirical observation, not theory.
