Along the rugged hills of northern Italy, a grape called arneis has grown for more than 500 years. These are the same hills that produce great wines like Barolo and Barbaresco, wines that by the middle of this century overshadowed the arneis grape and its wine and nearly caused its extinction.
Arneis, once a well-known white in the Piedmont region, had declined so far that it was used mostly to lighten and soften powerful reds like Barolo. At one point, it was planted among the red wine vines only because it ripened early and drew bees away from the more important grapes.
By the 1970s only two producers were making arneis wine, Vietti and Bruno Giacosa. But thanks mostly to their efforts, the world began to appreciate this fresh, fruity wine, which the Italians sometimes called Barolo bianco. It enjoyed explosive growth through the 1980s and early 1990s and is now one of the country’s most respected white wines.
All over the world, but especially in Italy, winemakers are reaching back to ancient grapes, in some cases varieties that had all but disappeared. From the banks of the Rhine to the tip of the Italian boot, from southern France to the distant vineyards of Chile, winemakers are rediscovering their heritage, and in doing so are adding color and excitement to the world of wine, counteracting what they perceive as a steady drift toward conformity and a bland homogenous style.
Italy claims well over 1,000 varieties of grapes, of which 400 are in regular use. Many of these trace their roots, literally and figuratively, to ancient times. The greco vines, which today produce Greco del Tufo, one of southern Italy’s most famous wines, obviously came from Greece. The precursors of sangiovese, the principal grape of Chianti, appear to have been cultivated in Tuscany by the Etruscans.
At San Felice, a large wine estate and research center near Siena in the Chianti region, some 300 long-forgotten grape varieties, many of them ancestors of sangiovese, are being nurtured in a special vineyard. At a seminar there a few years ago, I tasted wines made from grapes with names like abrusco, colorino, aleante, morellino and pugnitello, all of them related to sangiovese. One day, some of them may stand on their own, like arneis; others may be added to the Chianti blend to give it richness and new vigor.
Old is new again
To a degree, the resurgence of interest in these old varieties is a reaction to the vogue for foreign grapes that had overwhelmed Italy and particularly Tuscany during the last three decades. Appalled by the poor quality of so much Chianti in the 1960s, forward-looking winemakers turned to French varieties to heighten the quality of their wines.
At first, in wines like Antinori’s Tignanello, cabernet sauvignon was used to enhance sangiovese. Eventually, cabernet became the dominant wine in these blends, and the so-called Supertuscans were born.
Chardonnay, too, took the spotlight away from many traditional Italian white wines, while merlot, grown in Italy for years, was recast as a noble French import.
Today, many Tuscan winemakers are returning to native varieties. They have learned that with proper care in the vineyards and the cellars, widely planted traditional Italian grapes like sangiovese can produce wines with all the richness and elegance of Bordeaux wines. A good example of what can be done with traditional Tuscan grapes is Badia a Coltibuono’s San Gioveto, a rich, powerful wine made from a sangiovese clone.
Many other traditional varieties are becoming better-known as the world turns to Italy as perhaps the last bastion of good, reasonably priced wines.
There is cannonau, for example, Sardinia’s version of Spain’s garnacha; the nero d’Avola from Sicily, and the negroamaro, another grape from Apulia, the heel of the Italian boot, whose history stretches back to the Greeks and Phoenicians. Apulia is also home to the primitivo, a relative, it is thought, of California’s zinfandel.
Spanish immigrant
In Spain, on the windswept coast of Galicia, the country’s westernmost province, grows albarino, a grape that seems to thrive on poor weather. Yet, it makes one of the finest white wines of Europe. Thirty years ago, it had all but disappeared.
Albarino has been grown in the Rias Baixas region of Galicia at least since the 15th Century. But enologists say it appears to be of German origin. How did it get to the western tip of Spain in the Middle Ages? It was carried by pilgrims visiting the shrine of Santiago de Compostela.
For almost 500 years, from the 11th Century on, some 500,000 pilgrims crossed the Pyrenees each year to come to Compostela. Benedictines and Cistercians from the great German and French monasteries almost certainly brought vines with them, including the ancestor of albarino.
The wine’s popularity declined over the years, until by 1986, there were only five producers. Today there are more than 60. Albarino is a full-bodied, fruity wine, resembling highly perfumed viogniers from France. Albarino is a bit leaner and livelier–a perfect seafood wine.
The French, as might be expected, have been less enthusiastic about resuscitating old varieties. In fact, they have spent the last half century pulling out thousands of acres of indifferent varieties like carignan and aramon in the Midi and replacing them with cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay and merlot. Which is not to say they have ignored all their oldest grape types.
Viognier, a white wine grape of the northern Rhone Valley, was once used mostly to lighten up the powerful reds of the Cote Rotie. A little was sold as Condrieu, the name of the town where it’s made, or as Chateau Grillet, a famous vineyard in the region.
Today, viognier is a popular varietal wine produced in the United States and Australia as well as France.
Roussanne, another old vine of the Rhone Valley, had practically disappeared in the 1950s, mostly because it is difficult to grow. It produces a dry, elegant wine unlike most Rhone varieties, which tend to the rustic and robust. Once used mostly for blending, roussanne has staged a slow, steady comeback.
Rolle was once found mostly in the vineyards around Nice, which suggests an ancient Greek and Roman heritage. When the carignan and aramon vines were pulled up in the Languedoc and Roussillon, rolle was one of the grapes that replaced them. Today, this once virtually obsolete variety can be found in most French supermarkets.
Carmenere was once an important grape in Bordeaux, where it found its way into some distinguished wines. The onset of phylloxera and oidium, the twin vineyard plagues of the 19th Century, proved disastrous, as carmenere was particularly susceptible. By the time the Bordeaux vineyards returned to health, carmenere was gone and practically forgotten.
Chilean assistance
Fast-forward to the 1970s. With the increased demand throughout the world for fine wines, Chile began to expand its cabernet sauvignon and merlot vineyards. French viticulturists and winemakers, working for Europeans who had invested in Chilean vineyards, discovered that much of what was thought to be merlot was actually the long-forgotten carmenere, probably brought in by early settlers.
Chile is also where Miguel Torres, a Spanish winemaker, discovered an old carignan vineyard. His first wine from it, called Cordillera, was released in late 1999.
In Spain, Torres has returned to his vineyard roots with his newest premium wine, Grans Muralles, a blend of garnacha, tinta, monastrell, samso and garro, all traditional varieties in the Penedes region, southwest of Barcelona. Grans Muralles is a big, complex wine, with layers of intriguing flavors. The 1996 vintage is still developing; it should age for 15 years or more.
For some years now, pessimists have been predicting the inevitable development of bland universal wines: soft, oaky reds and whites that will taste the same in Cape Town as in Calistoga. It may happen. But so long as the the search for old varieties goes on and the respect for authenticity and tradition in grape growing and winemaking continue, it isn’t going to happen for a long time.
