OK, so Toquade isn't a "family." Rather Toquade is an ideal, one belonging to Christine Barbe, a bordelais who ended up making wine in Napa Valley. She came to my attention courtesy of Philippe Langner, my brilliant and humble cab producer. The irony of both my Napa Valley producers being French is not lost on me, and perhaps is just about right, given the style of wine and winemaking I like, and therefore look to buy and sell.
Before heading west to spend time with Langner last summer, he suggested that I meet his very good friend, one who happened to make a very nice sauvignon blanc, in his opinion. I figured that because his wines show a beautiful sense of restraint, hers probably did, too, or he wouldn't recommend her to me. He, of course, was spot on. Or should I say, she was.
We sat down to a nice, long lunch in Rutherford and she starting explaining what she was trying to do. She almost needn't have bothered. I took one whiff of her '08 SB and I immediately wiped away my poker face and said I'd buy it. And we hadn't even talked about price. Not the savviest way to do business, but it seems to have worked for me.
Barbe explained, "I make this kind of wine because I can't find it in California. There's too much malo, too much sugar." Though she's from Bordeaux, she doesn't make a Bordeaux-style sauvignon. That would, of course, require oak, and lots of it. Barbe's SB is fermented in stainless steel, and just as importantly, it ages in stainless steel, too. The body that slowly emerges as the wine warms up in the glass is thanks to weekly stirring of the lees (essentially all the yeasty goo after the fermentation process is finished).
I have likened Toquade to a sort of cross between the grassy vitality of Sancerre and the heftier Bordeaux Blanc. Which isn't really correct because of the absence of oak and sémillon, typically part of the white Bordeaux blend. Maybe Entre-Deux-Mers, that ocean of white wine seldom spoken about by Bordeaux fanatics that is actually part of Bordeaux, is closer. But not really, as much of those whites lack the nuance and body of Barbe's. Whatever.
The word "toquade" means "infatuation" in French. "I put all my life savings into it. People said I was crazy," she said. Or not so much. The grapes come from a small dry-farmed vineyard in Yountville. It's next to the river and is farmed organically. It's owned by the owners of the Napa Wine Co. "I make my white the same way they make their red," Barbe said. In other words, not too much fussing in the vineyard or cellar.
In addition to growing a dry-farmed wine (meaning the only water comes from Mother Nature), something that's pretty rare in Napa Valley, not to mention much of the New World generally, she also waits longer than most before bottling. "People bottle early for Wine Spectator. They have to have samples ready by April. I can't do that because the wine's not ready then," she explained.
As I work through the last of her 2008, I'm looking forward to the '09. Not in any hurry, though.
July 2010 UPDATE
Well, that didn't take long. I'm out of '08 (it can still be found at a few stores and restaurants). The 2009 will be in New York in about two weeks. Just in time.
Serendipity is as good a way as any to find a talented producer. My long-term plan included having at least one or two Washington State wineries in the portfolio, though I expected not to add them until sometime later. The usual way of "discovering" an established, though unheralded, producer typically involves lots of research and tasting. In the case of Domaine Pouillon, I did neither. Instead, we were brought together by way of an e-mail I received last spring from the former co-director of the small private school I went to in Washington, D.C. Dick Roth, a man who, as I have learned over the course of the 28 years since I graduated from high school, likes his wine, told me that he had just visited an alum in Washington State who makes wine and that I might consider contacting him. I sent Alexis Pouillon (Edmund Burke Class of 1985) an e-mail introducing myself and telling him about Dick's message to me. After some back and forth, the Pouillons (Juliet is the other half of the husband-and-wife Domaine Pouillon team) sent me six wines to try. They were terrific all the way around.
Visitors have come from far and wide to taste Domaine Pouillon's wares, though New Yorker's won't have to travel to the Columbia Gorge to do so now.
At about the same time, Domaine Pouillon was included in a short travel article in The New York Times, which resulted in a few more pins being stuck in the tasting room map showing where visitors had come from to try their wine. As might be expected, distribution is weighted heavily toward the Pacific Northwest. Their charming wines ("country bumpkin" was how Juliet referred to them when she sent them to me) seemed to me to be ideal for the New York market simply because they aren't the same old thing. Instead, blends are composed of partners I wouldn't have thought belonged together; no attempt is made to push up alcohol levels; there is a palpable sense of restraint to them making them, first and foremost, food wines.
There is an overriding sense of individuality in the wines of Domaine Pouillon. That is no doubt a reflection of the Pouillons themselves. While drawing a barrel sample, Alexis said, “I want to get rid of all the barrels and do cement tanks.” Further evidence that as a winemaker, he is an acolyte of no school.
But like all too many small producers who have not been anointed by the wine press—read: Robert Parker and/or The Wine Spectator—the odds of getting distribution in non-local major wine markets are daunting at best.
T-Bone—the "requisite winery dog," according to Juliet—surveys the foreboding lay of the land at Domaine Pouillon. Violent seismic activity millions of years ago has rendered the Columbia Gorge as difficult to navigate as it is promising for wine grapes.
Though perhaps not as daunting as just making wine in this part of the world. The Columbia Gorge is the product of cataclysmic seismic activity millions of years ago. What is above ground now was likely under the ocean then resulting in one of the wine world's most complex collection of soils, sediments, exposures and micro-climates. The gorge makes the rest of Eastern Washington wine country look positively barren by comparison.
Cross sections of the Columbia Gorge's crazy quilt of rocky soils are often conveniently available for observation thanks to winding mountain roads being carved right through them.
The plan is to have 7 of their 20 acres under vine. Currently, two acres of very young vines are planted. For now, the Pouillons get all their fruit from carefully chosen vineyards on both sides of the Columbia River. The decision to settle down in the Columbia Gorge is intriguing, though Alexis says simply, "I wanted four seasons, not California prices.” A drive up the mountain in Lyle ("There's one traffic light here," Alexis says.) to get to Domaine Pouillon offers no hint that there is an emerging world-class wine region here. I saw one winery as I drove, and it seemed better suited to be a survivalist compound than a place where wine tourism might flourish. There were also no vineyards in sight. “We’re like Napa years ago,” Alexis says.
Despite the look of things at the end of August, it rains about 20 inches a year here (which is considerably more than in other parts of Eastern Washington). "We'd like to move to dry farming," says Alexis of their young estate vines.
THE REST OF THE STORY COMING SOON!
There is indeed a Valerie, and she, along with four other family members, works in “her” pinot noir vineyard in Carneros.
Contrary to common perception, Northern California winemaking isn’t the sole province of mega-producers that put out hundreds of thousands, or even millions, of cases each year. While there certainly is a lot of that, as a drive down Highway 29 in Napa Valley suggests, there is actually a great deal of small-scale winemaking taking place, too. Valerie’s Vineyard falls squarely within the very-small category of small-scale.
The one-acre estate vineyard was planted in 2002 by five family members. The vineyard is part of a collection of buildings, pens and stables where Michael and Valerie Coats have lived for 15 years. The other partners are Valerie’s mother and father, Jerry and Chuck Hanson (he is involved with Hi-Time Cellars, a wine-selling institution in Costa Mesa), and Valerie’s sister Vicki Brown. This gang of five all pitch in around the vineyard throughout the year, though it stands to reason that Micheal and Valerie are there most often.
Michael Coats armed with two pruning shears.
This part of Carneros has long been ranch land, and their property was part of a much larger tract that had hundreds of acres of plum trees on it (a fact that might account for the plummy character of the finished wine). Vines had never been planted where they decided to grow their own grapes. According to Michael, whose “real” job is in the PR field, “We like pinot so that’s why we planted it. We’re pretty impulsive so we just did it.”
“You won’t find a vineyard with as many beer cans,” Michael says, noting the adage that it takes a lot of beer to make good wine.
The first vintage was the 2003 and, not surprisingly given the youth of the vines, yielded only 20 cases, all of which were consumed by the partners. Being in the vineyard constantly as opposed to having hired hands going up and down the rows provides a deep sense of understanding of the needs of the vines and the soil. And it takes an extraordinary amount of time.
A view of nearly the entire one-acre Valerie’s Vineyard from the early 20th-century windmill, which was used to generate power long before this remote part of Carneros was wired.
The name of the vineyard was bestowed on it, not by any of the partners, by the vineyard guy they asked to help put down their vines. His response was that he’d love to plant Valerie’s vineyard. They took it as a sign, though there must be confusion from time to time as to which Valerie is being spoken about at home!
The decision to plant pinot noir was an easy one for the partners. “We like pinot,” says Michael Coats, who adds during a walk through the vineyard in late August, “This is perfect pinot weather.”
Their house dates to 1918, and while it has been updated (including the kind of kitchen that could be used in a Food Network show—Valerie is a caterer), it shows none of the trappings of wine country ostentation that might be found in nearby Napa. Valerie’s Vineyard isn’t a vanity project, after all. “We don’t farm for pretty,” Michael says. A close look at the vineyard bears this out. Dry, loamy clay puffs dust clouds during a walk through it. The soil reminds me of the Har-Tru clay I grew up playing tennis on: a fine greenish-gray surface that somehow managed to get all over your clothes after spending a few hours running around on it.
“Pretty” is perhaps not a descriptor that applies to Valerie’s Vineyard; instead, the “gang of five” involved in the project put their time and effort into raising grapes from healthy vines grown in healthy soil.
The philosophy in the vineyard is one of taking responsibility for what is being brought to the land. “We wanted to go organic from the beginning. We use solar; we use our own water on the vines. We have chickens for fertilizer, cover crops, lady bugs and bees,” Michael says, pointing out that these bugs are always a sign of a vineyard’s health. And a healthy vineyard it is. “You can almost watch the vines grow. It’s been a fertile year,” Valerie says. That kind of vigor requires lots of trips through the vineyard to drop fruit, trim extra shoots and clear leaves that take the energy of the vines away from the grape clusters.
The sentiment on the old windmill sums up the philosophy of the growers: Do no harm when making this wine.
Harvest is usually about September 10th each year, a bit of seasonal consistency that is the envy of the Old World where the commencement of the picking can change by weeks from year to year. But according to Michael, the pinot will be picked probably “5 or 6 days later” this year. That might not sound like much of a difference, but, he says, “That’s big additional hang time,” something that will perhaps give the 2009 Valerie’s Vineyard Pinot more plushness than the 2006, 2007 and 2008. As of late August, the grapes were coming along nicely. “A good cluster will feel like a hand grenade,” Michael explains.
As of late August, the clusters were on schedule to become grenade-like in size—the target for pinot noir—in mid-September.
They’re not obsessed with numbers, though they aim for picking at about 25 brix. “Valerie is a caterer, so she’s sensitive to balance and acidity, which are more important,” Michael says, while checking the sugar levels on August 25th. The reading came in at 20, further confirmation that things are progressing nicely. The real measure, however, is far less scientific. “If the seeds are turning brown and the birds are eating the grapes, it’s time to pick,” he explains.
While the aim is to pick around 25 brix—the number on August 25th was 20—the true test, according to Michael Coats, is when “the birds are eating the grapes.”
Work has begun on the 2009 starting with the three to fours hours it took the partners to harvest the vineyard on September 14th. Like its predecessors, the ‘09 will spend about 17 months in a mix of new and aged French oak. And like those Valerie’s Vineyard Pinots subsequent to that first one in 2003, there will be about 125 cases made. The 2006 is in New York now, but won’t be for long because only 20 cases made it out of California. The 2007 will be in New York late this year or early in 2010. The 2008 will follow next summer. The wines are also available through the Valerie’s Vineyard website: www.valeriesvineyard.com.