While I was drinking one of the three Languedoc reds that we have been examining in Wine School over the last month, a one-word description kept running through my mind. “Rustic,” and I meant it as a compliment.
Yet almost any word used to describe a wine comes with a ready-made argument against it. “Crisp” is a common description of white wines with lively acidity, yet someone invariably will ask, “How can a liquid be crisp?”
I can’t help but believe that’s an intentionally obtuse response, but I’ve been on the receiving end of it plenty of times. Same with “dry.” The objections are predictable pokes at wine jargon, though dry is easily defined as a wine with minimal amounts of residual sugar after fermentation.
“Rustic” earned its own treatise last year on the site Punch by the writer Danny Chau, who suggested the word be retired. His objection, as I understood it, was on two counts. First, it has no fixed meaning. Rather, the meaning is derived from the context in which it is used, depending on who is speaking the word and the wine to which it is applied.
Second, with the proliferation of natural wines, rustic is too imprecise, referring vaguely to flaws without specifying the nature of the problem.
These are points worth thinking about. Here at Wine School, we strive for clarity in speaking about wine. Still we acknowledge that applying language to this slippery world of aromas, flavors, textures and liquid experiences can be frustrating.
Writers often resort to similes and metaphors to describe a wine, likening it to a string quartet or a brass band or a ballet. But the reference points can differ markedly from person to person, imparting a meaning that differs from what was intended.
What’s more, each of these descriptors also requires context. In evaluating a wine, one ought to account for a winemaker’s intention, as well as more mundane factors, like the price. One’s mood also figures in the equation.
Wine writers have aimed for precision, but even that doesn’t account for the subjective nature of experience. What one describes as “apple,” another believes is “pear.” Most winemakers, on hearing another person’s description of their wine, just nod and agree. It’s generally not worth arguing about.
Nonetheless, words like rustic are useful even if only as a device for remembering what I was thinking as I drank the wine, which makes it necessary to explain further in plainer language.
The word “rustic” is derived from the Latin rusticus, which means “the country.” It was originally used to describe wines that lacked refinement, that were simple and rough. In our modern age, where the mainstream is full of soulless, overly polished wines, rustic has also come to connote a sort of handmade distinctiveness. Again, context is everything.
As I do each month, I suggested three bottles, to be consumed with family or friends with meals in a relaxed setting. The three Languedoc reds were: Domaine d’Aupilhac Languedoc Lou Maset 2018, Domaine Faillenc Sainte Marie Corbières Rouge 2019 and Domaine de l’Hortus Pic Saint Loup Bergerie Classique Rouge 2019.
The d’Aupilhac was the wine that had me thinking rustic — I loved it. It was a once-typical Languedoc blend, 40 percent grenache, 40 percent cinsault and 10 percent each of carignan and mourvèdre; dry, with flavors of dark and red fruits and an underlying herbal edge, with tannins that outweighed the density and concentration of the wine but were not overwhelming.
What made it rustic to me? The herbal qualities and the tannins, which made it feel a bit rough, and very much of the Languedoc. The wine was refreshing and energetic, and it was my favorite of the three bottles.
The Faillenc Sainte Marie also seemed a tad rustic. It was mildly herbal, with rough tannins, and lively, but it was a good deal more sweetly fruity than the d’Aupilhac.
It might have been its blend of grapes — equal thirds syrah, grenache and cinsault. But more likely it was the alcohol level, 14 percent as against d’Aupilhac’s 12 percent. The increased ripeness of the grapes results in a higher sugar level, which, when fermented, means more alcohol. The sweet fruit made it seem slightly less distinctive than the d’Aupilhac.
In contrast, the l’Hortus was the least rustic and most polished of the group and the highest in alcohol, 14.5 percent. It was 60 percent syrah and 20 percent each of grenache and mourvèdre, with light tannins, aromas and flavors of fresh fruit and no herbal elements. It seemed to embody that modern imperative of emphasizing fruit and eliminating traces of green, which some people fear indicates underripe grapes.
Several readers like Ferd T. Elvin of Montreal and Ferguson of Princeton, N.J., very much liked this wine, but it was my least favorite. Nothing was wrong with it except that compared with the other two bottles it seemed to me to lack a sense of place.
That is possibly because I’m not enamored with syrah from the Languedoc, even though syrah is conventionally seen as a big improvement over more traditional Languedoc grapes like carignan and cinsault. As with syrah grown in some of the warmer parts of California and Australia, it loses its savory nature and becomes sweet-fruited and indistinct.
My feelings, like anybody’s, play into context and expectations. I expect Languedoc reds to conjure up the wild herbs of southern France famously known as garrigue. Without that herbal note, especially at higher alcohol levels, the wines can feel glossy and indistinct. Someone who prefers these more polished wines might call the d’Aupilhac rustic in a negative sense, even if they are not using that precise word.
Readers were divided on this wine. George Erdle of Charlotte, N.C., said, “It has a funky, not so pleasant nose.” But Shweta of Michigan liked it so much she said she immediately ordered a second bottle. And Keith W. Hall of Steelton, Pa., had two different opinions on two successive nights.
The first night, he said, the bottle “had a lot of the barnyard and it was difficult to get past it.” But the second night, he said, it was much better.
In my article last month introducing the Languedoc reds, I suggested the region was still searching for an identity. Several readers took issue with this notion.
“The identity of the Languedoc (with some notable exceptions like Limoux and Picpoul de Pinet) is firmly tied to red blends composed of some combination of grenache, syrah, mourvèdre and cinsault,” said Tim T., of Oakland, Calif. “There is no confusion about what the Languedoc delivers in spades, which is brilliant, terroir-driven red wines. The Languedoc delivers some of the most consistent, hugely satisfying red wines from any region on earth.”
That’s of course his opinion, based, he said, on sometimes tasting hundreds of Languedoc reds in a day, a feat that I, for one, do not envy. But I would argue that most American consumers do not know what to expect from the Languedoc, which suggests that the region has not successfully conveyed an impression of what it offers, that is, an identity.
That might be a failure of marketing. But it might also be the fact that the Languedoc is a jumble of appellations, many of which have different rules for the varieties permitted in the blends. And it has habitually been linked to a neighboring region, Roussillon, where the wines can be entirely different.
In addition, in an effort over the last 40 years to improve from the inexpensive commodity wines that were the historic backbone of Languedoc’s wine industry, grapes like syrah have replaced a lot of the carignan and cinsault that were once a foundation of Languedoc blends.
Aaron Lawson of San Jose points out that the inclusion of carignan is often a dividing line between the region’s more traditional and modern styles, a point well worth thinking about.
I don’t mean to suggest that Tim T. was wrong in his comment. I may be guilty of laziness by not explaining more clearly what I meant by “identity,” a word even more fraught than rustic.
It was yet another reminder of the importance of clarity when talking about wine and the dangers of taking anything for granted.
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March 25, 2022 at 12:27AM
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Finding the Right Words for the Red Wines of Languedoc - The New York Times
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