There’s fat in your wine, but the fatty acids are the issue

Oil and water don’t mix (unless you add egg, but then you’ve got an emulsion…and mayonnaise). Wine is essentially water plus alcohol, which doesn’t mix well with oil, either. Since there’s no oil slick layer floating on top of your glass of wine the way fat drops glisten on top of a bowl of ramen, you’ve probably assumed that the wine is fat-free. And if you Google “is there fat in wine?” about 102,000,000 results will tell you that you’re right.

Which is wrong, sort of. Wine does, strictly speaking, include very small amounts of fat. New and improved chemical analyses of New Zealand sauvignon blancs have identified that they at least 25 different kinds of triacylglycerides — the chemical reference for your standard fat molecule: three fatty acids (tri-acyl) bound to a glycerol molecule (glyceride). That’s in addition to an assortment of other fat relatives such as free fatty acids and some waxes.

It’s actually the free fatty acids that are most important here. (Those fats are there in such minuscule quantities that even the jumpiest health journalist can’t pretend there’s anything to jump about there.) They’re present in milligram per liter quantities (so we’re talking less than the amount of sugar found even in truly dry wines) which is enough to make a significant sensory impact on wine indirectly. 

Yeast need lots of free fatty acids to grow well; they’re a major raw ingredient for new cell walls. With plenty of oxygen they can make their own; without oxygen, that particular yeast production line shuts down. Fermenting wine is a mostly anaerobic job for yeast: they get a little oxygen exposure at the top of the vat, a little if the wine is vigorously mixed to keep the skins submerged, but mostly need to rely on the fatty acids initially contained in the grape juice to tide them over. If that source fails, a long and very complicated chain of yeast stress response events kick in, ultimately ending in stuck fermentations, icky aromas, or both. In short, the amount and kind of fatty acids in particular and lipids in general affects wine aroma.

That’s not a wholly unheard-of problem. Overly enthusiastic efforts to clarify white juice before fermentation can pull fatty acids out, too, to the yeast’s detriment. But, ironically, the more common issue is too much of the wrong kind of fatty acid after the yeast have been at it awhile. Lacking the ability to synthesize cell wall components they really need, too much of cell wall molecules they can make (decanoic and octanoic acids) accumulate with toxic consequences. The effect fatty acids have on yeast is a bit like the effect fat has on humans: too much of the wrong kind kills us after awhile, but not enough of the right kind can cause serious problems, too.

But there’s a different and possibly more interesting point to be made here. Lipids originally present in the grape juice affect yeast metabolism, which affects wine aroma, which gives us new places to intervene to make alterations. Adding lipids to South Australian chardonnay boosted production of aromatic molecules: esters, aldehydes, higher alcohols, and volatile acids. The authors of that sauv blanc study speculate that adding specific lipids might be a way to create new, different styles of that so very identifiably aromatic wine.

This information is splendid in two ways. First, it tells us more about that complex and ill-described business of how winemaking works. Second, it may be a way to experiment with new wines. But, third, it could open up one more avenue for adding stuff to make wine fit a particular sensory profile, which we might more generally call “manipulation” and to which many of us* are generally opposed but which fuels the contemporary commercial wine-as-supermarket-commodity industry and supplies inexpensive reds and whites to fit market niche-targeted profiles specifically designed for the glasses of middle-class suburban mothers between 31 and 40 or single 22-29 condo dwellers who prefer to drink wine before dinner with friends on Thursday and watch Orange is the New Black. All wine is manipulated, all wine contains fat, but what that means for any individual case is a different question.

 

 

*Assuming, perhaps unfairly, that “us” is mostly comprised of people who prefer to drink and/or help produce unique and expressive wines that rely more for direction on local traditions, personal philosophy, and vintage conditions than Nielsen numbers.

 

Story and strategic choices in talking about Central Otago subregions

Central Otago went from zero to international recognition in less time than it takes to test the merit of a great Burgundy vintage. Good for them. It’s occupants had the advantage of a favorable climate, enthusiastic pioneers, and in many cases an enviable lot of capital investment, but they also experimented generously and — most importantly — became polished storytellers. The stories may in fact have outpaced the wines, which is less a criticism of the latter than an acknowledgement that they are very much still figuring out what they’re about. And so, while it’s obvious that subregional differences are dramatic enough to shout about, not much shouting actually happens on that account. One: they don’t yet have the maturity for more than broad subregional outlines. Two: it might not be part of the story they want to tell in any case.

Driving through Central makes it clear that subregional differences should be important. Driving in from coastal Otago (the Dunedin area, where I live), the first substantial growing area you encounter is Alexandra, a dry, flattish valley with a large (for this area) town. Cross the hill and drive past the dam and you’re in Cromwell, where many vineyards enjoy the mitigating effects of Lake Dunstan. North at the top of the lake, the Bendigo vineyards are widely known as seeing both the hottest and the most extreme weather. Go east toward Queenstown and the Bannockburn vineyards are perched above the Kawarau river. Through the pass further toward Queenstown, the Gibbston valley has the highest elevation and the coolest climate. And then there are the outliers: dear Nick Mills at Rippon in Wanaka; vineyards in Waitaki closer to the coast. These are obvious differences. Central Otago doesn’t tend toward subtle.

Plenty of conversation is happening about subregions, none of them questioning whether they’re significant. The questions instead are about what is significant. Are site differences principally related to soil differences as you move up the “terraces” from the valley floor? Or is the elevation more significant? Maybe it’s enough to talk about those big subregions. There’s that first problem: it’s hard to tell in part because vines are young, but maybe even more so for want of continuity. Vineyard managers, winemakers, owners, directions, and styles have flexed enough here that two challenges become significant: creating distinctly regional pictures independent of those other factors, and passing down sensibly kept records and knowledge gained from experience. The openness to experimentation and international flux that has helped these folk find a niche in the pinot world so quickly has, at least in some cases, come at the expense of some stability. Point the first.

Point the second: wine, and Central Otago, is all about story. Subregions may not be the story people want to tell here. Yet. Adept storytelling is a stand-out feature of many successful wineries here: to justify selling $70 pinot noir with nearly no history behind them, it has to be. Telling a story doesn’t mean talking about everything that goes into making a wine; it means carefully curating elements that create a specific image. Subregionality may not be part of that story. In some respects, that choice is about market readiness, which is obvious. They’ve succeeded when someone in Louisiana or Newcastle knows where Central Otago is; talking about Bannockburn is too much.

But it’s also a choice about style and direction. Some wineries here bottle from estate vineyards. Many blend fruit from different vineyards for balance and complexity and, no doubt, economy and ease. Matt Kramer told producers in 2013 that using many clones was (one; he had a few other interesting points) key to making exciting pinot noir, and it could be said that blending across multiple vineyard sites is similarly looking for complexity. As those vineyards age, and maybe as they’re planted with increasingly diverse clones, maybe

Back to choosing a story. Wineries here have mostly built their identities around concepts other than subregions. If that’s working for them, serious investment may not go into defining, refining, and emphasizing subregional stories.

Since differentiating yourself is ever necessarily the new world winery game, it makes sense that a (but not all) winery here is built expressly around exemplifying subregional differences. That’s Valli, where Grant Taylor bottles separate pinots from Gibbston, Bannockburn, and Waitaki. Tasting those three wines, made by the same winemaker in essentially the same ways, is an education that makes me wish Taylor’s portfolio included bottles from Bendigo and the other subregions as well. The Gibbston wine is the sharpest with the highest acidity, the Bannockburn the biggest and smokiest, the Waitaki the spiciest with the most prominent tannins. The Waitaki stands out to me as the most interesting wine, possibly because it’s the least standard and, dare I say, maybe the most complex: while the Gibbston and Bannockburn are well-made and enjoyable wines, the Waitaki has the thing that makes me want to keep coming back to the glass.

That’s the direction I hope Central Otago pinots take as they grow up: not just well-made wines with fancy labels and nice stories, but intriguing and maybe even intellectually satisfying wines. Whether they find that intrigue in multiple clones on single vineyard sites, blending across regions, or even just older vines under winemakers who decide to stay put, I’ll hope that Valli keeps doing what Valli does, and maybe more of it.

**By the by, “Central Otago” is a “district” within the “region” of Otago, where a “region” is roughly equivalent to a province or a state. Central Otago is a recognized Geographical Indication — it can be used on labels going to the EU, with a defined meaning — and various subregional names are allowed as “Appellations of Origin” on labels going to the States.

 

Rotundone: Is there anything new to learn?

Having a spare two days in Auckland last week, I paid an all-too-short visit to Waiheke island which — thankfully, if you’re like me and are always looking for an excuse to get out of a big, crowded city — is only a pleasant 40-minute ferry ride from downtown. While the island is still best known for Bordeaux-style blends, syrah has of late become the island’s new darling. So, as it will when wine science geek meets winemakers in a spicy red zone, rotundone came up.

Rotundone is, quite fairly, one of the better known contributors to wine aroma. Unlike so many other more or less mysterious molecules, rotundone produces a specific, distinct, and very characteristic aroma: the black peppery note we associate strongly with Syrah (or Shiraz, if you’re speaking Aussie). We’ve only had specific evidence of that rotundone-pepper-syrah correlation since 2008, when an Australian group identified the compound, showed it to be the heretofore most powerful wine aroma compound (i.e. the one with the strongest impact at the lowest concentration), and demonstrated that 20% of their experimental syrah-drinkers couldn’t smell it at all even while the other 80% were being overwhelmed. In 2008, it was “an obscure sesquiterpene.” Six years later, I had a winemaker ask me whether there was really anything more to learn about rotundone.

Two articles have been published on how rotundone develops in the vineyard in 2014, both from Australia (including researchers involved in the original rotundone research), both confirming that viticultural practices and vineyard conditions generally can affect rotundone concentrations. One, working from a precision viticulture stance, gave evidence that rotundone concentrations vary across a vineyard in ways that might be related to how soil differences and topography affect temperature. The other showed that rotundone concentrations decreased with leaf pulling (which increases grape sunlight exposure and therefore temperature) and increased with irrigation; dropping unripe clusters (as growers do to control yields and even out ripening) didn’t have an effect.

The winemaker’s point was: “Um, duh? We knew that already.” Whether or not he could, in fact, have predicted all of the details of these experimental results matters less, I think, than that he perceived the research as useless. Vineyards on Waiheke aren’t irrigated. The estate vineyards with which he deals are small enough and local enough for him to walk and taste regularly, observe when and where the peppery flavors he wants (or doesn’t) are happening, and give picking orders accordingly. None of this rotundone research changes what he’s going to do in his vineyard so, to him, it’s pointless.

His comment highlighted a question increasingly on my mind of late. Who is wine research for? It’s obviously for scientists, and there’s nothing wrong with that: knowing about the world is a worthwhile goal on its own merit apart from any specific practical outcomes that knowledge might have, and long live basic research. Scientists and the community at large say that it’s for the benefit of “the wine industry” and, in part, that’s true. For a large operation manufacturing a specific wine style calling for a “dialed in” level of pepperiness and relying on fruit from many vineyards, that rotundone research might change things. Maybe they think about calling for a different leaf plucking regime on some of their syrah vineyards that aren’t quite meeting quality targets. But is the research for small producers, like this skeptical Waiheke winemaker? Call him provincial or even selfish for thinking that research doesn’t continue to help “us” understand more about rotundone, but he still knows what he needs to do to make a syrah that, by all indications, sells like roses on Valentine’s Day, out his cellar door, at prices that folks without the million-dollar views find hard to justify.

The syrahs I tried, at Mudbrick and Obsidian, were pretty convincing. Both relied more on freshness than power to make their case and certainly didn’t lack for rotundone, even minus irrigation and with leaf plucking common across the island. Obsidian’s 2013, carrying enough fruit and tannin for its lightness and brightness to be delightful and refreshing (and a pleasant alternative to the overpowered, clumsy or pretentious syrahs too easy to find in many New World climes), would accompany a sweaty Waiheke summer afternoon as nicely as a grilled lamb chop.

Is there anything more to learn about rotundone? Unquestionably. But, maybe, the more pertinent question for a Waiheke winemaker is whether there’s anything more to be learned about making well-balanced, pleasantly but not overpoweringly peppery syrah. Realizing that those two questions are in fact different is key, I think, to furthering both goals.

 

Yeast odd-balls: Trying to understand flor

Flor yeast are something like that one strange guy with the office down the hall, the one who’s always pleasant, who has a kind word when the rest of the world seems out to either hate or bother you, who sometimes holds the door open when you’re carrying coffee, and who does goodness-only-knows-what when he closes the door to that office of his. You’re really glad he’s there, but he’s a mystery.

I’m stretching, but you get the point: flor yeast are useful, we’re glad they’re there for us, and we don’t understand them. Flor are the film-forming, surface-dwelling yeast best known for their role in making sherry, though they’re also key actors in Hungarian dry Szamorodni**, Xeres from Jurez, and Jura’s Vin Jaune. “Biological aging” — the yeast metabolizing and spitting out acetaldehyde, glycerol, a bit of ethanol, volatile acids, and some other stuff — is responsible for much of the unique and complex nutty-freshness these wines share. Though it’s entirely possible to purchase and inoculate flor yeast, the film often comes and goes on its own in traditional production schemes. All of this happens after ordinary alcoholic fermentation finishes.

Flor are Saccharomyces cerevisiae, but they’re evidently not the same yeast responsible for alcoholic fermentation in these wines. Previous flor research also tells us that being flor is more about a lifestyle choice than about the yeast’s innate characteristics. Being flor is about surviving under stress: the yeast develop as a “velum” or skin on a high-alcohol (fortified) wine with little remaining nutrients. Yeast strains that survive here are generally those that have been able to make a few rapid, key genetic changes that researchers see as a common pattern across flor. By definition, one of those changes is the ability to form a film or skin on the wine’s surface, which signifies that the yeast have become more hydrophobic than usual: they don’t mix well with water, so they stick to each other and find the least-liquidy environment they can…given that they’re living off of a liquid.

Flor aren’t exactly like that guy down the hall, unless he’s been the subject of 34 studies published in the American Journal of Enology and Viticulture. Even still, how and why flor come and go isn’t something we understand well, and neither is what exactly makes flor yeast flor in the first place.

Wine microbiology research is often very local: researchers study the vineyards and wines near them (they’re convenient, but they’re also, often, the primary interest of whichever regional body is helping to fund the research). A study of flor yeast recently published in PLoS One (which means that it’s open-access; no paywall!) is notable for including samples from Hungary (Tokaj), Spain (Jerez), France (Jura), and Italy (Sardinia). This group of French enologists set out to build a better genetic tree for these yeasts, both to see how they’re related and to establish more data about what makes them flor-ish. My genetics knowledge is too poor to comment on how their data look, but it’s satisfying to note that they used more than one method.

How they’re related — The strains from different locations formed genetically similar groups: all of the strains from Jura were more similar to each other than to the strains from Jerez, and Jura strains were similar to other strains from the same cellar, too. My genetics knowledge is too poor to comment on how their data look, but it’s satisfying to note that they used more than one method to judge relatedness and kept coming up with the same relationships.

What makes a flor yeast a flor yeast — The best that can be said here is that this study makes one more incremental step forward in solving a big, complex problems. The researchers found two genetic changes shared across all of their flor yeasts, involving the duplication of two known genes. We know they’re genes; we don’t know much about what they do. So goes the story of modern genetics, caught between the past of not understanding how DNA mapped to functions at all and the future in which (we hope and presume) we’ll know what all (heck; I think we’d settle for most) genes actually do. This study also reinforces some previous findings about genetic characteristics shared by flor which, again, all point toward them having some kind of shared ability to deal with their high-alcohol, low-nutrient, clingy lifestyle. Gosh, now I feel as though I’ve really insulted that guy down the hall…

 

** An earlier version of this piece wrongly named the Hungarian wine as Tokaj Hegyalja, which is how the authors of the paper name that wine. A reader working in the Tokaj Hegyalja wine industry helpfully pointed out that Tokaj Hegyalja refers to the region and that the name of the wine I’m calling out is actually dry Szamorodni. She suggests that good descriptions of this wine can be found on the producer Samuel Tinon’s website. Thanks, Katherine.

On Palate Press: Sustainability, in New Zealand and elsewhere

My September piece for Palate Press asks, “Is New Zealand the world’s most sustainable wine producing country?” to which the answer is: quite possibly, but the metrics we have don’t exactly say. The more important point is that sustainability is an excellent tool for industry self-improvement and a pretty terrible tool for comparisons between countries. It’s also not good at guaranteeing consumers of any particular pro-environmental or pro-community practices, though it still has a place in consumer communication: IF consumers understand that “sustainable” means “we’re thinking about what we’re doing (and usually trying to make it better)” OR if we let the marketing folk equate “sustainable” with “good!” and leave the right to use that word as an incentive to participate in sustainability programs. Which, even if they don’t guarantee vineyards full of happy children and chickens frolicking under thoroughly non-toxic vines, still do a great deal of good.

Find the full article on Palate Press.

Sustainability at New Zealand’s Bragato conference: what’s next?

The Romeo Bragato conference is New Zealand’s national wine industry conference for producers, policy makers, vendors, researchers, and such (and today, “such” even included New Zealand’s prime minister). With that audience, the topics discussed are broad, which makes it particularly interesting that the word “sustainability” seemed to crop up more often than any other today.

The main message from many today — growers and winemakers and administrators — is that New Zealand is awesome and needs to shout about it a bit more loudly. It’s hard to disagree. 94% of the country’s wineries are certified through the Sustainable Winegrowing New Zealand program (“swins”). 94%! And yet, to me, that’s actually a lot less significant on a story level than the individual, often very thoughtful initiatives wineries and vineyards are taking beyond that certification. From a consumer perspective, it’s near-impossible to translate the soft language on nzwine.com/sustainability into something meaningful and tangible; “foster biodiversity” and “monitor and manage erosion risk” and “engage in clean production practices,” as the sustainability standards say, is all pretty soft soap. But when I hear that Yealands Estate in the Awatere Valley is baling their vine prunings (yes, like hay) and burning them to fuel boilers that supply most of their hot water needs and eliminate the need for about $100,000-worth of LPG per year, that’s meaningful. That’s tangible. So are things that don’t involve metrics at all, like sniffing fine-aged manure with Rudi Bauer on his biodynamic estate in Central Otago; whatever you think of biodynamics, his extraordinary care for his land and vines and people is, well, something you can practically taste. Nevertheless, while I think folks abroad tend to think of New Zealand as a near-untouched refuge of pristine greenness (not entirely true, regrettably), the fullness of what Kiwi winemakers have achieved together on the sustainability front doesn’t come across as it should. Kiwis tend to be a pretty understated bunch, and it came up several times today that they may not realize how extraordinary, and how absolutely worth talking up, “just the thing we do here” really is.

But a second message — the step most speakers take after patting their collective backs — is the what’s next question. We’re great, but we can do better. And not just we can do better, but we must do better, and fast, not so much to protect our land as to protect our edge over those wilily Chileans who could rapidly and easily overtake us if they can market their wines as being more sustainable than New Zealand’s.

So what’s next? The industry has just updated and stepped up their sustainability reporting tool, WiSE (part of the Sustainability Dashboard project through which part of my PhD research is being funded), which is intended to be not just a reporting but a benchmarking and self-improvement tool. But that doesn’t really answer the question. The New Zealand wine industry has been remarkable in collaborating to create a unified international image. Seriously: where else can you find 94% certification in any non-mandatory administrative scheme? What’s the next direction in which the industry, collectively, will choose to travel?

Gwyn Williams, the chair of the New Zealand Winegrowers Sustainability Committee and a man with 31 years of Kiwi vineyard-managing experience, thinks that the national wine sustainability movement has stalled. I wonder if that stall is because there isn’t clear consensus on what’s next. Organic Winegrowers New Zealand is aiming for 20% certified organic vineyards by 2020. The president of that organization, James Milton (also the winemaker at the Demeter-certified biodynamic Milton Estate in Gisborne), said today that the organic and biodynamic folk need to work harder at speaking the languages of sustainability and science instead of isolating themselves in their own strange little corner as they’ve traditionally been wont to do. But, in a later session also on sustainability, Chris Howell of Prospect Vineyard in Hawke’s Bay mentioned being unconvinced about the totality of organic practices from a science perspective. A walk through the vendor’s area made it obvious that he’s not alone.

Is organic the next step beyond “sustainable?” Or biodynamic the next step beyond organic? Or organic-with-caveats — organic, but we’re not certified because we do X when we really have to, as I hear many vineyard managers say? Or just raising the bar on those key performance indicators about which the sustainability folk are always talking? More and better of the same, or something new?

If the New Zealand wine industry can decide, together, what better-than-sustainable looks like, they’ll achieve it. They don’t talk very loud, and they’re the most collectively laid-back people I’ve met, but I’ve learned in the past nine months not to underestimate the extraordinary Kiwi capacity for getting the job done.

Pro-alcohol research and improving wine science communication, one PhD at a time

Yesterday, Tom Wark snarked off (I mean that nicely, Tom) about “alcohol ‘researchers'” who seem to think that wine, beer, and spirits are social evils to be restricted and discouraged as much as possible. I’ve read plenty of papers that appear to start (and finish) with that agenda, but not all “alcohol researchers” are anti-alcohol. In fact, you could call me an alcohol researcher.

More properly, I’m a wine science communication researcher. (Yes, I know that that’s a mouthful.) While at one point I researched the microbiology of wine production, I now look at how wine research information moves around the industry among scientists and writers and winemakers and growers (and sometimes even consumers). I’m trying to understand how scientific ideas about winemaking and growing come to exist in the industry. When science moves from a peer-reviewed scientific article to a trade magazine, what changes? What can those changes say about how we can better design experiments and better communicate their results. Of course, I can’t say how all of this communicating is important if I don’t know what winemakers and growers are reading and using — and, to my shock, no one seemed to know (if they do, they’re not telling). So I’m also investigating how winemakers and growers navigate the morass of resources available to them: what they read and listen to, who they talk to, and their frustrations about the process. If you’re a winemaker, vineyard manager, or someone in a similar role, you can help me out by taking ten minutes to complete a short survey around those questions. (The link is also tacked to the top of this blog). Finally, I’m writing a popular (that is, not academic) book about how the story of wine is also the story of the sciences, from physics to medicine and everything in-between. More on that later.

I probably don’t need to argue for why wine is worth researcher’s time as a public good to promote instead of a social ill to eradicate, but it’s good to note that it’s fundamentally about humanity as much as science. Wine is a food nourishing to body, mind, and spirit when taken in appropriate quantities. It’s also a cultural icon and a historical treasure. If you want to talk to me about restricting wine because too much alcohol can kill you, your agenda had better also include restricting access to and advertising of butter and cheese — because too much saturated fat can kill you — and honey and jam — because too much sugar can kill you, too. Then show me your thoughtful plan for accommodating the essential cultural and social roles that all of those foods play around the world.

My research is aimed, at the biggest picture level, at making scientific research more efficient, but it’s also about helping people make better wine by improving the information available to them. Besides, when getting a PhD involves wine, science, and writing — and rhetoric, and philosophy, and talking to winemakers, and trying out living in New Zealand — it’s hard to see how things could be much better.

 

Rippon’s Gewürztraminer and the quandry of white wine fermentation temperatures

I opened a bottle of Rippon’s lovely 2011 Gewürztraminer a few nights ago in a small act of celebration upon having an academic manuscript accepted for publication (hooray!) As I bathed my nose in pretty peach and lime and rose notes, to my surprise, my very non-oenophile husband commented that he didn’t find it very aromatic. (I blame the tahini-miso oca, or New Zealand yams if you prefer, that he’d just noshed). Conversation ensued about white wine aromas. Conversation turned technical, as it’s inclined to do around our table (he may not be an oenophile, but my partner is unmistakably an academic and a knowledge-hound), and an interesting conundrum turned up.

Modern winemaking dogma says that white wines should be fermented at fairly cool temperatures to maximize their aromaticity. Aromatic molecules are, by definition, volatile — they can leave the liquid and travel into the air, where we can sniff them into our nostrils and bring them into contact with aroma receptors. Fewer of those volatile molecules will leave the liquid at cool temperatures than at warm ones because (to simplify), warmer molecules have more energy, are moving faster, and consequently have a better chance of flying off the liquid’s surface. Fermenting at cool temperatures, then, keeps more aromatics in the wine for you to enjoy on a later occasion rather than liberating them into the atmosphere of the winery.

Fermentation creates heat, sometimes even enough to kill off the yeast and stop fermentation in mid-stride. To keep that from happening, winemakers have a few different options. Smaller containers have higher surface area to volume ratios than large ones, release more heat into the surrounding air, and generally stay cooler. The old-fashioned solution, moving small tanks or barrels outside to take advantage of cool night-time temperatures, can work for small operations in cool places. Keeping the room where fermentation is happening cool helps, though that’s a pretty inefficient and energy-expensive option. Far and away the standard contemporary solution, the jacketed stainless steel tank, lets cellar staff dial in specific temperature programs and is near-ubiquitous in modernized operations of decent size. Near-ubiquitous, but not entirely so. Two of my favorite wineries near my old home and my new one, Eyrie in the Willamette Valley (an Eyrie pinot blanc would have been on my celebratory table if I’d had any) and Rippon in Central Otago, both do without. They’re expensive, and they also don’t fit with the low-manipulation philosophy both espouse.

So here’s the quandry. Both Eyrie and Rippon turn out deliciously aromatic whites. Neither uses sophisticated temperature control during fermentation. Both McMinnville, OR and Wanaka, NZ are coming on cool roundabouts harvest time and both operations use small tanks, but it’s still safe to say that those ferments are exceeding the UC Davis-endorsed temperatures.

Why don’t they (and every lovely white wine made before the advent of modern refrigeration) seem vapid, empty, and unappealingly burnt out? I can’t be certain. When I asked Jason Lett, winemaker at Eyrie, this question, he suggested that I do an experiment to try to find out. Having left my lab days behind me, I’m not in a position to do so (it would be a big project in any case) so I’m left to speculate.

The situation is too complex with too many variables for me to evaluate with any chance of accuracy. Yeasts produce different arrays of aromatic compounds at different temperatures, for example. But I also speculate that these wines would, in fact, be more aromatic if they were kept cooler. They don’t seem to be lacking anything, I suspect, because spontaneous fermentations, excellent grapes, and attentive winemaking are already contributing plenty of aroma in any case. A recent study (that actually concerns itself with the possibility of using non-Saccharomyces yeasts to alleviate some of the potentially harmful side-effects of fermenting at low temperatures) suggests that the microbial diversity that comes with spontaneous ferments is probably helping hold up aromatic diversity, and it’s not the only one (this excellent article on sauvignon blanc aromas points to advantages from yeast diversity, too).

In other words, I can’t help but wonder if fermenting at artificially-controlled cool temperatures is something we’re told we need to do because modern industrial practices strip aromas in other ways; that is, if we’re not compensating for less-than-ideal winemaking. Cooler fermentation might (or might not) make that gewürztraminer I enjoyed more aromatic, but it wasn’t wanting. The $15 mass-market version, on the other hand, probably needs all the help it can get.

Those oca, incidentally, threatened to steal the show from the wine. (I think the wine won, though: a bit off-dry, but well-balanced, with the sort of creamy richness I look for in a gewürztraminer and, of course, plenty of peach-lime zest aroma.) Should you catch some of these unusual almost-potato tubers in the market — or, like me, should the house you’ve rented have a patch of them resident in the back garden — here’s a suggestion. North American yams take well to the same treatment.

Tahini-miso oca for four (or two plus leftovers)

1 lb (450 gm) oca, washed and cut into approximately 1″ pieces if large

2 tbsp tahini

3 tbsp white or barley miso

2 tsp butter

~ 1 tbsp fresh thyme leaves, if available (or substitute 1 tsp dried thyme)

Heat about an inch of water in a medium-sized saucepan over moderate heat until steaming, then add the oca, cover, and steam over moderate heat for about 10-15 minutes or until tender all the way through when prodded with a fork. While they’re cooking, combine the miso and tahini in a small bowl. (The purpose of doing this, rather than just adding both to the pot individually, is to help the miso mix more easily into the oca. If you’re really interested in saving dishes you can just do the former, but you may end up with miso-lumps.) Drain any remaining cooking water from the pan. Add the tahini-miso mixture, the butter, and the thyme and toss gently until all of the tubers are coated in the sauce. Serve immediately.

Waiheke Island and why I’ll probably never be an entrepreneur

Before I arrived in Auckland on Saturday evening, I’d planned to spend Sunday at the art museum and wandering around town. I was there for a two-day “PhD Research Innovation and Commercialization Course” hosted by the University of Auckland Business School on Monday and Tuesday and flying in on Saturday proved the least expensive and most reasonable option. Having never been to Auckland before, I figured that I’d enjoy the extra day in the city to explore. I was wrong. Walking from the bus stop to my hostel was more than enough of crowds, air pollution, and garish shops, thank you. Fortunately, I was also wrong about how easy it was to get out to Waiheke Island, as I discovered upon realizing that the ferry terminal was a five-minute walk from the hostel with ferries leaving nearly every hour. So, on Sunday I discovered that my favorite view of the city is from a boat headed away from it.

Waiheke Island is about 40 minutes by ferry from Auckland and home to something along the lines of 12 wineries, additional vineyards, and the inevitable mix of eccentric artists and rich people one finds on beautiful little islands. Being a completely spur-of-the-moment decision, I unfortunately didn’t have time to call in advance and arrange for proper winery visits. Also unfortunately, it was Mother’s Day and I was on foot. Not an ideal visit, and I’ll have to remedy its deficiencies with a better-planned future one (and one that includes visiting some of the island’s olive oil producers, I hope). But I did learn something interesting that, as it turned out, helped me think about what we were doing at the business school’s course.

Vines at Te Moto, Waiheke Island

Vines at Te Moto, Waiheke Island

I walked into Te Moto at the same time as a trio of Oregonian girls who’d just finished working harvest in Marlborough, and the tasting room host kindly offered to show the lot of us around their itty bitty production facility. As the girls cooed over the adorable little tanks, she explained that winemakers didn’t come to Waiheke unless they were interested in staying small and hands-on. An expanding business model just isn’t going to work on a 36 square mile island with astronomical land prices: at the most basic level, you can’t afford business here unless you can afford small, expensive, and precious. But you’re also not likely to plant roots (or rootstock) in this place unless you want a lifestyle that’s a little bit precious. Te Moto was founded in 1989 by the Dunleavy family, notable because patriarch Terry Dunleavy was the first CEO of the Wine Institute of New Zealand (one of two parent organizations to the present-day New Zealand Winegrowers), and though they’re clearly doing well, their crush pad-cum-open-air fermentation space is barely bigger than my office. And they’re doing something that’s the envy of many winemakers: holding on to their vintages until they think they’re ready to drink. The tasting room is currently pouring the 2006, 2007, and 2008. Even with their second label, Dunleavy, for more immediate cash flow, holding onto their flagship wine is an expensive proposition and an interesting choice.

A day later, I was sitting in the Owen G. Glenn building on the University of Auckland’s campus (a structure that could have been dropped into Starfleet Academy without anyone thinking twice about it) listening to a business professor tell me that my chances of becoming a successful entrepreneur increased with the size of the city I called home. Per capita, more start-ups are born in Sydney and Melbourne than in Auckland. Auckland fosters more than Wellington or Christchurch (the second- and third-largest cities in New Zealand, respectively), and Christchurch more than Dunedin, the seventh-largest city (and less than a tenth the size of Auckland) that I currently call home. The moral of the story was three-fold: first, aspiring innovators should live in densely-populated places; second, New Zealand innovation is hamstrung by its relative lack of large-scale urbanity; third, connections between people lead to innovation, and connections are easier in big cities. The prof was trying to convince us that making connections was easier in big cities than in smaller ones, simply because more “talent” was readily available, and that connectivity is important for business growth. Sure. But he ignored an important complicating factor: what kind of people choose to live in big cities versus small towns? Moreover, what kind of place would New Zealand be if we had six Aucklands and a Melbourne?

DSCF1468

Te Moto’s tiny winery/restaurant/tasting room complex

I can’t but wonder if part of why big cities grow small businesses is because the kind of people energized rather than irritated by the bustle, people who value or will tolerate constant motion, people willing to give up quiet porches for dirty pavement, are the kind of people willing to trade freedom of information and generosity of spirit for fatter wallets. I work hard, but being the person I want to be and living a good life is more important to me that climbing ladders, closing deals, and building an investment portfolio. I wouldn’t have come to New Zealand — and I dare say neither would most of my American friends here — if more of the country looked like Auckland.

And so I think about what Waiheke. Te Moto’s definition of success involves a couple of compact car-sized fermenters with no plans to expand. You’re not going to start a winery on Waiheke unless you have money, but you’re still making a deliberate choice in favor of a particular kind of lifestyle. And so the community develops a particular flavor because the place attracts people with similar values.

My experience with Kiwis, at least outside of Auckland, is that they take time to enjoy the outdoors, sit with friends to drink their coffee, and spend money on experiences more than on fancy houses. Most folk I know in Dunedin wouldn’t live in Auckland because it wouldn’t afford them the lifestyle they treasure. Start-ups and entrepreneurs can do great things, and Villa Maria and Kim Crawford and Cloudy Bay are tremendously important for the New Zealand wine industry. But as for me, I’ll be watching the bell birds splashing around in the bird bath on the porch of my quiet little cottage on the bay, hopefully sipping something from a winemaker who’s decided to find the space to do her own thing.