The California Question

 Hi Wine Friends,

As some of you know, Sonoma has become something of a second home for me. When I was a wine buyer in Los Angeles, at the beginning of my sommelier career, I spent a lot of time in Sonoma and Napa visiting producers. It’s where I first fell in love with wine country. Now that I’m back in Oregon, I still get down there a few times a year to visit dear friends and soak up that Cali sunshine.

Side note: If you’ve never taken the 67-minute flight from PDX to Santa Rosa (otherwise known as the Snoopy airport), you’re missing out on one of the easiest, most pleasant jaunts around. The airport only has 5 gates, so security takes no time at all. Plus, you bypass the insanity of SFO completely, and remember—cases of wine fly free!

I always have an amazing time and last week's visit was no exception. The weather was a perfect 80 degrees. Tomatoes and peaches were overflowing in the gardens and orchards. The Russian River was just begging to be swum in. And glasses of cold wine were abundant.

As you might expect, I did a lot of wine tasting while there, and the wines made such an impression that I just had to write about them today. Because not once, not twice, but three times, I was convinced in a blind tasting that a California wine was from the Old World.

The first wine to throw me was a light-bodied red—savory and bright with high acid, no hint of new oak, and tons of tart cherry notes with iron and dried herbs. I thought it was Northern Italian and guessed Barbera. And it was Barbera—but from Sonoma—from an exciting producer called Idlewild. Idlewild specializes in northern Italian varietals, planting them on cool, high-elevation vineyard sites and following the winemaking styles of the Piedmontese. They now have over 40 Italian grapes planted, and their wines just keep getting better.

At Sonoma’s Best (one of my favorite wine shops down there with old-school Thelonious vibes. IYKYK), I was handed a glass of white that I was convinced was Muscadet. It was lean and crisp, with tons of fresh lemon and golden apple and a throughline of textured minerality. My backup guesses were Galician Albariño or Alto Adige Pinot Bianco, but I knew it was Old World for sure based on the light body and ultra-refreshing acidity. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong.

It was 2023 Sonoma Valley Sauvignon Blanc! My mind was so boggled here that I couldn’t believe it at first. From Bedrock Wine Co. —an inspiring producer working with old historic vineyards and focusing on fresh, lean wine styles—it had nothing in common with the ripe, tropical (often oaky) Sauvignon Blanc that Napa is rife with. This wine was all freshness and lightness, and I would drink it again in a heartbeat.

The third tasting that threw me off was actually three wines in conjunction, and was so jarring that it started a major conversation with my wine nerd friends. First we blind-tasted a wine that we were convinced was ripe Napa Chardonnay. One friend actually thought it might be Viognier based on how lush and round it was, how much it tasted like ripe cantaloupe, how low the acid was and high much new oak presence it had. We were sure it was New World—most likely California or maybe a warm pocket of Australia.

But guess what? It was a 2022 Bourgogne Blanc. That’s right, Burgundy—home to the leanest, most mineral-driven Chardonnays in the world (supposedly)—was tasting like ripe tropical fruit. And this was a good producer, too!

It was so unsettling that we decided to crack open a Sonoma Coast Chardonnay to compare: Raen’s ‘Lady Marjorie’ Chardonnay—also 2022. It’s a small, boutique wine project from the Carlo and Dante Mondavi brothers—grandsons of Robert. They are planting some of the coolest vineyard sites in California overlooking the Pacific Ocean in the foggy Fort Ross-Seaview AVA, as well as on the steep slopes of Bodega Bay. Their Lady Marjorie cuvée is picked early for optimal acidity, wild fermented in stainless steel and neutral oak, and is a dead ringer for Chablis.

Now thoroughly unsettled by the reversal of my understanding of what French and Californian Chardonnay ‘should’ taste like, we opened one more white Burgundy just to be sure—from the same vintage and from an excellent producer—Chantereves. And guys, I cringe even writing this, but I did not like it. Yes, fine winemaking shone through—there wasn’t too much oak, and the slight reduction gave the wine a flinty, mushroomy nose that we associate with Burgundy. But beyond that, things were off—the fruit was ripe, too ripe, which gave it an almost-sweet tropical note. And the acid just wasn’t there to bring balance. I was so disappointed.

And it prompted a conversation that has been popping up a lot lately among wine folk: How is climate change altering our understanding of quintessential ‘Old World’ and ‘New World’ styles?

Yes, California on the whole is still a warmer climate than France. But the challenge is that, while California and Oregon are still relatively new regions and have room to evolve, France is thoroughly locked into tradition. See, France has very strict regulations on winemaking and vineyard sites. They decided long ago which sites were "best" when the climate was much cooler and ripening grapes fully was the primary challenge. So the sites that got the best sun exposure were often the ones named Grand Cru and Premier Cru, and those are the ones that fetch the highest price tags.

But now those sites are getting too ripe. And winemakers are faced with the dilemma of continuing to farm the sites that still guarantee a high paycheck but compromise the vision of their wine style or planting new vineyards in cooler areas (perhaps at higher elevation or with different sun exposure) but that don’t have the same prestige.

We’ve seen this mirrored here in the Willamette Valley too. The original Dundee Hills vineyards were prized for their ability to ripen Pinot Noir and Chardonnay just enough to get that delicate fruit style that Oregon became known for. Now, those same Dundee vineyards with south-facing slopes and relatively low altitudes of 300'-400’ are getting very ripe. And winemakers are looking to new, cooler AVAs like Laurelwood and Tualatin Valley in the north, or the breezy Van Duzer Corridor in the south for lighter, leaner wines.

The good news is that, at least here in the 'New World,' we have the freedom to keep pushing the boundaries of grape-growing without a millennium-long tradition to break. We’ve only been doing this for about 60 years, so it’s not a big deal to say that Dundee Hills isn’t the end-all be-all of Oregon Pinot Noir. It’s not blasphemous to plant Pinot Noir on forested slopes in McMinnville in pursuit of coastal breezes and cold nights. It’s encouraged to experiment with coastal Chardonnay in Fort Ross.

One thing is sure: it’s becoming very hard to define, much less blind taste, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. And what we’ve thought was true about region-specific styles (California: ripe, France: not, Oregon: in the middle) we can no longer take for granted.

One of many amazing meals at my favorite Sonoma restaurant: Valley Bar & Bottle

I'm inspired by the creativity I’m seeing in Sonoma, and I hope we can break the stigma many Oregonians seem to have surrounding California wine. I encourage you to seek out and try some of these new producers who are bringing fresh energy and region and like to stereotype. Next week’s newsletter will be a roundup of my favorite Sonoma producers—both to enjoy here in the Pacific Northwest and to visit on your next California adventure.

Have you experienced this California-Oregon-France bermuda triangle of late?

Cheers and until next week, 

Kelsey