What's wrong with "natural?"

From the chapter: Terroir in peril

Mural in Sancerre.

I love natural style wines. In fact, I'm partial to them, and for good reason: Because wines made in this style give you the highest percentage chance of experiencing a wine that expresses the vineyard where it's grown, or the appellation of its origin.

It's not so much a matter of personal taste as how I originally came into this industry, while honing my craft as a sommelier, back in the late 1970s. In those days we learned, for instance, that Lafite is Lafite, which is different from Margaux, Haut-Brion or Cheval Blanc. Why? Primarily because they are different vineyards, reflecting completely different terroirs.

Same for Burgundian crus. We do not expect a Corton to taste like a Chambertin or a Chambertin to be like a Musigny, even though they're all made from Pinot noir. We might taste them together, but we don't compare them, let alone "rate" them, as competing Pinots. Instead, you learn that the finest Musigny is grown in Musigny, the finest Chambertin in Chambertin, and the same for Corton and any other great Burgundian growth.

It is in Germany where, early on, I learned the most about terroir because the clarity of top einzellagen, among which Riesling is the common denominator, is so concise, and wonderful. Needless to say, Rieslings from the Saar are never expected to have the same taste profile as Rieslings from the Mittel Mosel, the Ruwer, the Pfalz, the Rheingau or Nahe. You look for distinctions, and you learn that they are as basic as A, B, C, and still is.

For the longest time, however, I could never understand why American wines couldn't be understood, or appreciated, in the same way. Oh, I always knew why: Primarily because we are all just beginning to delineate and appreciate appellations, terroir and individual vineyard profiles among our wines. Therefore, American wines are primarily made to fulfill expectations such as "varietal character," or to reinforce sensory qualities associated with brands. That's how many premium producers chalk up the "scores," which drive wine sales. But sense of place or terroir? Much less of a priority, if even a priority at all.

Even for smaller, independent, artisanal style producers in our country, less dependent upon scores to drive their marketing, it's always been more a matter of a winemaker's style or personality, whether defined by conventional methodology or by minimal interventionism. We are also the home of the brave and land of the free and sexy winemakers.

This is why, when we taste Cabernet Sauvignons, Chardonnays, Pinot Noirs, Sauvignon Blancs or Zinfandels from all the different regions in the U.S., the entire industry tends to throw them all into one pot, and rate them as if they should all meet the exact same standards and sensory profiles, regardless of where they're grown. As if they were products entirely of people, rather than vineyards.

Yet, for all the unbridled youth of the American wine industry, at the highest levels terroir very much exists. You can, for instance, take Pinot Noirs grown on two sides of a road in Russian River Valley's Middle Reach neighborhood and find even more differences in soil, aspect (i.e., slope and sun exposure) and microclimate than what you find in Corton and Chambertin. So why would you expect a Pinot Noir from Russian River Valley to compare to one from Anderson Valley 60 miles away, from Santa Lucia Highlands 175 miles away, or Santa Maria Valley 350 miles away? The answer, of course, is that you can't, and you shouldn't.

This is where "natural" is a good thing. American wines from different vineyards and regions don't have to be made to taste alike, and more and more of them aren't. The more a winery is willing to dispense with machinations meant to conform to varietal standards or brand style, or the more a winemaker is able to restrain his or her compulsion to exact a personal stamp, then the more likely a wine is able to attain sensory qualities that express its origin. This, if anything, is the essence of the so-called "natural" style—wines that are, indeed, left well enough alone to taste like what they are rather what someone thinks they should be. If you are a dyed-in-the-wool traditionalist like me, this is what you are more likely to prefer.

Many of the consumers who are now looking for "natural" wines, of course, are not necessarily longtime, dyed-in-the-wool wine lovers. In fact, many of them are just beginning to get into wine. There is a lot of evidence that this growing preference is generational—the simple fact that the latest batch of consumers does not necessarily have the same taste as their parents or grandparents in much of anything, including wine (so what's new?).

A lot of these consumers have obviously had enough of what might be considered "conventional" wines—particularly the domestically produced products that have always dominated America's commercial market. Especially wines made to conform to varietal styles or brands. Like it or not, these consumers find most of these wines to be either boring, unfulfilling or, simply, unpleasant. So they're looking for alternatives—wines that speak to their own taste and, often enough, fit in with their personal values as consumers or citizens of the world. For many of them, that alternative includes wines that at least make an attempt at being "natural."

Sancerre mural #2.

Put it this way: To you, it may make more sense that a Cabernet Sauvignon should be intense and powerful, a Pinot Noir soft and sumptuous, and a Chardonnay layered and opulent. But there are now many wine lovers who prefer red wines that are lean, sharp, earthy or herby, and white wines that are light, stony, decidedly unfruity, even "un-varietal." You may think that's nuts but what you think doesn't matter. You're not the one drinking them.

The recent growth of interest in natural wines does indeed flaunt convention. On the negative side, we see continuous criticism of producers and companies marketing natural styles because it is felt that their sales pitches suggest that wines not made in this fashion are somehow inferior. Boo-hoo. It's called sales, folks. No matter what you pitch—be it native yeast vs. inoculated fermentations, Bourbon barrel or new French oak-aged vs. neutral barrel-aged or stainless steel finished wines, or wines grown in Napa vs. Alexander or Walla Walla Valleys⏤highlighting differences does not automatically mean someone is saying that opposite or different styles are "not as good." Absolutely everything, including wine, is sold on the basis of differentiation. Get over it.

Another oft-heard criticism is that people should not be allowed to use the term "natural" because it is still unregulated in the United States, hence not clearly defined. So what? Terms like "Reserve" and "Old Vine" are also ill defined and unregulated, but who wants to give up the freedom to use those designations as they please? As it were, there are plenty enough things on wine labels that you do not have any freedom to fudge on. A while back, the feds in their great benevolence decided to tackle the term "organic," and look what that got us—an absurd law that only allows unsulfured wines to be labeled "organic." Notwithstanding France's 2020 enactment of official guidelines for Vin Méthode Nature wines, the stupidest thing we can do is beg our own government for more regulations. For now, we're better off letting people call their wines "natural," if that's their choice.

Finally, there is a lot of gnashing of teeth among proponents of more conventional wines who say many natural style wines just aren't very good. Come on. There are probably the same ratios of mediocre, good to great producers of natural wines as there are of conventional wines. Which means, there are far more yucky conventional wines than yucky natural style wines. Yet lost among the squabble is the simple fact that many of the world's greatest wines are made in unabashedly natural fashions.

Somehow, I do not think the great minimal intervention producers⏤such as Marcel Deiss, Château de Beaucastel or Domaine de la Romanée-Conti in France, Littorai, Failla or Turley Wine Cellars in California, or Bergström, Beaux Frères or Antica Terra in Oregon⏤ever feel insecure about their approach. It's not like they are telling conventional producers they are doing things wrong. They are just trying to grow and produce their own wines in the best way possible, which happens to be as naturally as possible.

I only had two mentors in the first half of my career, André Tchelistcheff and Kermit Lynch. While he is now retired, Lynch's role as an importer of terroir-focused wines has had a huge impact on the way Americans look at wine. While being "natural" was absolutely never a defining objective by which Lynch made his selections, it's no coincidence that most of the wines in the Kermit Lynch Wine Imports portfolio tend to meet this criterion. You can now consider him The Godfather of this movement.

What I find more interesting is Tchelistcheff, who you can say made wine for, or consulted with, companies that were considered conventional by the standards of his day, and still to this day. But what I remember most about him is his insistence that, when it comes to vineyards, Mother Nature has the final say on what should be grown, how they should be grown, and how their wines should come out. I'm quoting him almost verbatim. Tchelistcheff truly believed that "man" has only so much control; and therefore, what comes "natural" is probably better off respected, and certainly not ignored.

If these fundamental values were good enough for Tchelistcheff, and always good enough for Mr. Lynch, they're good enough for me.