September has crept in; the heat waves are finished; autumn is en route. Most people find that depressing. Gone are the sunny days, the holidays, the beach, apéritifs in the garden, dining on the terrace under the stars as warm breezes refresh. Hello cloudy days, ground fog, sweaters, leaves everywhere, and chilled evenings. But to tell you the truth, I have always loved autumn more than the summer. I don’t know why, but I feel refreshed in autumn when many people feel the opposite. I look forward to the radical changes between hot and cold and with those changes to the major modifications my palette develops as a result. My summer wines are already consumed and I am ready for something with more weight, bite, and flavor to go with the climate. For me that means Syrah and here in Switzerland during the fall, that often means pairing it with game. And game calls for big flavors with spicy notes that make Syrah perfect for an accompaniment.

We naturally associate Syrah with very specific viticultural areas: the northern Rhone—those great St Joseph or Hermitage wines that always dazzle—or Australia, with those huge, alcoholic fruit bomb Shirazs, especially from the Barossa Valley, or even California where some very fine ones have come along in recent years. But last year during the fall, I was working in Spain and saw to my astonishment in one of my wine bars in Madrid, a Spanish Syrah. I had thought of Spain as Tempranillo country—the major grape of Rioja and Ribera—with some vines of Cabarnet or Merlot, but certainly not Syrah. And yet as I chatted with a fellow behind the bar—in fractured French—I was respectfully informed that there were more Syrah vines in Spain than I had imagined; I should try some from La Mancha. I did try several over the days and my impressions were more positive than negative. It was clear, however, that Spanish Syrah had an altogether different feel that the ones I was used to. The dark color, the peppery nose, the plumy flavors were all there, but with a different accent, a bit lighter in the mouth. It’s difficult to describe verbally, but there was a very noticeable variation in the glass: yes, it was Syrah, without the slightest doubt, but no, not like I had tasted from other regions. For me, these Syrahs were very harmonious with Spanish sausage or just a slice of that wonder we call Spanish ham—Serrano.

Here are three Spanish Syrahs I found particularly fine last year and will look forward to them this fall. All are also relatively easy to find because there is a wide distribution in Europe and America; all are 100% Syrah.

Raimat, Viña 54, 2005—Raimat is a large wine company formed in 1918 by the Raventos family, the same that made Codorniu Cava a standard sparkler which can be found almost anywhere on the globe. This Syrah comes from vineyards in the Costers del Segre region, near Barcelona, where I would not have thought it hot or dry enough for good Syrah, but I was wrong. The wine sees 18 months in French oak and 12 months in bottle before being released. The color is intense, deep, almost opaque, while the taste revolves a central core of prunes and cherry. The wine is sold, by the way, for a reasonable price. The alcohol is 14% but there is no sense of jam flavors to it at all.

Dominio de Valdepusa, Syrah, 2005—Another wonderful wine from the Marquès de Griñon, whose entire portfolio can be recommended. Carlos Falco has always sought to make the most of what he’s got, which are vineyards south of Madrid that have never been known for quality wines. Wandering around the dusty, very dry region, you wonder how anything can grow here. With ingenuity and imagination, Falco’s wines soar above the others in this very arid area where bulk wine is the norm. His Syrah comes from limestone rich soil and too has very lovely color, the color of stained glass when holding up to the sun. The flavors are more raspberry and cherry than prune, but delicious and appealing.

Finca Loranque, La Cruz, 2006—This is the lightest of the three. Located near Toledo on 42 hectares of old vines, the Syrah has a rounded mouth feel that is airy, only moderately spicy, and should be drunk with lighter fare. It is stored for 12 months in American, French, and Hungarian oak before release. Delicious throughout, but oddly, despite its light feel, it is the most alcoholic of the three weighing in at 14.5%. No matter: this is one to enjoy, even as I did, without food but with scintillating conversation. That to me is a plus because most Syrahs are so heavy and dense that they can hardly be drunk on their own wit out food. Try it.

Photo by Raimat

Every once in a while, I get the urge to try something new, especially in regard to wine. It’s not that I get tired of my usual wines from France, Italy, Spain, and other popular wine producing countries, but I know that routine often trumps exploration. Most of us will go to the tried rather than the untried. Think about food: when you are in a restaurant, it is likely that you would pick something off the menu that you know and trust, like steak or chicken. You will probably choose the restaurant because you know more or less what will be served. How many of us will look at a menu and see something we have never heard of and then sample it for the experience of having tasted it? It came to me once in an Australian restaurant in Copenhagen (!!!) when I saw crocodile soup on the menu. Intrigued, I asked the waitress about it and she convinced me to try it, which I did, and found it rather good.

So it was in the wine store the other day when I spotted a sparkling wine that I had never seen before at a price that was attractive, less than half the price of a decent champagne. The wine was a Miolo Brut, Cuvée Tradition, and I naturally thought it was an Italian fizzy. To my surprise, I found it to be a Brazilian wine. I had never had any wine from Brazil—indeed, I was hardly sure any wines made there were worth exporting and drinking. But my curiosity got the better of me and I took a bottle home. Chilled nicely, I found it to be very appealing, the bubbles small and refreshing, the Pinot and Chardonnay mix delightful, and the lemony flavors much to my liking. I looked it up to get more information: Giuseppe Miolo was an Italian immigrant who bought land in Brazil and planted vines in 1897. For decades the grapes were sold to other companies and then in 1998 the wine was bottled under the Miolo label. I was also a bit stunned to find that the consultant for the wines was no other than the ubiquitous Michel Rolland, whose expertise ranged all over the world, including some of the top wines on the market.

Having finished off the bottle, I wondered how many other uncommon wines I have never tried that could provide the pleasure I sought in my viniphobia. Had I ever tried a really good Greek wine? No, although I know some very good ones are produced. A Tasmanian Pinot Noir? No, even though these have been getting good reviews in wine journals. How about hearty Croatian red? No, despite a huge production of varirtals in both white and red. An English sparkling wine? No, although there are about 400 vineyards in England, the largest but 20 miles from London. When was the last time I enjoyed a Hungarian sweet wine? A very long time. How about a Sylvaner from Alsace? Even longer. Of course, in some areas of the world these wines are hard to come by; merchants often will not take the chance of stocking them. But I’ve learned my lesson: don’t only stick with the known. Go for a wider perspective. The world of wine is immense. Explore.

Almost every summer for the past few years, my summer destination has been the south of France near Uzès, about a half hour from Nîmes. Not only do I go there for the sun, warmth, food, very beautiful landscape, but also because I have the use of a house—still being restored after decades of work—in a village of about 130 people. This year there was a change: I went to northern Italy first with a friend who had a house she inherited near Arola. Set into the forest and with no electricity, it was a feast of quiet, calm, and rusticity that was the rule of the day. After almost a week here, I returned home in time to shower, sleep, and then head south to the house near Uzès.

Both of these locales are food hubs in their own distinctive ways. As I often cooked in these respective homes, buying wine to accompany my meals was in order each day. I decided in each case that local wine buying should be the goal, mostly available in small wine shops or directly from the producers. I set the goal of not spending more than 10 euros per bottle, not out of cheapness or a money saving scheme, but because most local wines of a very drinkable quality could be had for that price. Nothing costly in my rural settings was necessary.

In Italy, I often shopped in Omegna, at the northern tip of Lake Orta, because the market was colorful, food abundant, and most important, wonderful choices were available. Several wines were bought and tasted, but frankly what went best with my meals—mostly from the lake—was a simple, but very tasty wine, oddly called Est! Est!! Est!!! produced by Bigi in a 2010 bottling. Bigi is centered in Orvieto, home of a wonderful white when well made, where it was founded in 1880. It owns about 500 acres of vines and can therefore control the production of the grapes directly. The title of the Bigi wine needs explaining: the legend goes that around 1100, Bishop Fugger traveling to Rome for the coronation of Henry V, asked his quartermaster to scout out inns ahead where the food and wine were particularly good. The quartermaster would write “Est!” on the wall (Latin for “This is it!”) to indicate worthwhile stops. When he came to Montefiascone, about 95 kilometers from Rome, the quartermaster wrote Est! Est!! Est!!! on the walls to indicate special quality and the bishop never left the area. His grave is still there in the cathedral and to honor the man, local residents pour a cask of the wine on his grave every birthday. Wonderful legend if it is true, but who cares; the wine is light—only 12% alcohol—fruity, well balanced, and composed of about 65% Tebbiano grapes, the rest Malvasia, which provides a nice tropical fruit flavor. A joy to drink on its own in the late afternoon looking over the lush woods, but solid enough to compliment a meal. Price? Only 4 euros.

In Uzès, I have an enormous choice of possibilities from the proximity of various wine regions nearby, but this year I chose to buy only wines from the Duché d’Uzès appellation founded in 1995. Few of these wines find their way outside of France because they are mostly consumed locally and for good reason. First, a white: Domaine Deleuze-Rochetin’s Sorcier, 2010, 100% Chardonnay, from vines in the hills. With no hint of oak, the wine felt fat, with white peach flavors, perfect with a plate of grilled vegetables or any fresh water fish. Price? 4 euros. Then a red: Collines de Bourdic, Merlot, Terre Eulalie, 2009, the product of a cooperative of 113 vignerons situated about a mile away from where I stayed. I could see the vines from my window, covering huge tracts of land until the horizon. The Merlot was unctuous, coating the mouth, with distinctive plum flavors, and a perfect fit to a light meaty meal. I drank it with cold cuts and sausage, and then with a bit of local cheese. Perfet. Price? 4 euros and some centimes.

None of the wines I mention above is a great wine, but each was an agreeable drinking experience on balconies and terraces in two countries. At about 4 euros, I could have bought a case for what I would have had to spend on a bottle of decent Bordeaux. Don’t we also need wines we can drink on holidays that don’t stretch the budget, that provide pleasure and simple gratification, and that reflect the characteristics of where they were made?

There is no word in the wine lexicon that elicits more passion or is more misunderstood than terroir. Wine lovers everywhere talk about it as if it were the Holy Grail, the very essence of good wine. Wines are often judged for their excellence, or lack of it, by how well it expresses its terroir, or at least how tasters can distinguish it. What, exactly, does terroir mean? For general purposes, one refers to terroir in wine-speak as those specific aspects inherent to the land, soil, sunshine, exposure, drainage, and other physical elements that make up that particular wine as opposed to another of the same grape variety from the same region. As organic substances tied to the land on which they are grown and ripened, grapes take on the characteristics of their source and therefore absorb the elements of their surroundings. These provide in essence a certain personality, as much as cultural conditions can form a human personality. The relationship of fruit to natural conditions of a region applies everywhere. Given an orange from Florida and then one from Morocco, you can easily taste the difference between in texture and juice. But with wine it is a bit different because, when you eat an orange, you are tasting the whole fruit as it was picked from the tree and not altered. When you taste wine, you are tasting the juice of grapes that have been fermented by yeast—natural or chemical—stored in different conditions—new oak vats or reused ones, or stainless steel vats—and then aged—for different times—and released in bottles.

Can you really taste the terroir in a wine? If the wine is structured to reveal that terroir—indeed to respect and accent it—yes. Not all wines, however, have the intention of revealing the terroir within the wine as a natural part of its character. Most wines throughout the world are made according to house styles and are sourced from many different vineyards, blended according to the winemaker’s taste and the tastes of the market, which can mean life or death for the winery. Take the example of the hugely popular Australian brand called Yellow Tail, produced by Casella Winery since 2000. These wines are standard varietal ones—that is, of a single grape variety—or in some cases blends of two different varieties, such as Cabarnet and Shiraz (as Syrah is known in Australia), meant for huge mass-market distribution mostly to the UK and the USA. This is not to say quantity is sacrificed for quality, since many of the wines are finely made products produced for everyday drinking. There is no pretension of originality or complexity, or for that matter respecting the unique sites from where the grapes are sourced. In 2004 Yellow Tail sold 6.7 million cases in the US alone: that’s more than 80 million bottles. In 2005, that figure jumped to 7.5 million cases and at a price of less than $10, you can imagine the profits the company made. In order to produce that huge quantity of wine that appeals to mass taste, the grapes must be sourced from many different vineyards all over Australia, many through contracts with growers in different areas. As a result, the question of terroir does not enter the picture since there is no claim to gearing the wine to the specific conditions in which the grapes were grown. In other words, Yellow Tail strives for a wine—a very drinkable one at that—that has a certain conformity and predictability year in and year out which the riches Australian wine technology insures.

In contrast, compare that to a producer of Pinot Noir in Burgundy such as Clos de Tart, a typical example. It is located near the village of Morey-Saint-Denis in that magical stretch of vineyards south of Dijon. The clos—here meaning an enclosed vineyard plot—is only 7.5 hectares and wholly owned—thus, a monopole—by the Mommessin family since the 1930s, one of only 6 families who have exploited the land in 650 years. The production, all Pinot Noir, usually amounts to about a scant 2,500 cases for worldwide consumption; that’s only about 30,000 bottles. And incidentally, that is a lot for most Burgundy vineyards; many produce a great deal less. What helps to differentiate Clos de Tart from Yellow Tail is not only case production, but the explicit intention of expressing its uniqueness as a result of the inimitable conditions of the site. While Australian vineyards profit from uniform climates, those in Burgundy do not. As a result, the characteristics of this single vineyard are different every year because of a variety of conditions that can range from the number of days of sunshine, how many centimeters of rainfall, how cold the nights were, etc. Not only that, but in this small parcel of land, the under soil composition where the roots dig for moisture changes almost every 10 meters so that there are 6 different varieties of soil composition. That is why the winemaker here vinifies each area within the parcel separately to extract the fruit and tannins in accord with the placement of the vines. If you taste a 2005 Clos de Tart in relation to a 2006, there are distinct differences in the flavors, color, and sensations on the taste buds. This is because the winemaker respects the state of affairs nature—not technology—provides to form the wine he fashions. That’s terroir—the distinctiveness and individuality of a wine that makes it idiosyncratic from others even if the grapes come from the same vineyard. That attention to detail is also why a bottle of Clos de Tart costs almost 20 times as much as a bottle of Yellow Tail.

This is not to say that Australian wines, or other New World regions, do not strive for a terroir driven wines. Some do, but most do not for all sorts of reasons, including the extra difficulty in winemaking that this engenders. The criticism often heard from wine writers is that the wine they are tasting has no hint of its origins, no individuality that tells him that the wine comes from here or there. Standardization, they say, belongs to Coca-Cola and milk, not wine. If wine is made by formula rather than researching the terroir, it will almost automatically be evident in the taste. It can be good and yummy; it can be a pleasure with a meal; but it is rarely something special. Not many of us can afford wines that are produced with respect for terroir, but from time to time, tasting a bottle from a small producer who researches and accentuates the terroir of his vineyard can be an eye-opening happening. It will remind you that wine is very particular commodity in the tasting experience. Wines made in accord with the terroir can open uniquely sensational frontiers that other cannot provide. Consciousness by the winemaker and the consumer of the special elements of the terroir is really fantastic, and a mark of mastery. When you taste it, you will never forget it.

Yes, that time of the year is already here and with it, the sunny days, warm weather, cool nights, and plain relaxing hours. For me, summer also means sipping an aperitif in the garden and dining out of doors. So what do I look for in a summer wine? First of all simple refreshment, light alcohol, and bracing acidity—the latter because it helps refresh the mouth. Like summer clothes, summer wines should be sunny; they should be ready to recharge the taste buds, and above all tingle in the mouth. Here are some suggestions on how to deal with summer heat and wines:

When I get home after working in my (non-airconditioned) office, I love to go into the garden and sip a glass of cold cava. The refreshing little bubbles from these Spanish beauties never fail to make me take a deep breath and inhale the aromas that come popping up from my glass. Costing a fraction of the cost of even a mediocre Champagne, cava can easily be an aperitif or consumed with that lovely cold salad you are about to eat. I like Summoraca, Brut, Reserve, 2008 these days for its simplicity and tasteful aromas. And its only 11.5% alcohol, which makes me come back for more.

For whites, I have always preferred a cool—not cold—sauvignon blanc, either from Sancerre or New Zealand. The former is less acidic, while the latter has a livelier aroma, but either suits my taste buds very well. I don’t look for depth in either wine, just pure gratification from the nose to the taste buds. Any of the Sancerre wines of Pascal Jolivet is fine, as are the wines of Jean-Max Roger, which to me, are a bit finer, but both show lovely mineral notes. For a good Kiwi sauvignon blanc, try Seresin’s 2009, with organic fruit, zippy acidity, but a whopping 14% alcohol. Nevertheless, the combination of lime, grapefruit, and gooseberries is a winner.

For a refreshing rosé, always a treat in the summer, a cool one from Provence always calls me and can be drunk any time, anywhere, but this summer I am having the rosés from Bordeaux. I know we do not associate those two words Bordeaux and rosé together, but you will be surprised. Last year I had several bottles of Les Hauts de Smith (the producer of Smith Haut Lafitte, a great château), which was simply delicious. The 2009, a fabulous vintage in Bordeaux, is a blend of 50% Cab, 40% Merlot, and the rest Cabernet Franc. It has just become available on the market and I know it will my summer afternoons much more agreeable.

It has happened to all of us at some time. You order wine in a restaurant, even the wine offered by the glass rather than a whole bottle. You taste it and feel that something is wrong. This happened to me the other night when I dined with a friend at one of my usual haunts. The wine I ordered, by the glass from an opened bottle, was one that I had tasted many times and thought a fine quaff, a Spanish syrah, 2004, a great year. So when I sipped it that evening I had a measure of what it should have tasted like and it didn’t at all. There was a kind of burned rubber taste to it, an indication to me that the bottle from where it was poured was faulty. Because I was a regular customer, the waitress, whom I knew by name, quickly offered to open a new bottle, which tasted fine.

What about tasting a wine that doesn’t feel right in a restaurant where you are not known, an anonymous customer? This is always problematic because when you say it isn’t right, or you feel that something is wrong—cork taint, bad storage—it could be that the wine is in fact faulty or it can mean to a sommelier that you simply do not like the wine, or it doesn’t meet your expectation. But Faulty wines have very distinct traits—the taste of wet cardboard, a sense of barnyard odors, perhaps, as in my case, the taste of rubber. When a sommelier opens the bottle, he should smell the cork, which would reveal this right away; that’s the point of his smelling the opened cork. Pouring from an already opened bottle, obviously he will not do this. Should you say something? Yes, definitely. You can, and should, make your wishes known in regard to wine you think is not right, even if you are not a connoisseur or an experienced taster. Would you not do that if the meal you ordered was too salty, or overcooked, or not hot, or displays another fault? Of course you would. If the restaurant does not replace the wine, then they should lose your business.

When I was in Italy two years ago with my family and a friend of my daughter, we dined at a wonderful restaurant terrace near the beach, and for the occasion I ordered a Brunello, which I usually don’t because it’s not cheap. The first sniff told me it was faulty. I said as much to the waiter, who brought me another bottle. Guess what? The first sniff told me it was faulty as well. Brunello should not taste of cardboard, so again I asked the waiter to replace the bottle, as my family looked on in horror thinking no doubt that I was a snobby wine maven who wanted to assert my authority and show my stuff. The third bottle arrived and again it was not right, same problem. As I grimaced smelling it, my family said not to make a fuss, let’s drink it anyway, and enjoy our dinner, but I called the weary waiter over to report that it was not as it should be. This time, inevitably, the owner of the restaurant came over and asked what the problem was. I explained, he tasted, and we agreed there was a problem. We went through three more bottles before getting one that was not tainted. I was charged for only the good bottle, as it should be.

The point is that for numerous reasons a good wine could be spoiled. As a consumer, this should not be tolerated. If in a restaurant, ask the waiter to take it back, replace it with another bottle. If bought in a store, the same applies. I don’t know the exact statistics on tainted bottles—about 2-5% of all wine, I’ve read—but all tainted bottles should be returned. No question about it, without shame or hesitancy.

The dictionary defines the word “gift” as something that is bestowed voluntarily and without compensation. All gifts are personal matters that relate to who is the giver and who is the receiver. Certain gifts are geared to special events, such as birthdays, holidays, invitations, all of which will delineate what kind of a gift should be considered. Where I live, in a wine-producing country such as Switzerland, giving a bottle of wine is as natural as offering flowers. It is very common—almost expected—that when invited for dinner, a bottle of wine is offered, not necessarily to drink at that moment but to add to the host’s wine cellar. Why? Because I live in a culture in which drinking wine is an everyday part of local habits and tradition. Because here, as in many other places, wine is in itself considered a gift of pleasure that the locals know will be a source of pleasure. You would think that normal, but in fact giving wine is not easily the standard in other parts of the world where wine is taken less seriously. That should change.

Think about this: What you do when you offer a bottle of wine to a friend, or simply as an offering of friendship, is affirming the giver’s and the receiver’s sensual appreciation. When I receive a bottle of wine that I don’t know or have not tasted before, I become party to a new experience of the senses that I would have had before. It’s all about sharing with someone a pleasure you have had that you want to impart on others. That is a real gift. And consider what Ernest Hemingway wrote in A Moveable Feast, recounting his Paris years in the 1920s: “In Europe, we thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also a great giver of happiness and well being and delight. Drinking wine was not snobbism nor a sign of sophistication nor a cult; it was as natural as eating and to me as necessary.” How right. While thinking of wine giving, I am also reminded of Ambrose Bierce’s funny definition in his The Devil’s Dictionary: “WINE, n. Fermented grape-juice known to the Women’s Christian Union as “liquor,” sometimes as “rum.” Wine, Madam, is God’s next best gift to man.” To share that gift with others is in itself the gift you can extend to friends and colleagues in the spirit of sharing. I am also reminded of an art collector I know who has a fabulous stock of works in his apartment. When I asked him if he lent his works to exhibitions, he did not hesitate a moment in telling me that when he received a viable request, he lent whatever he could. I asked why, and he replied that since his works are never seen outside his apartment, he wanted to share the beauty of these paintings with others. Very laudable. Isn’t that what it is all about—being in a position to share a certain beauty with others who will appreciate it? That is why when I come across a special wine, I give it as a gift to close friends who probably would not have tried it otherwise. Nearby my home, there is a wine company that has as its slogan: “Partage le plaisir” (“Share the Pleasure”). Do it, and feel the satisfaction of having contributed to the sensual pleasure of others.