Wine lovers seeking a more exciting wine than the “same old” thing should be thrilled with the results of the 2005 and 2006 harvests from California, partially because they deliver wines with a bit more of the mineral-y character that soil contributes to wine, and partially because acid levels are slightly higher than in past vintages.

A key to all of this is in the fact that, on average, sugar levels were a tad lower on harvest for almost all grape varieties, leading to better balanced wines with slightly lower alcohol levels - significantly lower in some cases.

And why is all this a Good Thing? After all, some reviewers rate bigger wines higher and “smaller wines” with lower points.

Since we here at APPELLATION AMERICA care naught for points, this issue doesn’t impact us at all, and in fact, the message of today’s sermon is that less is more. For those of us who are fed up with the hugeness that masquerades as greatness in almost all our wines (not only Chardonnay and Cabernet Sauvignon but also Viognier, Pinot Noir, and a handful of other grapes), this is a message we are perfectly happy to deliver.

I am the biggest proponent of this belief and I realize that some readers may tire of the steady drum-beat of my quest for delicacy, harmony, and balance in all wines. But, hey, that’s the way I live. And I certainly understand that some people (most, actually) do not agree with this point of view; some may even think I am some sort of out-of-left-field nutcase to suggest such an against-the-grain viewpoint, at least this forcefully.

The Big Wine Seduction

I believe the Big Wine lovers are misguided, but I also know how seductive these wines can be to some people. I know that the temptresses are out there. I must have worn my anti-kryptonite suit all these years to be immune from the Circes who attempt to woo me in the same manner. But to no avail.

I have rarely been as insistent on a particular point as I am about bigness and the resulting lack of structure we see so widely offered in expensive wines today. Indeed, my latest Man of La Mancha quest far supersedes my once-popular complaint about excessive oak. Look, I’m perfectly willing to accept a good healthy wallop of smoke, toast, mocha, caramel, vanilla, chocolate or whatever else this oak stuff is called in the latest, newbie-buzzword-vinous dictionary if only there could be some semblance of harmony in the other components that make up a wine I am offered to drink.

I have stated my desire for better structure in wines for more than a decade, and I see little happening to encourage me. A few Pollyannas have written to me saying, hey, cheer up!, winemakers are lightening up on the alcohol, on the oak, on the tannins, and they are making a more balanced wine, and they are seeking better harmony.

Really? I still don’t see it. Were it not for the intervention of Mother Nature (in ’05 and ’06), we’d all be awash in yet more of this alcoholic goo they euphemistically call table wine.

So I rely on vintages like 2005 and 2006 in California to deliver a bit more of the grace that has been missing from the vast majority of wines, especially pricey ones, for lo, the last decade, or even more.

A few winemakers may have tried to compromise the acidity in 2005 and 2006. Those are people who have little faith that the American consumer could ever understand a crisp wine. But then something came to mind that played right into this argument. It was a bumper sticker I saw that said “No Wimpy Wines.”

No Wimpy Wines! Depends on Your Definition of “Wimpy”

This is the slogan for Ravenswood Winery, founded by fanatical Zin-o-phile Joel Peterson, who, I assume, came up with the slogan. It’s cute and fun and Peterson, a terrific winemaker, has done much to preserve the concept of old-vineyard Zinfandel by making a lot of vineyard-designated versions of the wine that have a long and loyal following.

Alas, the phrase “No wimpy wines” doesn’t apply as much to Peterson’s best wines since I now see through that phrase and believe the word “wimpy” actually describes a lot of the ungainly monsters out there that are a lot bigger than anything Peterson makes.

Let’s be clear about this: Huge wines now infect the shelves of otherwise blameless merchants because it is clear that a new subset of wine drinkers, otherwise known as the Powerhouse Wine Seekers of America, demand these sorts of wines. (The PWSA is an unofficial club of which almost all newcomers to wine seem to be de facto members.)

Numerous winemakers believe firmly in the notion that a wine without “big” flavors is somehow less desirable and thus wimpy. These are winemakers who believe it to be their life’s mission to deal with wimp-atude by delivering nothing but the max as far as flavor is concerned. The maxier the better.

Oddly, I now see that the bigger a wine is, the wimpier it is!

Look at it this way: The bigger the wine, the more alcohol it typically contains. And the more alcohol a wine has, the less acidity it usually has. High-alcohol wines need more, not less, acid and a lower pH to balance the “sweet” taste of the alcohol. But with high-alcohol wines, we almost always get a higher pH, not a lower one.

This means that the consumer has to wade through aromas and flavors of alcohol that are less complex than the more mineral-y, earth-bound, herb-laced wines that are more a reflection of their soil than they are of the hand of man, and trees. Those kinds of wines are challenging, calling for someone who consumes such a balanced wine to reflect on the earth-y notes, the acidic crispness, how it works with various foods and other elements relating to terroir and the variety.

The bigger the wine, the less the earth plays a role. Thus do consumers have a harder time analyzing wines. It’s harder to decide what is regional, what is varietal, and what reflects the intervention of humans. And thus the bigger the wine, the wimpier it is: wimpiness and simplicity are blood brothers! Those who seek to make big wines do so on the far edge of sound fruit. Indeed, much of this wine is made from unsound fruit. Ask any grower what he or she thinks of harvesting fruit at 28° or 30° Brix and see if he or she thinks this reflects what his or her vines do best. The quest for unwimpiness has created a gulf between wine (that which results from grapes picked earlier) and alcohol-infused raisin juice. Little is left that shows the character of what each region yields.

In the quest to avoid what is seen as wimpiness, winemakers race past that sublime spot where it’s possible to make distinctiveness and regionality a positive factor. Cabernet Sauvignon is thus harvested so late that the resulting wine tastes as much like over-ripe prune juice as it does Syrah. Grab two bottles, one of each and each with 15% alcohol. Now try the Cabernet and the Syrah side-by-side. One seems like the other; it’s hard to define which has any varietal character at all, and the regional influence is negligible. (See the results of APPELLATION AMERICA’s taste test to identify varietal distinctiveness.)

Thus this sameness between two big wines that are made from differing varietals makes them similar to one another and far more simplistic - and thus wimpy!

Overly concentrated red wines more often than not bore me to tears and lead me to this conclusion: Overt intensity = dullness and a lack of character. I also conclude that sameness = simplicity = wimpiness.

A rosé is a rose is a rose

And so I seek rosé wines that have acidity; Gamay Noir (like Amity’s splendid offering) from Oregon; or a Chardonnay as brilliant as Iron Horse Vineyards' new 2005 “Rued Clone” with its bright acidity. There are dozens of these kinds of wines, and they are usually “obscure” except in the writings of APPELLATION AMERICA correspondents who seek them out and let us all know about them in features, tasting notes, and other ways.

After all this, you may conclude that I consume only flat, simple wines. And here is the fallacy: The phrase “No wimpy wines” means to me that bigness is a goal unto itself. But great wine is, I firmly believe, a reflection of man’s ability to “read” the grapevine, to “feel” the soil, and then to make an annual decision about what direction is best for each load of grapes that are harvested, which calls for trellising and other viticultural decisions that give the winemaker the maximum amount of flexibility to deal with Mother Nature’s whims. And then to decide how to make a wine that delivers the harmony that not only shows the regional character, but also has the structure to work with food.

I write this a few weeks before jetting off for my 15th visit to Australia (in the last 16 years). I wouldn’t be headed there except for the prospect of tasting a lot of very fine wine. A lot of this wine is red. A lot of this wine is fairly gutsy, even some with higher alcohols. But many of them are elegant enough to qualify as balanced.

When the dinner plate is placed where I am seated, and I’m ready to sup, I try to make certain that the liquid in my glass works with the victuals, and if that means having a wine that delivers character at the expense of intensity, give me the former.

Of course, this means that I am most often interested in wines that are out of the mainstream. When you think of the phrase “world class Cabernet Sauvignon,” I would imagine that you think of something that gained points in some wine magazine and is big and potent. For that reason, I seek “world class” Barbera, Sangiovese, Carmenere, Cabernet Franc, Gamay Noir, Lemberger, varietal and non-varietal rosés, Grenache, Carignane, Norton, and other wines that are less mainstream - and for which a high number in a magazine isn’t necessarily a mandatory achievement - or even likely! And I like those wines because they more than likely will conform to a regional distinctiveness and with my meal.

It also means getting a better look at cooler-climate growing regions than I had ever imagined I would. And it means decanting many more wines than I had ever decanted. This is to aerate them, which (I fervently hope) will drop off some of the alcohol and leave me with a better chance to catch the nuance and subtlety of regional character that are not a part of today’s monster offerings.

As for Peterson, I still believe in what he is doing with the Ravenswood vineyard-designated Zinfandels, which do offer distinctively different looks and offer Zin lovers a reliable flavor profile with a grape that does take on a different personality depending on where it is grown. He is respectful of the terroir, such as it exists with hillside Zin.

But when a wine comes along with 15.5 percent or 16 percent alcohol, I begin seeing a sameness that I equate to wimpy winemaking. And to me, that’s a sort of ironic twist.