August 2002

Athens is a little like Denver, in that many of the city's best points fall outside of town. That won't be the case come 2004, when the Olympics will return to Greece for the first time since their modern inauguration in 1896. There will be festivities every day and plenty to watch. But there's also every reason to take advantage of the location, and, when the games are over, hightail it out of town. Take four or five days to make a nod to the games' original intent: to appreciate the gifts of Greek culture, such as music, poetry and, of course, wine.
With that in mind, grab a map of the wine routes of the Peloponnesos and trace a path across the peninsula back to the ancient Olympic fields. Once you're out of Athens and across the high, narrow Corinth Canal, the land turns Dionysian, the vines outnumber the trees and the wines are varied and very good.

Day One I Nemea-Bound
As Athen's visitors begin the journey back to the airport (which may prove an Olympic feat itself if the new monorail isn't all that's promised), head the other direction: southwest, out of the city and over the high, narrow Corinth Canal. Beyond the speeding, exhaust-spewing cars and traffic snarls, the light changes, shining brighter, crisper and softer all at once. Tar is traded for trees; vines take up more land than buildings. This is Neméa, ancient land of monstrous beasts like one-eyed Cyclops and hundred-eyed Argos; and present-day land of wine so thick and red it might have come from their blood.
  There aren't many places to stay in Neméa - unlike more touristed wine regions, there aren't enough people in the 16 little towns that make up this 55,000-acre appellation to do much more than look after the vines. Head instead to Nafplio, where clay-shingled stone houses seem stacked one atop another on the vertiginous slope leading down to the port. Here you'll find plenty of restaurants in which you can explore the affinity of Neméan reds for gorgos, gnocchi-like knobs laden with butter and cheese, or devour some of the delicious, giant prawn-like creatures referred to locally as "ass-beaters" (for the way they propel themselves through the water) along with a glass of the white wine of nearby Mantinia.
  From this quiet base, it's an easy drive to the wineries, all of which specialize in the same grape, agiorgitiko. Though the majority of it grows in the valleys, where ample sun, warmth and fertile soils make for soft, ripe, plummy wines, innovative vintners have proven its range is much greater. To see what else the grape can do, head for the hills, where startlingly modern wineries now dot the sparsely populated countryside.
  Start at Gaia, which appeared on a 2,000-foot peak in Koutsi in 1997. Alone for miles around, it's a testimony to owner Yannis Paraskevopoulous' belief that agiorgitiko is by nature a great grape that can do even better when planted off the valley floor. His proof lies in Gaia's wide array of agiorgitikos, from a meaty pink wine called 14-18h Rosé, a reference to the hours it spends steeping on its grape skins, to an opaquely black prestige cuvée (and a dessert version is on its way).
  Not far from Gaia, yet a valley over, in a shiny, modern winery on a broad, empty plateau in upland Gymno, George Skouras has gained fame for his unabashedly named Megas Oenos, or "Big Wine," a blend of agiorgitiko with cabernet sauvignon. It's an impressive wine that shows how well agiorgitiko can play with the big guys worldwide. But agiorgitiko doesn't need the boost of cabernet, as Skouras also reveals in his classier, more subdued Grande Cuvée. The wine is just as polished and worldly, but it tastes of sun-warmed fruit, spice and forest: Neméa defined.
  Of course, there were some good agiorgitikos being made here before the new guys rode their SUVs into town. One of the best is on the way back to Nafplio, in ancient Neméa, where the theory that altitude is everything falls apart. Here, among ruins of Roman baths and fallen pillars, are some of the lower-lying vineyards belonging to Neméa's most revered grape-growing family, the Papaioannous. Pick up a bottle of their earthy, tannic, cherry-driven Neméa, and the reason for agiorgitiko's nickname, "blood of Hercules," becomes palate-stainingly clear.

Day Two I Onward to Mantinia
To rest your tannin-weary palate, head south the next day to Mantinia. Here, where Neméa's hills turn into Mantinia's dramatic peaks, grows one of Greece's greatest white wine grapes, moscofilero.
  It's from that pasture land between the peaks, however, that much of the vaguely floral plonk labeled "Mantinia" flows, now that moscofilero has suddenly found hipness in Greece. But a few scattered vineyards climb up into the hills, out of the dampness of the valley and into drier soil. To taste a defining example, head to Tselepos in Tegea at the southernmost end of the sprawling appellation. Planted on limey, stony hills, Yiannis Tselepos' moscofilero comes out fragrant as a damask rose, spicy as a market in Marrakech and fruity enough to support it all. What's possibly even more astounding is his gewŸrztraminer. Planted on what appears to be solid white stone at about 2,500 feet up, the effort these vines put into surviving seems directly proportionate to the intensity of their wine. It's almost more Alsatian than Alsace gewŸrztraminer in its heady concentration and spice, while relievingly different in its brisk, clean elegance. And it opens up a whole new world of possibilities for Greek white wine.
  Tselepos' version isn't the last word on moscofilero, though. Drive another half-hour back up valley to the estate of the Spiropoulous family, who have been growing grapes in Mantinia since 1860. Their straight-ahead Mantinia may be more traditional than Tselepos in its comparative restraint, but then try the organic version - a complex, rich, earthy, fascinating thing - and the fine, floral bubbly. Finally there's a misty pink, audaciously floral rosé, built to stand up to most anything, even the cured pork from the rugged, rocky Mani in the south of the peninsula, salted and briny as if from the proximity of the sea.

Day Three I Bound for Olympia (Pit-stop in Patras)
First things first: Before leaving Nafplio for Olympia, take a quick jog up the 999 stairs of the Palamidi Fortress above the town, because the 300-degree view of the town and the sea beyond its walls is not to be missed.
  After that, marathoners won't mind making the trip to the ancient Olympic fields in one long run, but the rest of us might prefer to pit-stop in Patras, a busy port city on the northern side of the peninsula. It's not the romantic ideal of a wine center, and for years the local rhoditis grape did nothing much but make simple, palate-whetting whites for the beach crowd. There are still plenty of those, but there's also a mini-revolution going on, staged by winemakers out to prove that the local grapes have more to offer. Take Oenoforos' Asprolithi, for instance: made from the best clones of the grape (the red, not the common green, for those who are interested) and grown with a view of the sea (i.e., at 2,000 feet above the city), with it winemaker Angelos Rouvalis has coaxed out a concentrated yet still-delicate rhoditis more appropriate to a white-tablecloth restaurant than a paper-topped table in the sand. Or Antonopoulos, where cousins Nikos and Yiannis Halikias combine rhoditis with the local grapes lagorthi and asprolithis for Adolfi Ghis, a brightly fruity yet delicately floral pour. The biggest surprise, however, comes from a grape uknown to even most Greeks. At Paparousis, Ta Dora Tou Dionysou is "a gift to Dionysos" from Thanasis Paparousis and his daughter, Dimitra, who harvest old-vine sideritis grown nearly at the edge of the sea to create a wine with such vibrant acidity and minty herbaceousness that it's as refreshing as a mint julep in an ice-cold silver cup. Take it to the beach for sea urchins eaten straight from the shell, and thank Dionysos for sharing his gift.
  Patras is also famous for rich muscats and the sweet, black Mavrodaphne of Patras, but that's best left until after dark, when one can fall straight to bed. So after sipping cold rhoditis with a giant cucumber, tomato, onion and olive horiatiki on the sea-view patio at Eprepe, head west to Olympia. Near Killini, the ferry stop for further points in the Ionian Sea, grape vines compete with ruins and watermelon vines, and the watermelon vines win. But there is one exception: Mercouri Estate.
  This Venetian mansion overlooking the sea is not only remarkable for its peacock population (number: uncountable to even the head of the estate, Vassilis Kanelakopoulos), but for its singular red wines based on refosco, an Italian grape. The Italian connection isn't surprising; all over the region are signs of the Venetians' occupation in the late 1600s and early 1700s, including vineyards full of currant grapes. But refosco was brought over independently from Friuli in 1870 by Kanelakopoulos' great-grandfather, Theodore Mercouri, and its dry, tannic, high-acid flavors, filled out with a touch of the local mavrodaphne, now form the base of the estate's long-lived, black-fruited, cinnamon-laced, entirely individual flagship wine, Ktima Mercouri.
  While in general the estate looks remarkably modern, with its extensive grounds groomed for summer concerts, special events and such, the wines seem as ancient as the nearby Olympic track (circa early 5th century and remarkably well preserved, with a still-visible start and finish line at the track). The Mercouri wines employ long-forgotten grapes like the simple white tourkopoula and the spicy red avgoustiastis, and perhaps they actually are living relics, former drinks of Olympian visitors and champions. And that's one of the fascinating things about Greece. The lines between modern and ancient are never quite clear - a flaw, perhaps, when it comes to transportation, but a compelling, inspiring detail in a wine.

Lunch I  Tripoli is disappointingly unassuming despite its illustrious name, but perhaps that's why Faces exists. Run by an ex-bookie from Chicago, the restaurant feels uncannily American, with photos of Bogart and baseball players lining the dark paneling, played up by the owner's Chicago accent and sharp wit. But then the plates stream out of the kitchen Ń giant country salads; garlicky eggplant dip; soft, saucey white beans called gigantes; cheese-stuffed squid; whole grilled fish like the tender, white-fleshed lavraki in addition to a heaping pile of tiny fried smelt. Men worry their beads between bites, conversation drawing out the meal; it's as Greek a restaurant as any in town. Then the steaks appear, Herculean-sized slabs of meat Ń and with them a flash of doubt. Too American? Not Greek enough for you? All is righted with a single bite: we simply don't have meat this flavorful or juicy (fat-phobics beware) in the States. And go ahead, order the cheescake. It looks like cheesecake, but Greek cheese takes it into its very own realm. Plus, as a central gathering place for winemakers across the region, there's plenty of moscofilero on hand for the fish, and agiorgitiko to wash down those Chicago-sized chops.