

When we describe any wine as classic, we mean that it’s a classic example of something: a place, a vintage or a producer’s style, perhaps a combination of all three. After all, there’s little doubt that we get deeper satisfaction from a wine that gives us, even subliminally, a sense of the where, when and who inherent in what we can smell and taste.
Those qualities start with the choice of grape variety best suited to a particular location—its soil and climate. Whether or not codified in the rules of an appellation, that relationship of variety and place has evolved from generations of trial and error. In California, most of what had been achieved before Prohibition was lost. Quality varieties had been ripped out and equipment sold for scrap, but an even greater loss was the skills not passed from one generation to another. In those early years of revival, the University of California focused its efforts on connecting a new generation to its winemaking past by teaching them simply how to make clean, sound wine.
It’s reasonable to assume that nothing more than ordinary, if fault-free, wines could result from such a regimen, but in fact, by directing the winemakers’ attention to producing sound, clean wines, the characteristics we expect from a classic wine—varietal identity, a sense of place and the conditions of the season, and some indication of the techniques used—were more clearly apparent than they might otherwise have been. Against the odds, what we now recognize as the “classic” characteristics of Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon emerged quite early.
In the particular conditions of the valley, cabernet sauvignon gave, and still gives, wine of nuanced varietal character, elegantly structured, sensual and harmonious. In particular, the wines from favored locations, in years when excess is kept at bay, have a depth of flavor that unfolds slowly on the palate. That depth and that gradual revelation is a classic quality of Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon. In 1933, there were still cabernet sauvignon vines down the San Francisco peninsula, most notably at the legendary La Questa vineyard near Woodside, but the greatest concentration of those that survived Prohibition—just a few hundred acres—were in and near to Napa Valley. Most of them were associated with four wineries that had either survived Prohibition (Beaulieu Vineyard and Inglenook), been revived by new owners (Charles Krug, rescued by the Mondavi family) or bravely launched (Louis M. Martini, as a home for the fruit of his extensive vineyards).
The greatest concentration of cabernet sauvignon vines that survived Prohibition—just a few hundred acres—were in and near to Napa Valley.


Those of us lucky enough to have been at a dinner party in San Francisco in 1979 were given a revealing overview of those early years in just four wines: a ’56 Charles Krug Cabernet Sauvignon, followed by the ’51 cabernet sauvignons of Beaulieu Vineyard (Georges de Latour Private Reserve) and Louis M. Martini, and a ’41 Inglenook. At Charles Krug, cabernet sauvignon, always unblended, was at that time aged in large redwood tanks. They had helped preserve the fruit in that ’56. It was persistent and lingered in the almost sweet finish. Louis Martini worked with cabernet sauvignon from various vineyard sites and blended it with compatible varieties to add further nuance. His stated intention was to blend in this way for early drinking. But it seemed to work in reverse, too. After almost 30 years, that ’51 still had a berry-like bouquet and flavor that flattered the palate and belied the wine’s age.


The Georges de Latour ’51 that accompanied it showed a rich, Rutherford character (it’s invidious to make such comparisons, but Rutherford is to the Napa Valley what Pauillac is to the Médoc) infused with the aroma and taste of American oak so seamlessly that André Tchelistcheff had made of Beaulieu’s Georges de Latour Private Reserve a wine at once the epitome of Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon yet quite distinct from all its peers. The sense of depth and a unique quality of flavor unfolding on the palate was most particularly marked in the Inglenook 1941, a dark wine with an unexpectedly fresh bouquet and smooth texture. Aged in neutral German oak ovals, Inglenook’s cabernet sauvignon benefited, like Martini’s, from the judicious introduction of related varieties. (It is impossible to say with the passage of time, but my guess is that both cabernet franc and merlot were present in that ’41.)
The wines from favored locations, in years when excess is kept at bay, have a depth of flavor that unfolds slowly on the palate. That depth and that gradual revelation is a classic quality of Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon.


While each of these wines showed what we now recognize as their own distinct character, they all shared the Napa Valley quality of depth, of lacking nothing with nothing to excess. The seventies brought change to Napa Valley. The acreage of vines expanded dramatically and the number of new wineries with it. Equipped with the latest in powerful new presses, highspeed pumps and stainless steel centrifuges, the new wineries attracted much attention. But more fundamental changes were happening in the vineyards. An invasion of phylloxera had revealed the vulnerability of vines grafted on AxR rootstocks, the most widely used in the valley. Entire vineyards were replanted on a range of more resistant rootstocks, each chosen for its compatibility with the varied terrain in which they were to be grown. Greater attention was paid to the contribution of various clones—some already widely used, some rediscovered and others new to California.
These vines, carefully screened for virus, were planted more densely, allowing for fewer bunches per vine, and trellised to better control exposure of grapes. Their rows were realigned in relation to the sun rather than to hillside contours. Everything was aimed at producing fruit of higher quality and more intense flavor. It also meant, of course, that, depending on the circumstances of the year, improved ripening would bring higher sugars, both a blessing and a challenge for winemakers—who were, around this time, at last accepting what had been obvious to earlier generations: Winemaking started in the vineyard.
It was an exciting period, a time of enlightenment that promised both the confirmation of, and even an improvement in, Napa Valley’s intrinsic character and quality. At its peak, in 1976, in Paris, California wines won their place in the world at a historic tasting by a highly qualified jury of French professionals, when a few California cabernets and chardonnays stood out alongside some of the best reds of Bordeaux and white wines of Burgundy. At the very least it was obvious that the wines, whether California or French, stood shoulder to shoulder.
In an article commemorating the event twenty years later, Steven Spurrier, its organizer, said that the result had given due recognition to California’s investment in research and equipment. Yes, since the end of Prohibition there had been intensive research to make up for lost time, and wineries had had no choice but to re-equip. But as impressed as the state’s young winemakers were by the research and the expensive stainless steel equipment—by the technology, in a word—Spurrier overlooked the background of those who had actually made the most highly praised of these wines, as well as the long history of the vineyards involved.
Of the several esteemed winemakers, Mike Grgich, whose Chateau Montelena Chardonnay attracted much praise, had perfected his craft first with Lee Stewart at his winery on Howell Mountain (now the home of Burgess Cellars). Stewart, selftaught but a winemaking legend in California in the 1950s and ’60s, was meticulous in everything he did. “I learned from Lee to watch over a new wine as I would a new-born baby,” Grgich has said. Grgich moved on to André Tchelistcheff, who taught him to pay as much attention to the vineyard as to the cellar, and then to Robert Mondavi, who stressed the importance of controlling fermentation temperatures and the effective use of oak.
Warren Winiarski’s 1973 Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon placed first among all the reds. Was it coincidence that he, too, should have been an alumnus of Lee Stewart, of André Tchelistcheff and of Robert Mondavi? They, and the others whose wines were presented in Paris, shared skills and a winemaking philosophy that had been passed down to them. The vineyards they drew on were mostly mature, often with histories that stretched back into the 19th century. Their success had little to do with technology and a great deal to do with California history and classic winemaking.
With this unexpected and unsought endorsement it was all the more frustrating, as Napa progressed into the eighties, for winemakers, some still learning what their vines could now offer, to find themselves under marketing pressure to grow grapes and make wines no longer to express the where, when and who of an improved classic tradition, but rather to aim at a predetermined result governed by undefined ratings imposed by outsiders who knew little of Napa Valley. Winemakers found themselves forcing their wines into what is often referred to as the “international style” to gain the high ratings necessary to convince retailers to stock them. Too often that meant extracting too much from the grapes—a style of winemaking made easier by all that new equipment—as opposed to what needed to be extracted to make balanced, harmonious wine. Furthermore, they soon learned that even higher ratings were virtually guaranteed if they allowed their grapes to overripen to sugar levels achieved through grape dehydration. Much of a wine’s quality and all of its flavor and character come from the grape skins. But when grapes are overripe, both varietal and geographic identities are lost. The phenomenon reached a climax in 1997, when an early harvest of unavoidably overripe grapes with high sugars was transformed into wines of massive uniformity. It provoked a long overdue reaction.


Subsequently we began to see some movement back towards rational, traditional winemaking—helped by the 2007 vintage, a year that restored an appropriate perspective on what a classic California cabernet sauvignon should be—but there was now a division in our expectations.
I can best explain it by recounting an incident from many years ago. It was just as picking was imminent, and I was walking in the vineyard of Château Pichon-Lalande in the Médoc with the then cellarmaster. At random he was pulling berries from the vines to taste. Each time, before putting a grape in his mouth and chewing on it, he would squeeze out the pulp and juice. He was checking for maturity.
“How can you judge ripeness if you’ve squeezed out the essence of the grape?” I asked him. “That’s not the essence of the grape,” he told me. “That’s just the sugar, and if I tasted it, it would distort my judgment. It’s the maturity of flavor and tannins in the skins that tell me when to pick. That’s what will make the success of the vintage. I can leave the sugar to the saccharometer. It’s just a statistic.”
You could say that we have now in Napa Valley those who make classic Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon wines by following the maturity of the skins. And those who make wines from fruit which, though grown in Napa Valley, is all about sugar and the international style. It’s an appropriate name, because whatever their qualities, they could come from anywhere. There is nothing classic about them in any sense of the word.
This story appears in the print issue of Fall 2015.
Like what you read? Subscribe today.