Raisin is an app that supports the natural wine community by alerting wine lovers to places they can find organic, biodynamic, low-sulfite wines made on a small scale, all around the world. It’s a simple concept, meant to help make natural wine more transparent and approachable for everyday people who might be new to the idea of such wine. Essentially, the app helps you find a retailer or restaurant that features natural wines on at least 30 percent of their menu. And for anyone who loves natural wine and has had the experience of wandering around a foreign city, trying in vain to find a glass of something acceptable to drink, Raisin is going to come in handy.
Although Raisin launched last year, it’s now seeking crowdfunding in order to deliver an android version with some more sophisticated features. I urge you to support this project if you can. I have met one of the founders and I’ve seen the beautiful Raisin posters proudly on display in winemakers’ offices all around Europe. It’s a project that could be a great bolster to the natural wine community in a general sense.
Find out more about Raisin and support their campaign, here. As of now, 35 days are left to fund, but if you like the project it’s better to put your money down now, rather than later–it will encourage future donations. And if you’re new to my blog, and want to know more about natural wine, see my primer for Esquire magazine, here.
And let’s all raise a glass to the great majority of France rejecting racism and anti-cosmopolitanism. That’s really something to celebrate.
I have two (very different) pieces in this month’s Wine Enthusiast Magazine. First, there’s a short feature about producers in the Right Bank of Bordeaux, where the Côtes de Bordeaux appellation (created in 2009) is trying to establish itself as a new benchmark of quality–meaning, they are working toward healthier vineyards, and in some cases turning to biodynamic farming, or even, in the case of Chateau Roland la Garde, experimenting with amphorae winemaking. There’s a link to this feature online.
Then, in the back of the issue is a personal essay about a friendship with an American woman living in Paris, who wanted me to teach her about wine, or maybe just needed an ear to divulge about her unhappy marriage. At the moment, this one’s only in print. When there’s a link, I’ll tweet it out.
What I mean is: I wish I could write anything but journalism about wine: a poem, a novel, might better convey the aspects of wine that I really want to talk about.
It’s extremely difficult, in today’s media climate, to do justice to truly great wine, as a writer. I get a lot of offers from well-funded wineries to travel to their properties, and I typically turn these down—yes, I reject free trips to Tuscany—because I know I won’t like the wine, and I’ll have marketing literally shoved down my throat. Meanwhile, many of the profoundly interesting and moving experiences I’ve had while visiting producers are rejected by editors as “too niche.” Often, it seems that the best approach to writing about the small producers I love actually might be to take really great photos of their bottles with me wearing some hot tiny outfit, saying funny shit, but, well, ha, that job is already taken (and done quite well).
Considering that wine is, in the grand scheme of things, relatively unimportant—the stakes are much lower when it comes to, say, discussing the merits of organic wine, versus reporting on cancer research or the war in Sudan or fill-in-the-blank with thousands of subjects—wine writers deal with disproportionate levels of criticism and pressure. We are, privately or publicly, slammed by strangers and people we know, when we write something people disagree withor if we’ve made a mistake in our description of a wine. (As well, I think wine writers in the natural wine scene are viewed with skepticism because we’re highlighting very small producers whose juice is quite limited.) It’s completely impossible to please everybody, and it’s also really hard, unless you’ve made wine before or you’re a goddamn whiz of a researcher, to get every detail right—especially considering that just about none of the wine publications out there employ fact-checkers (if they do, sometimes they know nothing about wine; these are typically college interns). Of course, I am not exempt from lashing out against other wine writers who pen stuff that I find offensive. And I am deeply respectful of people—like Alice Feiring and Peter Liem—who have figured out business models that work for them in order to write independently, and I’m trying to figure this out for myself.
The long-standing cliché that wine is “bottled poetry” bears some relevance here. It’s really hard to translate a vintner’s relationship with land, and thousands of years of history—or a few hundred years or decades, as in most New World scenarios—into something communicable to a general audience. (It is literally “lost in translation.”) I’m thinking now about a wine I tasted at Benoît Lahaye’s estate in Champagne, when I visited this past February. I adore the dry-as-a-bone, electric Champagnes of Lahaye, who farms just under 5 hectares in Bouzy with biodynamics (certified by Biodyvin).
“Violaine” is a vintage wine, consisting of 50/50 Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, that Lahaye makes since 2008 completely without sulfites (sans soufre); it also receives no dosage. It is named for the village his grandfather and his wife’s grandfather came from; Lahaye’s grandfather, if I understood correctly (this was all discussed in French) was orphaned at a young age, and Benoît’s wife’s family actually took him in—so in other words, this couple’s grandparents were once living under the same roof. As I write this, I’m a bit worried that I’m not getting all the details right, but the point is: inextricable family histories, intangible connections, all these deeply personal things are put into a bottle and no matter how hard I try, I’ll never quite be able to replicate their essence in words. Nor do my tasting notes: “intense, pure chalkiness, rich texture, throughline of minerality but also a satisfying roundness” actually really convey the experience of tasting this wine, especially once Lahaye had explained the story behind its name.
But the fact that I’m not 100 percent sure of the details of the story is an excellent demonstration of how difficult it is to write about wine: to confirm, I would need to return to Lahaye’s home and re-interview him to make sure I understand every part of it correctly—which, obviously, would delight me—but to do all that I would need money and time, both of which are rare currency for wine writers. (This, of course, is related to my earlier point, that wine is not as vital as medicine or as impactful as politics.)
But this specific wine and this specific story are only one of many that make wine—true wine; “natural” wine; meaning wine that reflects small, specific places and does not attempt to mask the whims of climate—so incredibly difficult to explain and capture. There’s an element of mysticism. I’ve heard great winemakers stumble in trying to express it; I’ll never forget my first wine trip to France—I really lucked out and got to tag along for a few days with the Becky Wasserman crew in Burgundy, and they brought me to Frederic Mugnier’s cellar. I think I asked him some kind of prompt about the meaning of the word “terroir,” and he thought very carefully before responding: “We try, and we look at the soil, but we don’t really know exactly what it is.” That moment has come back to me many times in my wine research. I don’t think he meant, of course, that soil type doesn’t matter. But there are these oddities of life—an ancestor who shared a home with your spouse’s ancestor; a difficult vintage that turns out masterfully; a grape nearly lost to humanity that, somehow, persists in growing—which give wine its true magic. And, as much as I would like to try to communicate these things, I am often at a complete loss.
Fortunately for every one of us, the simplest way to experience wine is without any mediation at all, by simply drinking it. Maybe the stories I want to tell about wine are best relegated to some kind of Proustian novel about all the incredible personalities I’ve encountered or befriended as I spend more time studying the culture of natural wine. Often, when I taste a really striking wine, or I meet a bold, renegade winemaker, I ask myself: how can I, as a writer, be more like this winemaker, or produce something as incredible as this wine? And I’m at a loss for an answer, most of the time. But I guess the reason I keep writing is that I hope, one day, that I will find the answer, and that I’ll deliver some work of writing that even comes close to the elegance I’ve found in so many bottles. And that I’ll be as strong-willed, proud of my labors, and, well, “unfiltered,” let’s say, as the winemakers I admire.
A swooping, curving tangle of wood, elegant and calming yet also just a bit architecturally chaotic–this was my impression of the new winery at Domaine Binner, a biodynamic estate in Alsace. The first harvest in the finished winery took place in 2012; Christian Binner had it built in an effort to create a harmonious, integrated energy that’s in line with Rudolph Steiner’s anthroposophy. Its graceful curves lend it a sense of movement or time passing, and the pale wood provides a subtle, forestal aspect to the winery. Christian opted to use local wood and stone after visiting other biodynamic wineries and noticing that they were made of concrete, held together with chemical glue, which Christian felt was contradictory to the philosophy, plus smelled bad. With the new winery, Christian feels that his wines are more stable and have less issues with VA (volatile acidity, a wine flaw). Prior to construction, Christian hired someone to measure the “vibrations” of the space before construction began, and was told that it reportedly had the energetic quality of a monastery. In other words, good vibes.
The winery stands a short drive from the city of Colmar, in southern Alsace. I was in Alsace on a press trip and put in a specific request to visit the Binner domaine, having tasted and liked the wines here and there, and knowing that it was biodynamic, natural, and in a portfolio that I admire very much (Jenny & Francois).
Christian comes from many generations of agriculturalists in Alsace; in the 1970s his family focused on grape growing and winemaking. The Binner estate has several Grand Cru holdings (Alsace’s 51 Grand Cru sites are located on steep slopes, with very diverse soils), including the well-known Schlossberg hill, the nearby Wineck Schlossberg site, and Kaefferkopf. I can’t claim to be an expert on Alsace terroir, but generally speaking, the Grand Cru sites produce wines with much more complexity and ageability, as you might expect.
As with many of the winemakers who interest me, Christian is something of an outlier in his region. He makes nearly all of his wines completely without sulfur. To this point, we tasted the exact same wine, vinified with a bit of sulfur in one bottling, and sulfur-free in another, side by side. (Christian aims to make wine without any sulfur, but occasionally adds it when the juice requires stabilization.) It was Christian’s 2014 entry-level Riesling, “Les Salon des Bains.” The low-sulfur version (10mg was added) had a golden color, a smoky nose, and stewed apricots and ripe fruits on the palate. The low-sulfur version also underwent a light filtration (I didn’t get details on what, exactly, was the method), whereas the sulfur-free wine did not (most of Christian’s wines are unfiltered). Christian likes to harvest grapes on the later side, and as a result I found the stewed stonefruit note present in all his white wines. The sulfur-free version of the same wine was, to me, livelier, with more acidity on the palate, and a touch of spritz. Both wines were very good, although if I had my choice I would drink the sulfur-free version.
As a winemaker, Christian likes to appreciate the unique qualities of each vintage; he enjoys being “spontaneous and experimental,” which perhaps makes it difficult to understand his wines, as they must vary from year to year. “I don’t want to make a brand, that’s bullshit for me. The vibration, you lose it when you want to be too much controlled,” Christian told me emphatically. Clearly, energetics are important to him.
Most of Christian’s wines are made in an oxidative style, with long élevage in barriques. The wines profess a lot of complexity, great acidity particularly with the Pinot Noirs, and exceptional personality. I feel that each time you drink a bottle of Christian Binner’s wine, you’re in for a philosophical experience. These are somewhat challenging wines, in my opinion. They demand a bit of attention, quite possibly a decanter, and a willingness to see where they lead you. Every wine I tasted was quite good, although my palate tends to prefer a touch of oxidization.
My favorites were the ’08 Auxerrois (purposely released late), a 100 percent varietal wine (highly unusual for this grape in Alsace) that displayed preserved peaches, a hint of nutmeg, and a rich, sexy, mineral quality on the palate, with a burst of acidity. As well, I loved the SI ROSE, a wine that Christian says was inspired by Sev Perru, the talented and knowledgeable wine director at The Ten Bells in Manhattan. It’s a stunning orange wine, made of 2/3 Gewurtztraminer (such an underappreciated grape) and 1/3 Pinot Gris. The structure and freshness were overwhelmingly impressive, and the nose was a beautiful mélange of rose petals and tangerines. As well, I found the 2013 Wineck Schlossberg Grand Cru wine to be quite good; it comes from a valley near the famed Schlossberg hill, spends 18 months in barrel without any topping-off or sulfur additions, and is a pleasant shock of acidity, with an overall austere and mineral quality, and that dose of stewed apricots I saw in all of Christian’s whites.
Something Christian said really resonated with me: he speculated that natural wines have become popular in cities like New York of late because we have a strong desire to connect with nature. I really do feel that, in the concrete jungle of the city, in a digitally mediated world, a bottle of wine can help us feel a bit less distant from the trees and the stars surrounding the world’s best vineyards, and certainly wine makes us feel more human. I wonder if it could be true of the Binner wines that many of them would best be enjoyed in France, where they don’t have to travel as far—I really don’t know. But I’d definitely be willing to test this theory out—so let me know if any of you would like to share a bottle of Binner sometime! And if you’re ever in Alsace, I do recommend visiting Christian, as he’s very hospitable and generous with his time, and speaks great English. In other woods, good vibes.
A lot of people ask me: “Rachel, how the hell do you manage to travel so much for wine journalism?” I sort of cringe at this, because I’m aware that it may look as if I’m constantly on vacation, enjoying fancy meals and sipping wine in a beautiful vineyards. The trips are occasionally luxurious, but most of the time they involve a tough working schedule: interviewing, tasting, and shooting photos from 9am to 7pm, basically non-stop (the meals are working meals).
Being freelance rather than tied down to a full-time job means I can accept wine press trips and use them as an opportunity to learn about winemaking and regional histories. I reject the term “junket” for these kinds of trips–they are windows into a culture, curated but no less real. And I can use the flight to another country to do my own exploring, as I did recently in the Loire Valley. It would be impossible to afford this all on my own, since I live off writing–not the most lucrative vocation, alas. (Some wine writers have an entirely separate career and journalism is their hobby, but not me.)
I get a lot of trip offers, and they are generally of two sorts:
(1) our winery / spirits brand would like to fly you out to our property and treat you exceptionally well, but you have to confirm a story assignment before we can do this;
(2) our appellation / region is hosting a group of journalists to tour a wide range of properties, and you may join us.
If you know me at all, it should go without saying that the second one is a much more compelling choice for me. I’m in the business of telling stories, not promoting brands. (When publicists e-mail me suggesting that their Champagne brand would be a wonderful choice for a Vogue feature, I write back that it would make for a great advertisement, and they should contact the Condé Nast ad sales department.)
When I accept a press trip invite, I only do so if I am sure that it will, at least to some extent, match my interests. I’ve begun suggesting producers, rather than just letting the organizer make the itinerary. I don’t promise a story unless I can do so in a flexible way, determining the exact angle later, but in almost every case it’s very easy to find something to write about during an appellation or region tour, because so much change is happening in the wine industry, all the time, and it’s simply a matter of having one’s finger on the pulse to find the narrative.
I wanted to share all that because I’ve been traveling so much, and perhaps some of you have wondered about it. It’s a brave new world in media, as well as in wine, and I personally always strive to be transparent and ethical in my work. I have a few more trips coming up, but for the moment I’m holding off on accepting more because I want to actually focus on writing. I have many stories to tell!
Such as: last month’s visit to the Côtes de Bordeaux, a recently (2009) re-branded appellation on Bordeaux’s Right Bank.
I have never been a huge lover of Bordeaux, for several reasons: it’s generally too expensive for me; the old-school culture of the Grand Cru chateaux isn’t where I feel most at home; the heaviness of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot aged in new oak doesn’t entice my palate. That said, I thought it would be good to visit the region and learn something firsthand.
The Côtes de Bordeaux encompasses four distinct, historic terroirs, all on the Right Bank: Blaye, Castillon, Francs, and Cadillac. They make mostly red wine, generally featuring Merlot, with Malbec, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Cabernet Franc playing a supporting role. Winemaking has a long, long history here going back to Roman times, and there are many impressive chateaux with beautiful vineyards. In some cases, these vineyards might be just a stone’s throw away from the Grand Crus, as with Francs, which borders on St-Emilion.
A little over a year ago, I wrote a piece for Food Republic about Bordeaux’s new marketing strategy, which attempts to reach Millennials by emphasizing the family-owned properties in the region, and those working biodynamically or organically. Bordeaux has definitely lost out on the “cool factor,” while the Loire Valley and the Jura have come up. Palates, too, have changed–and I’m exemplary of this–as today’s drinkers shy away from oak and intense tannin, looking instead for the rich texture of an unfiltered Beaujolais, or the brightness of a Loire Valley Romorantin. And then there’s the price tag, of course. Baby boomers have cash to invest in their wine cellars. Millennials do not–and therefore, want to drink younger wines.
I wasn’t able to glean much information from producers in the Côtes de Bordeaux about whether they have lost any ground in the U.S. market since the financial crash, or in more recent years. I asked, and they shirked–perhaps thinking it would be bad PR. The numbers probably exist out there, if I wanted to look.
But beyond commercial questions, the Côtes de Bordeaux is home to quite a few organic and biodynamic producers, and this is what interests me most–because it’s not the region where you’d expect to find this. We visited a small biodynamic family estate called Chateau Roland la Garde, in Blaye, where a father and son have begun experimenting with amphora aging.
Amphora winemaking is traced back to the Romans, and also to Georgia, where terra cotta clay vessels called quevri are buried underground, where grapes ferment and become wine. Alice Feiring has a new book out on the subject, and I’ve never been to Georgia and neither have I adequately studied the history of amphora, so I’ll refer you to her expertise at the moment. Winemakers in France, Portugal, and the U.S. who are working with amphora have told me they love it because of its neutrality, in terms of imparting flavor on the wine. The purity of the fruit can shine through, perhaps more than with barrels, thanks to the unique porosity of the terra cotta.
Guilhaume Martin, the 8th generation winemaker at his family estate, Chateau Roland la Garde, which is farmed biodynamically since 2008 and organically before that, was eager to show us the amphorae in his cellar. They heard about amphora winemaking through the biodynamic community in Bordeaux, and tried it out for the first time in 2015. Since they already worked in a non-interventionist way, not adding yeasts or enzymes, or artificially stopping malolactic fermentation, they of course applied this philosophy to the amphorae wines. The wines were fermented in vats and went through malo before racking into the amphorae for aging. “The aim is to see the difference between this wine and barrels,” he told us as he siphoned Malbec from one of the terra cotta amphorae.
The vessels themselves came from a ceramicist near Narbonne, in the Languedoc, and they are unlined (sometimes beeswax lining is applied on the inside). Guilhaume and his father Bruno Martin are currently aging Malbec, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Merlot.
“When people taste the wines, they can’t place it as Bordeaux,” said Guilhaume, “but my father and I feel that you have to experiment, each year.” For this family, working biodynamically means listening to the vintage, and experimenting in a natural way. “It’s just following the wine, tasting it every day. In biodynamics, you earn that each year will give you different things. Sometimes good things, sometimes bad things. But you have to do what you can with it.” There is a small group of biodynamic producers in Bordeaux, Guilhaume told us–really just a handful–and they actually collaborate to produce their preparations (herbal tinctures sprayed on the plants to prevent sickness and mildew).
The wines tasted absolutely fantastic. The purity of the fruit was undeniable, and to me there was certainly a sunny, southern French character to the juice, but as well there was a beautiful through-line of acidity that uplifted the wines. I loved the Malbec, which had a nose full of blueberries, and an earthy texture with excellent freshness and tingly tannins. To me, it was proof that Malbec is not the inferior grape as many industry professionals have come to see it, thanks to some overly oaked styles. The Cabernet Sauvignon was also spectacular: the nose was peppery, with crushed roses, and on the palate the wine was bright, racy, with fine tannins and great freshness–it reminded me of a Cru Beaujolais. The Merlot was, to me, the least interesting, perhaps because it had had slightly less time in the vessels.
Recently, Guilhaume told us, the family had discovered pieces of a 5000-year old clay amphora on the property, which they interpret as an affirmation of their experiment. Surely, there is a lot of romanticism in amphora winemaking, and perhaps our view of the past is a bit rose-colored. We like to imagine a time before this intense commercialization, when wine was a household or community good, and each block shared an acre of vines and a few primitive fermenting and aging vessels. Wine was local and natural, untouched by global preferences and marketing trends. When I see winemakers experimenting with amphora, I sense a nostalgia for this pre-modern culture, and I completely respect the drive to recreate it in the now, to showcase the potential of older materials and styles. Bordeaux has a lot of wine that’s made in a very New World style, and it’s brave of the La Garde estate to be an outlier. Hopefully we’ll see their amphora wines in the U.S. soon!
When I first heard that an urban winery had opened in Paris, I was like mmmmm I dunno about that. But I dutifully checked it out–and was quite surprised at what I found. I wrote about it for Food Republic, and if you’re in Paris I definitely recommend checking it out. Read my story here.
Recently, the wine writer Stuart Pigott (his bio says “wine journalist,” but I see no evidence of such, in that a journalist provides actual balanced evidence from named sources to support a story) penned a series called “The Rise Of The Hipster Somm” (ugh, yes, I know—people do still use the word “hipster”) for Grape Collective, a blog about wine.
While I don’t wish to waste too much of my time on responding to Pigott, having just returned from a week of visiting natural winemakers in the Loire Valley, and given that I do have experience visiting conventional winemakers as well, I’d like to address some of the opinions he presents here.
I’m going to focus on the third installment of his series, in which Pigott shares a story he heard from a winemaker who wishes to remain anonymous, in which the winemaker “fools” a bunch of “hipster somms.” This happens first when the winemaker tells them he made a “wild ferment” wine and is amazed at how “their eyes lit up” because they naively see the wine as “wildly authentic” now. Later, this winemaker tells them that he added the hairs of Thomas Pastuszak, the wine director at The Nomad, into the fermented juice. (Also, Pigott calls Thomas a “hipster somm” on his personal blog . . . has he ever met Thomas? Possibly the least hipster-ish guy I can think of! When have I seen Thomas not clean-shaven, wearing an immaculate, dapper suit?) And supposedly the group believes him, and even “went ape shit.”
Let’s put aside the possibility that this winemaker must be an incredible asshole in person and is almost certainly bitter because none or very few of these young sommeliers want to carry his wines in their restaurants. The fact that the group appeared interested in his wild ferment wine indicates one very obvious thing to me, which is that his wines probably taste like industrial yeast more than they taste like actual grapes. So if people did get excited at the prospect of wild yeast, I imagine they were hoping in vain that they would get a glimpse of something resembling terroir, rather than whatever manipulated crap this guy is peddling.
Which brings me to another extremely fascinating point. Pigott, clearly, is not a believer in natural wines. He calls biodynamic farming close to “black magic,” which leads me to think that he has absolutely no understanding of the benefits of using local plants to treat vineyards; has he ever visited a biodynamic producer or an esteemed professor of biodynamics, of which there are many (yes, including in Riesling land, Stu!) and asked them questions about this? I assume not.
But more importantly, Pigott does not believe in terroir. He writes, skeptically, that hipster somms are duped by wines that supposedly “[have] ‘terroir’ character (a special taste supposedly derived from where it grew)”. I personally cannot imagine someone who calls himself a wine writer being quite so ignorant. Can Pigott really not taste the difference between a Chambolle-Musigny and a Vosne-Romanée? Has he ever tried different cuvees of the same grape, from distinct soils, made by the same winemaker, and observed the unique aspects of each wine? When Pigott was writing his book on Riesling, did he never, ever notice that German winemakers talk expertly about the different terroirs of the Mosel, Rheingau, and Rhinehessen? What, exactly, does he do with his time besides seethe in sulfur-filled wine cellars with curmudgeonly winemakers about “the youth” and their errant ways; does he ever do actual research?
For Pigott to imply that sommeliers are undertrained and lazy (which supposedly is why they like natural wines, since obviously there’s nothing to study or understand if a wine is made without manipulation) is one kind of assault. But to say that natural winemakers themselves are lazy is not only an attack on hardworking, serious farmers and artisans—it is also completely ignorant. Again, I wonder if Pigott has ever ventured into the cellar of a winemaker who doesn’t use chemicals and modern techniques (temperature control, multiple filtrations) in the vineyards or cellars. My recent experience in the Loire Valley helped me understand just how much time, studiousness, energy, and consideration goes into making the wine that we refer to as “natural wine”—at least, in the hands of experienced artisans. I cannot speak for everybody who purports to make natural wine, but people like Jean-Laurent Vacheron, Thierry Puzelat, Hervé Villemade, Noella Morantin, Joseph Mosse, Quentin Bourse, Vincent Caillé, Frederic Niger, and many others whom I visited could never, ever be accused of not taking great care and implementing thoughtful strategy toward their wines. Each vintage is treated uniquely, and decisions are made in order to let the grapes best express themselves. It is very difficult to farm organically in a cool, moist climate like the Loire. Some of the organic growers I saw had done 5 or 7 treatments (a concoction of herbs and plants like nettle and willow) to the vines to prevent mildew.
And in the cellars, where all fermentations happen without the addition of yeasts and generally without any sulfur at all, each of these winemaker takes an extremely precise approach to élevage and assemblage. Thierry Puzelat, for example, has a wine called P’tit Blanc, which is made from his organically farmed, estate-grown Sauvignon Blanc. He ferments in in tank, then filters using naturally occurring diatomaceous earth, and then adds a tiny bit of sulfur before bottling. Puzelat stressed to me that he believe it is necessary to add some sulfites when you filter, because the wine has been disturbed. His goal is to have a wine that is “clean aromatically,” not reduced. It took him 15 years to learn the technique of racking, he explained to me—meaning, to understand intuitively how moving wine around affects it, and how he can help protect the wine without being too interventionist. “In fact,” he said, “in the glass you shouldn’t feel that it’s work. If you feel that, it’s intervention.”
On his personal blog, Pigott writes in defense of his “hipster somm” series, “Ever since I was in my late teens I was convinced that the best story is a true story, and that it’s the people who make a story compelling.” Honestly, I don’t think even my high school English teacher would have let me get away with that sort of crap. The kind of writing Pigott has shared on Grape Collective belongs in his personal diary, where he keeps all his mean thoughts about people he doesn’t like or who don’t want to be his friend, and I question the motivation of any site that would publish it.
Pigott also writes, in his defense: “However, what I am proposing is that more somms be more humble and empathize more with the customers they serve.” Well, what I’m proposing is that wine writers, rather than rant about something they don’t fully understand—remember, critics hated impressionism and cubism, too, when they first emerged—and instead try assuming an attitude of sincere curiosity. Hipsters are often accused of lacking sincerity, and I think it’s actually Pigott who is guilty of this. If you sincerely want to know about something, you’ll study it carefully rather than lashing out at it with a set of uninformed anecdotes.