The literature of wine, as most readers have probably discovered, is full of colorful and often confusing language. While there are useful and precise words to describe certain measurable components of wine, such as acidity, tannin, sugar, extract and pH, there are also plenty of nebulous adjectives which rely more upon our subjective interpretation: for instance, fruity, floral, spicy and, most dubiously of all, mineral. The notion that we can actually taste the soil in which a grapevine grows is highly fanciful, yet “minerality” is now well established as a part of the wine writer’s (not to mention the winemaker’s) lexicon. It’s a misleading and, I think, lazy term: one which needs to be carefully considered before each use.
The concept of minerality in wine seems to have its origins in a misconception about the true meaning of the French word “terroir.” For some time, certainly since the days of the great oenologist Émile Péynaud of Bordeaux, the French have used the term “gôut de terroir” to refer to a set of unique characteristics imparted to a wine by the soil and climate in which the grapevine resides. Literally meaning “taste of the soil” this expression could easily be misinterpreted as just that: the flavor of the earth. To adopt such a narrow definition is to miss the point of “terroir”, however, and herein lies the problem of minerality.
To the grape grower, “terroir” means a lot more than just soil. It refers also to subsoil, bedrock, drainage, elevation, proximity to bodies of water, orientation to the sun, unique climatic situation and length of growing season. Essentially, it refers to all aspects of wine growing which are not directly influenced by humans beyond the choice of where to plant the vines. Each of these factors can and does contribute to the character and taste of a particular wine, and, if consistent, produce wines of a predictable style, regardless of vintage variation or winemaking techniques. This is how great vineyards earn their reputation.
Because so many great European wines are inextricably entwined with their specific sites, the concept of terroir has, until quite recently, remained strictly the domain of the old world, where such historically significant sites exist. This has led understandable reluctance on the part of many critics and teachers to ascribe any so-called old-world characteristics to wines which emerge from countries established post 1600. European wines, except those from hotter regions, tend to project a muscular, lean, not-especially-fruity style which aromatically may often lean towards the truffly, leathery or brushy. For want of a better word, this style is frequently described as “earthy.”
By contrast, the majority of so-called “new world” wines project bright, fresh fruit, higher alcohol and lower acidity than their European counterparts, mostly as a result of latitude, climate and modern winemaking techniques. In order to distinguish between the wines of Europe and everywhere else, writers and teachers have adopted terminology which may not be strictly accurate, frequently ascribing “minerality” to old-world wines and a lack of it to new. To many tasters, the wines of Chablis are “flinty”, the wines of Sancerre “chalky”, the wines of the Mosel are redolent of slate, and so on. These may be useful descriptors to help describe the inherently austere nature of these wines, but they are also misleading: simply put, you cannot smell chalk, flint or slate, even if your head is immersed in a bucket of the stuff.
There is incontrovertible proof that different soil types produce noticeably different wines: this applies to both new world and old world wines. It would be absurd to believe, just because a certain grapevine grows in a certain recently-created geo-political region, that it somehow recognizes this distinction and refuses to acknowledge the soil in which it lives. What is it, for example, that makes a chardonnay grown in 400 million year-old ironstone soils in Western Australia any less minerally than a Chardonnay grown in the chalk of Chablis? The fact that “Australia” is only two hundred years old, perhaps?
In fact, so rigorous and unforgiving is this dogmatic belief, that wines from the “old world” are minerally and those from the “new world” are not, that one of the most highly-regarded wine examinations in the world is in part predicated upon detecting the presence of minerality in wine. One is expected to identify its presence, both on the nose and on the palate, in wines from the old world. Failure to conjure up these imaginary smells and tastes may result in failure to pass the exam.
So what is “minerality” if it’s not a direct expression of the soil in which the wine grows? That’s the subject of a future blog, so watch this space.
