Mendoza was sepia for the winter but the mountains were still there, as was the wine. There’s something disarming about the flatlands below a mountain range, as if nothing can fall on you....We arrived on a Thursday morning, as did El Gripe in the newspapers: 300,000 exposed, 40% of schools shuttered. Added to this premonition of malaise was the detectable filth on the city’s streets – storefronts looked blanketed by a dust storm and cadaverous dogs hobbled up after you as you passed. While the winter may sully the city, the outlying vineyards retain their unspoiled beauty and the Andes are eternal. We hired a guide and toured three vineyards in addition to the five-course tasting menu we enjoyed at another estate. This cost $150 a head.
Our area of focus was Lujan de Cuyo, a lush valley minutes south of Mendoza. Our tour guide painted a not-so-rosy picture of how El Gripe was squeezing his ski business. This jeremiad influenced our tip at the end of the day.
Since we hadn’t had a fluid conversation with a stranger in several days, we got on well with the guide. In my own head, I couldn’t conjure the circumstances that had plucked this laid back outdoorsman from the pines of Washington state and placed him in Argentina. He mentioned a girlfriend and a job as a ski photographer, but I was unable to connect the dots because it all seemed a whimsical, if enviable, undertaking.
To our virgin nostrils, the wine was ambrosial. Naturally, we concentrated on the Malbec grape, a cast-off from France that was born again on the Argentine hillsides. Its vibrant violet color took on a fantastic glitter as I held it up to the sun. I think being onsite boosted the taste, as a satisfactory sampling is the only acceptable follow-up to all of the swirling and sniffing and smacking of the lips.
Our first bodega was Alta Vista, a rustic compound built by Spanish immigrants at the turn of the century. The charming hostess led us through cavernous basements where the wine mingles with flavored oak in enormous barrels until its ready for drinking. We glimpsed estate workers busy calibrating the wine to its proper temperature for fermentation. For red wine, Alta Vista uses century-old concrete vats that require a delicate finessing of the temperature. A fire is lit under the concrete and the heat disperses throughout. White wine isn’t as sensitive to temperature variations and can be fermented in larger steel vats.
The first provocative wine we sampled at Alta Vista was Torrontes, a signature white wine of Argentina. To avoid the taint of charlatanism, I won’t broach the oenologist’s phrasebook. Words like “oaky” and “earthy” mean nothing to me. One of my few criteria for wine is that it startle rather than bore me. White wines rarely do the former to my stubborn palate. Torrontes, with its robust, lingering flavor, was a welcome exception.
We next visited Club Tapiz to take in a larger scale bodega. The American label Kendall-Jackson had owned the estate a few years back but an Argentine family proudly returned it to local hands and whitewashed the Jackson name from all of its branding. Why? “We didn’t want the stigma.” So much of the appeal of these vineyards is in them being a generational labor of love.
On arriving at Tapiz, we were ushered into a horse-drawn carriage for a drive through the vineyards themselves. Dust flew up and settled to reveal the supernatural silhouette of the Andes. The driver pulled up next to some idling llamas that looked a bit like men in llama costumes. We were bemused to see each other. I wondered aloud if the clumsy creatures trampled the vines, but no one seemed too concerned.
The wine flowed from this picturesque welcome and against such a backdrop, how could any aroma cause offense? Tapiz showcased its impressive arsenal of vintages beneath a stately chandelier in a barn house. A 2006 Malbec classic struck me with vim so I bought a bottle. We also had the luxury of tasting the wine directly from the vat and attempting to discern these inchoate flavors from their fully matured and bottled cousins.
We needed some nourishment to sponge up the wine and it came in the form of a five-course tasting menu at the lovely Bodega Ruca Malen. The seating chart was such: my four companions to my left and right, and myself opposite the Andes. The young servers blushed before announcing each course in lilting accents that heightened my expectations for an epic repast. The meal was such:
1) Yauquen Sauvignon Blanc 2008 – “refreshing, light and citric”
Goat Cheese Bruschetta
Objective of pairing: “To highlight the citric flavors and fresh fruit of the Sauvignon Blanc”
2) Ruca Malen Malbec 2006 – “Deep, elegant nose”
Slices of Filet Mignon cured with olive oil from Lunlunta
Objective of pairing: “To highlight the fresh red fruit and sweetness of the Malbec”
3) Ruca Malen Merlot 2006 – “Brilliant and intense red…Hints of both
vanilla and chocolate”
Wheat Croquets with Wild Mushroom Ragout
and caramelized onions
Objective of the pairing: “To highlight the black pepper as the aromatic descriptor”
4) Ruca Malen Carbernet Sauvignon 2006 – “An intense ruby red with
hints of toasted oak”
Kinien Malbec 2007 – “On the nose red fruits and some floral violet
notes"
Roasted Beef Tenderloin with squash, sweet corn and mashed potatoes
Objective of pairing: “To show the structure of these two varietals, highlighting the spicy side of Cabernet Sauvignon and flower notes and sweet tannins of Malbec”
5) Granite made of Chardonnay, yerba mate, and honey
White chocolate and season fruit
The menu had every reason to boast. The flavors were all there, even the indescribable ones that the menu so enticingly described. We stayed two hours and were content to stay two more. It was a meal that you impulsively label your best ever because it is so vivid and anything but fleeting.
We wrapped the day at the homey Bodega Sottano, which produces just a few thousands bottles a year. By this stage the wine was evoking some heady conversation. Our affable hostess may have another job as a grade school teacher as she often interjected with a palate quiz: “Where on your tongue do you taste this wine?” “What varietals are striking you?” “What colors do you see in this Cabernet Sauvignon?” As in grade school, I tried to guess the answer by the tone of the teacher’s voice. By the fourth red wine I was running out of colors and labeled one fuchsia. She saw that I was using words that she might not recognize in order to improve my quiz score. I apologized for my inept Spanish and fell silent.
Next she bestowed famous look-alikes on our group of four. One was told he resembled Roger Federer (not the first time), another the singular Waldo, as in “Donde esta Waldo?”, and my third friend an elusive Latin pop star (probably the first time). The hostess decided my beard reminded her of Joseph Fiennes and for the rest of our tour I was known as Shakespeare. We thought it only polite to offer her a celebrity of her own. Despite our assurances that her twin is “an attractive American comedienne”, she was dissatisfied with what Google Images returned for Sarah Silverman. We had evidently exhausted all conversation on wine. It was time to hand in our connoisseur badges and step out of the surreal.
The sun ducked behind the Andes as we parted ways with the vineyards and returned to Mendoza city. We muttered impressions to each other through teeth stained purple from a day’s work. “A good place for a honeymoon.” “How good an investment is a vineyard?” Our guide was grinning at our ravings about the day, his Van Gogh beard holding a couple of droplets of Malbec. This was the bliss I had come for and all the trifles of travel – delays, flu, foreign tongues, and general disarray – wilted in the dying embers of the day.
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