Every year at this time, give or take a week or two, this part of Spain—which has earned the D.O. Rias Baixas—harvests this season’s wine, a process called La Vendimia. In addition to all of the professional bodegas in the area, winemaking is still very commonly practiced by locals on a micro-level; judging by a quick visual survey of the homes I pass on a daily basis, a majority of people are also practicing viticulture—the process of actually growing the grapes used for winemaking—which is by far the most difficult part of the process of winemaking. (My cousin Gonzalo estimates that 90% of people locally use their land for some kind of personal-use farming, be it viticulture, potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, onions, the keeping of animals, et cetera, or something else. In his few plots of lands he and his wife, Chelo, somehow manage to do all of the above, and more.)
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| View of Chelo & Gonzalo's backyard, with barn cat |
This week marked La Vendimia for most of the area, Gonzalo included. It was a very dry summer—there was a stretch of about seven weeks with absolutely no rainfall—and thus not a particularly good season for growing (the total yield was comparatively low, though it was not overly hot and thus the grapes still ripened at a good rate). Fortunately it rained very heavily for two straight days leading up to La Vendimia, which everyone seemed to believe was very good for the grapes (“The grapes drink now, so that we can drink them later” Gonzalo said with a smile on the rainiest day).
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| View of Ria Pontevedra (Pontevedra Estuary), part of the Atlantic Ocean, from their patio |
Our part of Galicia is on the 42nd parallel North, which, for frame of reference, puts it on a parallel with central NY, the border of California & Oregon, the southern tip of Ontario, the island of Corsica, and Rome (which is a bit south of the prime wine making areas of France and Italy). We are also immediately off the ocean: Rias Baixas (the name of the D.O.) is Galego for “Lower Estuaries,” or “Lower Fjords”; if you look at a detailed map of the coast of Galicia, you will see several estuaries of the Atlantic Ocean that cut into the coast almost like fingers. The climate here is Atlantic temperate, windy and rainy (most of the year) with temperatures that bottom out at around 45 F on the coldest winter days, never getting much hotter than 85 F on the hottest summer days (usually a bit cooler). All of the unique aspects of a region’s climate radically determine what kinds of grapes grow well; further, the local cuisine of any area tends to have a major affect on its winemaking style. In these areas, Galicia is no different, and the wine made locally is the unique product of climate, history, and culture unlike I have ever before tasted.
Galicia is most known for its Albariño, an indigenous varietal that produces light, crisp white wines which are now very popular in the United States. Albariño is a wine ideally suited for both the cuisine and culture of Galicia: the consummate pair to shellfish and white fish of any kind, it is also perfectly drinkable on its own, making it popular with lunch/dinner, tapas, or any of the isolated social drinks Gallegos might have in the course of a summer day. Though white wine (generally albariño, but also other varietals such as Moscatel) grows better and is more popular here overall, red wine (or tinto as it’s called in Spain) is also beloved here. Though red wines of La Rioja, Spain’s most celebrated winemaking region, are very popular here, generally speaking most reds locally are much lighter, softer, and easily drinkable that Rioja’s tempranillo-based reds. Gonzalo grows both red and white grapes, with roughly half of his plot devoted to Albariño (which produce a 100% varietal), and half to a blend of grapes which becomes his tinto.
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| Albariño grapes in Gonzalo's vines |
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| Red grapes (Foio redondo) |
On Saturday morning at around 10:30 we met Gonzalo at his home for La Vendimia. The plan was to begin picking the albariño at 11 AM, break for lunch (the biggest, most important meal of the day here), and resume picking the reds before pressing the albariño. Gonzalo’s property consists of a medium-sized backyard behind the house (for people in Buffalo, imagine more or less the average yard in Kenmore), and another small plot across the street, right over the ocean, where they keep their chicken coops and pig sties. (The vines here are all above head, entwined with wire fencing to keep them up.) In the morning I began picking the albariño across the street with Gonzalo and Jose (his son-in-law), while Emily started on lunch with the other men’s wives. “Picking” the grapes is, of course, actually cutting down the bundles from the stem and collecting them in a large bucket; it is like any manual labor in that it is rote, though it was a task I found serene and pleasurable, perhaps because it had a leisurely weekend pace and would the end product we were working towards was so palatable and perceptible. To pass the time, Gonzalo, Jose and I had a conversation about wine and wines from other countries, which I found hysterical. Spaniards are, by nature, very, very proud people, beginning first with their region (in this case Galicia), but extending to the country as a whole whenever compared or contrasted to another land. Jose—a loud, brusque, uncharacteristically heavy man (for Spain’s standards)—proclaimed, as Gonzalo dropped the first bundle of grapes: “Albariño, el mejor vino del mundo (albariño, the best wine in the world).” Casually, I responded “It’s delicious, though I prefer reds.” Gonzalo, mild-mannered and even-tempered, diplomatically offered “Albariño is the best for drinking, but tinto is better with food,” which prompted Jose to catalogue which foods pair best with albariño, and which with tinto, causing a mini-debate between the two. Switching gears a bit, I asked them if they ever drank wines from other countries; Spain, owing in part to their pride, imports less wine per capita than any nation in the world, drinking domestic wine almost exclusively (while still maintaining a healthy level of export [Spain has more acreage of vines planted than any nation in the world]). Gonzalo and Jose each responded to the effect of “I’ve tried most of them, but I prefer our wine.” What followed were their quick summaries of some of the world’s major winemaking nations:
France – Gonzalo: “They make some very good wines, but it’s only really drinkable with food. You can’t drink French wine on its own.” Jose: “They are like scientists when it comes to wine. Everything is about blending, what goes with what. They play with their wine a lot. It’s all like a science to them. Some of the wines are good. I’ve had French champagne before.”
Italy – Jose: “Their wine is really just made for cooking. For the most part, it’s made for cooking, it isn’t wine that should be drank.” Gonzalo: “The thing is, all Italian wine is sweet. Their reds, their whites, they’re all very, very sweet.” (When I responded that that’s not actually true, and that some Italian wines, like Nebbiolo, are very strong and tannic, Gonzalo paused, wrinkled his eyes dubiously, and said finally “Puede ser (it’s possible).”
America – Jose: “I’ve never had American wine, but I hear it’s actually supposed to be pretty good in some parts.” Me: “Yes, American wine is very diverse, and some of it is among the best wine in the world.” Jose: (Laughs) “No, it’s not that good. The California wine is supposed to be good. The thing is, America doesn’t have the right kind of land for growing grapes.” Me: “Well, it’s not my favorite, but it is considered to be amongst the best. Land for grapes in Napa is the most expensive in the world, along with Bordeaux.” Jose: “I don’t think so.” Gonzalo: “The problem is, all of the vines are very young there. Winemaking in the United States is very new, they’re still figuring things out.” Me: “I was in Napa with Emily in March. Some of their vines are older than the oldest vines in Europe. They have vines of a certain type, Zinfandel, that are over 100 years old. And there are lots of winemakers who have come from Spain and France and have vineyards in California.” Gonzalo: “Yes but the problem is, they are still learning how to make wine there. They don’t really know what they’re doing yet.”
And so on. That the underlying tone was one of pride and self-preservation softened the generalizations they used so cavalierly, and, ultimately, no one should be faulted for having a strong opinion (lord knows I’ve got my share). After getting the first batch of grapes, we returned to the backyard where Emily helped, joined by Chelo, Marinieves (20, Chelo & Gonzalo’s granddaughter), and Jose’s niece (19). The work at this point, while still easygoing, became literally back-breaking, owing to the low height of the aforementioned hanging vines; Emily and I joked that it was the first time in our lives we were thankful to be short. If any bundles of grapes were entirely unripened, they were to be thrown back to the ground and forgotten, though that was a rarity. All the rest of the bundles were thrown together, to be sorted through later.
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| Lunch :-D |
At about 2 PM we broke for lunch, which was delicious fish on the open wood-fire grill, boiled potatoes with olive oil, and noodles with roasted chicken and peas in a thin tomato sauce. Of course fresh bread is standard with any meal in Spain, along with requisite bottles of albariño and tinto (Gonzalo drinks only his own wine, or occasionally that of a friend). After lunch there is always desert, which is a curious mix of fruit, nuts, sweet breads, cakes/tarts, and especially ice cream (no Spanish home seems to be without ice cream in the freezer, particularly cucuruchos, the individually-wrapped cones); all of the above is served with coffee and, usually, liquor (a chupito, or shot, of aguardiente [more on this in a bit], whisky, coffee-flavored liquer, sherry, or rum, depending on your taste). Generally I pass on the liquor, having already had a few glasses of wine with lunch and unaccustomed to the taste of liquor with the sun still up, which my family seems to find peculiar (“Everyone says a shot of whisky a day is good for your heart…everyone” they tell me). (As for the aguardiente? “Cura de todo, cura de todo” [“It cures everything.”]) The meal is slow and leisurely, especially on weekends, often taking 2 or 2-½ hours, during which point it is not rare (at least in Gonzalo’s home) for family or friends from the neighborhood to drop by unannounced (and, inevitably, eat and drink with everyone else).
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