La Vendimia, Part 2

Picking grapes is back-breaking work...literally!

After everyone has gotten their fill, and relaxed sufficiently (la siesta, an afternoon nap, is still a common practice), it’s back to work.  At this point we picked the grapes for the tinto, which each year is a blend of five to six varietals.  Each year the blend is overwhelmingly composed (around 80%) of an indigenous varietal called Foio Redondo, a large, round, dark-purple grape that is very juicy and, though it has large seeds, has absolutely no discernible tannin.  This year the rest is composed of a blend of tempranillo (the celebrated Rioja varietal), Catelan negro, and a very small (maybe 2-3%) presence of Catelan blanco (a white grape, oddly), which Gonzalo says mixes nicely with the reds.  In the last few years Gonzalo has been experimenting with how well certain varietals produce on his land, so currently not everything he is growing is ready for the wine (vines need to produce grapes for at least two years before the fruit is suitable for winemaking, and sometimes up to four), and among those right now are moscatel.  (Currently Gonzalo calls these grapes uva de mesa [table grapes], as they are brought in and placed on the table to snack on.)

Sorting through the grapes

When all the grapes have been picked, they are sorted through bundle-by-bundle.  The idea is to pick our any individual gripes that are either overripe, not-yet-ripe, dried out, victim of rot, or otherwise unappetizing (removing the plentiful spiders helps too).  This process is a point of particular pride for the family (“This is what wineries don’t do” says Marichelo, Gonzalo’s daughter).  This job is long and tedious, and it leaves your fingers and hands totally sticky and full of spider webs (the vines are one of spiders’ favorite places to hang out, evidently).  To make the job go by quicker, everyone joins in, and for a point that included even my great-aunt Amelia (Chelo’s mother/Gonzalo’s mother-in-law), once the family matriarch who has, since her husband (and, more recently, son) died, been mostly sedentary and reclusive.  To pass the time there are plenty of jokes (Jose quipped “Bienvenido a Bodegas Gonzalo, donde todo el vino es malo,” a rhyme that means “Welcome to Gonzalo’s winery, where all the wine sucks”), and at one time there were songs; Tina, Amelia’s daughter-in-law (the widow of her son, Mundo, who died last year), tried to get Amelia to remember some of the old songs the women used to sing while sorting through the grapes, but she could not recall them (“They didn’t mean anything,” Amelia said, “the men just wanted us to sing to be sure we weren’t eating the grapes” [laughter]).

The spiders really do love the vines!

See him hiding there, on the right?

Plenty more to be done!

The tray of discarded grapes in bottom-right of frame

Stomping time

After only the best grapes have been selected, then comes the fun part—stomping on the grapes!  This old practice is still a functional way for Gonzalo to take the whole quantity of grapes and get it down to an initial must (juice plus solid portions [skins/stems/seeds/pulp]) before pressing it fully.  Emily and I each took turns stomping on the grapes…an interesting tactile experience to say the least.  The amount of juice the grapes provides, even after a few initial steps, is unbelievable; as you step down further (“More!  More!” the family heckled us, “reach your feet to the bottom [of the barrel]!”) the must really begins to stick to your legs, and by the time you exit your legs are covered with a thick slime reminiscent of “Double Dare” (those of you my age should know what I mean).  Throughout the stomping we got some funny commentary from my family, mainly along the lines of the 2010 Cosecha (vintage) tasting like American feet.  Nicolas’ wife, Concha, also helpfully suggested I remind Emily not to urinate in the grapes as she stomped on them, a piece of advice that *hopefully* is not offered due to experience.  (Marichelo also told us about how, many years ago, women were prohibited from stomping on the grapes during their period, which was an amusing point to convey since I did not know the Spanish words for either “period” or “menstruation.”)  Anyway, after stomping, the initial must of the albariño then macerates in a barrel for 24 hours for partial fermentation, to be continued on Sunday.

Pomace, after pressing

On Sunday we went back for lunch, and continued work thereafter.  Jose’s job was to squeeze the rest of must down with Gonzalo’s press, squeezing out every conceivable drop of juice and leaving only pomace (pure physical matter of the grapes [the skins/stems/seeds/pulp]).  Jose squeezed it down so tightly that, when the press was taken apart, to my amazement the pomace had formed a huge, thick, hard crust, which broke apart only when picked at with sharp tools.  The juice, brownish-green, had hardly fermented, and tasted instead like the most rich, fresh, semi-sweet juice I had ever had.  (Nicolas, who owns the family’s dry sense of humor, put on his wine critic hat, and joked “Este no es albariño.  Este tiene sabor Americano.  Yo no voy a beber este vino (“This is not albariño.  This tastes American.  I won’t drink this wine.”)  From there the juice sits in an open barrel for 8 days fermenting, before being placed into a stainless steel barrel for 6-7 months of aging.

Stained feet!

After taking care of the albariño, we stomped on the blend of reds, which had been sitting overnight.  This process was pretty much identical to the stomping of the albariño, only really, REALLY freakin’ messy.  The juice from the red grapes is unbelievably staining!  When I got out of the barrel it looked like I had committed bloody murder, and after 4 showers and over 30 hours the soles of my feet are still slightly black from the process.  This must sits in a wooden barrel for three days before being pressed like the whites, and then is placed back into wooden barrels for an additional 7-8 months of aging.  Gonzalo uses small barrels of Spanish and American oak, though they are old and have been in use for several years, so by now give off no flavor or tannin at all.  Consequently these wines are not well-suited for aging, and are meant to be drank in the same year, or in the next year after bottling.  (This process is well documented on Emily’s blog; for more pictures of what I’ve described, you can check it out there.  For those of you unfamiliar with it, it can be found at booeyinspain.blogspot.com)

Earlier I mentioned aguardiente; aguardiente, or orujo, is a type of liquor (like the Italian grappa) which is made by distilling the pomace leftover from winemaking.  The “hard crust” I mentioned earlier—the pomace—is added to the must of the red grapes as it sits in the barrel for three days, soaking up some juice and alcohol to prepare it for distillation.  What is produced from that process, which Gonzalo used to do but now pays a friend about $50 to do for him, is what produces aguardiente (literally “fire water”).  “Fire water” is a good name for this beverage, which is clear like water but ranges from 100-120 proof, and has the aroma of pure hell.  Aguardiente is unique to Galicia, and a source of local pride; when I recounted to my family that a friend I made in Madrid literally cringed when I mentioned aguardiente, they laughed and cheered, and joked that Madrileños were not real men.  Aguardiente is drank after big meals, and is used as a kind of cure-all in the malady department (as a beverage, but also sometimes rubbed on chests to fight colds & congestion).  My grandmother, who never touches alcohol, still occasionally puts a healthy pour in a glass of milk when she is feeling ill (which is, without exaggeration, the most revolting thing I have ever witnessed).  Aguardiente is also popular amongst Gallego fisherman in the wintertime, who—after long winter nights on the cold, windy, rainy ocean—“come into the bar blue in the face,” as the saying goes, “and, after a glass of aguardiente, leave red in the face.” When Jamerson and I brought American friends to Spain, Gonzalo immediately made them try aguardiente, and I always laugh when I remember how amused and pleased he was when Chris took down a 2 ounce shot in one gulp (“¡Bravo, bravo, que valiente!”)

The whole experience is a wonderful, family-shared process that I actually felt honored to be a part of.  Gonzalo recalled how he learned winemaking from his grandfather, who learned from his grandfather; in turn, Gonzalo will teach it one day to one of his grandchildren; “Siempre,” he said, “de abuelo a nieto, de abuelo a nieto” (“Always from grandfather to grandson”).  Though I’ve got some great, expensive bottles of wine aging in my “cellar” at home for a future special occasion, I don’t think I’ve ever been so eager to try a wine as one of the bottles I’ve had a hand in making.  April can’t come soon enough!