California wine? Down the drain

The peaches squirt, the tomatoes drip, and don't get me started on the chew of the frisky, wild-yeasted bread. I love eating in California. Whenever I return from the Golden State to my New York City five-floor walk-up, I am laden down with the state's riches. So why is it that for the last 10 years I can't drink the wines?

Back in the late '70s, California whupped the French at wine competitions with offerings that were classily expressive and mostly low-tech. But, by the year 2000, California lost its way, something I attribute, in part, to the desperate desire for 95-plus-point ratings, that ultimate affirmation from top wine critics. Forget "Eureka," the new state motto can well be: "Anything worth doing is worth overdoing." Today's California wines are overblown, over-alcoholed, over-oaked, overpriced and over-manipulated.

When I first stopped drinking the Left Coast, it was because I was offended by the overuse of wood, boring flavors and lack of structure. The wines, many of which had plenty of edge and personality, seemed neutered to me. I soon learned that the other part of the story was that an arsenal of technology was deployed to make them that way: yeast, enzymes, tannin, oak and acid, as well as over-extracting techniques, micro-oxygenation, dialysis and reverse osmosis.

Even when winemakers shun these technologies and attempt a naturalish wine, their grapes are often picked so ripe -- all the rage since famed winemaker Helen Turley was anointed a grape goddess by famed critic Robert M. Parker Jr. back in the mid-1990s -- that all chance for complexity and interest is stripped away. There are so many strikes against the local wines -- not the least the taste and the cost -- that when I evaluate them, I think not in terms of whether I like them but whether I can tolerate them.

But take heart, Golden State, you're not alone in making what I consider to be undrinkable wine. About 90% of the rest of mondo del vino has been similarly corrupted. Mercifully, there are still a few beauties made, mostly in France, by vignerons who could care less what the critics think or even what the public thinks it likes. Instead, they make wines of authenticity. Try, for example, the cot (malbec) from the Loire's Clos Roche Blanche (under $20), which makes me conjure up violets floating through a chalk straw. Or Pierre Gonon's St. Joseph (under $40), which illustrates what syrah should taste like -- and it's not cherry vanilla.