California wine? Down the drain

Sure, France makes oceans of crappy stuff, but there is also an ever-expanding band of winemakers fiercely committed to working with, not against, nature. Their philosophy is spreading to Italy and slowly to the rest of Europe, while California has been slow on the uptake. And what's more, even with the beastly exchange rate, they are bargains compared with the pricey bottles from Napa or Santa Barbara counties.

This spring, I wondered if while I was otherwise occupied, California vintners had found the road to sanity. I took advantage of the flowering of spring distributor events in New York City. I went tasting and found too many wines still based on over-ripe fruit. Alcohol levels still flirted with those as high as port. Even wine from prized makers such as Heidi Barrett or the highly touted ones from Sea Smoke and Brewer-Clifton were disasters.

At one tasting, I stopped by a relative newcomer, Stewart Cellars. Michael Stewart, a Texan, told me he discarded the 2005 vintage because it tasted "too French." When asked what that meant, he replied "more earth than fruit." Then he added, "I want to make a California wine, not a French wine."

Dull, fruit-driven, alcoholic wines have become the incontrovertible wine identity of California. Or is there hope?

Two tables down, Napa winemaker Cathy Corison stood flanked by decanters and bottles. Her '03 Kronos was shockingly elegant. Her 1996 cabernet wore its gorgeous herbs unapologetically, with vibrancy. The wines weighed in at a miraculous 13.6% alcohol, compared with a more typical 14.9% and beyond. I asked her how she managed this remarkable feat, and she answered: "I don't make wine from prunes. I don't make Las Vegas showgirls."

Forever the cynic, I asked if she had perhaps reduced the alcohol with reverse osmosis. Her response was something along the line of: On a cold day in hell, I would. She has never followed the fashion; she has stayed true to her mission. There aren't many like her around.

Around the aisle from her stood a grinning Mike Dashe. I heard he recently made a wine so un-Californian he was at risk of deportation. It was made in a manner worthy of the French natural wine movement: organic, no added yeasts or trickery, no wood influence. It was a zinfandel with structure and earth and lightness. It also had a color that a famous wine critic might call "feeble."

"I can't show this to critics," Dashe said. "They'd be offended." It was delicious.

Maybe these two represent a fledgling natural wine revolution. If so, I'll certainly wave that flag. But until the overthrow is complete and more California vintners give making real wine a go, I'll always have France.