ColumnsThe Collection

Is terroir ripe for re-evaluation?

Connecting wine to its origins enriches it. However, after at least two decades of terroir triumphalism, our discourse around it is probably due a tune-up

Words by Sarah Heller MW

The Collection
The notion of terroir in Burgundy was met with scepticism only 30 years ago

A clear sign that a worldview has triumphed is that few remain who remember it was ever up for debate. This applies even to our cosy fine-wine enclave, in which terroir’s hegemony makes questioning it sound akin to flat-Earthism. A product of wine’s terroir-ist epoch myself, I can recall my bemusement when author Matt Kramer told me the emphasis on terroir in his 1990 Making Sense of Burgundy was met with immense scepticism, especially Stateside, where it was derided as, to paraphrase, hooey. It’s worth remembering that even in France, terroir – at least by that name – is hardly the centuries-old credo the Burgundians would have us believe: it only acquired its positive connotations about a century ago, and it was still referenced only in passing in such classics as Emile Peynaud’s 1983 book Le Goût de Vin.

I’m not here to challenge the underlying concept of terroir. The Earth is round, most of us can agree, and the conditions of any one spot on it evidently affect the grapes from there. Connecting wine to its origins enriches it, affording us the opportunity to experience it as more than just a branded product. However, after at least two decades of terroir triumphalism, our discourse around it is probably due a tune-up.

Terroir is a confluence of factors: soil, geology, topography, climate and (more controversially) human contributions. Considering all these simultaneously is overwhelming, so we typically zero in on one or two. Thanks largely to Burgundy, terroir is often reduced to soil or rocks, like the vaguely understood marl and marlstone. Other distinctive rocks – volcanic rocks and slate, particularly – have become similarly fetishised. Unfortunately, as often happens when concepts as poorly understood as geology and pedology are adopted by marketers and then the public, the upshot has been much pseudoscience. (Observe how ‘minerality’ in wine is implicitly attributed to vines sucking up minerals from deep underground.) To be clear, soil obviously has an impact on grapes through its water retention, pH and so on, but science has yet to provide a definitive link between specific rock types and wine characteristics. Geologist Alex Maltman’s excellent Vineyards, Rocks, & Soils spends some 250 pages coming to essentially this conclusion.

The inability to link perceived site characteristics to actual wine traits gradually feeds the suspicion that the whole thing is a cash grab

The impact of other terroir factors is (usually) clearer: south-facing slopes like the Sorì of the Langhe typically give riper grapes. Cool Alpine climates generally produce higher acidity. Still, true precepts are in short supply: Etna’s southern-slope wines are often sharper and leaner than northern ones due to altitude, aridity and younger, less water-retentive soils. Alto Adige, despite sitting in the foothills of the Dolomites, has vineyard mesoclimates that are more Mediterranean than Alpine (plus surprisingly little dolomitic limestone in the soil) – as its gloriously sun-filled Pinot Grigio can attest.

Misunderstandings and twaddle in marketing, the press and the trade are hardly unique to the wine industry. Yet given the rapid proliferation of single-site wines underpinned by officially sanctioned cru systems, it behoves us all to discuss terroir more meaningfully. Especially when single-site wines come with triple-figure price tags, the inability to link perceived site characteristics to actual wine traits gradually feeds the suspicion that the whole thing is a cash grab.

With so many regions’ wines seen as collectable, we ought to consider which factors are true keys to their terroir and why. The orthodoxies of the Côte – the importance of clay for whites and limestone for reds – or Gironde – gravel gives hard tannins; clay gives soft – can’t just be applied willy-nilly. For instance, in Montalcino, Sangiovese grown on thick clay is decidedly rugged, an apparent contradiction explained by the fact that ‘clay’ is only moderately more meaningful as a soil description than ‘volcanic’.

This isn’t a simple task; environments are complex, and what truly affects an individual site (a spring, a nearby forest or even a motorway) may be irrelevant just one kilometre away. This is terroir’s magic. However, our soil obsession seems to be tripping us up. How often have I heard producers in regions where soils are so varied as to be functionally meaningless boast about the sheer number of different soils on their site? I love, instead, a conversation about the overnight fog that keeps southern Napa’s valley-floor wines unexpectedly fresh, or the cool evening breezes off Lake Garda that help grapes reach flavour ripeness with vibrant acidity. These are stories that paint a picture of the region while relating, accurately, something meaningful about the wine.

My sense is that, for the increasingly sophisticated collector, the excuse that ‘it’s terroir’ (accompanied by a shrug) just won’t cut it anymore. As with other concepts asked to do this much heavy lifting – ‘local’, ‘sustainable’ or ‘regenerative’ – we all crave a bit more of the substantive and a little less of the hooey.

Sarah Heller illustration
By Sarah Heller MW

Master of Wine and Club O columnist Sarah Heller was born and raised in Hong Kong, where she covered wine for Asia Tatler. She now lives in Washington State and is a host on the TV series Wine Masters.