Heitz Martha’s Vineyard 1998: A Tale of Woe
I have this game that I play when I go to winery tasting rooms. I try to get off the regular tasting menu and into the better bottles they have stashed behind the bar. The key to this is not a demonstration of vast knowledge; it is the display of great interest. The people who man tasting rooms are up to their eyeballs with wine bores trying to impress them. Better, I believe, to be a reasonably knowledgeable person intrigued by what the tasting room host says.
On my first trip to Napa Valley, I had an agenda that included trips to several wineries with flagship wines I can’t afford or that are unavailable in Kentucky. I drove into the Heitz parking lot with the specific goal of cadging a taste of Martha’s Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon, which is surely one of the great wines of the United States.
The Heitz tasting room is small, as much like the living room of a country lodge as it is a retail center. They had a few gift items around, but most of the precious shelf space was taken up by racks of older vintages for sale. Our host was a lawyer who chose the wine business over the law, and he tasted us through five wines. (I had vowed to take notes, but somehow pulling out my little moleskin notebook seemed obnoxious.) The goal, remember, was a taste of the rare and expensive Martha’s Vineyard cab. I had done my homework. I knew how I was going to approach the problem and felt I had a pretty good lock on a couple of ounces of the legendary, eucalyptus-flavored juice.
The host started with a rosé made from a weirdo Italian grape (Grignolino). It tasted like every other rosé I’ve ever tasted, but I pretended to be fascinated by it. Then he moved us to a pretty good baseline Cabernet, where I started a discussion about specific appellations that earned me an interesting dissertation about the growing American awareness of terroir. He talked about the Rutherford Bench; I asked about vineyard practices and maceration and extraction and subtle differentiation. I talked little and listened much, hanging on his every word, most of which I already knew. He was talking about the characteristics of grapes grown in different vineyards as he poured the next wine, a 2004 Bella Oaks Cab that was spectacular.
It was my moment; I made my move.
“So,” I asked, “what’s the substantial difference between this and the Martha’s Vineyard? If we were to put them side-by-side, what would be the difference?”
He considered me for a moment and said: “Oh, Martha’s has a minty quality. People attribute it to the eucalyptus groves that grow around the vineyard. It’s quite distinct. You should taste it some time.”
I knew the bastard was sitting on a bottle back there somewhere. I knew he could pull it out and pour. I could have been the worst kind of jerk in the world, and if he’d assessed me as someone who’d step-up for a case purchase he’d have done it. But he looked at me coldly and decided I was just another three-pack dilettante — which I am. But still.
“Eucalyptus,” I said, raising my eyebrowns and feigning surprise. “Really? So that aroma somehow permeates the grapes?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s really quite extraordinary.”
I let the silence stretch to infinity, but the bastard stood his ground. The silence would perhaps have been more effective had it not been for my wife, who was petting the winery dog and laughing at my failure. She knew it was over. She knew this guy had seen me for the freeloader I am and had written me off. But I wasn’t ready to admit it.
The host poured the next sample, a port also made from Grignolino. It was good. My wife strolled over and remarked that she didn’t like port, but that this one might change her mind.
“If you like that,” the host said, reaching under the counter, “you’re going to love this.”
He pulled out another bottle of port, older and inky black. He poured for her, glancing at me and smiling. He knows, I thought. He knows what I want and he’s grinding me and at this point I’m not sure he’d sell me a bottle even if I paid for it in gold coin.
My wife sipped and smacked and cooed over the port. I considered killing the dog just to spite her. Instead, I confirmed everything the host assumed about me by buying a three pack that included two Bella Oaks and — yes, I admit it — a bottle of Martha’s. I couldn’t help it. I’d promised myself a taste of Martha’s, and I wasn’t going to be denied.
I took the bottle home, and for the last few years it’s sat in my wine fridge. I’ve tasted Martha’s a couple of times since then, but didn’t open the bottle I’d grudgingly bought until a few days ago, out on the far end of Long Island with the last remnants of Hurricane Earl drizzling around me.
It was dark garnet, almost purple, with solid color all the way to the edge and no visible sign of age. The nose was deep and sort of peaty, and down deep underneath was the touch of mint that is Martha’s signature. The attack was dense and dark, deepest night split by flashing lightening as the acidity took hold. The mouthfeel was so light it was almost vapor.
I sat at the table with the glass in front of me as my friends moved out onto the deck, wiping away the rain and breathing in the clean air after the storm had passed. I left the Martha’s alone for an hour to open up, and when I came back it had given me not much more than the host at the Heitz tasting room. A little light had been shed on the fruit, clouds broken by cherry on the nose and tea and chocolate on the palate. But it was still more than anything a tight little ball in the glass, hinting but not coming forth with all that it had to give. So much potential; so little generosity.
September 10th, 2010 at 2:17 PM
Bravo. A story well told. I especially like your “I considered killing the dog just to spite her.” reaction to being so easily read.
September 12th, 2010 at 9:17 AM
Excellent.
September 16th, 2010 at 12:40 AM
Great story, and in fact, I came into Heitz in much the same way. This practice is very common at trade tastings as well, and it was the goal of all of us rookies to get the person pouring to “reach under the table” after prooving we were worthy. The first time I was successful it was a 2001 Heitz. Since then it has been my favorite Cali Cab, and as far as I’m concerned one of the great cab values out there. But what drew me to this story is that this May my wife and I were married, and we had what was called a “wine ceremony”, where we each had wine in our own glass and poured it into a glass we both shared, symbolizing our unity. The wine, with the bottle proudly displayed, was a Heitz Martha’s Vinyard 1999. The wine was incredible, but failed to compare to everything surrounding it!
September 16th, 2010 at 7:06 PM
Wonderfully told tasting story. I want to hear more about the Grignolino port!