I'm oaky, you're oaky

Would wine be wood if it could?

by Thor Iverson

DIGGING THROUGH SOME old columns recently, I came to the realization that it's a rare "Uncorked" when I don't mention either terroir or oak. The former I've already droned on about ad nauseam (fear not; history suggests it'll turn up again), but I'm nothing if not a pedant, so now it's time to rant about oak.

I'll start off this rant by admitting that I like oak. But the key, as always, is moderation. I suspect that if many modern-day wines were allowed to evaporate, the residue would resemble a sapling (or, in the case of older wines, an antique desk).

Why is there oak in wine to begin with? A long time ago, winemakers realized that aging their wines in oak barrels worked some sort of magic on the juice. It was soon discovered that the alternatives -- concrete(!), ceramic, and now stainless steel -- don't do something that oak does: breathe. This slow, measured oxidation of wine affects the way it develops and matures in very desirable ways.

But the effects of oak don't end there. Along with air, the taste of the barrel also leaches into the wine. This can be controlled by modifying the amount of "toast" (or "char" -- barrel-makers will literally burn the inside of the barrel, which limits the transfer of oxygen and changes the flavor flowing from the wood to the wine). It also diminishes over time; take a tour of many European winemakers' cellars, and you'll see an awful lot of barrels from the 18th and 19th centuries that impart no more flavor than stainless steel. And the smaller the barrel, the more wine is exposed to wood.

As I've noted before, winemakers often carry a good idea too far. Oak barrels have multiplied in cellars (asexually, we hope) until nearly every wine from some producers spends some time in 100 percent new oak. (The increasingly common phrase "200 percent new oak" means that wine was taken out of one set of barrels and transferred to a second, fresh set.) Winemakers also use specially designed square barrels, oak chips, barrels with extra oak staves in the middle, and even "liquid oak essence," all in an attempt to add more oak flavor to wine.

But oak is a very strong flavor, one that can easily dominate all but the fiercest grape juice. Big, bold red wines can often "soak up" oak and still taste like wine, but less-assertive reds and many whites simply collapse under the woody assault. Some winemakers will use identical oaking techniques for chardonnay (a big, fruity, "fat"-tasting grape) and sauvignon blanc (a more angular, subtle, "thin" grape), which results in an oaky chardonnay and an undrinkable bottle of oak juice labeled sauvignon blanc.

Winemakers will also claim that barrel-aging adds "complexity" to wine. This is nonsense: oak doesn't add complexity, it adds oak. Complexity is derived from the interplay of all of a wine's components -- fruit, acidity, tannin, structure -- of which oak is but one. Judiciously used oak can turn the right juice into a compelling expression of the winemaker's art, but all too often it obscures whatever character a wine might have had.

So what does oak taste like? Descriptors like toast, vanilla, butterscotch, and spice are common; when these flavors dominate, or take on a slightly bitter taste on the finish, there's a good chance the wine is overoaked. This bitterness can also indicate the use of oak chips or liquid oak, especially in inexpensive wines (oak is expensive, and the chance that a $10 chardonnay is extensively aged in high-quality French oak is . . . well, let's say it's unlikely).

The problem -- if you want to call it a problem -- is that people like the taste of oak. Early New World winemakers, unable to afford expensive French oak, turned to strongly flavored American and Slovenian oak barrels. By the time they could afford the less-intrusive French stuff, the New World palate was accustomed to strong oak flavors in wine. Of course, this made Old World wines taste "thin" to the wealthy New World market, so many French and Italian winemakers capitulated and started burying their wines in oak (often with disastrous consequences: the big, assertive flavors of American and Australian wine can handle a lot more oak). If you ever see one of the new "unwooded" Australian chardonnays, try serving it to a few casual wine drinkers alongside a regular, heavily oaked Aussie chard. Most non-wine geeks won't be able to identify (or like) the taste of the pure grape, because they're so used to chardonnay with a large dollop of wood.

If you're a fan of oak, then you're in luck; California, Australia, South Africa, Chile, much of Spain, southern France, and Tuscany are your playground. There are plenty of lightly wooded wines from these areas, but a heavy use of oak is the norm. On the other hand, oak-phobes (like me) can take refuge in Germany, Austria, Alsace, New Zealand, the Loire Valley, and (strangely enough) Bordeaux, where oak is either nonexistent or more gently employed.

If you're unsure, the easiest way to find out is to do some side-by-side taste tests. American winemakers tend to oak their reserve cuvées a lot more than their regular cuvées (and single-vineyard wines somewhere in between). So, for instance, try the Chateau Ste. Michelle Chardonnay ($14), followed by the single-vineyard versions -- Indian Wells ($24), Cold Creek ($26), Canoe Ridge ($28), etc. -- and then the Reserve ($31) to get a taste of this sort of oak escalation in action. Viña Tarapacá (Chile) is useful in this regard; the Chardonnay Maipo ($7) is lightly oaked compared to the Chardonnay Maipo Reserva ($11). Or taste the Trimbach Pinot Gris ($17) against the somewhat controversial Ostertag Pinot Gris "Barriques" ($23). Both are from Alsace, but the former is oak-free, whereas the latter uncharacteristically sees small oak barrels. Finally, just to prove the sincerity of my earlier statement, here's an oaky California chardonnay that even I love:

1997 Meridian Chardonnay Coastal Reserve (Edna Valley) ($16). Rich aromas of pear, peach, kiwi, mango, and fig carry through to the creamy butterscotch-and-clove palate. There's a firm, spicy apple character, along with some bitter citrus carried by the high acidity, and both work in harmony with the strongly oaked finish. The structure is there to age a few years, but this is a delicious wine right now.

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine[a]phx.com.

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine[a]phx.com.