Not for Bread Alone Part 9

This means keeping the vines healthy. It means keeping the skins of the grapes intact. Federico winces. "Once the skin breaks, that's the ball game."

The vine must be protected from harm. The seriousness of disease and pest control is eloquently expressed by the Italian terms difesa difesa (defense) and (defense) and lotta lotta (fight). Of the three plagues that America inadvertently visited upon European vineyards in the nineteenth century-phylloxera, oidium, and downy mildew (fight). Of the three plagues that America inadvertently visited upon European vineyards in the nineteenth century-phylloxera, oidium, and downy mildew (peronospora) (peronospora)-the latter two still require constant vigilance and often intensive spraying. The traditional prevent-ive for peronospora peronospora is based on copper sulfate. Growers became so fond of seeing the leaves of their vines turn blue from this spray that more recent ones have been dyed the same color. We hear how, during World War II, growers melted down pots, pans, and even coins in order to obtain the necessary copper. We visit consultant Paolo Ruaro, shy and deliberate as he speaks, with whom we discuss such matters as organic cultivation. We watch Federico using pheromones in his fight against the grape moth larva. is based on copper sulfate. Growers became so fond of seeing the leaves of their vines turn blue from this spray that more recent ones have been dyed the same color. We hear how, during World War II, growers melted down pots, pans, and even coins in order to obtain the necessary copper. We visit consultant Paolo Ruaro, shy and deliberate as he speaks, with whom we discuss such matters as organic cultivation. We watch Federico using pheromones in his fight against the grape moth larva.

The buds break, the vine flowers, the fruit sets. Angelo is all smiles: 163 163 "The vineyard is way ahead of schedule." That means an early harvest, while the weather is sure to be good. But it is hard to believe that those hard green pinheads will ever be transformed into any kind of wine.

In August they suddenly become credible, turning red overnight (the invaiatura invaiatura) and starting to swell.

A shaded leaf annoys Federico. "It's not working for its keep," he snorts. It will also cause problems for the winemaker. He admires a cl.u.s.ter: not too big, not too tight, small grapes.

In the spring we saw a vineyard that had been destroyed by hail; now we drive by one where rows of vines have been knocked down by a violent storm. With Aldo Vacca, who wrote his thesis at the University of Turin on clonal selection, we go to an experimental vineyard devoted to that process. Aldo talks about clones while the differences stare us in the face. In Gaja's new vineyard at Serralunga, in the Barolo area on the other side of Alba, Federico points out the effects of management concerned with high yields and insensitive to the needs of the soil. In Asti, we visit Lorenzo Corino. "We're ahead of the French because we fell behind," he says with an impish grin about soil conserva-tion. "We tried to keep up. Luckily, we had some problems."

After the invaiatura invaiatura the grapes ripen rapidly. They swell and are more vulnerable. Drought is worrisome, but so is humidity. The difference between maximum and minimum temperatures is sometimes more than 20C. ("Fantastic!" exults Federico.) At dinner the subject of mechanical harvesting comes up. Angelo rolls his eyes. "Machines don't think. How can they select grapes?" the grapes ripen rapidly. They swell and are more vulnerable. Drought is worrisome, but so is humidity. The difference between maximum and minimum temperatures is sometimes more than 20C. ("Fantastic!" exults Federico.) At dinner the subject of mechanical harvesting comes up. Angelo rolls his eyes. "Machines don't think. How can they select grapes?"

As the harvest approaches, the winemaker leaves his cellar and takes to the vineyard more and more frequently. We meet Guido Rivella, born and bred in Barbaresco. We'll be seeing Guido scurrying like a monkey up ladders and across catwalks between fermentation tanks.

Measuring one or another component of a wine like a doctor listening to a patient's heart.

On the far side of forty, with thinning hair, Guido seems to be thinning all over. He is hard on himself. His wines get reviewed, compared, and even graded throughout the world. Given Gaja's reputation and prices, expectations are high. "It's like the Juventus," he sighs, referring to Italy's most prestigious soccer team. "The Juve has has to win." Calm and prudent, Guido is a foil to Angelo's pa.s.sionate activism. "I come home from abroad wanting to change everything," says Angelo. "Guido puts on the brakes, plays the devil's advocate." to win." Calm and prudent, Guido is a foil to Angelo's pa.s.sionate activism. "I come home from abroad wanting to change everything," says Angelo. "Guido puts on the brakes, plays the devil's advocate."

Times have changed since Guido was growing up in Montestefano, 164 164 a cl.u.s.ter of houses less than a mile from the village itself. He recalls playing with his uncle's truffle dogs. Now and then they would dig up one of the tubers. Guido shrugs his shoulders. "I never cared much for them." His uncle didn't even sell them. The only merchant was in Alba, and the little he paid did not make buying a train ticket and taking several hours off from work worthwhile. "Wine was just a beverage in those days," remarks Guido. At the school in Alba where he studied enology and viticulture "they were mainly concerned about avoiding spoilage."

We follow Guido in his gray smock as he strides through Sor San Lorenzo, picking grapes here and there at random and crus.h.i.+ng them on his refractometer. He holds it up to the light and reads off a number on the Babo scale, named after a nineteenth-century Austrian. It's Baume in France, Brix in the United States, and Oechsle in Germany, but what they all tell you in the end is how much sugar the grapes contain.

"Twenty-two." "Nineteen." "Just under twenty-one." As the French thinker Pascal wrote back in the seventeenth century, "Are there ever two grapes exactly alike in a cl.u.s.ter?" Each grape has its own place in the vineyard pecking order according to its vine, its cl.u.s.ter (the nearer the trunk, the more sugar), its position in the cl.u.s.ter (the nearer the top, the more sugar).

We are reminded again that Nature could not care less about wine.

From her point of view, the most important part of the grape is the seeds, which ensure the survival of the species. But the more seeds a grape has, the less sugar and more acidity it contains. In a sense, the sugar is merely a surplus left over after the seeds have received all the nourishment they need.

Now and then, Guido tastes a grape, examines the skin, crushes it in his hand. ("The juice comes out already colored!"). He could pick now, but since it is so early (October is still a week away and the harvest usually takes place well into that month) and the grapes are healthy, he could also wait. Federico and his crew have accomplished their mission: Guido has a choice.

In his book Le vin et les jours (Wine and Days) Le vin et les jours (Wine and Days), Peynaud has an amusing chapter on "all those good reasons for harvesting early" ("The weather forecast is bad: I'd better hurry before it's too late." "The forecast is good: I'd better take advantage of it while it lasts."), for that has always been the great temptation. Yet the concept of ripeness is not a simple one. Sometimes less is more.

In 1978 the weather was so good that Angelo and Guido delayed 165 165 the harvest in another vineyard, Sor Tildn, until November 11. "We were just showing off more than anything else," Guido confesses. "The old-timers were always saying that grapes weren't what they used to be, that you had to bring them in earlier nowadays." But he regrets that decision. The '78 Sor Tildn is still hard and unyielding.

Guido has noticed that the first batches of grapes from San Lorenzo produce more supple wines, with deeper color and a finer bouquet, than later ones. The skin is firmer and releases less pectin, which makes the wine hard. He also wants grapes with more malic acid, which will later be converted into lactic acid and thus make the wine more supple.

"In the past, we lacked the knowledge, and maybe the courage, to harvest earlier," says Guido. "If the weather's good, we tend to feel it's a shame not to wait a bit longer."

Tomorrow is the day. "We'll start at seven-thirty in the morning,"

says Federico. "If there's no dew."

We start at the bottom of the slope. ("If it happens to rain later on, it'll be nastier at the bottom when we start working again.") We catch some of the banter as we work our way up Sor San Lorenzo. ("When's Gaja going to install a sky-lift?") Angelo Lembo, who came north to work at the Fiat automobile factory in Turin and has lived in Barbaresco for twenty years, instructs a newcomer: "It's better to lose a few grapes than to let one rotten one slip through." The cl.u.s.ters are put into plastic containers. ("They might not be as attractive as wicker baskets," remarks Federico, "but they're a lot more hygienic.") We sit on the tractor as it hauls away the first load of grapes toward the winery.

As the grapes move through the ideally cool morning air, the mind imagines their magical metamorphosis into a gla.s.s of Sor San Lorenzo 1989. But it will be three years and many transformations later when bottles start to appear in wine shops around the world. The only other product of Barbaresco soil comparable in renown and price is the white truffle, which you can dig up, wipe off, and eat.

Making wine ("the fermented juice of grapes") is simplicity itself; making great wine involves a seemingly infinite number of details and decisions. One could argue that winemakers do not actually make wine (those alchemical agents, yeasts, do), but this is true only in the sense that cooks do not cook food (heat does).

Yet much of winemaking can be seen as controlling the effect of a few crucial factors such as microorganisms (yeast and bacteria), oxygen, and temperature. Guido explains how winemaking has evolved in recent 166 166 times. There is both greater knowledge of the conditions affecting the major processes and the technology to control them. "Sure, great wines were made here in the past," he acknowledges, "but only when luck had it that certain conditions occurred spontaneously."

We follow the grapes as they are destemmed and crushed. The latter term is misleading. "It's like squeezing an orange," Guido explains. "If you press too hard, you get bitter substances from the skin in your juice." Indeed, the traditional crusher, the human foot, was a much more gentle piece of equipment than the first mechanical ones.

We observe Guido in his tiny laboratory with a beaker full of pale pink juice (in technical language, must). He measures the sugar and pH. We listen as he explains the importance of the latter.

Since sulfur dioxide is added to the grapes after crus.h.i.+ng, we have a look at its functions in winemaking. Guido is amused by the "contains sulfites" warning familiar to American consumers. The warning would have to remain even if no sulfur dioxide were added to wine because it is a natural product of fermentation. But he is serious about using as little as possible. "With present-day knowledge and technology, there is no need to use even half the amount that was common not so long ago." Guido has made wines without sulfur dioxide, but prefers those with minimal amounts because they are "cleaner," have fewer off odors and flavors. "After all," he exclaims, "you don't want to throw out the quality baby with the sulfur dioxide bath."

The grapes are conveyed into large stainless-steel tanks. We learn about yeast: their role in the making of other beverages (beer) and foods (bread); the characteristics of different species and strains (baker's yeast, for instance, should be a strain that produces exceptionally large amounts of carbon dioxide so the dough will rise better); the isolation and cultivation of selected yeast strains that was begun by Emil Christian Hansen at the Carlsberg Brewery in Copenhagen in the late nineteenth century.

Yeasts produce more than alcohol. ("Thank G.o.d they do," exclaims Albino Morando, a researcher friend of Guido's. "Otherwise we'd have weak vodka instead of wine." Morando has the mind of a scientist and the hands of a farmer. He can talk for hours about manure, but he's also slung it.) They metabolize small quant.i.ties of other products, which contribute, favorably and otherwise, to a wine's character. Selected strains are the same the world over; wild ones reflect the local conditions in which they evolved. Similarly, the ripening agents of cheeses used to be specific to particular locations, such as the Emmental region in Switz- 167 erland and the caves at Roquefort in southern France. Selected cultures of molds and bacteria have made possible the production of "Swiss"

and "blue" cheese in other locations, and are generally used even in their places of origin to ensure consistent results.

Guido sees the choice between using selected yeast and giving the wild ones a free hand as one of the many occasions when a winemaker has to choose between safety and a little more complexity. "You have to walk a tightrope," he explains. He will be pleased when he decides that Sor San Lorenzo 1989 does not need the help of selected yeast, because "there is is a difference, however slight." a difference, however slight."

Yeasts work better in some conditions than others. "They're only human," says Guido with a shrug. They need certain nutrients, even vitamins, and dislike extremes of temperature. When stressed, they produce higher levels of off odors and flavors.

We see again how the aims of nature have nothing to do with wine.

Yeasts ferment sugar to obtain energy for reproduction. Alcohol, which they produce in anaerobic conditions (in the absence of oxygen), is simply a waste product, and a toxic one for them at that.

In the frenzy of fermentation, yeasts produce much more energy than they need and the excess is given off as heat. As the temperature rises, they find it harder and harder to work. Sometimes they stop working altogether and the fermentation gets "stuck." No longer protected from oxygen by the carbon dioxide also produced by the yeast, the must is vulnerable to spoilage bacteria. In this way, even so prestigious an estate as Chateau Lafite found itself temporarily in the vinegar business in the scorching Bordeaux fall of 1921.

The tanks in the Gaja winery are equipped with thermostats that automatically switch on a cooling system when the temperature reaches a certain point. When Guido started to work for Angelo in 1970, fermentation took place in either large wooden barrels or even larger concrete vats built into the wall, neither of which dispersed heat. In 1971 the fermentation was galloping out of hand because of the heat. Angelo rented a minibus that sped back and forth between the slaughterhouse in Alba and the winery with huge blocks of ice. "They weighed about a hundred pounds each," says Guido, shuddering at the thought. "And we carried them on our shoulders down to the cellar." There he pumped the must through a tube wrapped around the ice to cool it down.

We note how modern cooling systems are another instance of wine's indebtedness to its country cousin, beer.

Much of what we learn about yeast comes from Vincenzo Gerbi at 168 168 the University of Turin's Inst.i.tute of Microbiology. We visit him with Aldo Vacca, who has brought Guido's pH meter to be calibrated.

The lab is full of sophisticated equipment, scholarly journals, test tubes full of wine. We look at yeast cells through an electronic micro-scope that magnifies them 740 times. (This sight was first beheld by the Dutchman Anton van Leeuwenhoek in the seventeenth century, but it was not until Louis Pasteur and the birth of microbiology two centuries later that the phenomenon of fermentation was understood.) Gerbi talks about yeast research and sets some common misconceptions straight.

In his white lab coat, with his measured and precise gestures, Gerbi is the very image of the scientist. It is to scientists that we owe our understanding of the processes involved in winemaking, but, like stainless-steel tanks and plastic containers, they still have no place in our vinous imagery.

We cannot see what is going on inside the tank, but there are signs that the fermentation is under way. The thermometer is rising. Guido opens a valve and a blast of acrid carbon dioxide a.s.saults the unwary nose.

Guido puts a tall gla.s.s tube on a table in his lab and pours some must and skins into it. This microcosm will be our visible version of what is happening inside the fermentation tank. We observe how the impetuous bubbles of carbon dioxide push most of the solid matter toward the surface of the liquid. We learn about the problems created by the formation of this "cap" and the various ways of dealing with them.

Another crucial process, maceration, is taking place simultaneously with fermentation. The challenge for the winemaker is to extract the pigments and savory substances contained in the skins without extracting the astringent and bitter ones as well.

A similar problem is involved in making coffee, when only a fraction of the solubles contained in the coffee beans winds up in your cup. The method of extraction (filter, percolator, espresso, etc.), the fineness of the grind, the temperature of the water and the length of time the process lasts all influence how the coffee tastes.

We have a look at phenol compounds, the most important substances contained in the skins of our grapes, and especially anthocyanins (which give red wine its color) and tannins. Nebbiolo has an enormous amount of the latter (much more than Cabernet Sauvignon, for example) and relatively little of the former (similar in this respect to Pinot Noir). Guido exploits the fact that anthocyanins are water soluble, while tannin is extracted only by alcohol. He shoots the temperature up high 169 169 at the beginning of fermentation (before the yeast cells have multiplied to the point where a significant amount of alcohol has been produced) and then lowers it, thereby extracting a lot of color without excessive tannin. The longer the wine remains in contact with the skins, the more tannin is extracted. Guido drains off the Sor San Lorenzo 1989 after twelve days, as soon as the fermentation is over.

After the "free run" wine has been drained off, the skins are pressed.

"Press wine" is dark and dense. From a second, harder pressing it is too coa.r.s.e to drink. By tasting samples we understand better what was still left in the skins.

Like Barolo, Barbaresco has long had a reputation for toughness.

"Toughness is indeed the essence of Nebbiolo," declares even wine writer Jancis Robinson, who rates the variety as one of the greatest.

Angelo recalls tasting Barbarescos that were "so astringent they had grown old without ever reaching maturity." We look at the tradition of what Guido calls "macho macerations." It was as a follower of tradition that Guido's predecessor, Luigi Rama, let the skins and pips macer-ate with the new wine for up to two months. We also look at the tradition before the Tradition. In his book on viticulture and enology in the province of Cuneo (which includes Alba and the Langhe), written a century ago, agronomist Lorenzo Fantini describes Barbaresco as "ready at two years, perfect at three." Domenico Cavazza, the founder and first enologist of the cooperative winery, drained off the new wine after twelve and a half days in 1905, "a typical year."

The question is complex. Tannin is a catchall term, covering substances that can be savory or bitter, that undergo radical changes in barrel and bottle, that can make a wine velvety or harsh. Greater understanding of phenolic compounds is "the new frontier of red wine making," says Guido, who is not satisfied with the merely empirical knowledge derived from experience. We go with him to Asti, where Rocco Di Stefano receives us in his laboratory and talks about his research on this still-wild frontier.

After the wine has been drawn off the skins into a large barrel, we learn about a third process that is crucial for red wines, the malolactic fermentation. Sharp malic acid (the acid of apples, malus malus in Latin, when they are still green) is converted by bacteria into softer lactic acid and the wine becomes less astringent. We note other lactic acid fermentations, such as yogurt and sauerkraut. (Even the holes in Swiss cheese are due to the prodigious amount of carbon dioxide produced by a particular strain of bacteria.) Guido explains how the harshness and off odors of in Latin, when they are still green) is converted by bacteria into softer lactic acid and the wine becomes less astringent. We note other lactic acid fermentations, such as yogurt and sauerkraut. (Even the holes in Swiss cheese are due to the prodigious amount of carbon dioxide produced by a particular strain of bacteria.) Guido explains how the harshness and off odors of 170 many older Barbarescos were frequently due to malolactic fermentations that took place in the worst possible conditions, after the wine had been bottled.

The phenomenon of malolactic fermentation was not understood until recently. Pasteur himself had created a kind of dualism, with yeasts as the good guys who make wine and bacteria as the bad guys who spoil it. "Rehabilitation" of the latter got under way only at the beginning of this century with the work of the great German microbiologist Robert Koch, discoverer of the tuberculosis bacterium. The textbook that Guido used at his school in Alba, a ma.s.sive work of 1,500 pages, has little to say about the subject and reflects the hazy and contradictory notions of the times. Malolactic fermentation is actually discussed in a section on "the ailments of wine," so it would seem that all bacteria are still bad guys. But no: by reducing the total acidity, they can bring about "an improvement in the quality of the wine." On the practical side, the text offers little help. It does note that a low pH hinders the process, but "other factors are little known at the present."

Guido's real malolactic education began right after he started to work with Gaja. He recalls a trip to Burgundy in 1970. "Beaune was my first contact with a real wine culture," he exclaims as his face lights up. "You breathed it in the air, you saw it in the way they poured the wine in restaurants." He noticed the attention winemakers were giving to the malolactic fermentation and discovered the chromatography paper used to test the presence and amount of malic acid. "At the school where I studied," he says as he prepares the test, "they had never heard of this paper." Guido ordered a supply from France and translated the section on malolactic fermentation from one of Peynaud's books.

Like yeast, malolactic bacteria metabolize a variety of products, good and bad, according to species and conditions. The b.u.t.tery flavor that many people find in Chardonnay (and is found in commercial b.u.t.ter-milk, which is not a by-product of making b.u.t.ter) comes from diacetyl, one of those products, and has nothing to do with the grape itself.

As far as working conditions are concerned, malolactic bacteria are even choosier than yeast. "You have to really pamper them," says Guido.

Since they will not work if it is too cold, Gaja had a heating system installed in the cellar. In 1974 it was very cold after the new wine had been racked off the skins and the heating was turned on. It took a long time to bring the contents of the huge, insulated barrels up to the critical temperature. "You should have seen Angelo's father!" Guido 171 171 almost cracks up. "He was running all around the cellar making sure all the doors were closed tight, trying to shut out even the slightest draft." Those were inflationary times, and the price of heating oil was rising fast.

When the malolactic fermentation is over, Guido gets rid of his microscopic workers as quickly as he can. "Just think!" he exclaims with his eyes flas.h.i.+ng. "Millions, billions, trillions of bacteria out on the street, starving and unemployed." If they attack other substances, they can ruin the wine. Guido racks the wine off into small casks on the lowest level of the cellar, where it is too cold for the bacteria to work.

If, during the summer of 1989, you had looked down from the courtyard onto the area outside the lowest level, you would have seen work to enlarge the cellar going on to your left. Next to a construction crane were steel girders and bags of cement; stacks of lumber covered most of the rest of the area. A sharp eye might have noticed that the stacks to the right, the ones farthest from the crane, looked somewhat different from the others. The boards were uniform in length, and smaller; their color varied from pinkish to dull gray; they were stacked more methodically. Now only those stacks to the right are still there.

They are what the French call merrain merrain, roughhewn staves. They will be used to make Gaja's small casks.

Such casks date back to B.C. times and have long been part of our traditional wine imagery. An attentive visitor to Trajan's Column in Rome, for example, will notice a scene portraying a boat transporting three of them; a stained-gla.s.s window in the cathedral at Chartres shows a cooper in the process of making one.

It is ironic that just as wood was ceasing to be the universal container of wine, awareness of its importance began to grow rapidly throughout the world. As with our awareness of grape varieties, California played a major role in the process. In his effort to re-create the wines of Burgundy at the Hanzell Winery, in 1956 James D. Zellerbach ordered casks for his Chardonnay and Pinot Noir from a Burgundian cooper, Yves Sirugue. Other producers followed suit. The oaking of the world had begun. Hundreds of thousands of French oak casks later, the container has achieved near equality with the contents. Many Americans a.s.sume the flavor of oak to be the flavor of Chardonnay or even Cabernet Sauvignon, and winemakers around the world are catering to that as-sumption.

To say that a wine was aged in wood is about as meaningful as to say that it was made from grapes. Guido's textbook does not dedicate much s.p.a.ce to the aging of wine, but what it does say merely reflects the 172 situation in Italy when Angelo Gaja began to take charge at the winery.

"Wines to be aged should be put into old barrels with a capacity of 3,000 to 10,000 liters." Oak is indeed the best wood, and it comes from Yugoslavia. Small casks are mentioned, but only as a container for transportation.

The contrast with Ottavio Ottavi, a Piedmontese who founded Italy's first enological journal and wrote a number of books in the second half of the nineteenth century, is striking. Ottavi's views are detailed and cosmopolitan. "Casks are the most important cellar instrument," he writes, and it is important to "pay close attention to the choice of staves."

The combination of 225-liter casks, thin staves, and new wood used in the aging of fine Bordeaux allows "the slow oxidation of wine through the pores of the wood."

Toward the end of the sixties, Angelo was looking for a way to age Barbaresco that would give it more finesse. He had not read Ottavi, but he had been to France. We follow his long experimentation with small casks, beginning with those he bought in 1969 from one of the first-growth chateaux of Bordeaux. "I was ripped off," he says. "They were supposed to be two years old. Fifteen would have been more like it."

Angelo and Guido took nothing for granted. They had casks made from all kinds of wood. ("Some of the wines tasted like sawdust.") They wanted to find a way to treat the casks so they would confer neither too much of their own tannin nor too much oak flavor on the wine.

They hit upon pressurized steam and varied the length of time the casks were steamed to see which gave the best results. When Robert Mondavi, whom Gaja had met in California, heard about what they were doing, he could not believe his ears: they were actually trying to get rid of some of the flavor that American consumers couldn't get enough of!

Advice was sought from famous coopers and winemakers in France.

One day Jacques Puisais, "the Pope of the palate," came to visit. Guido was impressed. "He could enchant you for half an hour just talking about a gla.s.s of water." But when asked specific questions about small-cask aging, Puisais would always give the same answer: "You have to ask the wine." Guido's face lights up in amus.e.m.e.nt; he gestures in imitation. "Il faut le demander au vin." "I thought he was putting me on,"

he says thoughtfully. "It took me quite a while to realize just how right he was." Every wine is different, and Nebbiolo is more different than others. Long experience is the only guide.

We are introduced to small casks and oak. The latter, like grapes and all plants, varies greatly according to species, soil, climate, and 173 173 cultivation. Some casks in the cellar look as if they had bled. Guido says that they were made from sawed wood: splitting spares the vascular rays of the wood, but sawing cuts across them and makes leakage more likely.

Placed by the side of the 7,000-liter barrel where the wine has just finished its malolactic fermentation, one of the small casks looks insignificant. We learn how wines age differently in the two. We also learn about the substances that are extracted from new oak by the wine, including the lignin that gives it a vanilla-like flavor. (Indeed, vanilla extract is sometimes produced from lignin.) A new cask releases most of these substances during its first year of use and after two years has very little left to give.

Guido is putting Sor San Lorenzo 1989 into casks that are 40 percent new and 60 percent one year old. He will see after a while if he wants to increase or decrease the percentage of new oak.

Strolling between the long rows of casks, we notice various names branded on them; many are French. The newer the cask, the greater the frequency with which one name appears, and it is Italian: Gamba.

The "prize-winning Angelo Gamba Cooperage" is located in the nondescript town of Castell'Alfero, a few miles north of Asti. There we visit Eugenio Gamba, with whom we follow the transformation of a pile of staves into a finished cask. He explains, among other things, the different degrees of char that are given to casks ("rare, medium, well done"). Gamba's casks are a cross between the barrique barrique of Bordeaux and the of Bordeaux and the piece piece of Burgundy: more elongated than the latter, but plumper in the middle than the former. of Burgundy: more elongated than the latter, but plumper in the middle than the former.

Gamba was just another cooper until the late seventies. The big name in Italy was Garbellotto, in the Veneto, who made all of Gaja's large barrels. But when Garbellotto started to make small casks, they stuck to their traditional supplier of oak, nearby Slovenia. The Yugoslavs, however, do not split.

The turning point for Gamba came when French customers ordered some large barrels from him, but demanded that they be made of French oak. (Large barrels are much more difficult to make than small ones, and French coopers had little experience with them.) Until then Gamba, like all Italian coopers, had always used Yugoslav oak, so he set out for France with his "four or five words of junior high school French" to scout for suppliers. He gradually lengthened his list of fendeurs fendeurs (split-ters). When the small-cask movement began to turn into a ma.s.s phenomenon, he was ready. (split-ters). When the small-cask movement began to turn into a ma.s.s phenomenon, he was ready.

We drive with Angelo and Gamba through the Mont Blanc Tunnel 174 174 toward the heart of France. Gaja has established relations with a few fendeurs fendeurs and wants to consolidate them. He is convinced that, of all the myriad factors affecting the quality of a stave, seasoning is one of the most important. But it is a process that ties up capital for a long time (Gaja insists on three years), and the temptation is to cut corners. Kiln drying is out of the question ("It's like pasteurizing wine." It also causes microscopic splits in the fibers.) The only solution is for him to season the wood himself. and wants to consolidate them. He is convinced that, of all the myriad factors affecting the quality of a stave, seasoning is one of the most important. But it is a process that ties up capital for a long time (Gaja insists on three years), and the temptation is to cut corners. Kiln drying is out of the question ("It's like pasteurizing wine." It also causes microscopic splits in the fibers.) The only solution is for him to season the wood himself.

We drive through the forest of Troncais, a unique sylvan cru cru. All other merrain merrain is referred to in much broader geographical terms, such as Allier, the department in which the forest is located. In one of the older sections the trees on either side of the narrow road are so tall that it is like driving through a tunnel. Younger sections are planted so densely you cannot see the ground. Gamba explains that the forest is managed according to the principle of natural selection. The aim is to produce tall, straight oaks with no branches and thus no knots in the wood. In the youngest sections of the forest there are well over 100,000 is referred to in much broader geographical terms, such as Allier, the department in which the forest is located. In one of the older sections the trees on either side of the narrow road are so tall that it is like driving through a tunnel. Younger sections are planted so densely you cannot see the ground. Gamba explains that the forest is managed according to the principle of natural selection. The aim is to produce tall, straight oaks with no branches and thus no knots in the wood. In the youngest sections of the forest there are well over 100,000 young oaks per hectare. The weaker plants die off or are cut down. A stand with trees over two hundred years old, a haute futaie haute futaie, has only 100 to 150 of them left.

The Troncais forest owes its preeminence to a decree issued in 1670 by Jean Baptiste Colbert, Louis XIV's chief minister. Colbert wanted to ensure an adequate supply of timber for the naval construction upon which France's commercial ambitions rested. Similar considerations earlier in the century had led King James I of England to forbid the burning of wood for the manufacture of gla.s.s, a measure that led to the use of coal and the birth of the modern wine bottle. The ways of the Lord have not neglected the aging of wine.

We stop to buy a map and Gamba asks if there are any fendeurs fendeurs in the vicinity. To his surprise, the shopkeeper mentions an unfamiliar name, and off we dash to Vitray, a hamlet on the edge of the forest. in the vicinity. To his surprise, the shopkeeper mentions an unfamiliar name, and off we dash to Vitray, a hamlet on the edge of the forest.

The ruddiness of Monsieur Daffy's face is set off by the whiteness of his hair and mustache. A third-generation fendeur fendeur, he has been plying his craft since he was thirteen. We note how he splits the logs. "There's less and less good wood," he says. "Ten years ago you could get a cubic meter of staves from three of grume grume (unhewn wood). Now you need six or even seven." Gamba has been chewing a chip of wood. "Taste how sweet this is!" He is impressed by what he has seen, but then comes the bad news: Daffy sells all his (unhewn wood). Now you need six or even seven." Gamba has been chewing a chip of wood. "Taste how sweet this is!" He is impressed by what he has seen, but then comes the bad news: Daffy sells all his merrain merrain to a cooper in Bordeaux. to a cooper in Bordeaux.

We head north again, into the Cher and past Bourges. In the little 175 175 town of Mery-es-Bois, near the forest of St. Palais, we drive into the sizable establishment of Camille Gauthier.

Gauthier has an authoritarian, but roguish air. With brisk gestures and index finger continually raised, "the professor of oak" (as Angelo calls him) enlightens us. He has a worker bring out five staves. "Which is the heaviest?" he asks as he sizes you up. "Yes, indeed!" he roars triumphantly. "That's Limousin, a gros grain gros grain." Limousin grows rapidly in rich soil and is coa.r.s.e grained. "And the lightest? Yes, indeed! That's Troncais, a grain fin grain fin." Troncais grows slowly in poor soil and is fine grained. The Troncais has a pinkish tinge. Intermediate is mi-fin mi-fin, semi-fine. "A grain fin grain fin should be at least one hundred fifty years old for should be at least one hundred fifty years old for merrain merrain; Limousin grows so much faster it can be eighty."

Gauthier shows us around. "There were some Australians here yesterday." A couple of weeks earlier, an American had pa.s.sed by. "And you know what he wanted?" the professor asks incredulously. "Grume! " "

We learn how to stack staves properly. We observe that the ground is black. "That's all the bitter tannin from the staves," Gauthier cackles.

"Better on the ground here than in your wine!"

Inside his shop, we meet a bearded young researcher from Beaune, who is carrying out an experiment concerning the effect on wine of such variables as the height on the tree at which wood grows and the direction it faces.

Gauthier tells us about the auctions where the government, proprietor of most of the forestland in France, sells lots every year. The auction for forests in the Cher takes place in October in Bourges.

On the evening before the auction, the Gauthier household is excited.

Gauthier shows us a booklet put out by the National Forest Bureau. It describes the lots to be auctioned and is covered with annotations. He and his wife have been around sizing up quant.i.ty and quality. Gamba complains that he is unable to get all the wood he needs. Mrs. Gauthier, a quick, ironic woman, tells him that the French do not like to sell merrain merrain to Italians. "Casks, sure. That's okay. But not staves." to Italians. "Casks, sure. That's okay. But not staves."

We follow the auction. The auctioneer starts at a given price, then lowers it until someone shouts "Prends! " ("I'll take it!") There is no time to hesitate; he moves from one price to another in less than a second. " ("I'll take it!") There is no time to hesitate; he moves from one price to another in less than a second.

The thirty-eighth lot starts off at 410,000 francs. Just as the auctioneer is about to say "Three hundred and sixty thousand," Gauthier leaps to his feet. "Prends! " He buys three lots in all. " He buys three lots in all.

Gauthier is only partially satisfied. The best lots were very expensive, and he cannot compete with big furniture manufacturers like 176 176 Chaussiere, "who have customers in Switzerland and own real estate in Paris."

On the road home, Gamba stops off to visit a couple of famous French coopers. He examines a stack of staves and turns up his nose. "Most of them are sawed," he whispers. "They've put a few split ones on top."

Back in the Gaja cellar, we taste Sor San Lorenzo and other wines from various casks and note the differences. Guido is wary of general-izations about different forests. "It's difficult to do rigorous experi-ments," he says. Even within the same forest, some sections are better than others. If you want to compare Bordeaux and Burgundy, you can't taste a Mouton-Rothschild against a village Nuits-St.-Georges. "To be absolutely sure of what I'm getting," he exclaims, "I'd have to cut down the tree myself and haul it back to Barbaresco!"