For centuries, complexity has been the principal sign or marker distinguishing special from basic wines, what the French called vins fin from vins ordinaire. Other attributes–notably cleanliness–long separated sound wines from flawed wines, but experiencing a multiplicity of enticing aromas and flavors was what led people to judge certain wines superior.
Jancis Robinson put this notion well in her autobiographical 1997 book, Tasting Pleasure, when she noted that “there is more in every way in an incontrovertibly fine wine.” In turn, a love of and desire for that “more” can attract people to wine in a way that they are never attracted to any other sort of food or drink. In Robinson’s words, it can make certain wines reach “not just your throat and nose but your brain, your heart, and occasionally your soul too.” Put another way, a wine’s complexity can render drinking it a transformative experience.
“More” still enthralls wine drinkers, but these days it often seems to be a matter of concentration instead of complexity. These certainly are not antithetical attributes. Some of the best wines I’ve ever tasted have evidenced both. But many other equally compelling ones have not. These have been complex but delicate, evidencing intricacy rather than intensity, so subtlety rather than strength. And I’ve definitely drank many concentrated wines that tasted simple and monolithic, their power overwhelming any possibility of nuance. No matter–concentration, not complexity, is what a great many people, winemakers and wine drinkers alike, think of as “more” these days.
Why have concentrated wines become so in vogue? I can think of many reasons, everything from the influence exercised by certain influential wine critics to shifts in how millions of people drink wine, treating it more as a cocktail than a food beverage. The most important reasons, however, are probably technological. Modern science has led to advances in both vineyards and wineries that make producing concentrated wines much easier than ever before. Only a generation ago, when a great many of the world’s wines tasted disappointingly thin and weak, greater concentration was a winemaker’s dream. Today, those wines (which also tasted undeniably simple) are relics of times thankfully gone by. Most contemporary wines, regardless of grape variety or geographic origin, display a sufficient intensity of aroma and flavor so as to prove at least satisfying.
Yet satisfying is not the same as compelling, and the fact that something is technically possible to achieve does not necessarily mean that it is worth achieving–or at least worth achieving all the time. Intensity in wine can prove impressive but one-dimensional. In today’s age of globalization, wine is very much like fashion, and I strongly suspect that the current craze for concentration eventually will ebb. Why? Because I remain convinced that concentration cannot–by itself–enable a wine to touch one’s heart and soul, while I know that complexity can.
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