"Don't let anyone kid you: pinot noir is manipulated," Clive Paton rumbles through a thick moustache. "Clones, trellising, shelter…"
It's a quiet, sunny morning in Martinborough, and here, on a bench just outside Ata Rangi's winemaking facility, I'm talking to one of the leading personalities of New Zealand winemaking. And I'm not paying very close attention. I can tell because, looking over my notes at a later date, I'm dismayed over my lack of response to this assertion.
It's not Paton's fault. He's amiable, engaging, and clearly has endless knowledge to impart, especially given his place as one of the forefathers of Martinborough viticulture. It's just that thanks to a small deluge of last-minute scheduling, along with a little bit of procrastination on Ata Rangi's part, I've got ninety minutes to see three people, one of whom says "no" to pretty much all visitors, and who I'm due to meet in less than a half-hour. So while I'd dearly love to spend more time here, I can't stop thinking about the next appointment.
Paton, unaware of my approaching deadline, continues. I've opened the conversation by asking why two Ata Rangi pinots tasted on this trip, one during yesterday's visit to the tasting room and the other at an offline in Auckland, have tasted so much like Northern Rhône syrah. After some chin-rubbing consideration, he admits to bewilderment (I also don't know that he agrees), finally suggesting that it's probably a clonal issue.
"In '94, we planted the Abel clone of pinot noir." The story that follows is labyrinth and shady; the précis involves a customs agent named Abel who planted confiscated cuttings surreptitiously (and semi-mythologically) sourced from either Romanée-Conti or La Tâche. Said plantings disappeared from a research station and reappeared around the country, including in the clonal stock used by Ata Rangi. It's like a mystery novel for oenophiles, though it's clear that Paton gives limited credence to the full breadth of the tale. What is known is that the Abel clone looks nothing like the widely-planted 10x5 clone, which Paton considers "damaging" to New Zealand pinot noir (for reasons that include minimal aging potential) and looks very much like clones found in the aforementioned Burgundian vineyards.
"The clonal mix is getting better," he asserts, "but another ten years [of study] are required."
From here, the conversation drifts towards Paton's passion for pinot. My ears are engaged, but my eyes are on the clock. Princess, the winery cat, rubs and scents my ankles, sniffing and nosing my outstretched fingers. (Paton chuckles at my suggestion that she should be called "Cata Rangi.")
Clive Paton
"Making pinot is all about 'stretching the palate,'" achieved by something Paton calls "complexing the pinot," by which he means the quest for depth and length on the palate. "I look for fruit and power, with some 'grunt' underneath; four to ten year wines." And he loves the challenge that the grape provides: "the allure of pinot is getting it right." After briefly experimenting with whole bunch fermentation, he's now separating different blocks and clones and putting them through individual fermentations, after which the finished wines are remarried for their final blends. "Everything we've learned is not the end, but a beginning."
But unfortunately, for me, it is the end. I'm a few minutes late for an appointment with a man I don't expect will be pleased at being kept waiting…
The Doctor is in
…though when it comes down to it, he doesn't seem to even notice that I'm late. Rather, he seems put out to be seeing me at all.
Though they openly turn away both visitors and ex-cellar sales, there's no gate, fence, or angry snarling dog at the entrance to Dry River, New Zealand's most mythic and celebrated winery (to judge by the local oenophilic cross-chat). I'm forced to wonder if my sense of entering forbidden territory, as I cross under the winery's sign, is real or simply imagined. It certainly seems welcoming enough, with Dr. Neil McCallum - the winemaker and subject of my visit - waving me up to his second-floor office from its wraparound balcony. The office is airy and well-windowed, though a bit imposing, and McCallum motions me to a chair that faces his, directly across a hefty desk that's both well-used and tightly organized.
He's on the phone, speaking in short, clipped phrases, and paces - stiff-legged - as he talks. His impatience is palpable as he dissuades someone from…something (a rendezvous, or perhaps a sale; it's hard to tell). Now he's off the phone. "One moment, please" - formal, very formal - as he sits at a nearby computer for a few moments.
Finally, he returns to the chair opposite mine. He does not lean back, but sits stiffly-postured, with his hands folded in front of him.
"You can't taste any wine."
It's an aggressive opening, Manhattanite in both form and tone, and frightfully jarring here in a country full of gentle amiability. I consider my response. The problem is that I really don't know what I'm doing here. Sure, I'm interested in talking with this man, so highly-respected among his peers and his fans. But the simple fact is that I've only tasted two of his wines, one vintage of each, and talking about wines one has never tasted with a winemaker one has never met is not something I do very often. Or rather, at all. Nor is it easy.
"I know. I appreciate your taking time to see me, but I didn't put Kaye (the owner of our vineyard cottage) up to it. I thought she was just going to introduce us." His face is expressionless. This may not be going well.
"I wasn't really interested in talking to anyone just then. I was in a hurry to get home." Again, formal, stiff, maintaining a conversational barrier that becomes more physical by the minute.
A gambit: "Well, I'm slowly working on a book about the wines of Alsace, and I'd be curious how you came to plant and specialize in these grapes." There's an ever-so-slight softening, an imperceptible nod. The gambit has been accepted.
It looks inviting enough…
"Okay." Nothing more. Clearly, he's not going to make it easy.
We delve into a detailed discussion of clones, of sources, of the specifics of terroir and soil types. It's a conversation of almost no general interest, especially in the context of New Zealand wine, and thus I will not reproduce it here except to the extent that it informs his philosophy of making the set of Alsatian-style wines - riesling, gewürztraminer, pinot gris - in his portfolio. At each stage, between each paragraph, there's a mental ballet I can almost see him performing; data X into sentence Y, which is then spoken. One gets the easy sensation that little or nothing McCallum says is ever un- or ill-considered.
"We have a maritime climate, which leads to good ripening, but the phenolics don't ripen as easily. Long hangtimes are required." Leading, of course, to the variable appearance of residual sugar in the finished wines. "We try for dryness every year, but whatever happens, happens." There is none of the expected sense of disapproval for a man who seems so controlled in all else; rather, his winemaking philosophy is one of giving up control, of letting the vineyard speak to the extent possible…in fact an almost passionate defense of the natural over the manmade, as exhibited solely through his wines. It's a fascinating dichotomy, but there's no time to explore it, because his ever-shorter answers make it clear that my time is limited. Perhaps karmic payback for cutting Clive Paton short.
Instead, I follow his microtreatise with a question based on something I've read in Michael Cooper's Wine Atlas of New Zealand. "So I understand you're a great admirer of Olivier Humbrecht."
His eyebrows go up, the most dramatically emotional gesture he's yet made. Do they make wine on Vulcan, I wonder? He leans back a millimeter, perhaps two.
"I am?"
"According to Michael Cooper's new book, yes."
He pauses, softens a bit. "Michael wrote that?"
"There's a quote."
Almost the faintest recollection of a smile. "Interesting. But no, not a 'great admirer.'" The careful control, the restraint, reasserts itself. "That would be…inaccurate."
A brief discussion of the wine styles of Alsace ensues. McCallum is unconvinced by the drier, more austere expressions of gewürztraminer and pinot gris, but getting him to mention a specific winery that he admires is an ultimately fruitless conversational cul-de-sac. Worse, the conversation is constantly interrupted by an endless stream of phone calls. "This is my life," he sighs, not particularly to me, in the midst of one three-call sequence. After one lengthy call, he returns to his seat. We've been chatting for about fifteen minutes of the twenty-five I've been here.
"So." It's clearly a word followed by a period, not a comma. "We've done Alsace." Another full stop. I scramble for a new topic. In the midst of a discussion of Dry River's long-closed mailing list, the very short list of restaurant clients, and the nearly nonexistent list of retailers to which he directly sells wine, the phone rings again. He picks it up.
"Yes? Yes. Yes. OK. I'll call you back in two minutes."
And with that, I have been passively but summarily dismissed. I stand, thank him for his time, and head for the exit.
Driving the few hundred meters back to Vynfields, I muse on what has just transpired. It strikes me that though I've tasted and conversed and dined with first growth names from around the universe of wine, I have never felt so relentlessly uncomfortable, perhaps even intimidated, visiting with a winemaker. It's not a feeling I expected to have in New Zealand.
Part of it is my fault, of course. Perhaps most of it. Unprepared as rarely before, mostly due to complete non-access to his products, I brought a good deal of discomfort on myself. And part of it is semi-tragic; I've been made aware, by others, that McCallum has severe health problems that are no doubt affecting his mood. (In fact, since my visit the winery has been sold, though McCallum stays on as winemaker.) But unquestionably, McCallum is not like other New Zealanders I've met, and the difference is as striking as it is disconcerting. It's a discomfort I'll retain well into the afternoon, and not truly shake until returning to the States.
Roger & Lucy
Bovine rock
I return to Vynfields to collect Theresa and our luggage, and we circumnavigate the right-angled outskirts of Martinborough to our final visit, a casual drop-in at Stonecutter, the result of our late-night chat with winemaker Roger Pemberton. With a little difficulty, we find the sign, a dusty road behind it, and a very farm-like house and shed at the end.
And we find a cow.
Roger and his wife, Lucy Harper, relax at their kitchen table. It's large, bowl-like cups of coffee (French press, of course, and very welcome) first, before we start on the wines. This is an ultra-casual visit - just a few tastes before a long drive - and the conversation barely touches on matters vinous, instead drifting around the New Zealand and American landscapes. If only all visits were this relaxed.
The cow stares through the glass doors adjoining the kitchen…silent, contemplating. Chewing.
Stonecutter 2002 Pinot Gris (Martinborough) - From three Geisenheim clones, a mix of large and small berries. A hot, pear-driven nose, showing lithe and zingy pear juice on the palate, then softening on an apple-flavored finish. Fattens with air. "Our policy," muses Roger over a blend of pinot gris and coffee, "is to ripen the hell out of it." It's their most complete wine.
Stonecutter 2001 Pinot Noir (Martinborough) - Bright and sweet red berries (dominated by strawberry), well-structured and showing hazelnut and other mixed nuts that fade into a long sand and graphite finish. More mineral-driven than other Martinborough pinots I've tasted, though with neither the concentration nor the complexity of some of the top examples.
Stonecutter 2001 Merlot (Martinborough) - Sweaty and short, with blueberries and bitter, underripe, slightly hard tannin. Highly unconvincing.
Stonecutter 2002 "Topaz" (Martinborough) - Definitely one of the odder blends out there, a dessert wine from 65% late-harvest gewürztraminer and 35% late-harvest sauvignon blanc, with a little botrytis on both. Lime and grass vie with peach, pear and a very light crumble of spicy cashew. There's great acid here, and it's pretty enjoyable simply for the unusualness of it.
Stonecutter's wines are exclusively from their own vines, and though their viticultural practices (low yields, minimal interventions) are sound, the wines bespeak nothing as much as a general inexperience, a lack of polish or confidence. It's a very young winery, and there's plenty of time to develop both, but the relentless iconoclasm of the owners may make it difficult to stride towards the mainstream, if that's even their goal. Still, the wines are worth continued attention.
Unfortunately, we've absolutely no room in our shipping containers or suitcases (even with several bottles destined for consumption later in the trip), and so no wines accompany us as we leave. On our way out the door, Theresa indicates the cow, which continues to regard us with lazy, ruminating interest.
![[Clive Paton]](http://www.atarangi.co.nz//images/Images/Profile/clive.jpg)
![[Dry River]](http://www.myspeakerscorner.com/forum/user_images/tci_dry_river_entrance.jpg)
![[Roger & Lucy]](http://www.stonecutter.co.nz//images/stories/profile_pic1.jpg)