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Keeping AVAs Honest

Since I seem to be in a contentious mood lately, let me now take on the efficacy of American Viticultural Areas (AVAs). Wineries love 'em; great marketing tools, are AVAs. But are they really worth much to consumers? 

(At left: Ciel du Cheval Vineyard in Washington's Red Mountain AVA.)

They can be, if done right, but they aren't always done right.

Let's all remember what an AVA is about: its about place of origin. An AVA on a label is a guarantee that the majority of the grapes in a bottle of wine (85%) were grown within the boundaries of the AVA named on the label. Here is what the TTB says: “We designate viticultural areas to allow vintners to better describe the origin of their wines and to allow consumers to better identify wines they may purchase.”

Let's all remember what an AVA isn't: it isn't about grapes or wine. An AVA on a label says nothing about the quality or character of the wine in the bottle. Here is what the TTB says: “. . . the regulations pertaining to the establishment of viticultural areas do not require the existence of a substantial viticultural history, a production of unique wines, or a demand for wines originating in the proposed viticultural area.”

Get it right: AVAs are not about grape or wine quality or character. They are only about geography.

Now, it is true that if an AVA was done properly—if the petitioners really did try to delimit a geographic region on the basis of distinctive viticultural character—then that AVAt can say something relevant to consumers about the character of the wine in the bottle. And to be fair, most AVA's are designed to represent true viticultural differences. 

But not all AVAs have been created with such distinctions in mind.

Remember, there are essentially four things you must prove to merit the granting of an AVA, and none of them ultimately have anything to do with viticultural character. Here is what you must demonstrate ot get an AVA: 1) that the name you’ve chosen is “locally and/or nationally known;” 2) that the proposed boundaries are supported by “historical or current evidence;” 3) that the borders of your proposed AVA be “based on features found on USGS maps;” and 4) that you provide evidence showing that the geographical features (climate, soils, elevations, etc.) are significantly different from neighboring areas. 

Though the AVA system is roughly patterned after the French system of appellation d'origine côntrolée (AOC, or sometimes just AC), the French system also takes into account important quality issues such as: type of grape allowed to be grown in the appellation, permitted trellis systems, authorized ripeness levels, allowed yields, permissible vinification techniques, and approved barrel regimes (to name some). None of that is part of the American "appellation" system.  

So, let's say I have a vineyard. There's some surrounding area that would be hospitable for grapes, and I think I can prove all four points required for TTB approval of my AVA. Granted, there's only scant awareness of my grapes, and equally scant demand for them. There have been a few good wines made from my grapes, and a few fair ones as well. Likely, even a few bad ones. There's not even any significant distribution of wines made from my grapes. No matter. None of that enters into the equation, and I'm willing to spend the money to do the studies and process the application to get my very own AVA. 

Even if the name I'm applying for might be construed as confusing—since it is similar to a few other wine regions, including one in my own state that is commonly known by a similar sounding name to the one I've chosen—I can still apply and get my AVA approved. Even if I'm the only vineyard in that AVA.

It has happened.

Now, the TTB does have a process for public comments, and there certainly have been Northwest AVA petitions that have been controversial. But it seems to me that the TTB bias is almost always in favor of granting any AVA so long as the four criteria are met. If there is the danger of name confusion, that can be worked out by modifying the name or tweaking the borders. If an existing winery is already using the name of the proposed AVA, that can be worked out too, either by grandfathering the winery, forcing the winery to change its name, or modifying the proposed AVA name just enough. It can all be worked out.

Oh, and remember: grape or wine quality doesn't enter into the equation . . .

. . . UNLESS, the petitioner for a new AVA actually takes grape and wine quality into account.

Thankfully, in most cases, they do. The recent spate of new Northwest AVAs have, by and large, been based on distinct differences in grape growing soils, mesoclimates, and wine characteristics. Washington's Red Mountain does, in general, produce distinctively different wines than the surrounding Yakima Valley. Ribbon Ridge in Oregon really does have a different wine character than Yamhill-Carlton, or McMinnville.

Most all of the new Northwest AVAs do make good sense. But let's hope the drive for ever more, and ever more specific Northwest AVAs continues to be motivated more by true viticultural/geographic/climatic distinctions than by some of the political reasons a few other AVAs have been pushed.

And as far as the wine drinker goes, don't ever be confused in thinking that an AVA is some sort of stamp of wine quality. It is only a stamp of wine origin. Trust more to your own taste experience than to the name of the AVA on the label.

Am I being contentious enough for now?

Interesting Restaurant Wine Pricing Wrinkle

The issue of wine pricing is always good for a bit of controversy. 

To recap, there are two competing interests in the debate. First is the restaurant who sells wine as part of their inventory and as a service to their patrons. As with any product, they are entitled to a reasonable profit in return for the costs associated with their investment. Second is the customer, who is equally entitled to expect a fair price in return for the convenience of having a desirable wine ready at hand to accompany the meal that they came to the restaurant for. 

The only real question is: what is a reasonable markup that returns a profit to the restaurant without dinging the customer exorbitantly?

As my previous post made clear (and as other comments agreed) it is my feeling that too many restaurants expect an unreasonable markup on wine.

An Oregon winemaker that I respect a lot, sent me an email giving his perspective on the issue. Since he did not post it as a reply, I asked and received his permission to quote his interesting points here.

Marcus Goodfellow makes wine under his Matello label (and for Urban Wineworks/Bishop Creek Cellars). A small, high quality Pinot noir producer (without a website to direct you to), Marcus comes at this issue as a winemaker, but with a background in retail wine sales.

"I read your blog about restaurant pricing, and I feel your pain," wrote Marcus. "It is tough to go into a restaurant and to see a list filled with over priced mediocre wines."

But Marcus went on to add a wrinkle to the restaurant's wine cost that I had never considered: "From my days as the buyer at the Heathman, I feel compelled to point out one other aspect of restaurant cost that no one, not even the restaurant owners, ever mentions. A retail shop isn't liable for the wine they sell you, if you walk out the door, pop the cork, slam the bottle, and then crash your car into a pole, the shop isn't on the hook. Every restaurant in Portland has a very expensive insurance policy to cover the liability a restaurant incurs for serving the wine to you, and this is a part of pricing."

A very interesting point, that, and well worth remembering. Restaurants DO have a liability issue when they serve wine, and in our overly litigious society protecting themselves is no doubt costly. I don't know what their liability insurance costs are (would make an interesting article, though), but I am sure they are high. And just as high medical liability insurance has driven up the costs of health care, I have no doubt that liability insurance costs have a direct impact on wine list markups.

It is also worth mentioning that restaurants have to have their servers licensed in many states, which can be an additional cost in terms of fees and time.

So, certainly, there are important costs that a restaurant faces when storing, handling, and serving wine. It is important to recognize that. But the fundamental question remains: what is a fair and appropriate wine markup?

Marcus also corrected my wholesale pricing on the $18 Pinot gris I saw on a list marked up to $48: "Also, an $18 Pinot Gris probably cost a shop $12 at wholesale, but at $48 that's a ridiculous mark up." I had said the $18 wine probably cost the restaurant around $10, and I was incorrect in my estimate.

I believe that restaurants can make good money on their wine lists without asking their customers to cough up a $30 premium . . . especially when that premium is for an average quality wine. If wine prices were marked up less, more people are likely to buy wine. Become known as a restaurant with "bargain" wine prices (at least as far wine list prices go), and you're likely to more than make up any "loss" (which will not actually be a loss, but a reduction in return on investment) on increased volume.

Marcus cites a Portland example of this: "It's one of the reasons to stand in line at Ken's Artisan Pizza! Ken and April pick some very nice wines and the mark up is less than double on most of the list. Certainly on my wines that are there. It's incredibly fair, and probably one of the many reasons the place is packed all the time." 

More restaurants could benefit from this kind of thinking!

Pet Peeve: Restaurant Wine Prices

Recently, without intending too, I offended an owner of a Portland drinking and eating establishment by rather boorishly complaining about the prices of wine, especially local wine, on restaurant lists. I could see her dander rise as I blabbed on about the consumer injustice of it all, but just as you steer futilely to gain control of your tires when your car slides on ice, so I futilely tried to stop my lips from wagging as I dug my grave in her presence.

You see, she politely pointed out, restaurants make a large investment in wine inventory and staff training, not to mention glassware upkeep, and they should be expected to make a profit on their storage, service, and management of wine.

Fair enough, I said. But what is the markup a restaurant should consider "just," and what is the price a consumer should be expected to comfortably pay for a glass pour or a bottle of wine?

Case in point: a Portland restaurant of high style and repute recently had on their list a Willamette Valley Pinot gris priced at $48. At a wine shop a few blocks away, that wine sold for $18 retail. It probably cost the restaurant around $9.50—call it $10. Is a markup of nearly 5 times a fair and reasonable recompense for the restaurant's storage, management, and service of that wine?

The restaurant owner seemed to think so, when I mentioned this example.

I do not think so. I think such a markup is outrageous. It is also not uncommon.

At a different restaurant they are charging $11 for a single glass of a wine that also retails for $18. Sell one glass and the restaurant has covered their cost. Sell two, and they've made a 100% profit. There are perhaps 5 good glass pours in a bottle. Again, is a markup of nearly 5 times reasonable?

Of course, this was the price some months ago . . . back when whatever the market would bear was "fair enough" for most restaurants. Today, things are a bit different, Suddenly, there is price resistance where once there was blanket price acceptance. Suddenly, the more common, but still high, "3 times wholesale" markup isn't as fast a sell, especially when a savvy diner knows they are being asked to pay such a huge markup for what is often rather ordinary wine.

Here's two suggestions for the consumer to beat the too-high wine prices situation.

First--as incongruous as it sounds--be prepared to buy a more expensive bottle of wine off the restaurant's list, and enjoy it!

Here's the deal: restaurants can't generally get away with these huge markups on more expensive bottles. Hence, more expensive bottles are often the better deals on a wine list. A wine that might retail at $75 can often be had at the restaurant for around $100. Sure, you're still paying $25-30 more for the bottle and the table service, but here's the rub that works to your benefit: most of these wines are no longer available in the market, so this may be your only chance to drink it, and for a fairer price . . . in this case, you can't just go down the street and buy it off the shelf.

I don't have a problem paying that extra fee for a special bottle at a fine restaurant with all the ambiance, fine food, and wine pairing sommelier expertise that I won't have at home.

I do mind paying that kind of markup for an ordinary and commonly available wine . . . as is too often the case at many restaurants.

Second--BYOB. Corkage fees at even the Northwest's finest restaurants are often quite reasonable, ranging anywhere from $10 to $30. Even at the high end, when you bring in your own bottle you'll often end up paying less than the markup on the restaurant's wine list.

BUT--and this is very important--make sure the wine you bring is a FINE wine, and one unlikely to be on the restaurant's list. Don't ever bring that $18 bottle of the latest vintage Pinot gris that is plastered on every wine list in town. Do bring that 1999 Beaux Freres you've been saving. Even though I often am riled by wine list prices, the restaurants do have a perfect right to price their wine any way they like, and it is not only common courtesy, but respect for others, that dictates you play fair with them and save your BYOB for special bottles, not common ones.

Okay, so I've done my little rant on restaurant wine prices.

This is a perennially controversial topic, and a mainstay of wine discussions. What do you think about restaurant wine prices, especially as we enter these times of economic pullback?

Dying for a Drink in Portland, Part Three

Having had beer for lunch and wine for a midday snack, it was now time to turn to spirits for dinner.

If you've read the previous two posts, you'll recall that my last Sunday was a bit of an overindulgence in the realm of strong drink. Most of it was in the professional pursuit of my career (how's that for rationalization?) as the Editor of Northwest Palate magazine, and a writer on wines and spirits. After all, they always say that writers must write about what they know . . . and I guess I know booze.

So after the most excellent tasting of small-batch Oregon wines at the Portland Indie Wine Festival, I spent an hour walking around the neighborhood gathering strength for my final excursion of the day: a seminar in bitters held at Portland's premier house of craft cocktails, Teardrop Lounge.

Owner Dan Shoemaker is a high-strung, intense and utterly committed bartender (the term seems so inadequate for what guys and gals like Shoemaker do) who has created one of the country's leading craft cocktail bars. For instance: where else can you find upwards of 40 different house-made bitters, syrups, tinctures, and extractions sitting neatly in individual cobalt blue bottles, assembled along two custom-made bitters racks? And notice: you won't find an infusion among them. Infusion's are so passe . . .

Sunday's private class (Teardop is closed on Sundays) was a bitters tutorial. Bitters, let us remember, are an essential ingredient in a cocktail. In fact, a cocktail is defined by the use of three ingredients: a spirit base, a sweet element and a bitter element. To illustrate how this works, attendees were greeted with four small (about an ounce) vials of the same cocktail (Pegu Club) done four ways . . . without bitters, with Angostura bitters, with orange bitters, then with both Angostura and orange bitters. The taste differences were dramatic, and easily illustrated why bitters are such an important component in any cocktail.

Chapter II, as the evening's menu styled it, was described as follows: "In which David paints a picture if a fellow known round New Orleans as Antoine Peychauds, as well as other fools silly enough to produce bitters." Here is where the Teardrop fellows did something they normally don't do: made a classic Saverac . . . not the dolled up (but very fine) version they normally produce.

The Sazerac is perhaps my favorite cocktail (at least the way I make them at home) and their producion amply showed off the character of Peychauds bitters, and the way the anise qualities in the bitters marry to the herbal character of rye whiskey.

Next followed a cocktail called the Alaska, done two ways to show the difference in style between two kinds of bitters: the Grapefruit bitters produced by Fee Brothers, and the Pomelo bitters made in house at Teardrop Lounge. The samples were served without reference as to which one was which, and a poll was taken. The attendees where all of the opinion that the cocktails tasted noticeably different, and the general sense was that the number two version was rounder and had more depth. And, of course, that was the cocktail made with the Teardop Lounge's bitters.

Next up was a sampling of three cocktails (Manhattan, Floridita, and Margarita) made with house-crafted bitters with a bite: Teardrop Lounge Hellfire bitters, sezchuan peppercorn tincture, and Ramazotti & habanero-green tea bitters. Exotic as these bitters sound, they gave each cocktail a zip that was distinctive (and the the case of the Manhattan, a bit overmuch) and picante.

Finally . . . as if I needed any additional hooch amplitude . . . we all had the opportunity to smell a selection of raw bitters ingredients; the barks and herbs that go into the creation of these unique spices, followerd by our choice of one cocktail (full scale) with whatever bitters we wanted. And, that's quite a choice when you look at Teardrop's unique bitters bar.

It had been quite a day. Beer, wine, and spirits. Portland is an epicurean city of protean proportions, especially when it comes to the libatory arts, and I had sampled more than my fair share that day!

Dying for a Drink in Portland, Part Two

Well, what I was thinking (see the last line of my previous post) was that I had better take my own advice and get me to the Indie (see my post before the previous post). So with the weight of three prime ales sloshing around in my stomach, I waddled to my car and drove (I should have walked) down to the Urban Wineworks where the second day of the Indie had just begun.

I've been in attendance, and actually part of the judging team, for all four of the Indie Wine Festivals, and I must say that it has developed into a signature Northwest wine event. I know I said that in my earlier post, but it's true (and I have no official connection with the event, other than has a happy contributor of time and an honest buyer of tickets).

While I was unable to attend on Saturday, I was most impressed with the Sunday pourings (wineries whose wines made the judges' cut are poured over the weekend, with half the wineries on Saturday and the other half on Sunday, so I missed part of the group). On average I found them to be of a higher level of quality and consistency than in previous years . . . though for the first half hour or so I had to confine myself to the wineries pouring in the one large tasting room that had a bathroom, in order to accommodate the demands of my digested beer (which brings up the question of how beer can so rapidly translate into urine. Does it actually get digested, or just beat its way to the nearest exit?)

I had fun bumping into a variety of local folks, from fellow media to friendly winemakers. One particularly pleasant conversation I had was with Alice Feiring, New York-based wine writer and author of the just released book The Battle For Wine and Love, Or, How I Saved the World From Parkerization. Clever title, that.

I had briefly met Alice at previous Indie events. She is a good friend of Lisa Donoughe (LAD Communications) who runs the Indie, and she was attending this Indie partly to moderate a panel on "natural wines," a subject of great interest to her, and on which she is an authority. She had no particular reason to remember me, so when I found myself tasting at the same table next to her, I reintroduced myself. It seems my face had rung a bell.

"Oh, I couldn't decide if you were that nasty blogger or the guy from Northwest Palate," she said. I think we were both relieved that I wasn't the nasty blogger.

We had a nice conversation about writing, I complemented her on the publication of her book (which I am happy to say she signed for me), I asked her how she did it, since I am embarking on a book of my own, and was completely intimidated by the speed with which she produced her draft (well under the year that I have!). She even invited me to drop her an email should I have any questions, which made me feel honored—not all wine writers with a national reputation have been as engaging and nice to a regional writer as Alice was with me.

We were tasting Pinot noirs from Vidon Vineyard, a label that was new to me. They had three 2006 Chehalem Mountain wines, with varying sources and degrees of oak influence. All were well done and impressive.

A few other wines that stood out for me at the Indie included these:
>2007 Chehalem Mountains Nicholas Estate Riesling from Anam Cara
>2006 Yamhill-Carlton District Estate Reserve Pinot Noir from Carlton Hill
>2006 Willamette Valley Pinot Noir from Grochau Cellars
>2006 Dundee Hills Winter’s Hill Pinot Noir from Matello (Marcus Goodfellow, or Mad Wine Company)
>2006 Willamette Valley Chardonnay from Pudding River
>2005 Rogue Valley Merlot/Cabernet Franc from Volcano Vineyards

There were others that were good. Pretty much all of them in fact. Only one wine I tasted stood out as questionable, and I'm not going point it out. Could have been a bad bottle.

But by around 5:00 pm, who was I to say a bottle was bad or good? On top of my beers, I had absorbed unknown amounts of residual alcohol from two hours of wine tasting. Sure, I spit (I am a professional, after all), but as we all know that doesn't prevent alcohol absorption.

So around 5:00 pm, with the warm sun beckoning, my cheeks glowing, and my mind beginning to wander, I quit the Indie so that I could burn off some . . . calories . . . walking around for an hour or so before I headed off to my next event of the day . . . an educational bitters-and-spirits cocktail seminar at Teardrop Lounge.

Because, clearly, I had not yet had enough to drink.

Dying for a Drink in Portland, Part One

Literally, dying . . . or at least sometimes it can feel that way. Like this morning. After a yesterday's day of drinking in Portland, mostly for work . . . really.

The libatious resources of Portland are varied and many . . . and can be dangerous.

I began my Sunday meeting a friend at the newly-opened Deschutes Brewery & Public House located in the heart of Portland's chic and popular Pearl District. Deschutes is one of the best-known and most-loved breweries in Oregon, and yet this is their first venture into Portland from their home in Bend. And while it may seem long overdue (Portland is nicknamed Beervana because it is home to more breweries than any other city on the planet), when you walk into the new Pub it feels like it has always been there.

The space is expansive and welcoming. Occupying an entire building, the Pub is centrally located across the street from the Gerding Theater, a block away from Powell's Books, and next to any number of galleries and other restaurants and houses of libation. So, as would come as no surprise to anyone, the place was packed on its opening weekend.

The Pub brews its own beer, and brewmaster Cam O'Connor offers the classic Deschutes line-up as well as house-only specialties . . . like Armory XPA (the Armory is the building across the street, home to the Gerding Theater; XPA is "extra pale ale"). The previous week I had attended the media opening of the Pub, and O'Connor took us on a backstage tour of the brewery part of the Pub. The mash tuns and various holding tanks seemed cramped, but well organized, neat as a pin, and impressive in their promise.

Of course, this Sunday my friend and I had to have an XPA to start. Hoppy, but wonderfully balanced, it was the perfect late-spring-finally-a-warm-day drink. So good it was, we had to have another (except I opted for the classic Mirror Pond Pale Ale).

Chef Jeff Usinowicz brings a slightly more foodie flair to the traditional pub fare menu, without endangering the emphasis on pizza and burgers--which calls for another beer (another Mirror Pond; yes, I am boring in my beer choice today).

OK, now I should have known better than to have that third beer, or maybe the second one as well. Not that three beers over the course of a leisurely lunch is normally that much . . . but this was not a normal Sunday: I had work to do the rest of the day, drinking work. Three beers at lunchtime most definitely ARE too much when one is also scheduled to attend two additional drinking events later in the day.

Which was my reality. At 3pm I was planning to attend the second day of the Portland Indie Wine Festival, and at 6pm I was to attend a cocktail seminar on bitters.

A typical Portland Sunday: beer at noon, wine at mid-afternoon, and spirits throughout the evening.

What was I thinking . . .