François Chartier Talks to Robert Parker

Robert Parker was in Montréal this week.  Parker was in the city to participate in a charity function with tickets at $5,000.

François Chartier, author of Tastebuds and Molecules, snagged some time with Parker and you can find their conversation here.

Like him or not, hero or villain, Parker is the most influential wine critic of the past generation and his opinions are worth listening to, especially on what's changed in 30 years, underappreciated regions, and social media.  (He compares Gary Vaynerchuk to fingernails on a blackboard.  Ouch.)  The audio quality is a bit shaky at times and there are frequent interruptions as other folks say hello to Parker and Chartier.

You get the impression that Parker doesn't know who Chartier is, but when you've spent so long as the Sun King of wine critics, perhaps that's to be expected.

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Recommended Reading: The Battle for Wine and Love

I wasn’t sure that I would like Alice Feiring’s book, The Battle for Wine and Love. Was this some sort of Drink, Pray, Love? The alternate title brought me onboard: How I Saved the World from Parkerization. As Alice writes, “…from about the late 1980s onward, the Parker palate has largely dictated how wine is made worldwide.” Ah yes, the demon Robert Parker, the man who stands accused (by many) for converting millions of winedrinkers, and winemakers, into fans of over-oaked, high alcohol, fruit bombs. Gotta like her ambition!

Although Robert Parker is the spectre that haunts Alice’s thoughts, this book fortunately has much more going for it. Let me first confess a bias. Alice is a big advocate of typicity: wines that reflect the traditional characteristics of the varietals that it’s made from, the region (or terroir) it comes from, or its vintage. So am I. So when Alice rails against the homogenization of wine, I’m right there with her.

Where we disagree is who’s responsible for this homogenization. Feiring lays the blame on Parker, The Wine Spectator, wine consultants, and the UC-Davis Department of Viticulture & Enology. The first two take the blame for their simplistic 100-point scoring systems for wine, leading masses of consumers to buy wine based not on what they like, but on what these critics, with numerical scores, tell them they should like. Feiring censures wine consultants and UC-Davis for enabling winemakers to manipulate wines through chemistry to match the Parker palate. Me? I blame lazy consumers who blindly buy wine as trophies, simply based on what critics tell them is good. (And then wonder what all the fuss is about when they taste the wine.) I blame winemakers who turn their back on decades or centuries of winemaking tradition to make wines that appeal to the mass-market taste preference. Alice justly singles out Rioja for, as she puts it, losing its Spanish accent. And I would add Alsace, which is turning out overly sweet Rieslings.

Late in the book, Alice recounts a story from her childhood, making a very profound point about how childhood memories influence personal preferences, which I wrote about in an earlier post. It’s as if she’s pleading with us to understand why she likes what she likes. But she doesn’t extend that courtesy to Parker, who I’m convinced scores wines based on what he likes, as any critic should.

She makes her points (polemic, not numerical) while taking us along on fascinating tours of Piedmont, Loire, California, Rhone Valley, Rioja, Champagne, and Burgundy, introducing us to the saints and sinners of authentic wine, wine that reflects its terroir. The chapter on searching for the Barolo producer who made the first wine that she fell in love with has the suspense of a good mystery. Her descriptions of all the manipulative tricks that many winemakers get up to will cure anyone of the notion that wine is a natural beverage. Less satisfying are references to former lovers and the difficulties of her love life generally, which seemed tacked on to the main narrative.

Alice’s passion for authentic wines is undoubted. If there’s one point to take away from the book, it’s this: think for yourself, taste for yourself. I couldn’t agree more. If you care about wine as it should be and could be, read it.

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Remembrance of Things Past

Spend some time reading wine reviewers and you’ll notice that they all have personal biases. High scores go to well-made wines with aromas, tastes, and texture that a reviewer likes. A wine with aromas, tastes, or texture that a wine reviewer doesn’t like, even if it’s well-made, receives a lower score, or isn't reviewed at all.  If you want to rely on a wine reviewer, take the time to understand what aromas, flavours, and styles the reviewer prefers. They might not be your preferences! And never, ever buy a wine based just on a score.

Robert Parker, pioneer of the hundred-point scoring system and perhaps the most famous wine reviewer in the world, catches a lot of flak for the enormous influence that his personal preferences have on how wines are made.  Both the documentary Mondovino and Alice Feiring’s book, The Battle for Wine and Love, hold Parker accountable for the global homogeneity of wine styles. Their argument is that far too many wines today are made in the same style – a style to please Parker, earn his high score, and command higher prices. But I don’t blame Parker. I blame wine buyers who slavishly follow his scores, or winemakers who put profits ahead of loyalty to regional typicity.

Parker himself has been consistent in his personal preferences over the course of his career. But where do these personal preferences come from? When are they formed? Why do some of us like jammy, big-fruit, massively tannic wines, and others prefer muted aromas of spices and leather, with soft tannins? I have a theory.

In my courses to become a sommelier, we analysed a least a dozen wines in each class. This analysis required us to identify the aromas and flavours in the wine, as well as colour, texture, balance, and finish. After we had completed our individual analysis, several of us would describe to the class what we found. To me, it was interesting to hear how often aromas were described in the context of childhood memories. Such comments as “smells like the herbs in my grandmother’s garden”, “reminds me of a plastic raincoat that I had when I was little”, or “it’s just like the box of Sun-maid raisins packed in my lunch in Grade 4” – all idiosyncratic to be sure but highly evocative.

In my case, I could instantly recognize the aromas from my Mom’s baking (such as lemon or vanilla) and the smell of cherry and chocolate combined, just like in a Lowney's Cherry Blossom, something I always found in my Christmas stocking.

I’m convinced that we most easily recognize aromas in a wine that unlock a childhood remembrance. We enjoy those wines that bring back happy memories.

Alice Feiring has her own personal likes and dislikes as well. In her superb book, she writes about her preferences for certain aromas and flavours in wines (allspice, clove, and cinnamon) that recall a very specific and happy memory from her childhood.

So, when you enjoy a wine, are there aromas and flavours that you easily recognize and enjoy? Do they bring back childhood memories?