It’s amusing to me that so many folks prefer reds over whites – by a mile. It must have something to do with the lingering effects from the 60 Minutes piece called “The French Paradox”. But that was almost 18 years ago, for goodness sakes.

In the story, Morley Safer posited that it must be the red wine that is the mitigating factor as to why the French are healthier than Americans, even though their diet is heavier in saturated fats. Ergo the French Paradox, which led to a boom in red wine sales in the States. Some Americans drink at least one glass of red wine a day as though it was a medicine to keep heavens knows what at bay.

The other reason why Americans love their reds so much – and this is prevalent I’m sure among the younger generations – is that reds, especially California reds, are perceived as packing so much flavor, as compared to whites.

Well, as I continually fail to discern the differences among California reds from the same regions or among the same varieties, more and more am I enamored of white wine. These days, perhaps as a response to indistinguishable reds, the whites are ennobling themselves with distinctiveness and uniqueness. Furthermore, whites have managed to push themselves through the morass and become wines of idiosyncrasy. Never was this brought home to me so clearly than with two recent experiences both abroad and at home.

In the first instance, I was completely surprised during a visit three months ago to a remote corner of northeastern Hungary, a small village called Tarcal near the more famous town of Tokaji. I was taken to a rather modern, but small winery called Tokajicum Borház, which is headed by one of the most passionate young winemakers I’ve ever encountered. It was there that 34-year-old Majoros László made me miss dinner because he kept me in his tasting room until 9:30 at night, plying me with his exotic and idiosyncratic dry whites. That’s right, dry white wine in Tokaji, which is known universally for its wonderful sweet wines.

László insisted I try one wine after another, as he made forays to his labyrinthine cellar, which was covered in mossy black fungus that were equally attracted to his barrel wines. His 2006 Furmint (pronounced FOR mint) Barrel Selection showed great body and texture that was not unlike an Austrian Grüner Veltliner. And the ’07 Hárslevelü, from 5-year-old native barrels, was aromatic and sharp with wonderful acidity and minerality. These wines, alas, will probably never see the light of U.S. shores because not much of them are produced; and Americans will no doubt have a hard time pronouncing them, particularly the latter.

Nevertheless, László flits around his winery as if his life depended upon it. “We make an Aszu wine (the finest sweet that Tokaji has to offer), and that’s a problem with Tokaji wines,” he tells me, lamenting the fact that not much of the world knows these incredible dessert wines. “I want to show we can make great dry wines, too.

“Furmint can be the future. With a great dry white, we can make a commotion in the world. With the proper clones and understanding how to use barrels, it is my view this (Furmint) is the solution to Tokaji. And on the backs of dry whites, we can reconstitute our image of sweet wines. We are seeking our borders, but we don’t know what are our borders.”

Back in San Francisco, I had another revelation. This time it was a pairing of New- and Old-World Albariños at a wonderful new waterfront restaurant called La Mar. A Peruvian cebicheria (ceviche) of all things. Sommelier Emmanuel Kemiji brilliantly paired a Carneros Albariño with one from the home of the variety, Rias Baixas on the southwestern Spanish coast.

It was no contest, really. First, the vintages were different. The Havens from California was from the 2007 vintage, while the Do Ferreiro from Galicia was a year older. And it showed. While the Havens, which was the first to produce Albariño in the U.S., was a pure varietal representative of the grape, the Do Ferreiro was one of the most terroir-driven wines I’ve ever tasted. In other words, it was a completely idiosyncratic wine the likes of which I’d never experienced before. It actually reminded me of a single-malt Scotch in that there was a prevalent smokiness in the nose, while on the palate, the wine startled with a peatiness that I’ve only tasted before in a fine Scotch.

Single-malts derive that wet, smoky peat quality from the rivers that run in the region. Why it was evident in the Do Ferreiro I could only guess. Reports of the wines from this property in the Salnés Valley sub zone are of wines with tremendous minerality and salinity. And it showed in this remarkable white wine that could only have come from the terroir of the granite and rocky soils in which the grapes were grown.

Curiously, considering my point apropos the Scotch-like qualities in this particular Albariño, the ancestors of the people in this area are of Celtic origin, and settled in the area in the 11th century. The Celts also left a local version of bagpipes, which later found its way to Ireland and Scotland.

My fervent wish for the New Year is that more people find their way to more white wines, especially those that show an idiosyncrasy that’s out of this world.