A few weeks back, the passionate people connected with Coro Mendocino (two of them have the Coro insignia tattooed on their arms!) released the third incarnation of their blended red wine, 11 versions this year, with the enthusiasm of a bunch of new junior high graduates.

The arduous process of making a Coro Mendocino wine always leaves those involved with a feeling of dread and awe, partially because the system calls for a double-blind analysis of the wines by the wine makers themselves, and more than once a wine maker has put the kibosh on his own wine!

So when, at long last, the wines are bottled and unveiled to a press contingent laden with those fascinated by esoterica, the project participants breathe a hearty, audible sigh. At that point, hope gushes that the wine will be discovered as a brilliant concept, not to mention as tasty.

Forget the fame. Much as I love the idea of a Coro Mendocino, and much as I like the wines and the people who make it, reality -- always a cold wet rag -- says that this wine will take its rightful place in the world of $35 wines in a $20 society: misunderstood and geared mainly for the adventurous few who get what’s going on.

And what’s going on is a message for all terroir lovers, despite the fact this idea hasn’t been used overtly by almost anyone, not even the progenitors of the concept. It is, simply, that Coro Mendocino may be one of the most compelling of counter-arguments to those who dispute that the site of a vine’s roots dictate a character that makes the resulting wine unique.

Coro Mendocino is defined as a wine that has the following basic characteristics: It is at least 40% and no greater than 70% Zinfandel; all the grapes must come only from Mendocino County, and the blend must be representative of a top-of-the-line wine that represents the contextual feel of Mendocino County. And so it is that some of the blends rely on Petite Sirah, others on Sangiovese, and some even a tad of Pinot Noir, odd as that may seem.

How, one initially wonders, can there be any similarity between one Coro Mendocino red whose Zinfandel is from the altitude-dictated, marine-influenced Mendocino Ridge appellation and another that is from the valley floor of inland Redwood Valley?

Yet there it was the other day, 11 of these puppies all showing a very similar characteristic. But as I was making the long drive back from the unveiling luncheon, it dawned on me that the similarities among the wines were not specific in terms of identical traits. These were generally parallel wines that all showed a slightly higher alcohol (all at 15.0% or so); all showed a degree of cranberryish tones, all had the faint peppery notes that seem to be evident in Zin grown in this county, regardless of specific locale, and all had good, low pH numbers.

This was, I began to muse, more evidence of “Macro Terroir,” which oddly enough is greater proof of the existence of terroir than is Micro Terroir.

Not that I need convincing. Not that it isn’t already evident in places like Saint-Estèphe, Montalcino and the Pfalz. But here we have a cogent American example that’s worth exploring.

Macro Terroir, if I may be permitted the liberty of defining it (since I just made up this term), is the general, overarching similarity between a number of wines from the same or very similar grape varieties that are grown in a region that offers a similarity of growing conditions. And it need not be very delimited.

In this case, you might take note of the fact that the thin, eroded soils on the slopes of the Mendocino Ridge appellation are radically different from the fertile loams in Redwood Valley’s floor. That this is a fact seems to detract from the Macro Terroir argument, but it actually firmly reinforces it.

Indeed, the concept of Micro and Macro Terroirs has long been an unstated thesis of James Halliday, the estimable and authoritative Australian wine writer. In his new “Wine Atlas of Australia” (University of California Press, $45; Oct. 15, 2006), Halliday’s vital preface focuses not on soil as much as on the impact (micro and macro) of weather on Australian wines’ regional characteristics. Chatting with James on June 28 over dinner, he affirmed that weather has always played a greater role in the perception of regional identity for savvy Aussie wine buyers, which is one of the reasons that so many regions of Australia do have a distinctive tone to them.

That is evident from the different incarnations of Shiraz we see -- how a McLaren Vale differs from a Clare, how a Coonawarra differs from a Langhorne Creek. It’s also evident in the Rieslings, Semillons, and numerous other grapes that fascinate Aussie wine lovers.

Want another classic example? How about Cabernet Franc from the East Coast of the United States?

Here is an obvious example of uniqueness. Cabernet Franc, a most assertive variety, has a natural floral quality that, at higher alcohol levels, can be blueberry-ish, or even offer a red currant character. However, that calls for ripeness levels that are generally not possible in climates where fall weather drops the temperatures and where ripeness levels of 24 Brix, or higher, are simply not possible.

In areas like New York, Michigan and notably Virginia, Cab Franc (as it is usually made) delivers a bit more of the tarragon/thyme sorts of nuances along with mineral notes that are a natural component of the variety when it is picked earlier. There are noticeable differences between the herbal Virginia Cab Francs, the anise and earthy notes found in New York’s versions and the dried plum of Michigan’s style. Part of the distinctiveness of these wines is that their alcohol levels run 12.5% to 13.0%, little more, due mainly to harvesting at 22.5 Brix, and rarely more.

In this respect, the wine is more like Cabernet Franc from the Loire Valley, with its distinctly herb/mineral notes and little if any barrel contact.

However, it is the weather that dictates this to a greater degree than does the soil. And should an expert in New York Cabernet Franc mistake a Virginia Cab Franc for a New York version, it would be understandable.

But almost no one with a solid understanding of “cold climate” Cab Franc would mistake the wine for a California version. Almost no one would harvest Cab Franc in California at 22.5 Brix because the resulting wine would be seen as under-ripe.

Yet some wine critics (as well as wine judges at competitions) who have little or no experience with cool-climate Cab Franc denigrate that very wine without understanding or even thinking about the possibility that what’s at play here is a regional distinctiveness that ought to be recognized and acknowledged as a legitimate expression of terroir, macro though it may well be.

A similar argument might be made for any number of other wines that show distinctly regional elements – the similarity between Merlots from Washington’s Columbia Valley; Russian River Valley Pinot Noirs; Anderson Valley Gewurztraminers, and so forth. True, some of these appellations are smaller than others, and as we get down to the smallest appellations, we find micro-terroir elements that are truly distinctive.

The classic example of micro-terroir from the past was Heitz Martha’s Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon, an unblended wine that always had a distinctive minty or “eucalyptus” aroma. Crusty Joe Heitz hated the use of that last term, but one reason may well be that (as Andre Tchelistcheff once theorized) the eucalyptus trees that bordered that vineyard spewed microdroplets of eucalyptus oil onto the grapes, imparting that unique aroma.

Indeed, once in a moment of hilarity, Joe told a crowd of wine lovers at a Southern California wine tasting, “Sure, I run alongside the trucks as they leave the vineyard and toss [eucalyptus] seed pods into the gondolas!”

But even if it were the trees imparting that character, it would be a terroir note.

Similarly, when Tom Dehlinger was attempting to determine which parts of his estate Pinot Noir vineyard produced the most intense flavors, he used different colored twines to separate out the various blocks. The best block seemed to be a slightly gerrymandered piece with 10 sides. In this case, the soil may have been a greater influence than was the weather, since the small vineyard was all angled the same direction (thus each vine had about the same sun exposure); the vines were pruned and trellised the same way and received the same viticultural practices.

But Dehlinger was certain that the best section made a better, more complete wine than did lower-rated sections.

Once, some years ago, Cathy Corison, then wine maker at Chappellet Vineyard, was taking me through some special barrel samples of Chardonnay at the winery. We sampled one barrel from a small area of the vineyard that had in it what Cathy said was a “musque” clone of Chardonnay. The wine was truly distinctive, with a wild, minty sort of aroma. I asked if she would bottle that wine separately, and she said the amount was too small to do so.

However, such an aromatic note might not have developed such a distinct character had it not been planted, obviously by accident, in precisely that spot in that vineyard. And such a wine, were it ever to be bottled, would display a micro terroir character.

But these examples are well enough known. The more macro examples are not, but I believe are just as compelling.

To do your own test, buy three different Coro Mendocino red wines from the 2003 harvest, from different producers, and try them blind side by side, and add in a fourth Zinfandel blend from, say, Sonoma County. I think the similarities will be evident in the Coro wines.

~ Dan Berger, AppellationAmerica Editor-at-Large


To comment on Dan Berger’s writings and thoughts, contact him at d.berger@appellationamerica.com