Author Blog

Mendoza

Argentina’s three main industries are oil and natural gas, wine and tourism. The most striking thing about Mendoza, ground zero of Argentinian wine making, is the size of the vineyards. Looking down from the air miles before the plane landed, you see acres and acres of long, rectangular green plots all dependent on irrigation, as are the clumps of green trees, bushes and flowers that follow the roads through what is otherwise an arid semi-desert.

The Andes rise up to the west of the city like a Hollywood background set. The mountains were faint in the heat the few days we were there, as if you could push them over with your finger. They were gigantic, but also so seemingly insubstantial as to appear fake.

The first wine stock was brought to Mendoza in 1610 by the Jesuits. The trickle of immigrants from Spain and Italy became a flood when the train from B.A. arrived in Mendoza in 1885. Up until the 1970’s most of the wine produced in Mendoza was consumed in Argentina. Many different types of red and white table wines and blends of moderate quality were made; but the region was known for a red varietal from Cahors in France, unflatteringly called Malbec because the taste of it was “mal,” which means bad, on the “bec,” meaning mouth. The 1990’s saw the arrival of foreign investment, and the emphasis shifted to single varietals and from quantity to quality.

To achieve this quality, pruning is done twenty days before harvest to concentrate nutrients and to assure a dark, full-bodied character by sacrificing quantity. Because of the threat of damaging hail, many investors will spread their vineyards over a wide geographical area, specializing in blends of the same varietal from different microclimates.

I’ve written in a previous post about the importance of water rights to the snow melt from the Andes, which is stored in reservoirs and released at pre-arranged intervals to flow through canals and into the small trenches or the hoses that run parallel to the rows of vines. Without this resource there would be no wine making in Mendoza. What happens, then, if climate change causes less and less snow to fall in the Andes?

We spent all of one day in the Uco Valley, south and west of town and higher than most of the vineyards. On the way to the Clos de los Siete, gaining altitude, we passed vegetable gardens and peach, cherry and apple orchards.

The two-thousand acre clos is the project of seven foreign investors, French, Italian and Swiss, several of whom already own chateaux with fine vineyards attached in Europe. They are escaping the myriad regulations of France and seeking to produce fine wines in greater quantities than they can in Europe. Five of the seven have their own wine-making bodegas on the property. It is an impressive sight as you drive in, nothing but vineyards stretching to the mountains, punctuated only by the five strikingly different in style bodegas in the middle of each property.

Weather conditions are near-perfect for grapes; constant sunshine, low humidity and water that is full of minerals can be depended on. Spraying with chemicals is not required. Hail is a constant danger, and the better vineyards put up netting on the sides of vines to protect from it.
We visited three of the five bodegas, and were treated to a delicious lunch and wine samplings in the house-like apartment of one of the owners who was not there.

Their plants are only fourteen years old, and it takes one plant to produce one bottle of wine. They turn out one million bottles of Clos de los Siete (a red blend of grapes from all five wineries) a year, 80% of which is exported, which is why we see so much Malbec in the States these days. The producers are worried because 25 – 30% inflation has caused the Kirchner government to cut down on how much they can export, and importing the volume they require of real cork from Portugal and oak barrels from France is becoming difficult because the government wants the vineyards to use local products.

The three vineyards within the clos that we visited were Cuvellier de los Andes, diamAndes and Monteviejo.

Estancia de los Candellaria: The Pampas

Coming here from Mendoza we flew into the local airport in the middle of town on the La Plata. The airport police were as good as their word and my fuzzy jacket was waiting for me.

In the afternoon we were driven two hours west of the city to this small beef, llama, and horse ranch in the Pampas. It is a beautiful old house, very much in the estancia tradition; its glory is in the trees that encircle its huge lawn, planted about a century ago. Trees are not indigenous to the pampas, which is flat, with the grayish, flaky soil that makes it look like the Eastern Shore; broken, around here, by occasional wetlands and ponds.

The house is actually quite large, but built to disappear into the landscape of plane trees, the biggest ginko I ever saw, crepe myrtle, and masses of climbing vines that shield windows and interior patios from the summer heat. Suites of rooms and one enormous master bedroom open off a long corridor that leads down to a living room that runs the length of the house.

It has high ceilings, handsome doors, paintings, rows of bookshelves, and metalwork modern sculpture along with massive wooden furniture, some of which was made by our tall, eccentric host, Sebastian. The living room was the perfect place to gather for meals. This time of year, though, the place to sit is out on the covered terrace just off the living room with its two ceiling fans, and deep, comfy armchairs and sofas.

When we first arrived the heat in the afternoon was strong, but not humid. Since then it has reached the low nineties in the afternoon, but the humidity has set in; I can tell because the heat is more oppressive and my hair curls! This time of year the window curtains and doors are drawn tightly shut before noon, and they aren’t opened until the sun has set, so all day there is just a gloomy half-light in the hall.

Sadly, I can’t report much about activities on the Pampas, as I spent most of two days totally out of it with what I will refer to delicately as “an intestinal bug.” Believe me, that’s all you want to know about it.

The morning that I made it to the breakfast table I asked for tea and a soft-boiled egg. Argentinians do not eat eggs for breakfast, so it took some pantomiming to get across huevos in boiling water.

Ages went by and no egg appeared. Suddenly through the swinging door to the kitchen came not only Sebastian, whose English was excellent, but also the cook in her role as nutrition consultant. Both looked somber, and my first reaction was that the sole chicken had perished; but I knew this couldn’t be true as way before dawn every morning the clucking hens and crowing rooster pulled me into consciousness three and a half hours before the 8:30 breakfast.

The cook was wringing her hands, and Sebastian, earnestly explained that the cook could not bring herself to cook me an egg, as eggs were notoriously hard to digest and I would get sick again. Much better, they said, to have some quesos blancos and quince on a cracker. I promised just as earnestly NOT to touch an egg, and they went back through the swinging door. Ten minutes later out came not one, but TWO soft boiled eggs! Something was lost in translation. I thought it wisest to eat neither, both for diplomatic and digestive reasons.

Things I can’t report on are a trip to a local auction, a popular social occasion where typewriters, aged stoves and chicken were among the things auctioned, horseback riding out to prime the windmills that keep the Criollo horses and cattle watered, and a string of what I hear were superb meals.

To paraphrase Jefferson, I can’t write a shorter letter because I don’t have the time; but I also can’t sign off without saying I’ve never been anyplace where birdsong was more varied or louder – parrots, crows, and mourning doves that were so numerous they sounded like a camp full of children. Amazing.