Strange brew: from Angelica to Zibibbo

Judy Kimsey
Guest Columnist

There’s something “strange” brewing – or fermenting – in the wine world, and I suspect we’re all going to enjoy it.
For me, it started with Zibibbo. I’d never heard of it, but decided if it was as much fun to drink as it is to say, I’d better have a sip. Or two. Several sips later, I wondered what other unknown varietals might be out there to tempt my taste buds. So, glass of Zibibbo happily in hand, I started to research.
A grape by any other name, it seems, runs the gamut from Angelica and Albarino to Zante and, of course, Zibibbo. Varietals long out of favor are being revived, and researchers are busily creating a brave new world of wine grapes suited to a variety of terroirs, including places that wouldn’t normally appear on “must experience” wine tour lists. (Michigan, anyone?)
Angelica caught my fancy, first because I like to say it (not as much as Zibibbo), and second because I love the story behind the Gypsy Canyon offering. When Deborah Hall and her late husband purchased the vineyards, they found old vines that they thought were Zin, but ended up being plain old mission grapes that the Franciscans had planted. Once the most widely planted varietal in California, there are now fewer than a thousand acres left, and three of those acres are on Gypsy Canyon Vineyards in the Santa Rita Hills near Lompoc.
Deborah began researching, discovered that Dona Marcelina Felix Dominguez was the first woman to plant grapes in California, and named the vineyard “Dona Marcelina.” She (Deborah, not Dona) also unearthed notes for producing “California Original Angelica” and proceeded to produce it.
The result is evidently a lovely dessert wine, infused with California history and feminine mystique. At $120 a bottle, I’m not likely to try this particular version any time soon, but a number of other California wineries seem to have rediscovered their mission grapes, and Angelica’s star is rising. Trentadue in the Alexander Valley has made an Angelica, and we hope they do again.
Speaking of the Spanish in California leads me to the Spanish in Spain, and Tempranillo. It has been used historically as a blending grape, mainly in Riojas, but has recently come into its own. One reviewer pronounced Tempranillo “big, bold, and intense…with earthy and herbaceous undertones.” I predict a leg of lamb and a bottle of Tempranillo – possibly from Sonoma’s Gundlach-Bundschu or Coral Mustang – in the near future.
If Tempranillo is the future, Vermentino conjures up the past, and memories of a simple meal in Sardinia, where the grape is grown. I was on an archaeological dig, and we had gone into Cagliari to replenish supplies and stopped at a little café for lunch. The grilled fish was perfection, but the bottle of citrusy Vermentino that accompanied it transformed that meal from simple to sublime.
Only in Sonoma County would you go to the Irish for a bottle of Vermentino, which Mahoney Vineyards offers, along with Temperanillo and other Italian varietals.
Reluctantly, I left Vermentino and Sardinia and googled on to the American Northeast, where Cornell University is doing its part to make those frigid climes a wine destination. In 2006, it announced three new hybrid varietals – Noiret, Corot Noir, and Valvin Muscat – that are suited for cold climates and will, one hopes, deliver better wines than have typically come from that region. I haven’t yet seen these offerings locally, but am curious to see if they’ll live up to their promise.
Schnebly Winery is trying to do for Florida what Cornell is doing for the Northeast, but not with grapes. Tropical fruits – mangoes, carambola, and lychee – are the foundation of their wines. The Schneblys are intent on producing wines that pair well with food, unlike most fruit wines, which are typically sweet (and I frankly don’t care for). My taste buds tell me that I should plan on trying one of their wines, assuming I can find them.
In the quest for wine, the human race will resort to just about anything at hand. Mead, that ancient wine, is made from honey. For old times’ sake, I’ll try it. In Mexico, pulque is made from maguey, and sounds more like beer than wine. But, if it doesn’t involve a worm, I’ll try it.
However, when it comes to parsnips—yes, Virginia, there is wine made from parsnips – I’ll have another sip of Zibibbo and pass.