Gamay finally finds its New World roots

Gamay Noir vines at the Barsotti Ranch in Camino, Calif., above the American River canyon. Gamay Noir vines at the Barsotti Ranch in Camino, Calif., above the American River canyon. Photo: Jon Bonné, The Chronicle Photo: Jon Bonné, The Chronicle Image 1 of / 3 Caption Close Gamay finally finds its New World roots 1 / 3 Back to Gallery

On a trip last year to the Sierra foothills, I noticed a bundle of budwood sticks sitting outside Ron Mansfield's office.

Mansfield is the vineyard guru of El Dorado County, and new vines show up at vineyardists' offices all the time. But these were Gamay Noir, the grape of Beaujolais. Not a common sight at all, and certainly not in a town like Placerville.

Except, of course, that Placerville and nearby Camino have become ground zero for this particular grape in California.

This is largely due to Mansfield, who has led the Sierra on quite literally fruitful bouts of planting in recent years. On Gamay, Mansfield's partner in vine has been Steve Edmunds of Berkeley's Edmunds St. John winery, who first floated the idea on a trip to Paso Robles.

Originally, the plan for Bob Witters' vineyard was Pinot Gris (which also was planted), but at 3,400 feet, with rare granite soils that were analogous to Beaujolais' own rare soils, the two had something else on the brain.

Four acres of vines were grafted in 2000; by 2002, Edmunds' Bone-Jolly, presumably the first true Gamay Noir in California, had its first harvest.

"People who knew me really well said, 'You must have lost your mind,' " Edmunds recalls.

The Witters planting was a fun little sideshow until a few years ago. Then the Barsotti family, whose nearby orchards feed their juice-processing business, acceded to Mansfield's idea to plant more Gamay Noir.

Are you, I asked Mansfield at the time, the Gamay mogul of California?

He laughed. "I was just hoping Steve could make a wine that would take off, because nobody was doing it."

The Barsottis' land, high above the American River, had similar virtues - although Witters' soils are heavier and clay-rich, perhaps more similar to southern Beaujolais, while Barsotti has more decomposed granite and porphyry, not unlike Beaujolais' northern hillsides, which yield the sturdiest wines.

Edmunds even named his Barsotti wine Porphyry. Both are fine examples of the mountains' mineral complexity; granite's rarity in California makes El Dorado particularly compelling.

Californians shy away from Old World soil analogues, but those hunches can pay off. (Had Josh Jensen not been hunting limestone, we might never have had Calera.) Beaujolais, though, lacks the cachet of its northern Burgundy neighbors, and its geology has received little of the same attention. To conduct this little experiment in granite up in the Sierra was a deft bit of pioneering.

The larger question might be why anyone bothered. Eight years ago, when I first went on a hunt for American Gamay Noir, it was quixotic, chased by Edmunds and a handful of Oregonians, like Doug Tunnell at Brick House and Myron Redford at Amity.

Not sold on it

Americans were hardly sold on Gamay - as was clear when my rhapsody for the grape fell on deaf ears. There had been interest in the quick charms and relentless marketing of Beaujolais Nouveau, but the onetime November frenzy had faded and a post-Nouveau era had yet to begin.

But within a couple years, evangelism for good Beaujolais started to take hold. We began to have serious discussions about cru Beaujolais, fine examples from among 10 communes of the region (bit.ly/SpgWtm).

Burgundy lovers priced out of that market could take solace in a nuanced bottle of Morgon from Marcel Lapierre or Fleurie from Clos de la Roilette. As artisan wines increasingly took the spotlight, Beaujolais' fortunes rose. Its Gang of Four (or Five) top producers were perfect symbols. And the origins of the would-be natural wine movement lay with Beaujolais native Jules Chauvet.

Beaujolais, finally, was having a moment.

At the same time, Gamay was spreading beyond its native region. Across the Loire Valley, and in the hills outside the eastern French city of Roanne, old plantings were rediscovered and new ones tended. Esteemed Cote-Rotie producer Clusel-Roch found mature vines in Millery, just north of the Rhone on slopes outside Lyon. Around the world, an estimated 91,000 acres are now planted, in Switzerland, Italy, through Eastern Europe. There's now an international Concours de Gamay competition.

And the spirit has grown here at home.

The examples I encountered nearly a decade ago are all going strong. In Oregon, Doug Tunnell's estate planting at Brick House keeps a loyal following. Chehalem's Harry Peterson-Nedry shifted his Gamay tendencies a bit, from a blend with Pinot Noir called Cerise (a tribute to Burgundy's passetout grains tradition) to a varietal bottling. Others have appeared, notably Evening Land Vineyards, which inherited Gamay in its Seven Springs vineyard.

Even the East Coast has enjoyed a small resurgence, with wineries like Sheldrake Point in the Finger Lakes, and Malivoire and Stratus in Ontario, discovering the charms of a grape that shines in a colder climate.

Checkered past

At this point, those with a long memory might be smirking. California Gamay? In the 1970s, long before fighting varietals took the stage, wines like Robert Mondavi's Gamay Rosé were much enjoyed.

But these weren't truly Gamay. Most were Napa Gamay, which turned out to be a grape called Valdiguié, a Languedoc-native grape that arrived here in one of those many fumbles of nursery work. Another grape, audaciously called Gamay Beaujolais, was just a low-grade version of Pinot Noir. Having been discredited, both lost the right to use the Gamay name by 2007 and faded away.

Except not. Valdiguié is getting another shot. While a handful of bottles have been around for years from labels like J. Lohr, new versions are coming from Berkeley's Broc Cellars and from the small Forlorn Hope label. The grape has survived in unexpected places like the Green Valley area of Solano County and the dry-farmed Frediani vineyard in Calistoga, prime Napa land used for something more humble.

More real Gamay is coming. Duncan Arnot Meyers and Nathan Roberts paired up with Mina Group wine director Rajat Parr to tap the El Dorado cache for their forthcoming Gamay, called RPM. Broc's Chris Brockway turned to Oregon for a Gamay Noir as of this vintage.

Considering the cost of land and the chances to make more lucrative fare, these are improbable efforts. But they are crucial. It's not just about upholding the honor of Gamay Noir, a grape that has been unfairly struggling for repute since it was banished from Burgundy proper in the 14th century. These wines mount a defense of America's innovative spirit.

With Thanksgiving on the horizon, let's finally accord Gamay - from near or afar - its proper place at the table.