Raise Your Wineglass to the Octopus

Wednesday was a day of relatively obscure holidays. While only a few people might have known that it was National Octopus Day in the US, my Spanish comrades were celebrating the Fiesta de la Comunidad Valenciana- ever so slightly less obscure. Of the two, I was fare more eager to embrace latter, although without the former, I would have never learned that octopi have three hearts...que romantico! Why was the Fiesta de la Comunidad Valenciana a special day: it was a regional holiday and it meant that instead of going to Spanish grammar class, I instead ventured into Alicantinian wine country to visit Salvador Poveda.

I was accompanied by new friends, Armando and Manuel, both wine enthusiasts from Alicante. Upon our arrival at Salvador Poveda, we were greeted by Señor Rafael Poveda Bernabé, who was, perhaps the most endearing host I've encountered yet: a combination of enthusiasm, sarcasm, and pragmatism. I'll explain how.

We began our tour in the vines themselves. To me, the ground looked dry, almost hostile, yet good wine often comes from soils that don't look exactly like they're overflowing with vitality. Vines need to struggle to make the best wine, to seek water, to encounter and overcome sedimentary obstacles. In the chalky, dusty lands of Monóvar, the vines would certainly face this necessary challenge. I struggled to keep up with the three hombres as we stumbled over pebbles the size of my face, but Rafa, our host, would stop occasionally to share a story or toss me a few factoids about a particular varietal.

We started with Monastrell, a very popular grape grown in this particular D.O.C, which, as it turns out, is the same grape as France's Mourvèdre [news to me]. This reminds of when I was researching 'natural' wine in Paris and I sipped a glass of Chablis and said, 'hmm, this reminds me a bit of Chardonnay'. Quelle honte! We also strolled through Riesling and Syrah vines, which unlike Monastrell, are harvested by machines and not by hand. Rafa explained the way that machines are programed to harvest grapes, which is a question that I've wondered about many times. So often, much care is given to the grape clusters, it seems a bit barbaric to then harvest with some giant, undiscerning machine. Unfortunately, Rafa's explanation was a bit technical and my Spanish still just isn't up to snuff. I was able to understand parts of the story, thanks to his animated gestures. From what I gathered, it's not uncommon for there to be a sleeping snake or partridge nesting under the grape leaves, and occasionally, they can possess a similar enough volume to density ratio that the machine snatches them up as if there were a lovely cluster of Tempranillo. Perhaps think twice when you hear a sommelier describe a wine as gamey. No, no, I kid: it's highly unlikely that the snake or partridge would ever make it to fermentation.

Before leaving the vines, we got to pick fresh almonds from the trees growing on the estate and enjoy their sweetness as we stumbled back towards the bodega. At this time, Rafa said:

"You see all of these grapes that are left on the vines, they weren't picked at harvest, but we leave them. They will fall and seep into the vines and the earth, strengthening the essence of the future wines. You see all these weeds, we leave them here, we don't use pesticides or try to get rid of them at all. They also impart unique characteristics to the soil and the wines. We call this viticultura biodinámica."

Bingo! This was the first time I've heard someone besides myself speak these words in Spain. While many would argue that there is far more to biodynamic viticulture that what Rafa described, it was like music to my ears. As it turns out, Rafa's wines resemble more the French idea of viticulture raisonnée, which means making responsible viticultural practices without ascribing to a particular doctrine or certification standard. This is an philosophy that I am very fond of, as I am of most ideas that incorporate a sensible degree of moderation. 

As we approached the wine-making facilities we were joined by three other men, one of whom was a doctor who traveled all the way from Cuba, while another was a professor at my school. It looks like we had shared a similar idea of how to take advantage of the Fiesta de la Comunidad Valenciana. At this time, Rafa explained to the group many of the processes necessary to turn grapes into wine, which he essentially described as 'finding a way to keep it from turning into vinegar, which is what it wants to do." I have been explained the various stages of the wine-making process a few times before [unfortunately, never in English] so, until, I've managed to truly understand it, I won't try to write the incongruous factoids that I've gleaned. They are, however, starting to pile up, so soon I hope to present a linear understanding of the winemaking process.


We went into the bottling and labeling room where Rafa tossed around various corks, labels, caps and mused about the various preferences between wine drinking nations and the wines themselves. For example, it is better to use a traditional cork for Reservas [one year in barrel and Gran Reservas [2 years]. A wine less than a Crianza [6 months] that will be drank soon can use a twist-off cap which eliminates certain risks associated with corking. Rafa shared that he sends lots of young wines to the Chinese market, that needn't have traditional corks, however, the Chinese appreciate the whole 'pomp and circumstance' of uncorking a bottle [even if the wine is new, or even mediocre]. He said the opposite is true for the English market- they could care less about the bottle/label/cork so long as the wine is good. These are, of course, generalizations. And what about me? I like a good cork- there's something too gratifying about the sucking pop that happens after your wine opener slides into that second notch and you give it that final, upward thrust. [Without even meaning too, I think I've discovered a new niche: erotic wine banter]

Before climbing the stairs that would lead us to the tasting room, we stopped where all the barrels of Fondillón are kept. Each barrel has a year written on it in chalk [the oldest I spied was 1940] which is not the vintage of the Fondillón, but the year when the particular barrel was put in use. Conceivably, in every subsequent usage, there are traces of 1940 Fondillón. So, before, I get too far ahead of myself, one might ask: What is Fondillón? Well, it was once described as the world's best wine. I first heard mention of it in a cookbook from the 15th century about Alicantian Gastronomy that I am reading. Kings would come to dine in Alicante and they would rave about the bacalao and Fondillón. It is rumored that Louis XIV was given the choice between a Port, Amontillado and Fondillón and claimed that he would always, siempre, toujours chose Fondillón. It was even celebrated in great depth in Alexandre Dumas' Count of Monte Cristo.

Therefore, you can imagine my excitement when I was offered the opportunity to sign my name in chalk on a giant barrel of Fondillón. We even got to taste some straight from a barrel from 1953. I'm no Louis XIV, but I felt a bit like him in that moment. To make my bond with Fondillón even deeper, Manuel [who you could describe as my Alicantinian wine sensei] bought me a bottle from 1987. Como se dice a trillion thankyous en español?

I bought a few more bottles for my personal consumption [already I have two less then what I started with] and we bid a grand adieu to the winery which so graciously hosted us. Next up, we went to a nearby pueblo, one of the kinds where you hardly expect people to live, let alone have a grand, elegant restaurant. But, there it was! After double parking- but leaving a note- a juxtaposition so delightfully Spanish, we went inside.

Keep and eye out for a post under 'Experiences' about the restaurant and all of that day's gustatory wonders!