Jason Millar: The idea of terroir is sacred, but is it helping us to communicate what truly matters?

Terroir as a concept originated in the Middle Ages, when describing a wine as having ‘the goût de terroir’ was often disparaging: literally, the taste of dirt. Appropriate, then, that terroir today has become as common as muck. Yet as late as the 20th century, it was of little interest to wine writers. George Saintsbury’s Notes on a Cellar-Book (published 1920) doesn’t mention it. In Alexis Lichine’s Wines of France (1951) there’s an index entry for terrine de lapin but not for terroir; André Simon didn’t think it worth including in his otherwise comprehensive glossary to The Noble Grapes and the Great Wines of France (1957). [subscriber-content]That’s because the widespread appearance of the word occurs only after the 1976 Judgement of Paris comparative tasting, when California triumphed over Bordeaux . The adoption of the word terroir in wine writing is – ironically enough – a consequence of wine experts’ failure to recognise it under blind conditions. Far from being a profound philosophy of place, terroir was little more than a rearguard action by the French against the fallout from the world’s most infamous blind tasting. Yet it met with astonishing success. In the ensuing decades, terroir transformed dirt to doctrine thanks to France’s vinous prestige, despite scepticism from elsewhere. As a word, terroir has evolved, and in its broadest contemporary meaning as a sense of place – encompassing culture, food, history and, crucially, typicity – it does have value. Yet, although terroir is largely justified by these ideas of identity and distinctiveness, today it’s mostly used as a fancy synonym for vineyard or soil, as evidenced by the increasing use of the plural, terroirs. This creates a dilemma, because although history, culture and identity are increasingly important in a globalised world, the idea of single-site expression, soil composition, water retention and potassium content are not, and never have been, interesting for the vast majority of even serious wine lovers. Cru-led expression may motivate winemakers and a minority of drinkers, but does it engage the typical Decanter reader, for example, or does it bore them with complex classifications that challenge even top wine professionals? Does terroir even register when you drink a bottle with dinner rather than tasting a lineup in a masterclass? Is it significant that a soil is millions of years old, or that a region was once under the sea? How many people walk into a shop asking for wines grown on alluvial marls? In any case, for every great wine that is terroir-driven, such as a single-site Riesling with an indelible character that transcends vintage, there are others that aren’t, such as colheita Port, a wine defined by blending, ageing and careful craft. Expressing terroir isn’t a requirement of good or even great wine. Nor do we reflect enough on whether the assumptions of terroir prejudice us against quality wines from emerging regions or exceptional wines that don’t prioritise notions of terroir. Defining terroir is, admittedly, like trying to nail schist to a wall. In some ways, it’s a definitionless word, capable of meaning everything and nothing at once, yet words are ultimately defined by usage. In its grandest, numinous sense, terroir does help to embody all that we don’t know about wine. But today it’s far more likely to be used as the basis for aggrandising every dull detail that we do know, ensuring that we see the trees, but not the wood. As consumption falls and engagement wanes, we must question whether terroir is really why people drink wine, and whether it’s the best way to talk about the drink we love. At its worst, terroir obsesses about soil when we need to reveal soul. After all, the greatest wines are about far more than just dirt. [breakout] In my glass this month Pieter Walser’s Blankbottle, Smaug the Magnificent 2022 (£29.95-£32.50 Butlers Wine Cellar, Swig) embodies the creative spirit of new-wave South African wine. The label is based on a childhood drawing by his son, Luca, not on the vineyards or the varieties used. A scintillating, ageworthy white blend from Voor-Paardeberg fruit, its technical details stay behind the scenes. As Walser says: ‘The most courageous act in life is still to think for yourself.’ Curious drinkers can scan a QR code. [/breakout] Related articles [/subscriber-content] Cristina Mercuri: Wines on the edge – How Etna is redefining elegance The charm of wine labels: Do they matter more than what’s inside? Andrew Jefford: ‘The set of possibilities grouped under “Chenin” can dazzle’

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