Journal of Wine Economics Volume 12 | 2017 | No. 2

Varietals of Capitalism defies simple description. Its theoretical framework, depth of research, and interdisciplinarity would seem to have required Herculean tasks from no fewer than three scholars. Of course, this is not a coincidence. In fewer than 250 pages, Xabier Itçaina, Antoine Roger, and Andy Smith, all affiliated with Sciences Po Bordeaux, have put together a richly complex account of the European Union’s (EU’s) 2008 regulatory change that, in theory, allowed participants in the European wine trade to compete more successfully in the global wine market. Rooted in the exist- ing literature of economic change, Varietals of Capitalism utilizes a diverse range of primary source material, including interviews and documentary evidence, from four key EU wine-producing countries: France, Italy, Romania, and Spain.

The authors take as their starting point the generally agreeable position that indus- try change can only be understood with an ear and an eye toward politics. Employing the concept of structured contingency, an amalgamation of institutional thought, field theory, and multiscalar politics, the authors argue that the simple explanations offered by most commentators for the necessity of the 2008 change (i.e., growers were forced to meet the demands of a new globalized consumer) do not hold up against a deep reading of the relevant source material. More generally, the authors reject an economically or intergovernmentally reductionist view of EU pol- icies and focus instead on the “complex set of contingent political work conducted in the economic, scientific, and bureaucratic fields” (p. 7). Although this final goal may prove too ambitious, Varietals of Capitalism also seeks to shed light on the relation- ship between individual actors, social structures, and institutions that constitute contemporary capitalism outside the wine industry.

Varietals of Capitalism is broken into three parts. Part I explores the existing liter- ature and approaches to change in the wine industry and economies more generally. This first section also spells out the authors’ notion of structured contingency, and with it the idea of how actors build, maintain, dismantle, and destroy the very insti- tutions that serve to confine, confound, and restrict them (in other words, socially structured actors).

Part II dials back on theory (although not entirely) and pushes forward into the actual debates that led to the 2008 policy change. Avoiding the simplistic and soph- istic arguments that many in the trade use to explain change, the authors present a dense account of how science and academia (including this very journal) helped conceptualize the production and implementation of a new approach to the EU’s governing of the wine industry. What becomes clear is that the regulatory change of 2008 has a deeper and more complex history than what most readers (myself included) would have assumed. European anxiety of falling behind the New World, in wine and in other sectors, was just one factor in the evolvement from supply-driven to demand-driven EU wine laws.

Part III may feel the most relatable to practitioners involved in the wine trade. Here, the authors break down the successes and failures of the first few years of implemen- tation of the 2008 law. It sought to drastically reduce the EU’s interventionist policies of vine grubbing and distillation subsidies and instead focus on supporting producers and merchants in their attempts to present wine to consumers. These changes, however, do not represent a clear victory for neoliberalism and its supporters. Rather, the authors suggest that “microeconomic support” offered to growers and regions formed the “heart of the reform agenda” (p. 192). This fascinating and con- vincing point runs counter to what may seem like surface-level neoliberal reforms.

As with most books that attempt to challenge conventions, nitpicky criticisms manifest themselves quite readily. At times, the reader is left feeling as though the authors’ primary goal is not explication of the 2008 law but rather the challenge of putting the notion of structured contingency into action. Whereas this reader expected the theory to support the empirical study, I finished wondering whether the empirical study was there to support the theory. Second, although the authors go to great lengths to historicize the 2008 change (and are explicit in doing so), they are prone to simplify other, equally complex historically phenomena, including the creation of the system of appellations d’origine (pp. 64–69).

These minor quibbles should not detract from what is otherwise a thoughtful, academically driven piece of research. The book speaks to a broad range of acade- micians, including economists and political scientists, although it may appeal less to wine-trade participants who do not have an interest in the scholastic side of their live- lihoods. Whether the concept of structured contingency will have any enduring impact outside the wine trade, or within it, remains to be seen.

In an interview with the Santa Barbara Independent, Comiskey describes how he set out in 2007 to compose a guide to US Rhône wines and producers. The purpose of the book shifted after he became enthralled by the outlandish histories of the Rhône Rangers, and how they came to make the wines that define them. There is a certain parallel here with how many of the key characters in the book become similarly enthralled by the Rhône varietals, often by unintended and fortuitous means, but then choose to make them their lives’ work. The approach taken by the Rangers rein- forces the perception of them as mavericks, from ignoring the disdain for the simple idea of imitating French wines in the United States to the illicit importation of cut- tings. A sense of the steadfastly individualistic, entrepreneurial psyche lends a con- spicuously American flavor to this book and its characters. The power of “one-bottle epiphanies” to infuse people with a singular zeal runs beneath the surface, illustrated by Mat Garretson’s dogged pursuit of John Alban. Not knowing he is phoning a modem line serving a weather station in the middle of a vineyard that only has a handset connected intermittently, he phones at all times of day and night for 3 months before his persistence bears fruit; their meeting gives birth to the Hospices du Rhône (p. 223). Similarly, graduate student Gary Eberle (p. 80) decides in 1972 upon tasting a Saint-Julien from Ducru-Beaucaillou that he no longer wishes to pursue a promising career as a geneticist but just wants to drink; it is safe to assume that many others have had similar thoughts after a particularly nice bottle, but few have made the career change stick.

In his opening lines, Comiskey qualifies himself as a writer who fell in love with wine, as opposed to a lifetime oenophile who embraced writing. He has enjoyed success using the writer’s toolbox of vocabulary and metaphor to describe what he is tasting and how it makes him feel. This skill comes through in his descriptions of people and places, from dusty wine retailers to foggy mountain vineyards. His use of language creates a visceral sense of place and engages the senses. The story balances a depth of information not possessed by the Rhône Rangers themselves, with an approachability that does not preclude the book from wider consumption, fulfilling his self-prescribed duty to “bring people closer to these experiences” (p. xiii).

It is pleasing that the author does not fall for any unrepresentative romantic description of the Rhône. Having cycled Lyon-Camargues, we find his description of a working river used for industrial transport to be accurate and rightfully dismis- sive of the idea that it is idyllic. This description applies specifically to the northern part of the Rhône valley and the prestigious appellations of Cotes Rôtie and Condrieu. However, a lack of maps of California or the Rhône makes it difficult for readers who are not familiar with both regions. While we are familiar with the Rhône valley, we find that California’s geography is not as easily deciphered without visual aid. This book would have been enhanced by the inclusion of tables summarizing changes in such topics as area under vine or volume of produc- tion, placing elements of the rather fragmented story in context.

The book engages well with modern scientific approaches, including DNA tracking of varietals. Previously, these enigmatic varietals have largely been lost to anonymity in field blends or misidentified in the vineyard. Chapter 2 is particularly dense with information, but most gets lost quickly. A table summarizing the different characteristics of each variety, plus how and where it is used in wine production, would assist the reader as he or she progresses to later chapters.

Given the relative freedom of US winemakers to experiment, some may have the perception that winemaking has stood relatively still in the Rhône during this period, but it has not, and a small summary to this effect would have been beneficial. The same could be said for the production of Rhône varieties in other prominent parts of the world. Development of the AVA system in the United States happened during the timeline of this book but is not spoken of, yet it could point to more European influence on the administration of wine production. Material is sufficient to yield a separate (and possibly dull) book on its own, but some links are needed. Perhaps this information could be presented in a condensed and separate appendix.

Because of the Rangers’ geographical isolation and the uniqueness of their dreams, the importance of bringing them together in such places as Chez Panisse and at such events as Hospices du Rhône is justifiably emphasized. The book mirrors the Rhône Rangers’ organization in making people who do not embrace the public eye in a conventional way thoroughly likable and sharing their very human enthusiasm for replicating at home the vinous French idyll they have fallen for. Most Rhône varietals have a US history that predates that of the Rangers, but this group’s efforts brought the allure of these wines to the mass market in the 1990s. In the process, they showed US consumers that red wine does not have to offer a chocolate and vanilla experience –a world of savory, gamey, meaty, and spicy flavors is available. The boom of interest in new varieties and flavors saw them conquer the wine world and beyond; in 1992, asteroid #4934 was named “Rhôneranger” in honor of the subversive Randall Grahm of Bonny Doon Winery (p. 116). This boom was not to last, and the author describes current winemaking and -selling challenges in later chapters. The mavericks are underdogs who valiantly have made their way in the shadow of Napa Cabernet and growing corporatization, yet the book does not pay much attention to the Rhône underdogs of today. In his latest article for Wine & Spirits Magazine,2 Comiskey looks at Vermentino, Grenache Blanc, and Picpoul. This examination would have brought the narrative full circle, especially given the current demand for light, dry white wines. It may have also provided a sunnier element to the conclusion of the book, which does not enthuse the reader about thoughts of following in the Rangers’ footsteps. While writing these few lines we could not resist pouring ourselves a native Rhône and a Californian with similar blend. Our humble international tasting panel (with no French or American member) came up with some tasting notes that seem to fit the stereotypes. The Lirac (2014 Vignoble Abeille; Chateau Mont-Redon in Chateauneuf-du-Pape, 14.5% ABV) keeps its balance and offers a sincere mixture of red fruits without being too bombastic. The Cotes du Crow’s 2014 Morgan (Monterey, Morgan Winery Salinas, 14.2% ABV) delivers a more vanilla/chocolate experience. Although it is a fine product, its initial splashes of cherries and oak are unable to hide a certain platitude. Does this ridiculously small sample confirm the clichés regarding American/French palates? More tastings are needed, surely. Plenty of material for sequels exists, so this Canadian/Australian pair look forward to another quaffable and entertaining read from the author.

It is a journey through five-and-a-half decades recorded contemporaneously, one can fancy, by your favorite old English uncle by marriage, during which the world of fine wine expanded from a handful of European countries to the entire globe. With wit, wisdom, and warmth, Johnson chronicles these changes in an annotated collection of his columns, excerpts from books, and even something found in his desk drawer, written between 1960 and 2016. Refreshingly, his approach to wine is at variance with what he claims is his nation’s forte: “Britain is right in front … in critical author- ity” (p. 162). He eschews, however, the label of critic: “Critics are obliged to be objec- tive in their assessments. … Which is why ‘critic’ is a term I have never accepted. ‘Commentator,’ certainly” (p. 189).

Our commentator began writing about wine in December 1960 for Vogue. The section on the 1960s opens with his first column, “Old Money” (p. 12), which wrestles with the issue of what to drink with turkey. “Unless you have a strong preference for white wines with all food – and there is no earthly reason why you shouldn’t – you will probably find that red is more suited to the rich meat” (p. 12). Wine economists should enjoy the prices for the venerable burgundies and clarets listed at the end of the piece. In “The Case for White” (p. 274), first published in Decanter 54 years later, Johnson elaborates on his unusual de facto bias hinted at in his first article: “This is a curious household. We open more bottles of white wine than red. … [P]erhaps most of all we … drink more white because we eat quantities of fish and seafood … , the whole healthy and so-called Mediterranean diet” (p. 274).

During his early years, he wrote columns for various periodicals, including the Sunday Times under aliases Giles and John Congreve to avoid the wrath of his employer, Condé Nast, which did not want its employees contributing to any publi- cations they did not own. The introduction of his first book, Wine, published in 1966, is included in this section (pp. 20–21), the first of many “tastings” of his longer works and of his prefaces to those of others that appear throughout the book.

The introduction to Johnson’s The World Atlas of Wine begins the section on the 1970s. Unwaveringly true to his Albion origins, his annotation justifies the premature inclusion of England and Wales: “In 1971 this was pretty optimistic; I was being patriotic, I suppose” (p. 31). In 1973, the Sunday Times Wine Club was formed, and Johnson became what is turning out to be President for Life. This and all sub- sequent sections contain many selections from its newsletter, Wine Times. Another milestone during this decade was the publication of the first Pocket Wine Book in 1977. The foreword (or Agenda, as he started labeling it in 2002) to this and several subsequent versions, including the 40th anniversary 2017 edition, appear in the appropriate decade’s section. Each gives a glimpse at the proliferation of regions producing noteworthy wines.

In the section devoted to the 1980s, Johnson is already proclaiming “the Golden Age of one of life’s great pleasures. … There never was a time when more good wine, and more different kinds of wine, were being made” (p. 54). And while he admires the progress being made in the New World, he remains unequivocally British in his preferences.

“Vintage Port” (pp. 71–72), first published in Wine Times in 1985, is four para- graphs that pay homage to the isles’ quintessential postprandial moistener with Britishisms, humor, guilty iconoclasm, and concision – the distilled essence of Johnson’s style. The section ends with an eye to the next decade, “Into the Nineties: A Spot of Prophesy” (pp. 94–99). It is a gutsy piece that forecasts with parlous specificity: “Pinot Noir will become the flagship wine of Oregon in the north- west” (p. 98). So far so good. “But it is in the state of Washington that it will blossom” (p. 98). Whoops. How does Johnson think he did overall? He awards himself a somewhat generous score of 8 out of 10.

n the section on the 1990s, Johnson takes on Robert Parker in a review of his The Wine Buyer’s Guide (pp. 112–113). Here is one of the barbs: “Its [sic] funny, isn’t it, that the man who invented the world’s fastest wine-measuring system is so insensitive to overwriting” (p. 112). He continues his attack in “And the Score Is …” (pp. 129– 130): “(In Parker’s scale … , 0 = 50 and vice versa. Jonathan Swift would have based a whole fantasy kingdom on it.)” (p. 129). He offers instead the Johnson System “that reflects with inescapable honesty the enjoyment (or lack of it) that each wine offered at the time it was tasted or drunk” (p. 130). It rates the wine by how much one is willing to consume, ranging from one sniff to the whole vineyard. He exhorts us to “[l]ove them for themselves; don’t give them marks out of a hundred” (p. 170).

When he was 84, 62 years Johnson’s senior, André Simon became his patron and mentor. His life is sketched in “By Request” (pp. 140–143), which first appeared in Wine & Food in 1998: “When he chose, described and explained wine it was the same: directness, no more than was necessary” (p. 142). Johnson learned well and even went beyond. The elegance of his writing is not sacrificed to an economy of expression.

The 2000s is the longest section, made so by numerous articles from Wine Times, Decanter, The World of Fine Wines, and Agendas from most of the decade’s editions of Johnson’s Pocket Wine Book. About one-fifth comprises a sampling of Johnson’s memoirs, Wine: A Life Uncorked, which appeared in 2005 (pp. 186–206). The topics are contemporary and nostalgic. Australia’s output is admired, while old Bordeaux and Burgundies are venerated. Although a lover of claret, Johnson is realistic about the dramatic increase in the prices of classified growths, especially since the beginning of this century, which has left them unaffordable by all but the wealthiest. “[D]oes my Château Batailley or Cantemerle (₤240 a case each) … taste any less deliciously satisfying because there are sleeker models with more horsepower on the road” (p. 246), he asks.

The 2010s section begins with a plea to reconsider Riesling and ends with the Agenda from the 2017 edition of the Pocket Wine Book. Best to stop here lest I further deny the reader the pleasure of discovery. Because the Table of Contents only lists the major sections, the reader must rely on the three-column, five-page index to navigate the book. Unfortunately, not each entry captures all appearances. For example, the entry for Oregon only lists page 98, omitting pages 16, 138, and 266.

Throughout this charming compilation, Johnson’s palate exhibits characteristic British “tasteoir”: “If there’s a more conservative wine-drinker than I am, I’d like to taste from his decanter” (p. 232), he admits. He loves Champagne, his favorite, but also port, claret, and sherry. His go-to white is Chablis. But he also sings the praises of Napa Valley Cabernet and bottlings from Australia and New Zealand. Reversing a comment he made about traveling to the latter (p. 227), reading this compendium is like going all around the Old World and eventually finding yourself in the New.

Johnson’s selection of subjects reflects quaintness dappled with the realization that the world has moved beyond just port and claret. Even the contemporary binding to which a burgundy (or is it claret?) ribbon bookmark is attached manifests an earlier sensibility. So do the pencil drawings by the late Paul Hogarth that grace the begin- ning and end of every section. Each is an understated yet complete thought, like the text it adorns.

Johnson reminds us that in his country, “[m]ore wine books and better magazines are published here than are in all the rest of the world” (p. 162). On Wine is a deli- cious way to sample the works of this commentator, one of the most prolific and archetypical contributors to that impressive output. It is also compelling evidence that on matters vinous, we should drink broadish but read British.