April in Texas

Our Texas Hill Country wine tour plan had been to follow Route 290 from Fredericksburg to Austin. I had downloaded maps and winery guides, it's best to travel prepared for what you're looking for. Louie and I were heading into Fredericksburg about noon on another hot Texas day. I'd changed clothes in the car hoping to catch Louie's attention, and maybe I did. I put on a short blue skirt, white high sandals, and a white blouse combination with a long strapped white purse. Myself, it was about as good as I could look.

"This is strange," I said, as I was leafing through my Texas winery information. "Fredericksburg has its own AVA, but their AVA does not appear to have any vineyards. Maybe I'm not making sense out of this guide...there is only one winery listed for Fredericksburg, and they buy their grapes. How can Fredericksburg be an American Viticultural Area if there are no vineyards in the specific AVA?"

That sounded good. Louie always respected intelligent women.

"Don't try to figure the government out."

"Why not. Doesn't AVA mean something?"

"First off," Louie responded, "those 'viticultural area' designations are permits granted by Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. They don't guarantee anything, such as specific geographic boundaries, grape quality, yields, anything. It's not like France or Italy, it doesn't mean a controlled appellation. BATF is the bottom of the totem pole in Federal Law Enforcement. It's not that much of a surprise that no one checked the application to see if there were actual vineyards in Fredericksburg. You're correct, though, 'viticulture', to the rest of the world, does mean the growing and cultivation of wine grapes."

"So the Fredericksburg viticultural area is the inside of one winery building?"

"It could be."

"Then it's bull shit."

"Sheryl, you know better. Didn't you try to join the CIA? To obtain an AVA, in 1988, was as simple as complete the form and attach the fee."

Louie drove on and I remembered my days at the CIA training facility in Virginia. It was basically a 'try out' camp, and I didn't make the cut. Had I, how different my life would have been.

"I admit that I washed out of the CIA," I said, "and the bastards never gave me a reason. But anyway, calling Fredericksburg a separate AVA is a hollow boast, nothing more than a marketing ploy."

"We shall see. Maybe they're required to buy their grapes from the Texas Hill Country AVA, the two overlap, but the buyer will never know. There is a Federal requirement that, when using the AVA distinction on wines, eighty five percent of the grapes must be from the named AVA. There's a little more flexibility for single varietals, like a Chardonnay, it's seventy five percent. But to avoid the rules, most American wineries don't put 'AVA' on their labels. My other thought is that there may be home winemakers, maybe some small backyard vineyards within the AVA. It is confusing."

"Do you want to visit this 'no vineyard' winery?" I asked.

"Sure. It's close by, and so long as it's not one of those kit wine places like they have in Canada."

Next thing we were there, on Main Street, in Fredericksburg, at the Fredericksburg Winery. As advertised, this winery does not have any vineyards, and buys its grapes from a variety of sources. It was a fancy place, trimmed with dark wood wine bins that lined the walls, and the dark wood contrasted with the bright Texas sun outside. Louie studied the different wines on display while I thumbed through the winery's literature.

In many ways buying grapes is not a bad idea, if you live in an area where vinifera grapes are not grown. Louie and I had brought grapes into Ohio from California, some friends do it every year. Buying grapes eliminates the risk factors of farming. It's a bigger mistake, we've learned, to buy juice that has already been pressed, you don't know what you're getting. I had the impression that this winery was buying mostly Texas grapes, but, from their materials, I wasn't so sure. We certainly didn't go to Texas wine country to drink wine made from imported grapes.

As we browsed around the winery, the confusion continued. "I'm disappointed with this," Louie whispered to me, trying to keep his tone down. "These wines, these labels, with all this Texas historical pomp splattered everywhere, it doesn't give me or any other wine buyer a clue about the wine."

"It's a nice place, Louie, taste some wine and relax."

"These wines have names that someone made up, and labels that depict events. In my opinion, the label should first identify the wine inside the bottle, give its year and its place of production. Here, I need to work my way past the label to discover what the wine is. This place may make enough money to stay open, but because of these labels, its wines will never make it on the international market."

"Hold on," I said. "They have some Chardonnay, their wines are not all red, white or pink. Don't be too quick to judge. The wines may be good."

"They specialize in sweet grandma wines," Louie said, "maybe because the grapes are so much cheaper, and maybe because that's

what these folks drink. Myself, I'm not interested in their now fashionable attempts at jumping on the fine wine bandwagon, especially with a winery that buys grapes."

"Louie," I said, "maybe they don't care. These are sweet wines, designed for people who don't drink wine on an everyday basis. They're not trying to make a Latour or an Yquem."

The more I spoke the more frustrated Louie became.

"I don't know what they're trying to do," he said, "other than mask an inferior product. They shouldn't be allowed to call their fortified wine 'Port'. Some of these wines don't even say Texas on the label. Hell, this wine could be from Chile, and this other one with Hamburg on it, the juice may be purchased from Germany."

"Loosen up Louie. It's the same as music. Not everyone has the same taste. So far, the Texans I've seen seem to prefer beer and whiskey over fine wine."

"You're right again," he said, "though that means that they are not trying to make wine for my taste. I'm not interested. Let's find another winery to visit."

"Fine by me. I don't want to stand here and argue with you."

On that note, we left. Nearby on Main Street, there was a wine shop and supply store. In many ways it resembled a family hardware that, by chance, carried wine and supplies. In the back of the shop, the owner claimed to have a bottle of wine from every state in the United States, even Alaska. Louie didn't believe him, but he didn't argue the point. There are four U.S. states that have no commercial wineries. Then the owner showed this collection to us. So much for the Fredericksburg AVA. From their cooler, I bought a single bottle of Llano Chardonnay, mainly because it was chilled and that I'd heard of it. In a few minutes Fredericksburg was fading in the rear view mirror of the Mercury as Louie pointed the car onto Route 290 toward Austin.

After making sure we could not be seen, I discreetly opened the Llano Chardonnay and poured ourselves two glasses. America's different from state to state. In some states, namely Tennessee, not only can you drink in the car, there are bars that have drive through windows. In other states, an open alcoholic beverage can lead to a citation. So we were always careful, always assuming that there was some new prohibitionist regulation in effect. I had the maps out and I was trying to chart our next destination, and we were each relaxing.

"There's a Bell Mountain Estates winery about twenty miles north," I said. "Back and forth, that would be a forty mile deviation. The description reads that they actually grow fifty some acres of vines, and that all their wines are estate grown and bottled. Want to go there?"

"What type of grapes do they grow?"

"It's renowned for Cab Sav and Pinot Noir, or so it's claimed. And it was the first Texas AVA. What do you want to do?"

"This is the main wine route, let's stay on it for a while," Louie said. "We'll find other wineries. Anything close by?"

"Yes, Becker Vineyards."

"The same as the wine we had at the San Antonio restaurant?"

"I believe so."

"Great, start reading me the directions."

"It's only ten miles east of Fredericksburg on 290. When we come to an intersection with Jenschke Lane, turn right, follow it, and it's a few more miles to Becker."

Ten miles was only a few sips away. Louie turned right onto Jenschke, and after a mile he stopped the car. The road was deserted. We pulled off a bit and had another glass of Chardonnay. I wondered why he stopped – he was being quiet – and I wondered if the 'wine tour' portion of our trip would be a bust. It had been so far. He – we - needed to find our sense of direction before this phase became a failure.

After a while he spoke. "Sheryl, you look really pretty today, the best you've looked in a while. The sun has put some color in your cheeks. And some tan on your legs. I'm sorry, but...I haven't made love to you in days, I mean, I thought you were on the rag. Let's hope that you don't waste that outfit on some Texas beer bellies." That said, Louie embraced me and kissed me on my neck. We hugged, no sex, just hugging and holding for I don't know how long, finishing up the Llano in the Mercury under the shade of a Texas oak tree.

We found Becker Vineyards, but it was more difficult than the simple directions in the guide. Before we found it, we actually saw vineyards, the first real vineyards we'd seen in Texas. Their 'Texas Hill Country' AVA is the largest AVA in America. In that huge area though, there are only around eight hundred acres of vines. By comparison, there are single California vineyards as large as four thousand acres. The vineyards in that part of Texas were few and rather scattered.

As we approached, we saw that Becker Vineyards was a very attractive place, a vineyard winery estate in every sense of the word. There were manicured vineyards and horses in the distance. The phrase 'old money' came to mind. I thought the main building, with its stone front, was patterned after French styling, although the literature said German. The arched doorway on the 'Lavender Haus' duplicated doors of the restored French stone barn of Bridget and Bernard Blanc where I stayed, with Louie, outside Cluny, France. Inside Becker's main winery building, the decorating, with an oversized long wooden bar, and the accenting, was tastefully complete. This was farm country, and flower country too. In addition to the vines, this wine estate was cultivating fields of flowers, including acres of lavender immediately behind the winery building. Obviously someone appreciated southern France. What clearly showed was a tremendous investment, both in dollars and in effort, an investment in building a small, but state of the art, complete wine facility.

After the initial introductions, we settled into the air conditioned tasting room. A friendly woman behind the bar set out glasses, and she poured wine for us. At that time we were the only guests there. "One of our specialties is Viognier," she said. "We think we're the only U.S. winery outside of California making it. We also are expanding our Rhone varietals, trying to get away from duplicating the Cabernet / Chardonnay same old standards.

"What are we tasting first?" I asked.

"Three whites. A Fume Blanc, followed by our basic Chardonnay, and then the Viognier. The perfume of the Viognier suggests that it be the last of these three."

"So your Fume is Savignon aged in oak?" I asked.

"That's correct."

At last, someone speaking our language. And, although the pours were small, each of the wines was sound and true to its French varietal.

"Next I'll pour our red ladder, first our Provencal Dry Rose, then a Merlot, and we'll finish with our Cabernet – Syrah blend."

Louie was studying a brochure that listed the grape varieties grown there. Listed, among others, were Mourvedre, Syrah, Viognier, and Grenache.

"You're growing all the Rhone wines," Louie said, "is this winery in Rhone Rangers?"

"No," she said, "what's Rhone Rangers?"

"It's an organization of mostly California wineries that have the same direction, making Rhone style wines, that you do here. We're 'sidekick' members. It's fun, there's a newsletter, you get a tee shirt, and it's only five dollars to join as a sidekick. You can probably find it on the net."

"I'll check it out," she said.

"East of the Mississippi," Louie rambled on, "there are a few member wineries, but most are in California. We visited Hortons, in Virginia, last year. He makes a Viognier, and he has an excellent Marsanne too. If you're ever in Virginia, it's worth the visit."

On display, in addition to the wines, were elaborate craft products. I also took a glance at their lunch and dinner menus, which appeared to be 'by reservation only'. Louie went back to the car to get his throw away camera. He always does throw aways after I lost a digital card that had half a trip to Europe on it. Becker's meals featured elaborate, multi course, expensive French cuisine. I wondered how much of the food was locally produced, and I hoped that it was. Sadly, no food events were scheduled for that day.

A small group of people came into the winery, they were led by a handsome bearded man who was giving them a tour of the facility. I guessed he was the owner, the winemaker, or both. We listened as he spoke, and heard his experiences of making Rhone style wines there in Texas. Unfortunately, it appeared that his knowledge of the Rhone was going right over the heads of his guests. I had to speak up.

"We've driven the Rhone a few times," I said, "although my husband usually does the driving. I'm the navigator."

"Really..." he said. "Have you been through the Hermitage area?"

"Hmmm... three or four times. We've stayed in Valence, where we once bartered for a room in an old hotel. It was before the Euro. I didn't know the French word for fifty, and we got a lower price. If you have the time to find them, there are still some nice old hotels, but these days we often end up in an E-Tap. They're clean and cheap and there's no hassle."

"Visit any wineries?"

"Not formally, not in Hermitage. If stop the car and walk around the vineyards means visit, then sure, but most of the wineries require an advance appointment for a tour. Wine is sold at wine shops through local merchants, and the wineries are typically not open to tourists."

Our host then turned to the rest of the group and invited them into the basement wine cellar. We tagged along. In the cellar was an impressive expanse of oak barrels, some French, some American. Use of the basement for barrel storage hinted that Becker was utilizing gravity feed for his wines – no pumps. I was surprised. For a small winery it looked as if everything was going into oak barrels, and that's expensive. I continued chatting with the owner while Louie took a few pictures of me in the cellar.

"The worst things about the Rhone," I said, "are the nuclear power plants that are on its banks."

"The nuclear plants?"

"Yeah... I jog, and when I jog, I wear a heart monitor. Last fall, Louie took me to France and Italy for a romantic getaway. He rented a new Renault diesel for us at the Charles De Gaul airport, and we drove to Chablis where we spent the night at a Chateau. Then we drove through the rest of Burgundy, through eastern France, and took the Mont Blanc tunnel to the Alba truffle fest.

"Sounds like a nice trip," he said.

"It was very scenic. Fine wine, fine cuisine. Crossing the Alps is always an experience. And spending time together, as we traveled, brought us close. Next, we drove across northern Italy past Venice to Friuli. Well, as I said, he drives, I navigate."

"An adventure on the wine route," he said, "Kermit Lynch would be proud of you two."

"On the return flip back to Paris, we drove up the Rhone after a few days on the Italian and French Rivieras. We were staying in France at an E-Tap south of Valence, thirty Euros a night. In the morning, I was out jogging near one of those nuclear plants. I ran for a while and then I felt faint. Close to the power plant, my heart monitor went totally erratic, up and down, just crazy. And whether it's a known fact, I believe that nuclear radiation must have some effect on the grapes while they grow."

"That's one complaint about France I've never heard," he responded. "And I thought I'd heard them all."

Everyone climbed the steps up from the cellar. Most of the tour group left, including the winemaker. Louie purchased a few chilled bottles of wine - the Fume, a Chardonnay, the Provencal Rose - and some souvenir wine glasses. There were picnic tables outside, and the gal behind the bar told us that it would be fine if we wanted to drink their wine outside, and that we could wander around if we wanted to.

So we stayed. I had some brie cheese in the car and some French bread, and we had a little picnic under the awning, sitting in the shade at the table at Becker Vineyards. Louie opened the Rose first, he was most impressed by it.

"American Rose," he said, "no matter where it's from, isn't usually this dry. White Zinfandel ruined Rose in America. But this wine has the perfect level of dryness."

His praise of the wines, and of Becker, went on for the whole time that we ate. Myself, I was more impressed by the way he was treating me. He took photos of me, photos of me next to the Lavender fields, me near the old log cabin, me on a bench toasting the wine and smiling. For the first time in a long time, I felt beautiful. Holding the cheap camera out, he took photos of us together. Before we realized it, we had drunk two full bottles. Coupled with the wine inside the tasting room, and the bottle of Llano we had on the way over, we were over our limits. We each needed a nap. So we lazily laid around in the shade, just the two of us, drinking bottled water to dilute the alcohol, until we were ready to move again. It was a beautiful afternoon in Texas.