Wine Chronicles: A Question of Terroir
By Dan Berger
Summary: For decades, Napa Valley insiders debated whether a distinct “Rutherford Bench” terroir produced cabernet sauvignons of unique character. That argument faded as winemaking styles shifted toward power, alcohol and uniformity, muting regional differences. Drawing on historical examples and a blind tasting of sub-appellations, this essay asks what Napa may have lost by sidelining terroir in favor of brand. The question remains whether regional character still exists beneath modern winemaking choices.
NAPA VALLEY, Calif. — Decades ago, dedicated wine-lovers followed a spirited debate among many of the world’s wine experts about the real meaning and theoretical boundaries of the “Rutherford Bench.”
The term referred to a real but ill-defined area of the Napa Valley that was said to deliver cabernet sauvignons of such distinctive character that the name itself became a valuable commodity on a wine label. “The Bench,” as some called it, was thought to produce even more distinctive — and better — cabernets than Rutherford more broadly.
The Problem With Maps
The Bench was roughly described as an area north of Oakville, excluding Robert Mondavi Winery’s famed Oakville vineyards, situated on the western foothills of the Mayacamas Mountains and facing east. It was believed to share soils and exposures with neighboring vineyards but to be faintly cooler, on average, than valley-floor sites just east of Highway 29, which receive slightly more daily sunlight.
It was widely accepted that the Rutherford Bench was “a thing.” It appeared in wine books and became the stuff of legend, even as few people could agree on which lands were inside the Bench and which were not.
As expected, many vineyard owners wanted to be included. The association lent cabernet a certain cachet — an ineffable quality that could translate into higher prices, especially if the name could be placed legally on a front label. Debates followed. What made the Bench special? Did other regions have similar parallels? And where, exactly, were the boundaries? (I have my own personally researched theory.)
There was little question that the old Inglenook property, then and now owned by Francis Ford Coppola (called Rubicon during one period), sat within the Bench, likely at its heart. One of the first properties on the southern boundary was Staglin Family Vineyard, formerly owned by Walter and Dagmar de Pins Sullivan — she the granddaughter of Beaulieu founder Georges de Latour, the man who hired André Tchelistcheff.
It likely also included a plot once owned by Hollywood executive J.J. Cohn, whose cabernet grapes went to Inglenook decades ago. That land was later acquired by Coppola. Much of that fruit was believed to have gone into Inglenook’s “Cask Reserve” cabernets. One winemaker in the 1980s told me he thought it might have been the best cabernet in Napa Valley.
Today’s word puzzle:
Challenge your vocabulary with this week’s mystery word. Submit your answer in the poll and check the bottom of the page for the correct answer.
Rutherford Dust
The wrangling over boundaries produced more noise than clarity. Much of it stemmed from Tchelistcheff — California’s most influential early winemaker and mentor to a generation — who proclaimed that cabernets from this region possessed a remarkable quality. He called it “Rutherford Dust.”
It was unique and coveted. Oakville wines, just to the south, did not possess it, he said. Rutherford wines differed. The character was so definable to Tchelistcheff that he suggested a separate appellation for the Bench.
Eventually it became clear that no rigid map would satisfy everyone. To end the controversy, the effort to define the region was abandoned. Regional character was also losing importance. Wine styles were changing, becoming bigger and bolder.
Just before the arguments subsided, Agustin Huneeus, then president of Franciscan Vineyards, offered a wry comment on the debate: He placed a large bench in front of his winery and declared it the real Rutherford Bench.
In the years since, the topic has nearly vanished. That has less to do with geology than with style. Many winemakers today favor weight, power and concentration over the subtle nuances that once marked Napa Valley’s greatest cabernets. Terroir now often plays second fiddle to brawn. The piccolo has been defeated by the tympani.
Style Over Site
By playing this power game — not only with cabernet but with most red wines — California winemakers have overridden nature’s inclination to impart terroir-driven charm. Distinctiveness benefits consumers; sameness does not.
Decades after the Rutherford Bench debate ended, Tchelistcheff’s words still resonate. They apply not only to Rutherford but to all of Napa Valley’s sub-appellations and to wine regions worldwide.
Is there still a Rutherford Dust character beneath today’s alcohol levels and roasted oak? If so, is it worth capturing more deliberately? And more broadly, did the 1973 Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars Cabernet Sauvignon prevail at the 1976 Paris tasting partly because it delivered a distinctive Stag’s Leap District character?
The early wines of Diamond Creek provide another example. The Volcanic Hill, Red Rock Terrace and Gravelly Meadow vineyards — and later Lake — had different soils and exposures, and their wines tasted different. If terroir meant anything, it was evident there. The combined acreage was barely 20 acres, allowing small volumes that could express site character.
Credit belongs to Al Brounstein for choosing to bottle three distinctive wines rather than one blended cabernet.
By the warm vintages of 1994 and 1997, winemakers learned that voluptuousness sold better than terroir. The industry moved steadily away from regional profiles toward homogeneity.
A Blind Test of Sub-Appellations
If this shift had never occurred, what might Napa’s sub-regions have become? Would they have asserted themselves in ways that justified their appellations as more than geographic names, perhaps akin to Bordeaux over centuries?
Around 1993, I began to sense a problem. Many wines were becoming too similar. That year I staged a blind sub-appellation tasting. All wines were 100% cabernet sauvignon from a single Napa Valley sub-appellation. Tasters included Tim Mondavi, Darrell Corti, Bob Thompson, John Thoreen and Barney Rhodes.
Using an identification system in which quality played no role, we found that only two sub-appellations showed definable character: Stag’s Leap District and Rutherford, the latter only marginally so.
It was not scientific, but it was revealing. Early in the tasting one evaluator noted a “mountain-grown” character that seemed to override soil distinctions, prompting us to adjust scoring.
The disturbing part came afterward. Wines that should have been classic regional examples showed little uniqueness. The 1990 Caymus Cabernet, from flat central Rutherford, was almost uniformly identified as mountain-grown. There was no hint of Rutherford Dust, which I believe referred to a delicate sage-like character, perhaps from earlier harvesting. By contrast, the 1990 BV Private Reserve Cabernet was closer to type.
Marketing vs. Terroir
I cared deeply about the results, as did Thompson and Mondavi. The broader industry seemed largely indifferent.
When I later mentioned the tasting to someone connected with the Napa Valley Vintners Association, the initial response was enthusiastic. The idea of defining sub-regional characteristics intrigued him. But nothing came of it. I never again heard a Napa winemaker publicly discuss regional character.
Years later a conversation with a Napa winemaker offered a possible explanation. When I raised the idea, he scoffed. “The Vintners will never do anything like that,” he said. “Why detract from the brand?”
“What brand?” I asked.
“Napa,” he said.
I cannot prove this, though I have heard it from others. If true, it suggests that image and marketing come first, wine second. It helps explain why regional characteristics have not been promoted since the Rutherford Bench debate faded.
Is terroir antithetical to the message that if it says Napa on the label it must be great? That consumers should not worry about Rutherford Dust, Stag’s Leap silkiness, St. Helena debonair or Mayacamas intensity and legendary longevity?
A champion of the Napa brand might reply, “Terroir? Uh, isn’t that a French term anyhow? This is Napa. What more do you need to know?”
Sadly, some in Napa seem content to let homogeneous, ultra-expensive wines define it, turning away from one of its most distinctive attributes: regional character.
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Dan Berger has been writing about wine since 1975.
Wine Discovery:
2023 HRW Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley ($30): Hendry in Napa Valley makes a wide array of excellent, reasonably priced wines, almost all of them technically and varietally sound. HRW is a second label, used occasionally for wines that are slightly less exceptional than the main bottlings.
The aroma has what I’d call a Cru Bourgeois Bordeaux earthiness, with solid cabernet notes in the background. At first the black cherry aroma is mingled with a rustic edge some people might find odd. I decanted it for a few hours, splashing it between two decanters, and that opened the wine beautifully. It was excellent with a hearty meat dish.
Bottle Barn in Santa Rosa had it for $21.99.
Today’s Polls:
This Week's Word Challenge Reveal:
The correct answer is D: “Sediment laid by flowing water.”
“Alluvium” is loose material such as sand, silt, clay and gravel that has been carried and deposited by rivers and streams over time. In Napa Valley, alluvial fans spread from the hillsides onto the valley floor, and the most famous example is associated with the Rutherford Bench. These well-draining deposits can influence vine vigor and root depth, which is why alluvium sits at the heart of terroir debates.
The term comes from medieval Latin “alluvium,” from Latin “alluere,” meaning to wash against, and it appears in English by the mid-1600s. It became standard in geology and soil science as researchers described landscapes shaped by running water, then migrated naturally into agricultural language, including viticulture, where soil formation helps explain why neighboring sites can taste different.
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An excellent and rather sad article. I personally witnessed, around 1990, new, and arguably better, crush equipment tended to remove individual character from the wine. Did that transition produce good wine? Yes. Did it produce distinct wine? No.
In the late 60s, I worked with Dr. Amerine in Davis. We had daily blind tastings right in his office, followed by discussion. And, yes, for him, it was always about the nose and the palate.