I’m just going to put this out there, but if the grape xarel·lo were grown not in Spain, but let’s say, in the northwest Atlantic coast of France, or in Austria’s Wachau, it would occupy a place front and center in the international pantheon of the grapes that truly matter (a pantheon that I do not abide by, but for some, it is their religion). You cannot find Xarel·lo in these places but only in Penedès, a Spanish autonomous region with its own identity and Catalan language. You cannot easily unravel the fate of xarel·lo from the fate of Catalan identity, repressed and deprecated during the rule of Franco, who during his regime forbade the pedagogical use of Catalan, just as he did the teaching of Basque. During the Franco era, the state promoted only grapes and wines that were easily fungible, and so tempranillo and Rioja flourished, while varieties such as xarel·lo floundered, or found their identities effaced in blends with other grapes. With the end of the Franco regime, Spanish winegrowers were once again able to market their regional varieties, but the Pheonix-like revival takes time, and it feels like only now, 50 years after his death, that xarel·lo is getting its due.
But what can you say about the identity of xarel·lo? Quite a lot, it turns out. I love the grape for the taut minerality it can exhibit, making wines seemingly more about texture than any easily identified fruit flavor. It can make wines that are equally at home with, let’s say, a fish taco, or sushi, or just as a spirit-reviving aperitif on an unseasonably warm winter day. We’re tasting xarel·lo tonight in various forms, as well as some fellow travelers frequently blended with it. |