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From Randall:
“Dear Fellow Admirer of the Underdog/Grossly Misunderstood Cépages of the World,
Maybe I'm projecting here just a little bit? While I would like to believe that every grape variety has a unique telic rationale, there are a few that we could well dispense with and be none the poorer for it.[1] But not Cinsault.[2] While the variety has essentially zero name recognition in our part of the world, it is a very important grape in the southern Rhône, Provence,[3] and North Africa, where it is principally used for rosé as well as a table grape.[4]
Why the perhaps slightly cutesy name, Cuvée Sinso? Truthfully, I imagined I was more or less doon, sorry, done with cutesy labels. The fact is Sinso is an alternate spelling for Cinsault in the Provençal language that I hope re-enforces (if only subliminally) the central proposition of The Language of Yes: To sincerely (or Cinsautly) explore and seek to amplify the overlap of sensibility found in California's Central Coast and that of Southern France. What about these places compels us to continually wish to say, "Yes?"
In the process of making rosé, a portion of the grapes is often retained for red wine production, as we have done here. "Why the heck would you want to do that?" you might ask. Let's not beat around the bush. Cinsault typically produces a very substantial cluster, zaftig, you might say, in the idiom, sometimes even as large as a pound or more. And not particularly well endowed with either tannins nor anthocyanins, i.e. not much color potential or structure.[5] But if you crush the grapes and then bleed off a portion of the juice before fermentation, as we do to make the pink, you are concentrating the skin-to-juice ratio and creating the potential for greater structure and slightly deeper color. But that's only part of the recipe. The master-stroke is when you are able to co-ferment your previously bled Cinsault must with Syrah, one of the most felicitous combinations of the great Old World winemaking traditions.
We’ve figured out more or less which Cinsault and Syrah vineyards in the Central Coast of California, viz. Baja Monterey County, ripen at approximately the same time. We'll harvest the Cinsault grapes first, then bleed off approximately ⅓ of the juice for pink and then crush the Syrah grapes on top, and then, only then, initiate the fermentation. What happens chemically is quite interesting (if you're interested in this sort of thing): Normally, the anthocyanins (or pigmented material) in the grape, which are also in part responsible for what we call the "fruit" character in the wine, will begin to oxidize before the fermentation begins - this is not a great and welcome thing - but if one augments the Cinsault must with Grenache, the anthocyanins present in the Syrah act as a sort of protective shield of the somewhat delicate Cinsault fruit. They also act to stabilize the color of the more fragile Cinsault.
Here are what I think are the important takeaways for this wine. Cinsault, especially grown in relatively cooler sites, is capable of great aromatic complexity and intensity. Specifically, it yields a very intense and refined fragrance of cherry. The somewhat discreet presence of Syrah (generally less than 25% of the blend) adds a wonderful complementary fragrance of licorice/anise, black olive, and white pepper, as well as helps to fill out the palate with a bit more depth and structure. Nevertheless, our Cuvée Sinso weighs in at a rather discreet alcoholic degree - typically 12%, relatively modest in tannin, i.e., astringency, and is an absolutely classic vin de soif, that is to say, a wine that can be glugged, especially when lightly chilled. It is the perfect red wine for summer (or winter).
The enjoyment of a bottle of wine need not/should not be a test of one's manliness or ability to tolerate heroic levels of astringency (or ethanol). The whole point of wine is to give its consumers pleasure and the opportunity to share a moment of relaxation and conviviality with friends and family. That is precisely what I am intending this wine to do.
[1] I’m looking at you, Burger. (once planted fairly widely in California's Central Valley, Burger is essentially nothing more than a water balloon of a grape.)
[2] Cinsault may well be the Rodney Dangerfield of grapes. Even the TTB shows it no respect and insists, incorrectly, that it be spelled Cinsaut (which is not, in fact, its proper name.)
[3] This is probably too important to mention in a footnote, but what is particularly significant about Cinsault is that it is a very important variety for the future in light of global climate change. The variety is particularly heat and drought tolerant, as well as being a reliably thrifty yielder. Upright in its growth habit, it can be cultivated as a head-trained vine with a minimum of expensive hardware, to wit, trellising, wire, etc.
[4] A grower in Châteauneuf-du-Pape once told me that Cinsault, a typical component of the CdP blend, was never planted in rows too proximal to the highway, as passersby would stop and pick the grapes for their eating enjoyment. (Most wine grapes are too acidic and often too small in size to offer much pleasure in their fresh consumption.)
[5] Again, the Rodney Dangerfield of grapes.“
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