People assume terroir is a fancy word we use to justify the price. So let me give you a small lesson, using the hill I run on most mornings.
If you stand at our village and look up, you see one slope. It looks like one vineyard. It is actually three Grand Crus on one hill, barely 800 meters from end to end.
At one end sits Pittermännchen. Grey, weathered slate. The kind of soil you find on the Mosel. It gives a wine that is straight, mineral, almost severe. It rewards patience more than anything else.
In the middle, Goldloch. Gravel, closer to what you would find in the Rheingau. Here the Riesling turns generous. Yellow fruit, a touch exotic, rounder in the glass.
And then Burgberg, sitting in a kind of amphitheatre that traps the warmth. The only parcel where we have quartz. Quartz makes a wine smoky, spicy, wild. So wild that we leave the grapes hanging a little longer, just to calm it down.
Same grape, Riesling. Same hands. Same morning sun. The soil does the rest.
That is terroir. Not a marketing word. A geological accident we spend the whole year trying not to ruin.
Caroline reads each parcel like a separate language. I just try to keep up.
This is so cool!