Jim Barry Assyrtiko
An assyrtiko vineyard on the Greek island of Santorini. Photo: Campbell Mattinson.
I walk into a bottle shop in Athens and say to its owner, I don’t know much about Greek wine. Tell me, please, what should I buy?
‘Where are you from?’ he replies.
‘Australia.’
‘Where?’
‘Melbourne.’
‘Jim Barry,’ he says.
This of course was not the answer I was expecting. But I know instantly what he’s referring to.
Fifteen or so years ago Jim Barry wines of the Clare Valley – or Peter Barry specifically – took cuttings of the Greek/Santorini grape variety assyrtiko, propagated them up, and since 2014 have made varietal assyrtiko. There isn’t a lot of assyrtiko grown outside of Greece, and so among those enthusiastic about Greek grape varieties, the Barry’s work has not gone unnoticed.
There are a lot of new (and not so new), hard-to-pronounce grape varieties in play in Australia now. Viticulturist Troy McInnes, for instance, has 26 different grape varieties to look after at the Chalmers Heathcote vineyard, including but not limited to falanghina, garganega, greco, malvasia istriana, nosiola, pavana, pecorino, refosco, ribolla gialla and schioppettino. Indeed the Riverland region, which has a long history of ‘different’ varieties, is in the process of being revolutionised as it slowly embraces this difference. It’s not alone; there are new or non-mainstream varieties being trialled or re-imagined in most Australian regions.
In general, as someone who drinks/tastes wine for a living, I’ve taken the release of wines from these ‘new’ varieties glass by glass. That is, I keep the tasting and assessment process simple. I look for the usual quality cues of line, length, power and perhaps presence, and then ask myself simple questions like: does the wine taste good, does it make me want another glass, and is there anything distinctive?
If I can respond positively to these questions, then I’m happy to award the wine a positive score. Reference points – as in, what the best example of each variety tastes like in its homeland – are important but less crucial to my assessment. I prize individuality over orthodoxy.
I’m aware though, as I taste the wares of these new or newly appreciated varieties, that some of them have gained this new interest thanks to climate change. As in, they are an attempt to outrun it. Assyrtiko is one of these varieties, in a way: its homeland of Santorini is a hot, dry, windy – and exquisitely beautiful – moonscape with extreme exposure to the elements; any variety that can thrive there is surely suited to a heating up of our climate.
The Barry’s work with assyrtiko has though an extra importance. As in, it’s a variety that is not just climate-change-ready. The way it combines texture, fruit intensity, minerality and herb notes in a context of mouth-watering acidity is unique-enough to make it noteworthy. It’s a fine wine, of its own design. Drinking it is a genuine marriage; not just one of convenience. In assyrtiko, genuine excellence can be found.
A couple of hours after the wine shop experience above, I plonked myself down at a nearby wine bar. I’m still in Athens. It was mid-afternoon. The streets were busy but my wife and I were the only ones in the bar for the entirety of our time there. The bartender put his cigarette down and asked me what I’d like to drink. ‘I want Greek white wine. Dry. I’m not fussed with the price, I just want it to be good,’ I said.
‘I will show you two wines. You choose,’ he said.
He then put two small glasses in front of me. The first was perfumed, floral, acidic but with a slip of fruit sweetness. It was good in an ok kind of way. The second was dry, dramatic, like tonic water flowing through sand and rocks. Volcanic sand and volcanic rocks. I put the second glass down and smiled, I thought, on the inside. The bartender exhaled cigarette smoke. ‘You made the right choice,’ he said. I hadn’t said anything. He then poured me a glass and left the bottle on the counter. It was assyrtiko, from Santorini.
We sat there then, without speaking. It was bright outside but dark inside the bar. I drank the glass and had another; so too did my wife. The way the bottle shop owner had responded when I said that I was Australian. The way he had instantly thought of Jim Barry. The way thisnbartender had known my choice without me having to say. I felt as though I’d stood for a moment at the well of both these gentlemen and peered into the very depths of them. I felt as though I’d glimpsed an immense, essential pride in them both; pride in their nation, pride in their grapes, and pride most of all in their culture.
I had cause and time to reflect. Perhaps I need to add another layer to my assessment of such varieties, I thought. Varieties are not just grapes, squeezed to make juice. They are culture. They run deep.
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A version of this article was first published in Halliday Wine Companion.
