I have a friend who brought shame on his family. Rupert Birch was educated at Westminster and the House. Descending from a long line of writers, artists and journalists, he was admirably qualified for a distinguished career of cultivated indigence. Instead, he became a banker.
But the fall of man can be followed by redemption. After making what anyone but a fellow banker would regard as a useful little fortune, Rupert did what many bankers talk about but few accomplish. At 40, he chucked his counting house for a sacramental vocation. He became a winemaker. He discovered 25 acres of vines near Aix-en-Provence. The previous owners had sold their grapes to the local coopératif. Rupert turned them into a vineyard, Domaine de la Brillane. Sounds romantic: it was damned hard work.
Like all wise men, Rupert drew on a heritage of prejudice. As the locals had been making wine for at least two millennia, it should be assumed that they had learned a few lessons along the way. It would be silly not to study the most up-to-date methods, but technique should be used to enhance terroir, not to supplant it.
He was not a slave to tradition. He believes that even if it is not strictly a local grape, Cabernet Sauvignon will often enhance Provençal blends. La Brillane used it in Flora, a Grenache/Cab Sauv blend which is the vineyard’s flagship. A few weeks ago, I wrote about Le Soula. Its earlier vintages had included Cab Sauv, until the owners abandoned it in pursuit of authenticity. At a tasting, I was almost alone in arguing that the earlier bottles were as good as their successors. Rupert Birch agrees with me.
Rupert is a restless fellow. Firmly established in the nouvelle vague of Provençal wines, La Brillane was winning golden opinions and gold medals. So a new challenge was called for and he became a wine merchant. ‘Nothing But The Grape’ (there is a website) is still small. But it is a thoughtful house. Rupert loves driving through the back roads of France and Spain in search of winemakers who share his joy in the craft. His own hands-dirty experience helps. He says he can tell how good the wine will be by looking at the vines.
He specialises in small producers. As none are famous yet — though some will be — the wines are good value, which does not necessarily mean that they are cheap. Guillemot Michel, a new name to me, produce a superb Mâcon Clessé, which could be mistaken for a lower-range Meursault. Its 2008 tastes of May; the 2009, a more opulent vintage and not yet ready, of late June. Both are part of the great chain of being which stretches to the celestial heights of Montrachet.
Complex and subtle, the wines of Jurançon are insufficiently recognised. Vitatge Vielh — memorable name, though no one can remember how to spell it — is a good example. Rupert thinks it needs food, and could cope with just about anything except beef and game. I saw what he meant; its flavours enhance the fork. But I also found that it was fine on its own. Some of his Spanish every-day wines are exceptionally reasonably priced, though I was less sure about his Manuel de la Osa. This is a serious new producer, whose wines are pleasant on the palate, charmingly accessible. So why the note of cavil? It is too international for my taste.
That, surely, is the point. Rupert Birch’s wines can be argued over as well as enjoyed; supper with some of his bottles would be food and wine for thought. As he likes his wines to go to a good home, he is happy to spend time with his customers. Anyone who wanted to learn about wine, or who did not have time to buy for themselves — or who merely wanted to widen their range of choice — could do a lot worse than discussing their requirements with ‘Nothing But The Grape’. I would confidently predict that there would be no risk of disappointment.
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