Julian Castagna was Australia’s first biodynamic winemaking hero. There were others of the faith, of course, but when the first wines emerged from the Castagna Vineyard at Beechworth 15 years ago, it was immediately evident that the bar would suddenly be set very, very high.
His Genesis Syrah was a radical beauty. It came out of nowhere. It was the clear winner in the Top 100 I conducted for years in The Advertiser. I seem to recall several thousand wines and about 400 Shiraz entries and ringing this bloke I didn’t know to ask him how he’d done it and he whispered, “Do you really want to know?” and without pausing: “It’s biodynamic.”
Castanga went on to dominate that competition for years. One year I gave the top gong of the whole damn outburst to his rose.
Now, with his wife CarolAnn and son Adam, he’s jumping around at the forefront of revolutionary or reactionary whites, depending upon your point of view. While it’s common to sing great operas about his reds, I reckon a lot can be learnt by spending a few days with the four whites he released at his Northern Alps vineyard on Saturday.
Castagna Growers’ Selection Beechworth Harlequin 2013
$35; 13% alcohol; DIAM cork; 85+++ points
Coppery-gold from extended skin contact in amphoræ, after the ancient Caucasus style, this is as close as white wine gets to red. It’s shy, even a wee bit sullen to sniff, which is why the makers suggest cellar temperature and a decanter. But wave the shotgun at it and it begins to cast off its slumber and mumble to rub its gurry eyes. It smells of autumn. Decay. Worzel Gummidge. The very last pears and quinces of the season, dropping soft from their boughs. Kingston black cider apples.
It has the forceful texture of a well-balanced red, with that sort of dusty tannin. But the flavour is not at all red: it’s more like soft-candied orange rind as much as those over-ripe pears and apples.
So you know what I’d do? I’d stuff a brawny chook with whole cumquats, like peel on, lumps of fresh ginger and garlic cloves, just cut in half. Some chunks of dried ciabatta might make it a little more conventional. And some fresh herb, like tarragon and sage. Stuff it all in so hard the cumquats squash and bleed a little. Sew your bird up good and tight, baste her with some rock salt and roast her slow. If you forgot to pluck her, give up at this point.
Put a bottle of this Harlequin in a decanter for a day, then put the decanter in an ice bucket for 15 minutes before serving. Let it warm in the glass and it’s suddenly a 90-pointer plus. If this combination results in any children, you could name them after the varieties mixed herein: Roussanne, Sauvignon blanc, Semillon and Viognier, in descending order of volume. I reckon that’d be a first.
Castagna Growers’ Selection Beechworth Chardonnay 2013
$35; 12% alcohol; DIAM cork; 86++ points
Made earthy and get-down with a little Burgundian vendageur sweat, this is a cheeky devil of a wine, and tough. It has that sharp reek of cracked stone – granite in the case of Beechworth – and then you think you’re nearing a smell of fruit and you get that cheesy picker again. The wine is quite solid of frame; stocky and firm without chub. It reminds me of bitter melon (Momordia chirantia) and isovaleric acid, the powerful pheromone which is predominant in humans and valerian – IVA can occur in secondary ferment. And maybe it reminds me of tarragon. Then comes the standard grape acid: tight and stroppy and as dry as bone china.
The wine leaves a tidy little lozenge of ginger and pear smack in the middle of the tongue. This is the sort of structure that drives me straight toward crayfish on the flame. So I grab that naughty picker and jump the TGV to Marseilles for crustaceans on the wharf, where you can still get a waft of Gauloises or Gitanes on the right day, mixing with that acrid reek of Africa. Another three or four points are due after 24 hours of air.
Castagna Growers’ Selection Beechworth Roussanne 2013
$35; 14% alcohol; DIAM cork; 93+ points
Immediately recognising this as a Viking wine, I grabbed for my Edda, Snorri Sturluson’s primer on how poets should address kings in early 1200s Iceland. This Roussanne has something very ancient about it, almost mystical, but in a framework and template that is as cool and considered and icily deliberate as modern Norse design. Or really good vodka. Not that I mean cold. For this wine is full of warmth. It has a burnished Golden Syrup hue, almost as if the Jarl wanted everybody to know what it was like to drink from his golden cup.
It has really sexy honey notes, approaching sweet mead, and then there are waves of crême caramel and the insinuation of so much sugar that you can easily see yellow peaches poaching in sauternes. So Edda came to mind, and I stepped once again through the Viking drinks menu with Snorri, just to be totally satisfied that this is the choicest of cups. Roughly translated, one verse goes: “The King gives currents of yeast (that is what I adjudge ale to be) to men. Men’s patience is dispelled by surf (that is old beer) of horns. The Prince knows how speech’s salvation (that is what mead is called) is to be given. In the choicest of cups comes (this is what I call wine) dignity’s destruction.” Tilsagt verse, Snorri Sturluson, Skalholt, Iceland 1179 – 1241
This wine is not sweet. It’s gorgeous. It gives you all those golden feels and ends up as fine and dry and chalky as a geometry teacher.
Slice some abalone steaks about as thick as a Granita biscuit. Fold each one in a linen tea towel, put it on timber and smack it once square on with a steak hammer. Once. Grill ’em quick in a real hot iron pan with fresh pepper and ginger. And/or garlic. Hit ’em with some lime juice and eat ’em like biscuits: devour each one with a skölful or a horn of this beautiful threat to your dignity.
Castagna Beechworth Ingénue 2013
$55; 14% alcohol; DIAM cork; 95 points
This smells like some mysterious midnight cream for the neck, from Guerlain or Lancôme. Like you can hear her putting it on, but you never get to see much more than that throat with just a line of moonlight along it where the fingers stroked. It’s just disgustingly sensual. It smells like the flesh of the magnolia petal, or that of the jasmine, without the overwhelming fragrance of the pistil.
I don’t think the Ingénue name applies this vintage: there’s nothing simply endearing or innocent about this. You know you’re in trouble from the start: it’s just sicko lush and leaden. And I know everybody thinks Viognier should taste like apricot but that’s just not here. Maybe some would report a few slivers of white peach with a blush, but that’s not right, either. If we must speak of fruit, it’s nashi pear. But even that’s to pass it off. It’s more creamy. And now I’ve whacked half the bottle and haven’t once thought of food. Easily the best Viognier I know.
