I love my Napa Cabernets, probably more than any other wine on this planet, but I also love new experiences.
Prior to the birth of my twins, I made a habit of globetrotting in the name of wine research. The idea of travel these days feels daunting, so I’ve had to get crafty in my pursuit of the international bottle. Luckily, living in Napa Valley has its perks, like when wine and food adventures unfold outside your doorstep—in this case, at Solage Calistoga. Not even the threat of squawking babies stopped me from sampling wines from one of Morocco’s oldest wineries, Domaine Ouled Thaled, located in the Zenata region 20 miles outside of Casablanca. I’d have to work for my wine, though, which meant concocting my own Moroccan tagine, under the tutelage of Chef Brandon Sharp, and his sidekick, Chef Antoine Perray.
Napa Valley has its storied past, but so, too, does Morocco, where they’ve been making wine for more than 2,500 years. As lore has it, the Venetians brought the first vines to the country, but it was the Romans who capitalized on it. At the end of the 19th century, when phylloxera wiped out much of the European wine scene, the French immigrated to Morocco, where the vines were largely unaffected. An industry was born—and boomed—until Morocco became its own country in 1956. At that point, wineries all but vanished when French growers returned to their native land. All was lost until Brahim Zniber swooped in to resuscitate the wine biz in the 1960s. Locals nicknamed him the Robert Mondavi of Morocco, and the country grew its production to 40 million bottles per year, 38 million of which is consumed domestically (which is interesting, given that 98 percent of the population is Muslim and forbidden to drink). I learn fun facts such as these as I chop and dice fresh produce and layer it exactly as I’m instructed to do. Root veggies on the bottom of the earthenware pot and more supple stuff like asparagus and sea bass on top, a strategy that ensures nothing is over- or undercooked when the tagine is torched over an open flame.Love of Robert Mondavi aside, there ends the common ground between our two lands. Morocco shares a latitude more similar to Santa Barbara and scraps the new school approach to winemaking in favor of the old. “Fermentation has been done in concrete tanks since the beginning. That was the way of making wine back in the day,” says our ambassador, Hassan Sefrioui, of Sopexa. “Women also do harvest because they’re more gentle. Nothing is mechanical, everything is done by hand.” He also credits the region’s signature sandy soil as one of the chief reasons disease never took hold when the European wine scene was obliterated.
I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t point out another distinction between our wine worlds. Every vino sampled during my Moroccan feast retails for less than $20. I’ll spare you another price point riff and instead share some of the nuances of the wines. The first, a white blend, is both familiar and foreign in taste with its mix of Faranah and Clairette varietals (stone fruit, smooth, yet crisp). The rosé, with its salmon hue and hints of white cranberry and rose petal on the nose, was light and complex all in one sip. I tasted a couple reds, but my favorite was the Ouled Thaleb Medaillon, a blend of 60 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, 30 percent Merlot and 10 percent Syrah (a jammy, spicy boom).
These wines were different all right. And I realize that’s not always such a bad thing. I love my Napa Cabernets, probably more than any other wine on this planet, but I also love new experiences. Sefrioui assures me that Morocco delivers and then some. “Where else can you eat, surf, drink wine and ride a camel all in the same day?”
He may have us on the latter point, but as I stick a fork into my very own tagine, which pairs perfectly with my Moroccan wine flight, nothing else matters. I’ve scratched my international itch and dispelled the notion that us Napans are wine snobs. A sentiment that’s only as true as another adage that claims all New Yorkers are unfriendly (for the record, also untrue).
As I savor my last swig, I dream of sleep, which is hard to come by these days, and think about what I’ll reach for when it’s time to take my next sip. Adventure and travel are great, but it’s always nice to return to your roots.
