Tempranillo, my Temptress
The new style of Rioja has me utterly captivated…
Deborah Hansen, a graduate of Bates College and NYU, is the owner/consultant of Wine Matters, LLC, Boston. A devoted professional and champion of Spanish wine, she was the owner, chef, & sommeliere of Taberna de Haro in Brookline, MA from 1998 to 2024. During her tenure, the award-winning wine list offered over 300 wines from Spain, including 90+ sherries. Hansen named her monthly staff wine trainings Wine Matters; hence the name of her new company, which specializes in education, translation, curation, and degustation for both professionals and consumers. Tempranillo was her first love, and it endures to this day.
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Tempranillo, My Temptress
You were there for me, Tempranillo, in far-flung liquor stores in Maine, when I renounced college beer. My little change purse allowed me nothing too lofty, but the $5 bottles of Rioja in 1983 were delightfully smooth and approachable. Balanced, cherry-laden, and truly commercial. Queen of the dorm party, gold-enmeshed bottle of Spanish wine in hand, I was 19, and I owned a corkscrew.
I sensed more than I understood. Drinking good red wine was a novel and physical experience! One let it rest on the tongue rather than tossing it down the gullet with vengeance - like some novice oyster eater - as one does with shoddy spirits. With you, Tempranillo, a pleasing warmth caressed my throat, sending up a nosegay of pale purple flowers and plump red fruits. I would sip and smile as the the party thrummed around me and in me. There was an oasis of peace inside my head, and it was you.
Soon I’d meet you at your very source. An academic year in Madrid in 1985! The dollar was hot, so I’d have pesetas aplenty to spend on you and your kin. Admittedly I dallied, imbibing sangria in notorious Plaza Mayor bars at first. As my Spanish improved, I made shy forays into neighborhood shops to seek you out. I’d stammer to patient shopkeepers, “Una botella de vino, por favor.” Consequently, I kissed a few froggy La Mancha reds, your cencibel cousins. Baked and reedy, their only virtue was the astonishingly low price of 150 pesetas, about one dollar. Oh Tempranillo, the irony! I had drunk better wine in the run-down mill town of Lewiston, Maine.
Just how to get closer to you? These shops were not self-service. Their towering shelves bowed with a myriad of desirable but untouchable treasures. Tuna belly in cans, plump white beans in jars, salt cod in slabs. Olive oil in shiny tins, pimentón in tiny tins. Peaches in syrup, dark berry jams, and beautiful bottles of wine. One only had to ask, and a kindly if brisk señora would scramble up a ladder in a most dignified way to fetch the tender young fava beans and fat white asparagus from the uppermost shelves, uncomplainingly, while extolling this brand’s virtues or that product’s scarcity. It was charming - and terribly intimidating.
It required courage, Tempranillo. I thirsted for you, so I conquered my discomfiture, tugged my shoulders back, and strode into such a store. Ultramarinos, they are called. When the shopkeeper greeted me, I blurted my practiced request. “Una botella de buen vino, por favor. Un tinto de Rioja.” I sounded convincingly proficient, which unleashed a barrage of questions. “How expensive? How old? Have a certain bodega in mind? Joven, Crianza, Reserva, or Gran Reserva? What will you be eating? Do you want something traditional?”
“Mil pesetas,” I chirped, handing him a thousand peseta note, about six dollars.
“¡Magnífico!” he replied magnanimously, as he plucked a bottle of Muga Reserva from the shelf, wrapped it in thin brown paper, and handed it to me along with some change. Back upon the busy sidewalk, I kissed the bottle and giggled.
In the apartment where I lodged, there was a tiny balcony. Here I listened to Tina Turner on my Walkman if I wanted a flavor of home. That evening I invited my roommate to join me there for a new flavor. Our landlady raised her eyebrows as we squeezed two chairs onto this little urban perch. Her hairline visibly migrated backward when I requested a corkscrew. It was ancient but functional, as were the two stout water glasses we pinched from the off-limits kitchen.
And there you were, Tempranillo, a gleaming pool of garnet between my hands, sending up pretty flares of pansy, raspberry, cedar and cocoa nibs to my nostrils. You wore your fine robe of American oak so jauntily; you melded with your garnacha, graciano, and mazuelo sisters so seamlessly. I was taking you more seriously, noting all your virtues. So delicately structured yet so complete. So rosy and lovable while offering depth and contour. We’d soon be lovers.
The years streamed by and you were a constant in my life. I returned to Madrid to study literature, traveling to Rioja often to drink deeply of your draughts. The heavens opened when I tasted Marqués de Murrieta Castillo Ygay Gran Reserva 1970, in situ. Alfonso Troya asked me to describe the wine, and in my now-perfect Spanish I poured forth the poetic evocations arising in me. My Tempranillo, you were exceptional that day! Redolent of pomegranate and mahogany, the wine reverberated with ripe red fruits - tart cherry, cranberry, currant. The silken weight on my palate was glorious, still firm at the edges with healthy tannins, but supple and yielding at its core. The layers of fragrance kept unfolding, like peels of sweet laughter or church bells on a Sunday: notes of lilac, subtle tobacco, plum preserves, dark raspberries, chocolate covered cherries nipped with brandy. I was visibly moved; Señor Troya predicted a career in wine.
I plunged into your world, becoming a Sommeliere in Madrid. Over the years I owned three restaurants with large wine lists and I always promulgated your grace. Everyone knew I loved you.
Admittedly, I flirted with those Priorat provocateurs. Had a deliriously passionate fling with Canary Island wines. I confess to a penchant for resuscitated Spanish grape varietals such as escursac from Mallorca and brancellao from Ribeiro. I unabashedly crave light ruby specimens from Galicia, as well as her albariños, particularly the sexy, salty, seaside bottlings. I may partake of an old-school Ribera del Duero, your often misguided tinto fino cousin, and I am renown for my Sherry lust.
Yet, you are still the one, Tempranillo. I’m utterly smitten by your latest expression, the post-modern Rioja. Vineyard sites now outweigh barrel time. Young winemakers prize freshness and acidity over concentration, oak. They’re challenging old systems, while staying recognizably Riojan. I will always adore the finest classics, but your newfound minerality, clarity, and taut vibrance are dazzling. You’ve evolved Tempranillo, like the best of lovers and the most desirable of life partners.
For what is a relationship if one grows and the other does not?
Devotedly yours,
Deborah Hansen