Finding Purpose in Mendoza
I’ve been biting my nails my whole life. Since I was a kid, my mom would put this shiny oil that smelled like expired gasoline on my nails. She spread it with a tiny black brush, then once I turned 11 or 12, I did it. The liquid was supposed to stop the habit, but it didn’t. No matter how bad it tasted, I still bit my nails. It took two decades and a trip to Mendoza, Argentina to change that.
I left for Buenos Aires with my dad on March 16. We landed at Ezeiza airport the next morning, where everyone was wearing masks (traveling to a different country during a pandemic reminds you that this shit is going on all over the world). I spent a few days in Argentina’s capital city, seeing friends and family and walking the signature sidewalks that make me feel at home. We ate a lot of meat at Don Julio, Mishiguene and other local staples where my dad would boast that I am a writer at Wine Spectator magazine. Our first lunch at Don Julio, the sommelier brought me to the restaurant’s 20,000-bottle cellar. She showed me a 1923 Sémillon and other gems from Argentina’s prized wine regions. As we maneuvered the dark, cool and narrow aisles of the cellar, we reached a room separated by glass panels. This was the private wine tasting room, where the sommelier put three glasses on the table that could barely be distinguished from the ground. Next to each glass was a rock that represented the type of soil each wine was born out of. Each wine was a Malbec, but from a different area of Mendoza. While my dad and aunt waited for the food to arrive upstairs, I was tasting wines with obvious differentiations. As I felt each rock, I tasted the wines. The sommelier understood what I was experiencing. One glass would exemplify Malbec’s traditional ripe, rustic and robust flavors, but the next would taste elegant, acidic and lively. I left the cellar slightly buzzed, but as if my mind had aged 20 years down there.
We took a flight to Mendoza on March 20. Like everything with my dad, we did things fast: standing up before the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign, grabbing bags the second you see them go through those black flaps, renting the car from the Hertz guy who would literally rather be anywhere else and arriving at the bodegas ready to sip. I wish I could say this trip was relaxing, but I was also there on a mission, so I adjusted to the speed.
We pulled out of Mendoza airport and I immediately saw vines neatly organized on both sides of the road. I was already in love. With my fledgling GPS, we drove 45 minutes to Luján de Cuyo, where we arrived at Bodega Matervini. I had set up tastings prior to arriving with the help of contacts from my company. My dad and I met winemaker Santiago Achával and got a personal tour of his various parcels. As we pinched off some grapes, he smiled. “These are almost ready,” he said. “Casi.” It was the first Malbec grape I tasted. I barely had to lower my molars before the grape burst in my mouth and the skin wrapped around my teeth and dried on my lower gums. We later tasted a fleet of his wines inside the new bodega, filled with paintings and windows shadowed by a wall of plants he installed to keep the building cool. My dad ended up buying six bottles for his home cellar.
Later on, we drove to Viña Cobos for a short visit. I was lucky to catch winemaker Paul Hobbs, who was spending a week at Cobos to look over things at his namesake Argentinean winery. A cafecito later, and good wine swishing in our empty stomachs, we drove further south to Uco Valley. Along the way, we could see the mountains on our right, called La Cordillera. My heart was opening.
We checked into Casa de Uco, a magnificent hotel surrounded by vineyards, bodegas in the distance and a view of the Andes. The grass was soft and the stray dogs were cute. They sat next to us, begging to be pet and caressed while we drank mint tea, freshly picked from the garden behind our chairs. Did I deserve such a moment of peace? I didn’t think so, but soon enough, I didn’t really care.
I woke up the next day and opened the curtains. The dark purple grapes stared at each other and beyond the vines I could see the entire mountain range along with the snowcapped mountains beyond that, not a cloud in sight. The mornings were chilly and we took a few pictures before getting breakfast.
The hotel gave us a couple places to visit, including a beautiful lunch spot called El Paisano situated along a small creek. Empanadas, entraña, cooked vegetables and a bottle of Pueblo Dormido set the standard for the day. The table had a glowing white cloth that danced with the gravel below us. The glasses were sturdy enough to hold the exploding bouquet of flavors we swirled around. Again, did I deserve to be here?
The man who made our food was an experienced asado cook. His name was Daniel. He had a thin mustache, a strong voice and eyes that understood life. He came to each of the four tables and spoke with the patrons. “I’ve been looking at this mountain range for 60 years,” he joked. “I’m sick of it! I want to see the ocean.” When I told him I was here with my dad, he looked at both of us and said, “I’m happy you two are together here.” Those words stuck with me and I’ll never forget them.
We did a short hike to a waterfall after lunch to walk off the food, but to no avail. You can’t wash down Argentinean asado lunches with a walk. You need an illegal laxative or a two-day nap to move that shit along. But we saw cows walking on steep slopes, moving their jaws in circles and leading more interesting lives than 90 percent of this earth. As we drove down the mountain back to the hotel, we saw an old car bouncing up and down on the rocky road. Through the back window I saw five people piled on each other, and as we passed it, I saw more in the middle seats and a couple driving up front. It looked like a large family with little more hope than the air in each tire. My dad stopped the car ahead of them and got out. He gave the driver a few thousand pesos to feed his family. As the car disappeared in our rear view mirror, I wondered when or how they would get down this mountain by nightfall.
The next day, we drove to the high-altitude wine region of Gualtallary, near the city of Tupungato. There I met Roy Urvieta and agronomist Belén Iacono, who work with Catena Zapata, a large wine producer in Mendoza. We walked the vineyards together, and I was finally able to grasp what I had tasted at Don Julio’s cellar. Urvieta and I jumped into the soil pits, a large hole dug in between the vine rows to analyze the structure of the soil. He explained to me what the calcareous rocks do for the vines and how that impacts flavor. He showed my dad and I how to taste grapes and what to look for when determining harvest dates. Later on, we walked back to the bodega and had some empanadas, focaccia, a bowl of fresh lentils and a flight of Domaine Nico Pinot Noirs.
I took the steering wheel and drove us down to Viña Cobos after that. There, we tasted magnificent wines with Andres Vignoni, who Hobbs picked to lead Cobos as head winemaker. I noticed how much it pleased him, his staff and everyone we’ve met until now, that we spoke Spanish, that we also had Argentinean blood. It helped break down barriers and as a result, open up more space for truth. I left Cobos as if I had discovered a new world on my own, full of a feeling no one else knew or could take. And it’s all because of these people I had met.
The next day was a little more chill. We had our usual breakfast (two doble cortados for my dad, one for me) and then rode our bikes to the bodega to pick and stomp grapes. At this time, harvest was underway and the conveyor belt was gliding along with freshly picked grapes. I could smell the fermenting wine as we entered the giant room filled with vats. After a short tour, my dad and I put on gloves, squeezed our pliers and picked up a basket. Together, we snapped off bunches until our baskets were full and dumped them into a wooden bucket. We took off our shoes and socks and stepped on the grapes. They burst under our feet with a satisfying pop (like biting those bubbles in bubble tea), the juices and skins squeezing in between the spaces in our toes. I do not believe our work was used to make wine, but who knows. Maybe someone out there will be drinking wine stomped with my feet in a few years…
That same day, we checked out of Casa de Uco and drove a few miles down to The Vines Resort, home of Francis Mallmann’s Siete Fuegos restaurant. Again, this stunning hotel was surrounded by hundreds of acres of vineyards owned by wine lovers around the world who want to take a stab at winemaking. We ate at Siete Fuegos three times a day. It was fucking insane. More entraña, empanadas, maybe one or two green leaves to make the cardiologist happy and an alfajor Mendocino to end me. But toward the end of one dinner, I decided to take a walk by the vines, which were lit up at the front. Under the stars and a moon rising over the mountains, I saw a fox maneuvering between the rows. Its eyes glowed like fire then it disappeared into the darkness. I remember wanting to remember the moment, but I am always reminded we don’t choose what we remember.
I stepped into the beginning of the vineyard that was lit, and took small steps toward the darkness. Then I turned around and saw my father at the table with his glass of wine. Chase the fox or go back to him? It’s intriguing to chase it, even romantic, but I had someone to go back to. And that mattered more than what I’d find alone.
By the end of the trip, I had understood the great potential of a country where I feel more at home than my own. Surrounded by wine, grapes and good people that have made it for generations, this trip had turned into a glimpse at life from a different view. Our expression comes from much more than the weather and soil we grow in, but how we’re cared for and when we’re chosen to become a contribution to this world.
My nails had grown much longer by the time I landed in Florida on March 27. The hot air hit me as we exited arrivals at 7am. I felt the mild depression settle on me like the drops of sweat on my forehead. Did I deserve this? Does it take going back to reach that peace? Maybe all it takes is remembering what I learned and what I saw, and how I can make that world a better place from here.
That’s my favorite thing about wine. I can taste memories, but also a look into the future, no matter how blurred or clear. The heart carries the feeling, and when it dries from perpetual loneliness, a glass from your friends reminds you of the moon rising over the mountains and the stars that whisper the same echoes of thoughts and hopes from the past.
