[LCM Articles] Make wine not war: Lebanon's new generation of winemakers

[Abdallah Jabbour]

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/01/11/WIIDST3AC.DTL

*(01-11) 04:00 PST Bekaa Valley, Lebanon* -- Autumn at Lebanon's Massaya
winery brought the usual challenges - millions of grapes to harvest, a batch
of Cinsault that matured early.

But, fortunately, no bombings.

"Last year, we couldn't work from our main building at harvesttime," says
Ramzi Ghosn, Massaya's CEO and winemaker. "It was an easy target. So I lived
outside, in a tent."

Winemaking in Lebanon is big business - more than 4 million bottles each
year. It has succeeded in Lebanon's diverse demographics, where Islam, which
forbids the drinking of alcohol, coexists with Maronite Christianity and a
long-standing wine culture.

But the industry has struggled to gain recognition in the West. Lebanon
produces some excellent wines, but the Bekaa Valley has none of the cachet
of Bordeaux. The Levant is associated with many things; wine is not one of
them.

Still, Lebanese wineries, with their French-inspired techniques, have
achieved high status within the industry. They create complex blends of
grapes, mixing imports with native Lebanese varieties, like the Obaideh and
Merwah in Chateau Musar's white wines. And their vintages appear at
distributors around the world, and on wine lists at restaurants like Cyrus
in Healdsburg.

"Our aim is to create not just a wine, but an experience. We're producing a
message," Ghosn explains. "Very few people are aware that Lebanon produces
wine. For the last 30 years, they've heard about nothing but politics. We
want to change that."

But that change is difficult, winemakers admit, in a country racked by war.

It didn't have to be. Lebanon is one of the oldest centers of wine
production in the world. Containers of Lebanese wine were found in the tombs
of the Pharaohs; it's no coincidence, many winemakers say, that the Roman
Temple of Bacchus is in the Bekaa Valley.

The modern industry started in 1857, when a group of Jesuit monks founded
Chateau Ksara in the Bekaa, the fertile land nestled between Mount Lebanon
and the Syrian border. For almost a century and a half, three vineyards
dominated the market: Ksara; Musar, founded in 1930; and Kefraya, which
opened its first vineyard in 1951. The market ran into trouble in the 1970s,
however, as the Lebanese civil war raged. Virtually overnight, winemakers
say, their business model did an about-face: Musar's domestic wine sales
plummeted from more than 90 percent of its annual product to less than 5
percent.

By then, though, Musar had gained recognition in the West. The winery made
its international debut at the Bristol Wine Fair in 1979; Musar was called
the discovery of the fair. So exports quickly made up for the domestic
downturn. In the United States, San Francisco's Broadbent Selections became
one of Musar's largest distributors, and now imports some 3,000 cases a
year.

And, ironically, the war's end in 1989 would eventually spark a dramatic
growth in the industry. "People who'd fled Lebanon came back after the war,
and they brought with them habits from the United States or Europe," says
Musar's Gaston Hochar. "And one of those was wine."

Some of them turned their habit into a business, and so Lebanon's wine
industry boomed, morphing from three wineries to more than a dozen in a
matter of years. Massaya is one of the newest, a French-Lebanese
collaboration founded in 1998; so is Cave Kouroum, run by two brothers who
fled to the West during the civil war.

"We are the first generation of post-civil war wineries," says CEO Sami
Rahal. "And we've had difficulty because we need investment from abroad -
but people are afraid. Nobody in the West will order Lebanese wines unless
they can be sure the product will be delivered."

Last summer showed Lebanese winemakers that those concerns are quite real.
Israel's war against Hezbollah started with weeks of aerial bombardment,
shutting down Beirut's air and sea ports. The bombing damaged many of
Lebanon's major highways, posing a particular problem for Musar: The winery
itself is in Ghazir, a coastal town north of Beirut, but the vineyards are
in the Bekaa, an hour's drive east through the mountains.

"We had a pickup loaded with grapes," Musar recalls, "and it had to drive
down a straight road where it was an easy target for bombers. And the truck
broke down. So what should have been a five-minute stretch took two hours,
and the whole time the driver was worried about Israeli bombs."

For Massaya, the threat was to the winery itself. The building took several
hits during the war; a section of the roof and several windows were still
missing a year later, testaments to the war's "collateral damage."

"So we improvised," Ghosn says with a laugh. "The staff rotated; all of our
employees came out for a day at a time. They brought food from home, so we
had a picnic and camped in the fields and harvested the grapes. What else
could we do?"

For Chateau Kefraya, getting the wine out of the country was the challenge.
"It was impossible for us to sell last summer because the port was
blockaded," says winemaker Fabrice Guiberteau. "So we just waited until the
war ended, and we exported anyway."

Kouroum was not as lucky. The winery had a container at the port in Beirut,
waiting to be shipped; because of the bombing, Kouroum brought the container
back to the Bekaa. Locked in a hot container at the harbor, the wine spoiled
and was never shipped.

"There's always a concern that people in the West won't buy our wine," says
Massaya's Rahal. "And 60 percent of our business is exports. So when the
West doesn't order, our business is slow."

So many of Lebanon's winemakers are turning to the domestic market. "The
goal is to export," Massaya's Ghosn explains. "But the domestic market is
getting better; sales have tripled since we started (in 1999). Everyone
reads that wine is good for your health, and they're buying more."

At first, that seems surprising, the idea of increasing wine sales in a
country where much of the population isn't supposed to drink. That notion
elicits a sly smile from Lebanon's winemakers.

"You said it: People are not *supposed* to drink," Guiberteau points out.
"But at home, behind closed doors, it's different. I used to work at a
winery in Morocco. It's a Muslim country, but there was such a domestic
demand that Morocco actually imported wine."

Lebanon is no different. Chateau Kefraya sells 1 million bottles
domestically each year - and "our customers are not all Christians,"
Guiberteau muses. What's more, Lebanon's winemakers point out, their country
is a unique one in the Middle East. Lebanon might be known in the West for
its brutal civil war - which largely cut along religious lines - but there
is also a surprising degree of tolerance.

"The Bekaa is a very mixed region," Ghosn explains. "Everyone lives here -
Sunni, Shiite, Christian - and at these wineries, we work toward a common
interest. So the religious differences don't matter so much."

Lebanon's Muslim population not only consumes wine, Ghosn continued, it also
helps in winemaking; Massaya, for one, employs a majority of Muslim workers.

"I could tell you that there are five mosques near my winery, that we
regularly hear the azzan (call to prayer) during our tastings, but why
bother?" Ghosn asks. "We all coexist."

So wine has become a point of pride for many Lebanese. The largest wineries
welcome visitors with elegant tasting rooms and glossy brochures;
well-stocked wine shops have appeared in Beirut's wealthier districts. And
in 2000, Lebanon joined the Office International du Vin; the government
simultaneously removed caps on wine production.

Since then, domestic consumption has surged. Arak - an aniseed-flavored
spirit, like Greek ouzo - remains the drink of choice, but more than 4
million bottles of wine are consumed each year.

That surge, though, is a cause for concern amongst the stalwarts of
Lebanon's wine industry.

"I'm concerned that the new wineries could jeopardize the reputation of
Lebanese wine," Musar says. "They've sprung up so quickly, and many of them
don't understand what makes a good wine."

The so-called newcomers have different responses. Some complain that the
real problem is the Lebanese consumer. Rahal criticized the domestic market
for being uneducated.

"In the West, most people have some understanding of wine," he argues. "But
here, people don't know. They decide based on the color of the label. And
that's bad."

Massaya's Ghosn takes a different approach. Lebanon has its own traditions,
he argues; most people prefer easy-to-drink wines. Indeed, the most popular
grape has historically been the fruity Cinsault.

These days, many of Lebanon's grapes are imported varieties, primarily in
homage to the classic French plantings; visitors to Kefraya drive by fields
of Cabernet and Merlot. There is certainly a strong French influence on the
winemaking industry, but the newcomers are trying to introduce what they
call an "Arabesque" flair. "We're not in a position to compete with
Bordeaux," says Ghosn. "So we produce a uniquely Lebanese wine.

"When people have a glass of Massaya, they should feel the Bekaa Valley."

Massaya's marketing strategy reflects that ideal. The illustration on the
company's labels is evocative of the geometric architecture found throughout
the Islamic world. And the name comes from the Arabic word misa - evening -
"the perfect time of day to enjoy a glass of wine in the Bekaa," Ghosn says.

In the end, Lebanon's wine country is perhaps a microcosm for the country as
a whole. It has grown steadily since the end of the civil war; last summer's
Israeli bombardment was a temporary slowdown, but one the industry is
determined to recover from.

With typical Lebanese good humor, of course.

"How do you create a business model for a country that's completely
unpredictable?" asks Ghosn. "MBA programs should offer a course in
contingency planning. And the teacher must be Lebanese. We're experts."
Tasting notes

Lebanese wines can be remarkably polarizing. Carignane or Cinsault, two
lesser-known grapes native to France's Rhone Valley, often form the backbone
of red wines. They're supplemented with Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah.
Stylistically, the wines fall somewhere between Bordeaux and the Rhone, but
they're more unique than that. The rare white wines may come from Sauvignon
Blanc or Chardonnay, but also from native varieties like Obaideh and Merwah,
thought to be related to Semillon.

Chateau Musar may be the most polarizing of all. One of its hallmarks is the
presence of the yeast Brettanomyces, which adds a rustic barnyard aroma.
Though winemakers usually shun Brett, Musar devotees often love this nuance.
The wines aren't for everyone. But they are remarkably long-lived, easily
lasting 25 years and more. The Musar red receives four years in the bottle
before it's even released.

By contrast, Massaya's wines are clean as a whistle. The forward-thinking
Ghosn family, plus Massaya's notable French partners - Dominique Hebrard,
formerly of Chateau Cheval Blanc, and the Brunier family of
Chateauneuf-du-Pape's Domaine du Vieux Telegraphe - deserve credit for the
modern winemaking approach.

Chateau Musar and Massaya, both from the Bekaa Valley, are imported by
California firms. Musar can be found at retail in the Bay Area or ordered
from its San Francisco importer, Broadbent Selections (*broadbent.com*).
Massaya is imported by LAC Products in Glendale (Los Angeles County) and
distributed in Southern California and can be ordered from Mission Liquors &
Wines in Pasadena (*missionliquor.com*).

*2001 Chateau Musar Hochar Pere et Fils ($25)* Hochar is Musar's more
approachable line of wines, a good introduction to the winery. It uses the
same three grapes as the Musar red - Carignane, plus Cinsault and Cabernet
Sauvignon - but with a higher percentage of Carignane. This current release
is a bit closed, but minerally red berry and toasted wood emerge, along with
a leathery note on the palate and somewhat wild aromas of sausage and game
meat.

*1999 Chateau Musar ($50)* Current release. Intense Brett notes are present,
along with licorice and rustic dust notes, broiled black fruit and hints of
cranberry, musk and asphalt. Ripe and round at its core, then develops a
lean mineral focus toward the end. Radiant, but intensely funky. Probably
best left to age another 10 years. As polarizing as it gets.

*1998 Chateau Musar ($50)* Lots of dry dust on the nose, with roasted
cranberry and orange peel. A riper style, with the semblance of Grenache,
though sharper and more tart, and very little Brett evident. The tannins are
already integrating into the structure, making it approachable. Fans of
Chateauneuf or Bandol will easily warm to this one.

*1997 Chateau Musar ($52.50)* A leaner, higher-acid style, with lots of
crystalline minerality, bacon, rosemary and roasted strawberry. Has a
leathery texture and the semblance of red Burgundy, though with a nod to an
aged Rhone wine. Powerful and bright, with lots of tannic structure.

*2000 Chateau Musar Blanc ($33.50)* Serge Hochar insists that his white wine
be served at room temperature, decanted and after his red wines. They have
the body and durability of a red - and reportedly can age for 50 years or
more. It's a blend of century-old Obaideh and Merwah vines, grown at 5,000
feet and yielding just one glass per vine. At room temperature, a
galvanizing nose is full of pecorino-like umami notes, plus sherry, lemon
and creosote. The dense, coating texture reveals plenty of skin contact, but
it ends lean and sharp, almost cheese-like in its innate high-acid tang.

*2005 Massaya Classic Red ($9)* Massaya's entry-level bottle, it comes in a
screwcap. Sixty percent Cinsault, the rest Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah. A
bit closed on the nose, with black fruit and reductive tar. Then more ground
pepper arrives, plus strawberry, mint and a touch of dusty cassis.
Alternately bright and brooding.

*2006 Massaya Classic White ($9)* Sauvignon Blanc and Obaideh. Some hay,
lemon and bitter herb to start, but also a richness to it, like walnut
butter, and a firm mineral finish. Consider it with oysters.

*2004 Massaya Gold Reserve Red ($25)* Fifty percent Cabernet Sauvignon, 40
percent Mourvedre, 10 percent Syrah. Opens with a mix of dry wood notes,
plus blackberry, licorice and the funk of saddlebags. Vanilla and hints of
herb-rubbed meat are added to the mix, with a dark, anise-filled, slightly
bitter palate. More angular than a Chateauneuf, less stoic than Bordeaux, it
ends bright and long. It needs a good five years to age, but also
distinctively world-class. -- Jon Bonne
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