Is oak the makeup of wine?

(Plus 3 oak-free, fresh-faced bottles to taste)

I remember the first time I tried applying foundation. I am – always have been – a freckly faced individual, and that layer of beige paste frankly freaked me out. I didn’t look like I inhabited my own face. My speckly, pigmented complexion had become what we used to refer to in the ‘90s as “skin colour”. (Of course, we now realise that made no sense at all.) Add to that a thick slick of black eye liner (also a tad jarring on my pale palette) and a lip pencil that I was taught to use to augment my top lip and reduce my bottom lip (I was born with a naturally sulky pout) and the effect was complete. I looked, as much as I could, like everyone else.*

You’re probably wondering what all this has to do with wine. Let’s put a pin in my makeup musings because I’m about to come back to them.

Last Saturday evening, in the throes of my research into Spanish whites (more on that in a future article), I opened a bottle of 2018 white Rioja from Baigorri. I’ve tried several aged white Riojas in the past and always enjoyed the comforting warmth of oak maturation and the slight do-I-love-it-or-hate-it twang of deliberate oxidisation. But this time, for whatever highly subjective reason, I felt differently.

The website I bought it on (Decántalo) told me the grapes used were 90% Viura and 10% Malvasia, and that the wine should be very aromatic, with ripe apples and pears on the nose as well as citrusy tones. I wasn’t getting any of it. All I could smell was oak. I turned to my husband: “I feel like the oak has masked the fruit completely.” I was disappointed, but a penny was also dropping: perhaps this is why so many sommeliers and wine industry folk seem to be in the anti-oak camp...

“Is oak the makeup of wine?” asked Mike, in a tone that reminded us both of Carrie from Sex & the City. And the more I thought about it, and my own forays into painting my face as a teenager, the more I realised he might be right. While a little oak can soften harsh tannins in red wine, or bring out a more elegant acidity in white wine, a lot of oak just makes a wine taste homogenous. And just like the singular characteristics of a person’s face can morph into a generic TikTok filter, a wine that once expressed its own personality can lose the fruit and soil and geography that once made it unique.

Which isn’t to say I no longer appreciate oaked wines. The Puro Chardonnay from Piemonte that I was so effusive about a few weeks ago definitely spent a few months in oak, and several of my favourite red wines would be far too tannic to drink without a helping hand from an oak barrel or several. But I am increasingly reaching the conclusion that when it comes to oak, much like when it comes to makeup: less is generally more.

*Nowadays this whole analogy would probably work better with botox and lip filler. But (thank god) we didn’t have this stuff in the ‘90s, so you’ll have to work with me here.

Three unoaked wines I’ve been enjoying this summer

Bodega Colomé, Torrontés from Salta, Argentina (2022)

I only discovered Torrontés – Argentina’s best kept white grape secret – about six months ago, and it’s been blowing my mind ever since. Torrontés can be intensely aromatic, which is why stainless steel is clearly preferable to oak, but every bottle I’ve tasted has had a beguilingly creamy finish that smooths out some of the natural acidity. Imagine a table laid with a vase of fragrant flowers like elderflower and honeysuckle, a bowl of tropical fruit like lychees and pineapple, and a tub of clotted cream. It's got summer written all over it.

If you enjoy heavily perfumed whites (like Gewurztraminer), try Zuccardi’s Torrontés from the Uco Valley. Personally, I preferred Colomé’s slightly more subtle expression – available in Europe from Vineshop24 and in the US from Wine.com.

Emina, Verdejo from Rueda, Spain (2023)

Recently, I tasted a young (2023) unoaked Verdejo and a slightly older (2021) oaked Verdejo – both from Rueda and both made by Emina. The difference between them was staggering. And, despite it being at least half the price, I marginally preferred the crisp, saline and citrus grassiness of the younger, stainless steel-fermented version. I was sent both bottles as samples, but you can buy Emina’s Verdejo online in the Netherlands and no doubt in the rest of Europe and the US if you Google it.

Domaine de l'Idylle, Gamay from Savoie, France (2023)

Despite coming from the Alps, this is the perfect light summer red – bursting with berry fruit and fragrant with Mediterranean herbs and eucalyptus. Gamay is generally best served lightly chilled, and this version from the Savoie region is a case in point. I got this bottle from Bilderdijk Wijnhuys (a lovely store in Amsterdam West) but I’ve also seen it online – this site claims to deliver to the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany and the UK.