The two-pack we’ve assembled is the “Lennon-McCartney” of cru Beaujolais. Or, if you prefer, the “Jordan-Pippen.” Or maybe the “Redford-Newman.” I could go on, but I think you get where I’m coming from here: Lovers of cru Beaujolais, of which I am one, know that these two producers represent the ultimate in perfumed, refined expressions of the Gamay grape in the region.
Their reds occasionally fake you into thinking they’re Pinot Noirs from Beaune, or even high-toned Syrahs from the northern Rhône, and in so doing make the case for Gamay’s nobility to those who might be inclined to overlook Beaujolais altogether. I’d take these two bottles—from the standout 2015 vintage, too, which infused both with added concentration—into battle with any reds from anywhere. When you factor in their shockingly low prices, there are few fine wines that can compete. And make no mistake, these are “fine” wines—exquisitely aromatic, balanced, soil-expressive, and worthy of aging. We can never get enough of either wine, so we thought bundling them together would be the way to go.
In both cases, these classic wines show off more power and concentration than perhaps any version of either I’ve had before. Whereas normally these are ruby-red wines with bright, spicy fruit, 2015 turned both a deeper shade of purple/black and brought out the more darkly fruited side of Gamay. Both retain great energy, a firm core of minerality, and mouthwatering acidity.
The late Marcel Lapierre, as our subscribers know well by now, was not only a reference-point producer in the cru village of Morgon but an early—and passionate advocate of natural winemaking (long before it became fashionable). Lapierre had a profound impact on the international perception of the wines of Beaujolais, thanks to the incredibly perfumed reds he produced from old head-trained Gamay vines. His wines, now produced in the same organic/biodynamic manner by his son, Mathieu, are unlike any other wine produced in the region. If I see a Lapierre wine on a wine list, I order it, plain and simple.
Marcel Lapierre took over control of his family Domaine in 1973, but his path changed in 1981 when he became acquainted with Jules Chauvet, who was an incredibly passionate naturalist. Importer Kermit Lynch dubbed Chauvet a “spiritual godfather” to Lapierre, and also coined the term “Gang of Four” to describe the group of producers—Lapierre; Guy Breton; Jean-Paul Thévenet; and Jean Foillard—who heeded Chauvet’s call to return to the old ways of viticulture and vinification, which Lynch described thusly:
“Starting with old vines, never using synthetic herbicides or pesticides, harvesting late, rigorously sorting to remove all but the healthiest grapes, adding minimal doses of sulfur dioxide or none at all, and disdaining chaptalization.”
As for Clos de la Roilette, it is based to the north of Lapierre in the cru village of Fleurie, although its nine-hectare vineyard was originally thought to be part of Moulin-à-Vent. When borders and appellations were drawn up in the 1920s, the then-landowner took exception to being classified as ‘Fleurie’ and decided to instead put a picture of his horse, Roilette, on the label and not mention Fleurie at all. Eventually, the property fell into disrepair, until Fernand Coudert acquired it in 1967 and replanted the vineyards. His son, Alain, came aboard in 1984 and has been the winemaker since.
Year in and year out, I’m always taken in by the great mix of perfume and structure in the Roilette wines, which, unlike the Lapierre wines—which are planted in granite soils—are sourced from a site with a higher concentration of clay. They feel that this richer soil yields a richer wine, and indeed I’m inclined to categorize the Roilette Fleurie as the “bigger” wine of the two, with a firmer tannic backbone and darker tones to the fruit (although, in 2015, they’re both big wines).
Both the Lapierre and Roilette wines employ ‘semi-carbonic’ maceration, in which whole grape clusters are used in fermentation but aren’t completely sealed in tank under a blanket of CO2, as in “full” carbonic. Both wines are sourced from old vines and fermented only on native yeasts, and aged in neutral wood barrels.
As I’ve said, these are more full-throttle versions of these wines and they’re both quite delicious to drink now. In a riper vintage like this it might be more difficult to ascertain terroir distinctions, but, generally speaking, I find the Lapierre to lean more ‘red’—cherry, red currant, rose petals, and a terrific crushed-stone spine—while Clos de la Roilette leans a little blacker—blackberry, pomegranate, black pepper, violet. Both remain remarkably fresh and lively given the hot vintage—they’re really everything you could want in a red wine, minus any heavy oak “makeup” and ponderous alcohol. If opening either one now, I’d decant about 30-60 minutes before serving in Burgundy stems at 60 degrees. Try them side-by-side with a few friends and some generously peppered hanger steaks off the grill (the generous fruit and mild tannins will be like a pincushion for that pepper). If they weren’t cru Beaujolais drinkers before, they are now. Cheers!
