In November 2003, in a Milan hospital, the Italian winemaker Ezio-Voyat died after lapsing into a short coma. Voyat, in his 80s, was an underground legend among Italian oenophiles, an eccentric maestro of aristocratic wines from the mountain region of Valle d'Aosta, on the Alpine frontier with France. A massive, Falstaffian man with a voracious appetite, he had, for most of his life, made his living as a casino croupier. But back in the sixties Voyat began making one of the most legendary reds the peninsula had ever produced — a Chambave Rouge so rare that most sommeliers have never heard of it, let alone drunk it.
A few weeks before his death, Voyat had received a prize from the prestigious Top Hundred competition in Milan for his Moscato secco La Gazzella, a "blue chip" white wine of the Valle d'Aosta. But it is the Chambave Rouge — named after a small Alpine village — that haunts the connoisseur. It didn't win any competitions, and it hasn't been imported into the United States since 1983. Only a few cases were made, and erratically at that. It is, in fact, a wine that has all but disappeared. Its great vintages run roughly between 1961 and 1980. I had once seen the 1974 on offer on a European site called Vino-Web for a mere €60, even though they had only a few bottles left. Of all the vintages, the rarest is the '61.
The Valle d'Aosta region itself is not exactly familiar territory. When was the last time you quaffed an Enfer d'Arvier or a Blanc de Morgex? Italy's smallest AOC — a mere 66 hectares — produces only 240,000 liters a year, and very few make their way to the United States. Nor are its varietals household names — obscurities like Fumin, Prié Rouge, Magolet, and Gros Vien. Valle d'Aosta boasts some of the highest wine zones in Europe, and wines produced at such altitudes are impossible to make in quantity because of an unpredictable climate. Vineyards are cut by hand along steep, narrow terraces. At five acres, Voyat's own tiny vineyard was about the same size as the storied Romanée-Conti in Burgundy. Although Voyat did achieve some commercial success toward the end of his life, and you might be able to track down his La Gazzella ($32; www.vinosite.com) there are other Italian Alpine wines of great beauty, too: Luigi-Ferrando's red Carema ($35–$40) and his white Ebaluce di Caluso ($15-$20) are the closest cousins to Chambave available on American shelves.
Voyat's American importer was the New York wine merchant Neal Rosenthal. Rosenthal owns two bottles of the 1961 Chambave Rouge, and he agreed to open one at his private cellar in upstate New York. The other, he says, is for his deathbed.
As soon as Rosenthal popped the cork, an incredible aroma filled the room: We felt like we were walking through an Alpine field of strawberries. "A smell unlike anything" was Rosenthal's judgment. In 1980, Rosenthal met the man himself. At the Voyat house, they were served enormous earthenware bowls of polenta, and Voyat vacuumed up most of it. "I've never seen anyone eat like that. It was stupendous, awesome." Not surprisingly, Voyat's wines were made to go with rustic mountain food: capriola (venison), boudin (blood sausage), and barnyard-y Toma cheese.
We began drinking the precious Chambave. It was dark purple, highly acidic, and just as gaily youthful as its scent. Made from the ultraexotic Gros Vien grape, it resembled nothing I had ever tasted. The Chambave was the ultimate primer in experiencing just how amazing a high-end Valle d'Aosta could be. "The thing is," Rosenthal went on, "nobody else ever made this wine. It's like a living fossil that will soon disappear altogether." Interesting choice of words, as we each took another swallow. "Without doubt," Rosenthal added, "it's one of the greatest wines ever made."
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