Plainsboro’s Bart Jackson was born and raised in Westfield, the son of a chemical engineer and VP of FMS (Princeton University, Class of 1933, one year after Jimmy Stewart), and an English teacher. He graduated from Hobart College in 1970 with a bachelors in English literature.
A fulltime freelance writer who has written for U.S. 1 Newspaper since its earliest days, he has recently written “The Garden State Wineries Guide,” which will be released by the Wine Appreciation Guild in January. His wife, Lorraine, who did the book’s photography, served as the director of the South Brunswick Library for nearly three decades, and now consults for area libraries and helps found new ones in Africa.
The Andes had again proved exhausting. And her wine exhilarating. The old muleskinner, Manuel, and his infuriatingly gazelle-like guide daughter, Criselle, had dragged our agonized bones up and down Aconcagua’s high, frozen slopes. The fact that this mountain was South America’s highest, or that my wife Lorraine and I had at least a decade on Manuel, gave my ego cold comfort.
The only real soothing came when we descended into Mendoza, the section of the Andes’ foothills against which Argentineans have grown that land’s best wine since the 16th century. Shepherded by Manuel, we explored the region’s wineries and discovered many a startlingly full-bodied, delightful, and inexpensive vintage. This was 2004, and Argentina was “nowhere” in the fine wine world. It would take two years before American importers would deign to set its wines on liquor store shelves beside Chilean counterparts. But on my return, I ended up writing more magazine articles about Argentina’s wines than her mountains.
That’s been the way of it. Fine wine historically gets discovered in the most unexpected places, I’ve learned. And before you know it, the newcomer is knocking the traditional incumbents right back on their pretensions. I’ve seen it in the Karoo of South Africa, and the South Island of New Zealand, both of which proffered me wines that far outshone what I have imbibed in France’s famed Loire Valley.
In 1987 I first witnessed the burgeoning of another unexpected vinicultural challenger when West Windsor was hosting some sort of wine tasting run by the Garden State Wine Growers Association, and U.S. 1 assigned me to preview the wine tasting with a brief write-up of each participating winery.
Seemed like a good idea. Starting when I was five, my parents had taken me on our frequent canoe camping forays into the Pine Barrens. With them, and later with my wife, Lorraine, I had rambled all across northwestern New Jersey’s section of the Appalachians. (Lorraine, a native of Boulder, Colorado, continues to call these “little hills.”) I had even written a New Jersey hike book, which necessitated burrowing into crannies from Cape May to High Point. But through all these years and journeys, when U.S. 1 gave me the assignment, I could only recall one Garden State winery.
The First Sip
In the empty field where Old Trenton Road crosses Princeton-Hightstown Road, the winegrowers had assembled their tents. Lorraine, I, and perhaps a couple of hundred other people took our glasses and began tasting the wines from the dozen Garden State wineries. In this calm, farm market atmosphere, the owners unhurriedly took time to chat about their products to each of us. They poured and explained how south Jersey’s sandy soils provided the same quick drainage to an underlying water table as the hills of France and Germany. Grapes like dry feet, they instructed.
Hmm. Apparently our Garden State was living up to its name in accommodating wine grapes, too. The vintages seemed pleasant. Certainly, even then, they were far and above the unjustified reputation to which New Jersey’s wines have condescendingly fallen heir. We came away from this tasting with glowing feelings about our state’s wines, which were reflected in that long ago U.S. 1 article. I also came away with one bottle of Cabernet from Tomasello Winery — and an idea.
Owners Jack and Charlie Tomasello had told me how their grandfather, Frank, heard on the radio in 1933 that the Noble Experiment of Prohibition had been repealed. He jumped into his truck and returned from Washington, DC, with the 68th license to produce alcohol in the nation. From that day, the sweet potatoes were plowed under to make way for grapes.
Not too many years earlier — in 1919, when the Noble Experiment was just being undertaken, New Jersey revenuers closed down over 100 wineries in Burlington County alone. This statistic has always impressed me, considering I cannot imagine more than 102 families in that rural county in 1919. But with this came my idea. If they could do it — grow grapes, that is, why not me?
In those days, our home, which sat against the southern edge of Cranbury, with its half acre yard, held a massive garden and several unknown varieties of vines yielding far too much grape jam. In 1992 seeking more land and less traffic, we purchased three acres on Petty Road across from the Protinick’s farm, founded in 1929 with the old man, his wife, and one horse.
Our first plantings were grape vines that bore their first fruits in 1995. Until then my only real brush with grapes had come during my studies at Hobart College in New York’s Finger Lakes region. When not studying English literature, it was considered the tres elegant thing to take one’s lady out to a winery to sip whatever they were giving away for free. From these thrifty seduction ploys, I had learned that the white grape Niagara, and the red Catawba, were hardy enough to withstand their snowy climes, so that’s what I planted here in Princeton.
As our first vintage poured from of our mini-press, one helper noted “this ‘wine’ is neither red nor white — it’s taupe.” Thus the name, “Vin de la Taupe” graced our first labels. Today, thanks to advice from many New Jersey winemakers, our hobby vineyard produces about 100 bottles annually of “Chateau Bonne Chance,” which many elegantly laud as “darn fine stuff.” We like it.
Today’s Pressing
Fast forward: Allaire Village, September 4, 2010. I sit at a table pre-publicizing my “Garden State Wineries Guide,” which individually profiles the now three dozen winery/vineyards in New Jersey. An estimated 45,000 people throughout this wine festival weekend cram around the 25 wineries represented, frantically pouring their wares. It is an oenophilic frenzy.
Our state’s wineries have grown up. Their quality has marvelously matured, and the public is beginning to take notice. Winery touring in New Jersey has become an outing for thousands of folks. While the progress of the state’s wineries has been steady, these past three years I have been particularly astounded by the phenomenal current growth spurt of New Jersey wines.
On October 11, 2007, I stood with 200 wine experts beneath a tent in Amalthea Cellars winery of Louis Caracciolo in Atco. It was an evening of convivial tension. My business partner, Pravin Philip, with whom I had launched Biz4NJ, a statewide business journal, had introduced me to Louis and reintroduced me to the Jersey wine revolution.
Tonight was to be a blind wine tasting, administered by the American Dionysian Society, grandly titled the Last Judgment of Paris. This title evokes not only the strife caused by the mythological contest among Grecian deities, but the event in 1976, when, in a similar setting, the wines of California bested those of France. Former financial writer (and founder of NJ BIZ magazine, which he sold in 2005) George Taber had been the only press person lured to this seemingly nolo contendere event, and when California won, Taber was able to blow the trumpet of triumph worldwide. His book, “The Judgment of Paris,” was the basis for the 2008 movie “Bottle Shock.”
Taber was present at Amalthea, as those in the know were comparing the best vintages of California and France with — yes — New Jersey. In the end, when all the votes were tallied and the covers removed from the bottles — behold, the Garden Sate wines blew away the incumbents.
While the Wine Spectator magazine refused comment, I rushed home and tapped out an article: “Garden State Wines — They’ve Captured the Palates, Can They Capture the Shelves?” While public palates have increasingly agreed with that evening’s outcome, store owners have shown an aggressive reluctance to stock Jersey’s less-recognized labels.
This opposition led to my decision to write “Garden State Wineries Guide.” If retailers would not bring our state’s fine vintages to the public, perhaps I could help lure the public to the wine. How tough could such a book be? Go to all the state’s wineries and drink their wine — then sober up and write about it. My education was just beginning.
I began working with the true experts like Louis Caracciolo, head of the Garden State Wine Growers Association; Gary Pavlis, Jersey wine’s ultimate authority and former head of the American Wine Association; and Anthony Fisher, certified wine judge and head of the regional Dionysian society.
Armed with their teachings, my wife and I began approaching individual wineries. Some, like Silver Decoy (610 Windsor-Perrineville Road, East Windsor) and Cream Ridge (145 Route 539, Allentown), we could reach on our tandem bicycle. Others even our GPS couldn’t locate. I would interview the owners, taste their favorite vintages, and tour the pressing room and vineyard, in hopes of catching each winery’s unique flavor. Lorraine followed behind photographically capturing the winery’s essence.
Winemakers, I soon learned, are a tough, independent breed, used to hard labor, and intolerant of idleness in any form. Almost all the work — the pruning, the incessant leaf pulling to let in the sun, the weeding, spraying, harvesting is done by hand, vine by vine, row by endless row. The hands that pour you a tasting of their labors are hard and calloused.
Some, like Ray Johnson and Randy Shea’s Laurita winery in New Egypt, are platforms for elegance, with the winery’s two enormous blended barns housing imported bars, a fromagerie, vast patios, and attached spa. Others, like Ollie Tomasello’s Plagido’s Winery in Hammonton or Al Natali’s Natali Vineyards in Cape May provide merely a few wooden chairs overlooking the vineyard. Here one may sit, hold a glass, gaze down the long rows of laden vines, while eyes and mind are drawn to the distant source of the outer coastal breeze drying the grapes.
But don’t let your eyes prejudice your palate. When we eventually found Sylvin Farms Winery in Egg Harbor City, we entered amidst its wooded lot, sprawling with thick pines and enough rusting farm machinery to excite any antiques dealer. The tasting room was a tight nook with a bar, fashioned from two collapsing barrels spanned by a door. But behind it stood the immensely knowledgeable Frank Salek, whose fabulously narrated tales served with his incomparable Cabernets and Merlots reward all travelers. I encourage you to make this pilgrimage.
In the middle of the book’s creation, my whitewater paddling partner and close friend, Warren Yeisley, suddenly died. In his honor, I went to our wine cellar and brought out that bottle of Tomasello Cabernet that I had purchased and laid down way back in 1987. My wife uncorked, and we shared our many memories of Warren.
The vintage had held its flavor magnificently. It is my hope that all of you may make the trek to some of New Jersey’s fine wineries, find such memorable wines, and be guided by the one true oenophile’s principle: the best wine in the world is the one you like the best.
Advance copies of “The Garden State Wineries Guide” may be ordered via www.BartsBooks.com.
