Terroir writ small is land, geology. Terroir writ large is people, geography.
Terroir writ large is about customs, traditions, and what the people of a land can pull forth from it. Food evolves to suit the landscape, the landscape evolves to suit the food. A dialectic.
Terroir writ small is concrete (soil, grapes, wine). Terroir writ large is abstract (taste, culture, norms ). Abstractions are unsettling.
Terroir is dismissed as elitist, bandied by wine writers to make their work sound important. It is decried as esoteric, abstruse.
Terroir is dismissed as Eurocentric, invented by the French and jealously guarded, not only the concept but the word itself. (Although even Italians use the French term, shrugging.) This website, the one you’re reading now, has been called Eurocentric because of its name.
Terroir is dismissed as old-fashioned, an historical artifact, a throwback to old dogmas. A nostalgic reflection of an older way of life that nobody remembers and is now told only in stories, mostly fictive.
Terroir is dismissed as insular, protectionist, reinforcing an us-them dichotomy. This is the most troubling critique given our era of political factionalism, because it can drive away the open minded, the open hearted. This has prompted me to interrogate my preferences, my favoritism of autochthonous grapes, of traditional forms, historic precedents. Does respect for terroir teeter on tribalism, on blood and soil nationalism? Or does it demonstrate the opposite: a simple reverence for enduring truths that somehow manage to stay relevant?
Terroir evolves, adapts. It is a vital concept, alive and always changing, especially as the globe warms. Its practitioners, its adherents, must be nimble, engaged in an ongoing dialogue between themselves and their place. Which makes terroir a thoroughly modern idea.
