Brennan had a tip from an American friend of his down here, Peter, about a vineyard of Graciano in a small town called Capiz, an hour or so south of Mendoza. Peter had purchased the fruit in the past, but is getting out of the wine game in Argentina, and passing along his connections to friends. The directions we had to get there were lacking: drive through Tunuyan, over the river, 1st left, 15 minutes, Camping Manatial. After the 1st left, the roads were dirt and aside from scattered, run down adobe shacks, and some fields which appeared planted with something, there wasn’t much; and no vineyards to be seen. We stopped to ask a near toothless Bolivian field worker if she knew Camping Manatial, as we’d been driving for awhile and not come across a sign for it. She indicated we were on the right track, and we proceeded. We eventually found Camping Manatial, but still had not spotted a vineyard. We asked at the camping/rec area, and a woman directed us to the finca across the street.
From the street, it was a thicket of trees, vines, and shrubs, but we found the driveway and parked. We were greeted by a swarm of flies, mostly non biting, who darkened the sky and necessitated near constant swatting, and a pack of dogs. Several of the dogs were tall, lanky, intimidating, brindle beasts which Brennan called galgos. He said they were greyhounds, but I am sceptical, I don’t think greyhounds are this big. A man working a concrete mixer came to inspect us, and went to fetch the matriarch of the farm. She emerged from a house on the compound which, like most of the other building, had disappeared into a forest of overgrowth. She had our concrete greeter lead us to the back of the property, past numerous chicken and duck coops, a young litter of kittens I could fit in the palm of my hand, a horse stall (they go old school—no tractors, just real horse power), a fish pond, an old washing machine modified into a pigeon coop, and graveyard of rusted machinery, finally arriving at the vineyard.
The Graciano (a red Spanish varietal) was on a parral, overhead trellis system. The front part of the blockwas a little skimpy, but the canopy and the amount of fruit on each vine improved as we moved in deeper. Our guide then led us across a field planted to carrots, squash, and weeds, to discover another section of vineyard with Tempranillo on VSP (vertical shoot positioning) trellising, like most vineyards back home in California. Just beyond that, past another new family of kittens, was a second Tempranillo block on the parral style trellis. As we moved along, the bothersome cloud of flies shifted into a bloodsucking cloud of mosquitos. It was gradual, we were caught off guard and didn’t realize till we had been substantially eaten. We made our way back to the house area, to find one of the Matriarch’s sons, Ariel, returned from work. He and his brother Oscar were the ones to talk to about grapes. His mother brought us out a pitcher of Tang, and some individually wrapped cookie-dulce-de-leche type treats. The conversation didn’t really touch on grapes, but rather on Ariel’s hunting exploits. The galgos were his hunting dogs. He despises firearms, and uses traditional gaucho weapons: a bolo and club. The bolo is two heavy, leather covered balls at either end of a rope, maybe three feet long, which is flung, with the desired effect being to tangle the legs of the prey. In America we use a less deadly bolo to play ladder or fling ball. The club was dense, a foot long, and on the end of a leather strap, so that it could be swung. He does most of his hunting from horseback. At this point Ariel began producing his trophies. First he came out of the house with a foot long bird leg, from a nandu, or rhea, a South American ostrich. Then he pulled a quirquincho, or armadillo, out of the freezer. Apparently they are quite good eating, muy rico. The coup de gras, was a puma claw. He had been out hunting when a puma attacked one of his galgos from out of nowhere. Ariel decided he could not just let his dog be killed, so he jumped from his horse, grabbed the mountain lion by the tail, and swung his club till he connected with its head! He produced photos to prove the validity of his tale. I never heard about how the dog came through. To finish off the visit on a less gruesome note, he took us on a tour of their church, complete with a large wooden statue of Jesus, crown of thorns, blood running down his face and all. The first Sunday of every month they import a priest to say mass. We finally departed, with instructions to call tomorrow when Oscar would be around as he is the more business savvy brother. I got in the car, elated to have a breeze coming through the window to keep the flies at bay.
