Amanda Barnes on South America's Wines
At the beginning of the pandemic when there was nothing else to do, my wife and I watched Bolívar, a 60-part, camp but informative telenovela about the life of Simón Bolívar who was one of the iconic drivers for the independence of South American countries and after whom Bolivia is named. It evoked South America, with its vast and difficult geography and the challenges of creating an independent identity under, but also after, Spanish rule.
The show made it clear that South America as a continent is a difficult concept to understand. When we ask what is South America, there are a thousand answers. Bolívar dreamt of a United States of South America; instead, independence resulted in a set of countries that had common starting points, but which identified themselves as much against their neighbours as on their own terms. Argentina is not Brazil; Uruguay is neither Brazil nor Argentina; Chile is certainly not Argentina; Chile recently tried to get Ecuador kicked out of the 2022 World Cup on a bureaucratic technicality; to understand the rivalry between Peru and Bolivia, read the bizarrely funny La Tía Julia y El Escribador (Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter) by Mario Vargas Llosa. And that quest for identity, an understanding of what makes a country, has meant 200 years of chaos, war, military dictatorships, and economic instability, as well as intense patriotic pride, unforgettable footballers, music and dance, and the defiant Uruguayan concept of la garra charrúa.
When I visited Uruguay and its capital city Montevideo five years ago, I frequented the Montevideo Wine Experience, a wine bar near the city's fantastic market. I asked a simple question about Uruguay's wines; several hours later, the bar staff and the locals were still loudly discussing the identity of Uruguay, what it means to be Uruguayan, what makes a wine Uruguayan, what makes Uruguay Uruguay. Is Uruguay the small, submissive country in the corner? Or does it come out fighting, shouting about how great it is? But if it does that, then what is it that makes it great? Tannat is the most planted grape variety and is what the country is known for in wine terms, if at all; but the best wines are arguably made from Merlot, whose international reputation is generally, and wrongly, low. Such are the contradictions of any South American country.
South America's wine history goes back to the 1500s: Jesuit missionaries came with Spanish colonisation, planting vines first in Mexico, then Peru, then Chile, and then Mendoza in Argentina, laying the basis for the modern wine industry in the latter two countries. The development of those industries was held back by the Spanish, who saw the colonies as competition for their own wines: big mistake, as treating the new colonies as provinces to be mined rather than developed led to the fall of the Spanish empire. But this long history of grape-growing and winemaking means there is a developed wine culture unique not only to each country but to regions within those countries. There are grape varieties not found elsewhere, such as Torrontés and members of the Criolla/País family. And it's not just wine—some of the grape varieties used for pisco, such as Quebranta, are not found anywhere else. (Pisco is a grape-based brandy made in Peru and Chile; the two countries dispute, with some passion, which is the original pisco, an example of how the harmonious unity that Bolívar dreamt of never quite materialised.)
How to make sense of the wines—and culture, history, politics, and various identities—of this vast continent? Well, Amanda Barnes has tried, and succeeded in The South America Wine Guide, which by far is the best and most complete book I have read on South America and its wines. She has lived in Argentina since 2009, and has explored not just the wines of that huge country but all over the continent. It's clear from this book that she knows more about those wines than anyone else: countries who most people don't know make wine, such as Ecuador, Colombia, and Venezuela, all get an honorable mention. Producers I've heard of and producers I've never heard of are listed; the coverage of the continent is copious, comprehensive, and informed, taking me back to places I’ve visited in Chile, Argentina, and Uruguay, making me feel like I’m there; and it takes me to other places I’ve never visited and makes me feel like I’m there too.
I try not to be a superficial person, but presentation matters: this is one of the most beautiful wine books I have ever opened. It’s rare to find a book you immediately want to immerse yourself in simply because of its appearance. The purple-lined pages are glorious, and the interior does not disappoint with evocative photos of the people, mountains, rivers, and vineyards of South America. The book is clearly a labour of love, not just an educational insight into the wines of South America but an ode to its people and its diverse, contradictory cultures.
The book’s journey begins in Peru, which may not be the most obvious starting point for a book on South American wine. But this is where the first vines were planted by the Spanish on the continent after heading south from Mexico. (Mid-nineteenth-century British textbooks on wine have chapters on Peru longer than those on California.) The next chapter moves to Bolivia, where vines climb up trees at elevations of over 3,000m (listen to my interview with Chufly Imports for more on Bolivian wine). That Amanda begins the book with countries whose winemaking is relatively obscure demonstrates her commitment to exploring all the wines of South America, and her understanding of the history of the continent.
Of course, Chile and Argentina form the core of the book and the two extensive chapters are essential reading for any student of wine. They are comprehensive and thorough, with detailed, easy-to-follow maps (as is the case throughout the book) and in-depth descriptions of all the sub-regions. These two chapters could be a book alone: I'd highly recommend buying a case of Chilean and Argentinian wine to taste while reading and learning—however much you know about those two countries, you will learn more.
Amanda's love of all things South American shines through. It's a big continent, so there's no surprise it's diverse and contradictory (imagine a book on the wines of Europe); the book covers everything about South America, its wine, and its culture (except football). It's perhaps too big to carry around as a travel guide, but there is essential, preparatory information on visiting each country: where to go, safety, wifi, what to wear, how to get around, what language to try and speak. The advice is simple and to the point, but as South America can be an intimidating place to travel around that advice is essential and appreciated.
The book is entitled as written by Amanda Barnes & Amigos. In each section, she pays tribute to the amigos who have introduced her to regions and producers and helped her understand South America and its wines. The design, photos, and maps are all created by amigos. South America is a continent where the genius of the individual is celebrated in a deictic fashion (think Maradona); it's also a continent where the genius of the individual adds to the genius of the collective (think Argentina winning the World Cup with Maradona in 1986). This book gets the compelling madness of South America completely, and it's vital for any wine student's bookshelf. Bolívar would be proud: South America is both one place and many, many places, all of which are celebrated in this must-have book.
disclaimer: I met Amanda once, where she shouted at me not to move because we had to say hello to each other. She is good friends with a mutual acquaintance who also lived in Mendoza for several years. I would not write a bad review of Amanda's book (both Amanda and my friend Michelle are quite intimidating), but nor would I write a good review just for the sake of it. This book is sensationally wonderful and essential for anyone interested in South American wine, or just in South America in general. Read, taste, and visit.
