Uncorking Bulgaria: The Wines of Melnik

By Nicole Gluckstern
San Francisco Bay Guardian

Though the official written language of Bulgaria, the EU's most recent (with Romania) addition, is Cyrillic, there is one word which pops up quite frequently in Roman script and that word is "Non-Stop."

Non-Stop tobacco kiosks and snack stands dot the city streets, and even the sole combination toilet/shower stall at the campsite near Belogradchik is, the proprietor assures me, also non-stop. It hadn't occurred to me it would be otherwise, but I am grateful for the clarification. What isn't really non-stop in a lot of Western Bulgaria, much of which is decidedly rural, is the nightlife, particularly in mellow Melnik, a village of about 300 permanent inhabitants, located in the extreme south, just ten miles from the Greek border.

Melnik

In Melnik, everyone gets pretty well tucked into bed by 10 p.m., but during the day, the single main street hums with activity -- the clattering plates and bad pop music accompaniment of mehana meals spilling out onto shaded terraces, the clicking high heels of Sofian socialites with photographers in tow, the patient footpads of well-fed strays who follow in their wake. And what has brought us here, the socialites, the strays, and me? Certainly not the ticky-tacky T-shirt and postcards shops which also line the cobbly street, nor even the dramatic folded ridges of tawny cliffs which tower above and around the scattered red roofs and white walls of modest Melnik domiciles, but rather it is the regionally unique wines which really put Melnik on the map -- and have been doing so for centuries.

It's been suggested, in fact, that this outermost tip of the Thracian empire was the first wine-producing region in all of Europe. First or not, there's no doubt that the Mel-niks have been at it for quite awhile -- and I've come here to find out for myself what all the fuss is about.

Myself and my two companions for the day -- a childhood friend of the family and his new Bulgarian bride -- decide to go straight for the gusto by sampling wines housed in the town's most prominent attraction: the Kordopulov House, a whitewashed 18'th century villa perched on top of a hill overlooking the placid lane below and the trickling stream that meanders beside it. After declining the opportunity to view the villa's twenty-four Venetian glass windows up close for a modest admission fee, we enter its cool heart, the stone-walled, vaulted-ceilinged wine cellar. We are served with an air of reluctance by the world-weary, white-shirted sommelier and bring our first round to one of several long, low wooden tables where we toast each other, looking deeply into each other's eyes as we do (to not do so equals seven years bad sex, and therefore, unthinkable).

Kordopulov

It's a red, the fermented lifeblood of the traditional Melnik varietal -- originally brought over from Syria, and now cultivated only here -- and though the first sniff is full and fruity, our first swallow is faintly bitter: tones of licorice root and sun-baked vine. As our palates adjust though, the bitterness fades to a mellower, earthier mouthful. Mellow enough, certainly, for another round. As we tuck into our second glasses we notice a long single row of about 30 glasses being poured along a high shelf in the center of the room, we discover why about two minutes later when the tour bus group descends, sunhats and digicams a-flapping. They don't last long; propelled by their own frenzied momentum of sight-seeing, they dash in, gulp their wine, and gallop back out again with a parting blast of flashbulbs. Their mad dash infuses us with the desire to linger on a bit and test a different wine, and we opt for glasses of the house white -- quite out of order, but we hadn't noticed its existence earlier.

This wine is known as "booket," or bouquet, and a more appropriate name has never been affixed to a wine. A scent like honeysuckle causes our nostrils to twitch, and the crisp floral flavors of booket suggest sweetness, though the wine is decidedly dry. I am reminded of Spanish manzanilla (without the punch of its higher alcohol content) and all too soon find my glass empty. If only there were small plates of giant green olives included, as in Madrid! As there are not, and it seems we have exhausted whatever charm the Kordopulov house holds for us, we decide it's time for us to pay a visit to an izba, one of the subterranean wine cellars which speckle the hillside like gopher holes.

Doorway to an izba

Just paces away, uphill from the Kordopulov house, we come to a conveniently located izba, dug straight into the hillside like a cozy hobbit hole. We follow a long narrow passage to the tasting room, surprisingly high-ceilinged considering it appears to be carved out of solid rock, and at least twenty degrees cooler than the hot summer afternoon sweltering outside the front door. We sit at one of several low tables set atop wine barrels and immediately ask for a round of "booket." This booket proves a bit of a bust, however. Instead of a delicate, edelweiss strain like our first glass we receive goblets full of a mostly tasteless, honey-colored beverage which we presume our host is trying to get rid of, considering the overflowing glasses he hands us. We can't quite down the lot though, and halfway through decide to abandon the task and jump ahead to the reds. The other customers of the izba this afternoon are all Bulgarian, about seven all told, and we watch as one after another place orders for bottles worth out of two of the four tapped barrels.

They choose between liter-sized plastic bottles, secondhand water bottles from the looks of them, and actual glass bottles which the proprietor corks
with a flourish at the helm of a green, hand-corking device in the corner. One barrel seems particularly popular and I propose a round from it.

The nose on this wine is shockingly reminiscent of cleaning solvents, but again, the first taste belies this first impression with a cellar-wall mustiness and an enticing complexity. Melnik grapes are aged in the cool damp cellars and fermented in same, and with slow aging gain a distinctive mossy flavor and a cult following from East to West. It's said that Winston Churchill favored the flavor so much he imported two casks of it per year.

After draining my final glass, I can't quite say Melnik wine replaced the heady pleasures of a meaty Cabernet Sauvignon or the spicecake comfort of a Gewurztraiminer in my estimation, but for a day of tasting it more than served its purpose.

Best thing by far about Melknik wines? No hangover.

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