Appellation is another word for brand

by Oliver Styles on July 22nd, 2010

This morning I managed to read a page from the Wine Spectator website. Despite the immediate frisson that perhaps I had managed to get in without paying (or without having a website subscription wall block my viewing), it was interesting to read of the redifinition and creation of new appellations in France.

Although this isn’t a strikingly original thought, it becomes quite clear that the same language that talks of appellation is (even overtly) the language of branding.

…it can provide crucial recognition of their terroir’s greatness—and serve as a valuable marketing tool.

Essentially, one can redefine ‘appellation’ to mean ‘brand’, with the different levels within it. Just like Burburrey Prosorum by Burberry, we get Château Margaux by Margaux.

“Producers in Burgundy hope that their two new appellations will improve sales of low-cost wines [rebranding]. In the Southern Rhône, one appellation is being elevated [simplified], while another is eager for a name change [rebranding due to negative associations of having a similarly-named power station].”

Where do the notions of appellation differ from those of branding – if at all? Both come with the implied/intrinsic quality of evelating that particular spot above another – in other words, they function to reassure consumers of plus-value.

When people ask for new AVAs or new appellations, the essential motivation behind this has to be the creation of increased value to their product. If someone says the Rutherford Bench is worthy of its own AVA (US appellation), it’s also saying it’s different (in many cases read ‘better’) than the rest of the plebs on the valley floor. Thus the proponents of new appellations are paving a way to the creation of a new and very strong brand identity. Very strong because the word ‘appellation’ is irrevocably attached to the land; it is anchored in nature, and nature is very difficult to argue with. The perfect brand, non?

But then appellations are, like the border between Libya and Egypt, merely hypothetical straight lines in sand. Granted, they have geological considerations but even within (and without) these there are differences (and similarities) – it’s much like language: the Süd Tirol is, although politically in Italy, not remotely Italian, and the same may be argued of its wines. Although I will happily concede that the Chablis Grand Cru vineyards of Bougros, Les Preuses, La Moutonne, Vaudésir, Grenouilles, Valmur, Les Clos and Blanchot follow an obvious geographical contour, there are still too many straight lines (vineyard boundaries, roads, etc.). Not only that, winemakers concede there are differences within these plots. Even worse, even top wine tasters like Rosemary George recognise that they find it easier to distinguish wines from different producers than from different vineyards.

And it’s not just the soil. Appellations concern what kind of grapes are grown and in what method they are processed. Why? Well, the normal argument has it that these are traditional considerations (this is mainly an Old World phenomenon in that it was always done that way) and practical ones (it would be tough to grow Cabernet Sauvignon in Burgundy, for example). The first is possibly just an extension of brand identity and the second, well, we’ll have to concede that Nature is partly a defining element of appellation.

But why control things like grapes and methods of production? Who cares as long as it tastes good? Why does there have to be a predominance of Tempranillo in Rioja or Sangiovese in Chianti Classico if it isn’t to reassure the consumer that the brand foundations are set in stone? Would it not be wrong, when considering such things as appellation laws (compare with a company’s Mission Statement), to say that such-and-such a wine is a definition of such-and-such a terroir? Are we not talking about the reverse? Would it not be more pertinent to say that wines are made to conform to an appellation, thus represent a notion of what that appellation ought to be? If that wasn’t the case and the appellation, of course, came through in the wine, why would you need the laws? Give me a year at the head of the syndicat and I could completely alter what your perception of Volnay is.

And what of tradition? Here we come to a wonderful, if unsettling point: if, in 20 years’ time, global warming means that Sancerre no longer has the lively acidity of its ‘traditional’ state, will the appellation allow other, different, non-traditional grapes to be planted in order to maintain its traditional character, or is its traditional character just going to have to change? Or will the vineyards be shifted to cooler sites (and what becomes of the older, venerable plots)?

To conclude lightly, and to go back to the Wine Spectator piece, Tricastin’s rebranding to ‘Grignon Lès Adhémar’ (which, incidentally, breaks two of the founding laws of brand names: that the name should be easy to pronounce and remember) is unfortunate in that I never knew about the Tricastin power station until it made it to the news that the wine producers were complaining about the association. All of which perhaps shows us that at least there are some people in the world who don’t give a damn about modern marketing practices and have no idea what globalisation means.

Le Centre Nucléaire du Blayais (the Blayais Nuclear Power Station) is 7km as the crow flies from Châteaux Cos d’Estournel and Lafite, etc.

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