There's no official definition for the term "old vines" or its many variants. This often surprises beginning wine enthusiasts, who see the term frequently in their local wine stores. It could mean that the vines are 100 years old, it could mean they're the oldest in the vineyard, it could mean that the blend has some old vine fruit, or it could mean that the producer wants to snag the wine buyer's eye as s/he shops.
Even scrupulous producers argue about when the vines are old enough to warrant the term. Should it be 50 years, the old de facto standard? Or 30, when many vines mature? Or should it be 75? Doesn't it vary based on grape variety?
It's a hot-button topic, because consumers think "old vines" always means "better," and they're willing to pay more for the perceived benefits. No wonder producers abuse the system.
The reality, as always, is more complex. You can't declare all old vine wines better than all "young vine" wines. At a blind tasting held by the San Francisco Vintners Club in 2001, young vine Zinfandels beat out their old vine siblings. Careful viticulture and thoughtful cellar manipulations can yield old vine characteristics in more youthful plants. Overzealous cellar antics can blot out the nuances of old vine wines.
But old vines wines still carry a higher price tag overall, and some producers would like the term to be regulated, despite the lack of agreement about "old enough" and the difficulty inherent in enforcing the rules. Any discussion about this debate inevitably introduces Pete Seghesio, who continues to argue for an official definition. His family's winery has a lot to gain: The Seghesios, who switched from bulk wine to quality wine after a tense family struggle in the 90's, have documents stretching back long enough to defend the age of their vines, and a legal definition would push any number of "old vines" competitors into a less noteworthy bottle, including those who have old vines but can't document them.
So when he and his family put out their Old Vines Zinfandel, the bottle is a tool in the battle. "By our standards," says the label, "a vine must be a minimum of 50 years in age to be called 'old vine.'" Few other producers will give you such a straightforward definition.
It's always interesting to compare one's own tasting notes on the same wine at different points in time. In May of 2004, when I wrote a tasting note for my old vine article for The Wine News, I wrote "Aromas of cherry with subtle floral, pepper, and vanilla notes. Mouth-watering acidity balances berry flavors and vanilla on a long finish. Fine-grained tannins could use some time to settle."
When I tasted it again the other night, alongside goose confit and Brussels sprouts in a mustard sauce, the spice overwhelmed the fruit. Black pepper and nutmeg hit me first (along with the alcohol fumes), followed shortly by black cherries and blackberries. The acidity had mellowed to modest levels, though the tannins were still strong, and I classified the finish as "medium-long." It tastes of wild cherry cough syrup, probably in part because of the only-in-California 15.6% alcohol, with a finish of raisins and some flavors that evoke Cabernet Sauvignon: mint, bramble, and cedar. It went well enough with the food, and you could probably find it for $30-$35 or so. The mellow acidity doesn't bode well for its longevity, though the fruit is still vibrant enough.