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Wine Goes Great With Everything

Madeira wine saved the American Revolution, or so legend holds. The British landing across the East River to New York's Kip's Bay routed the defending American forces on 15 September 1776. British soldiers eager to advance across the island's narrow girth and trap the Continental forces remaining in lower Manhattan were thwarted by patriotic matron Mary Murray and her two lovely daughters. Knowing General Howe, the British commander, always took time for feminine company and fine wine, the Murrays opened their cellar to British officers. Within the imposing Inclenberg Mansion - formerly at 37th Street and Park Avenue - martial might and womanly wiles tarried over cake and Madeira wine, as the Continental Army streamed northward to escape. The tale, though apocryphal, speaks volumes about Madeira's significance among America's colonial ancestors.

The Madeira Islands are the peaks of mammoth mountains emerging from the Atlantic Ocean; Morocco lies 400 miles east. Portuguese by politics, culture and language, the islands' export of sugar brought trade with Flanders and England, as well as wealth, epitomized in the majestic Cathedral, opulent villas, the Convent of St. Claire and other architectural gems.

The Pearl of the Atlantic is made up of 286 square miles of archipelago, and its capital, Fun chal, was a popular port-of-call. Elevations of 6,000 feet formed not only navigation beacons, but microclimates spreading exotic tropical fauna to those higher areas to nurture viticulture, aided by rich volcanic soil, mists, sunshine and rainfall. Peasants tended the mountainside vineyards suspended on poios, intricate terraces watered by irrigation channels called levadas. When Alvisi Cadamosto, a Venetian navigator in Prince Henry's service, visited Madeira in 1455, he wrote that its wine was already good enough to be exported, with England as a major customer.

A century later, Rebelo da Silva in his History of Portugal says that the Low Countries were importing it in 1567. Sugar, which had dominated the islands' economy, was usurped by cheaper Brazilian production, forcing planters to switch to viticulture.

By 1700, wine became so important that it formed 90 percent of the Madeiras' exports. Malmsey Bual, Verdelho and Sercial grapes possess characteristics ranging from sweet to dry; but wine had long been a vital export for such ports as Rochelle, Bremen, Marseilles, Brugge, Genoa and Oporto. Countless massive wooden casks called pipes were shipped, and their size, though varied, averaged about 110 gallons. Before refrigerated containers and sulphites, merchants expecting shipments of renowned vintages frequently received cargos of vinegar instead. Heat and rough passages compromised flavors and prices, but Madeira shipped in Brazilian satinwood or Baltic oak excelled in that rough and tumble world of commerce.

By the 18th century, the rustic New World ports of the Caribbean and Eastern Seaboard were becoming thriving trade emporiums. The emerging culture of planters, merchants and shippers thirsted for Old World refinements, including the Madeiras' wines. Enduring storms and equatorial heat, the wine arrived in the New World, not degraded, but with beguiling bouquets and rich flavors far superior to anything shipped directly to England. From St. Kitts, planter Christopher Jeaffreson wrote a London cousin, "There is no commodity better in these parts than Madeira wines."

Decades later, Captain Thomas Hamilton, an English officer, recorded that "I have never drunk any Madeira in Europe at all equaling what I have frequently met in the United States." The Maderia wine Vinho da roda, which made the voyage around the Atlantic, commanded premium prices in European markets.

Wine experts believe its high acidity and tannins acted as preservatives, but fortification was also significant. Natural fermentation rarely results in more than 12 percent alcohol, and Iberian vintners commonly fortified sherries and ports by adding spirits. War not only brought to the Maderias the scourge of pirates, but cut off its commerce as well. The resulting abundance of wine was distilled, creating a stronger vintage, which in turn was added to regular Maderia. This practice, which was common by the early 18th century, increased the potency from 18 percent to 20 percent. This also also enhanced stability because fortification wards off bacteria and wild yeasts.

In 1697, merchant William Bolton, based in Funchal, recorded sending, "A ship of Bristol, 60 pipes for Jamaica... A brigantine of Bermudas with 150 pipes for Curacao and Jamaica... A brig with 70 pipes for Boston." Politics also influenced Madeira's popularity; Charles II of England married Catherine, sister of Portuguese King Alfonso VII, and "in prohibiting the export to the West Indies and American colonies of goods grown or manufactured in Europe, unless shipped in British ships from British ports, ...[the English monarch] excluded Madeira from the [1665] ban."

Gifts of Madeira could soothe both political and familial quarrels. Colonial taverns served San garee, a punch of Madeira, water, sugar and nutmeg. At upperclass tables, the dinner beverages were beer and cider. Lesser qualities [of Madeiras] were mixed with water and drank with meals, while the best was reserved until "the cloth was removed" to savor as a last course. High water tables in coastal Carolina forced planters to store barrels in attics or specially made solariums, where intense summer heat and winter cold heightened its flavors. "At the end of the 18th century Madeiras were raised to the dignity of heirlooms and from 1780-1840 almost every gentleman in Charleston and Savannah laid down one pipe every year," writes historian Rupert Croft-Cooke.

While taxation of tea and rum are seen as the sparks of the American Revolution, Madeira, relished by America's intelligentsia, planters and merchant princes, such as John Hancock, was also taxed. This class, chaffing under British economic constraints, was angered by the prohibitive excise duty of 1764, but while some switched to native cider or beer, others consumed smuggled wine. On the evening of 9 May 1768, John Hancock's ship - fittingly named Liberty - docked in Boston harbor laden with Madeira. That night the crew was secretly unloading 100 pipes when a tidesman boarded. This harbor officer, meant to enforce custom regulations, was locked into a cabin. Only 25 pipes remained next morning when customs officials arrived, and the ship was impounded for smuggling. Enraged harbor toughs and tradesmen burned the customs house and attacked officials, who fled to a British frigate. During Hancock's lengthy trial, the tidesman swore that the Captain "threatened that if I made any discovery of what had passed there that night, my life would be in danger, and my property destroyed." Charges were dropped, although Hancock's ship remained impounded, prodding the embittered merchant toward revolution.

As tensions grew in the spring of 1775, Madeira merchant, Michael Nowland, wrote to New Yorker Richard Yates that "The fallacious and destructive Plans of the British Ministry with Respect to her Colonies, if continued will prove the Ruin of both... God grant an accommodation may soon take place." Nowland's prayers, however, were in vain, and when word spread of war's outbreak at Lexington/ Concord, revolutionaries raided the Virginia Governor's Palace, where Lord Dunmore, its last royal official, had stocked his cellar with "5,000 gallons of Madeira."

Another legend claims that Jefferson was under the influence of Madeira while writing the Declaration of Independence at Philadelphia's Indian Queen Tavern, and certainly its proclamation was toasted with many glasses. So was victory, after eight long years of war, and by the end of the 18th century, this newly declared Republic was buying a quarter of Madeira's annual 16,000 pipes.

Prominent vintages, such as the Rapid 1817 or the All Saints 1791 retained the name of ships that carried them or collectors, such as the renowned Major Pierce Butler, "a recognized authority" from South Carolina. Palates, however, transcended politics; Captain James Cook loaded Madeira wine at Funchal during his epic South Pacific voyage on the Endeavour in 1768, and again on the second cruise with the Resolution and Adventure in 1772. So did Nelson on the frigate Boreas, before he became Admiral; and Napoleon, as deposed Emperor, when he was exiled to the island of St. Helena. British officers throughout the Empire softened the hardships of garrison life by draining decanters; George Washington preferred Madeira to all other wines.

Among the founding fathers, John Adams assured the Portuguese ambassador "that in America Madeira was esteemed above all other wine," to the extent that Supreme Court Chief Justice John Marshall, it was said, "was brought up on Federalism and Madeira." Minister to France, Thomas Jefferson, ordered an expensive pipe shipped "cased", that is, a cask secured within another cask from New York wine merchant Francis Lewis. On his European travels, he used this wine as his standard, comparing Italian Nebbiolo and French Rochegude with "silky Madeira". He split another pipe with the Marquis de Lafayette, who, after visiting America, had developed a preference for Madeira. Jefferson also remained a staunch believer in its medicinal powers. In a letter, he explained how a cup of rice and a glass of Madeira every two hours had cured his two daughters of a type of typhus fever that they contracted in Paris. Back in Annapolis, he dined on turtle seasoned with his favorite wine.

Appreciation from Boston to Savannah approached cult-status at such associations as Charles ton's Jockey Club, the Savannah Madeira Club and St. Simon Island's St. Clair Club. Rituals centered on polished glasses and decanters "absolutely clear of sediments", as described in S. Weir Mitchell's novel, A Madeira Party. "To consider with care some new Madeiras," exclaims the elderly Mr. Wilmington, "man should have perfect health and entire tranquility of mind. Sir, the drinking of these great wines is something more than a social ceremony or the indulgence of an appetite." Light fare of "a trifle of terrapin" soup and "breast of canvasback" ended with crusts of bread to clear palates between decanters. This club eschewed tobacco during sampling and debated the merits of bottling, but always agreed to serve the wine, "a trifle above the temperature of the room."

Madeira's reign ended with two pestilences, the first of which struck in 1852; powdery mildew (odium) was a fungus that destroyed 90 percent of the island's grapes, and from the British "factory" of 70 merchants, only 15 remained. A generation later, an aphid (Phylloxera vastatrix) completed the devastation, from which the island viticulture never fully recovered. "Madeira is a delightful wine, if we could only ever get any of it," bemoaned a writer in the periodical, The Perfect Gentleman. Unscrupulous merchants and restaurateurs destroyed what remained by adulteration with whiskey, water and cheap wines, until Americans drank five times more Madeira than was imported.

By the 20th century, Prohibition became the coup de gras for this noble wine and it has long been relegated to cult status. Still, Madeira shaped American preferences for robust, full-flavored wines. The Madeira Clubs became the foundation for America's culinary traditions. Today, heated aging-tanks, known as estufas, or premium sun-soaked vinhas de canteiro have long replaced the cask-conditioning of epic sea voyages. Auctions attract attention and steep prices for salvaged or antique bottles, but more often Madeira remains overlooked on shelves of wine merchants.

James Held. Have Some Madeira, M'dear! . December / January 2008.

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