Natural wines are the talk of the town in Paris, but for various reasons: some people are irked by the cloud of hipster words around the term ‘natural wine’, others delighted by the prospect of another ‘clean eating’-style fad.

What is natural wine anyway? I got such varying answers from friends — winemakers and wine-drinkers both — that I decided to do some independent research.

The Institut National de l’Origine et de la Qualité, a French governmental organisation in charge of food labelling, is working on a legal definition for the term ‘natural’, but as of now there isn’t one. ‘Natural wine’ generally refers to “organic or biodynamic wines grown with as few chemical or mechanical interventions as possible”, said the organiser at a wine tasting at my local bar and co-op, La Recyclerie. “It is a low-intervention, low-carbon-footprint, artisanal way of farming.”

“Low-intervention?” I queried, trying to hide my second tasting glass behind my coat.

“They take the tractor out in the vines as little as possible,” he said gravely. “Would you like a second glass?”

In the 1980s, during the increasing industrialisation of the wine world, small-scale winemakers in France and Italy returned to older methods. No pesticides or chemicals are used on the vines and no filtration methods (like reverse osmosis) or additives (such as sulphites, which are always bad for migraine sufferers, yeast, oak chips, water, egg whites, fish or pig derivatives) are used in the cellar.

The winemakers rely on the airborne yeast that live on the grapes and in the winery to start fermentation. You’re meant to really taste the microbiology of the soil, sans pesticides, and of the air around. This is all part of a larger trend for organic food, small-batch producers, and artisanal methods. It’s a mix of new ideas and old, with producers going back to 2,000-year-old methods like extended maceration of the grapes with their skins on, and fermentation in amphorae.

Biodynamic producers might also follow ‘holistic’ practices like planting according to the astrological calendar or the phases of the moon and making special ‘compost’ in a cow’s horn. Less mystical biodynamic staples include crop covers, and housing owls in the vines to keep rodents away.

Personally, I don’t mind if you want to sing to the grapes or read them horoscopes, but what effect does it have on the taste of the wine? At the tasting, I couldn’t really tell. Some of the whites were extra-fruity, and a couple of the reds tasted earthier than usual, but I couldn’t find the farmyard tang that people complain about — what Jancis Robinson likened to the smell of a caged hamster. Perhaps these were the low-key end of the barnyard-wine spectrum? I resolved to find some others.

I didn’t have to look too far. Natural wines are everywhere now. Almost every restaurant in Paris offers one or two, while bars like Vivant, Café de la Nouvelle Mairie, Le Vin Au Vert and Le Baratin specialise in them. I can now safely say I’ve tasted the barnyard and non-barnyard ends of the natural continuum. Most natural wines are faintly cloudy in the glass. “It’s ugly but good,” specified the waitress at an oyster bar, before we’d even had a chance to ask. “It’s just not filtered.”

The lack of filtration can give the wine a murky aspect, and even a slight residual fizziness, which should disappear when you swirl your glass. (Unless it’s a ‘pét-nat’, a pétillant-naturel, naturally sparkling wine which is made by bottling and sealing grape juice that is still fermenting, infusing the wine with carbon dioxide.)

“Does your vin naturel smell like cauliflower or squirrel? It needs aeration!” advised a Le Monde article last October — and they are right. Swirling your glass, or letting the wine air in a decanter can bring it back to non-squirrel frequency.

I find I prefer the natural whites: they have a clean, slightly cider-like taste or else a powerful zingy fruitiness: the Haute-Vallée-de-l’Orb is a good one, as is the Domaine des Cognettes, Muscadet. The reds, on the other hand, are much more hit-and-miss: sometimes dense and berry-like, sometimes just vinegary. Still, I did like the Domaine No Control from Vincent Marie in Auvergne and the Côtes du Rhône called Sierra du Sud. And who can resist a wine called French Wine Is Not Dead?

So what’s the downside? Well, winemakers use pesticides, sulphites and chemical filtration to ensure consistency, stability and a longer shelf-life — because buyers don’t like to find their bottles corked. Natural wines can differ each year, and even between bottles in the same case. They need delicate storage and transportation, so they can get expensive.

All this may seem like a lot of unnecessary, holier-than-thou song-and-dance. Does the straightforward process of winemaking (grow grapes, squish grapes, ferment grapes, bottle, drink) need rejigging? Perhaps every industry needs to rethink its environmental impact, and natural wine practices can help us do that. Just as long as they axe that eau de squirrels’-socks note.

Naintara Maya Oberoi is a food writer based in Paris; @naintaramaya

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