Decoding the Super Tuscan Revolution
Old World and New World Become One World
Wine geeks are familiar with the story: During World War II, when the supply of Bordeaux dried up in Italy, Mario Incisa della Rocchetti decided to make his own. He planted Cabernet Sauvignon vines on his Tenuta San Guido estate in the Maremma region of Bolgheri. The wine was called Sassicaia. It was kept for family consumption and not commercially released until 1968, when it caused a sensation.
The real beginning of the Super Tuscan revolution occurred in 1971, when Marchese Piero Antinori blended some Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc into the first vintage of Tignanello, his flagship Chianti Classico Riserva; he also omitted the traditional white grapes from the approved blend. The 1963 revision of the Italian had set the Chianti recipe in stone: a majority of Sangiovese, a small amount of Canaiolo, and an even smaller percentage of white grapes (usually Malvasia and Trebbiano). Antinori’s innovation sent shock waves through the industry, as the resulting wine couldn’t be labeled as a Chianti Classico. Instead, it bore the designation Vino da Tavola, or table wine, the lowest rank on the Italian classification. These categories meant a great deal back then, and many observers thought that the Marchese—the 24th generation of a wine legacy dating to 1385—had literally gone insane.
As time went on, more and more Italian winemakers began ignoring the regulations. Some used international varieties in their blends, while others ignored the government-mandated recipe and used only Sangiovese. And then a curious thing happened: Italian red wines started selling better in America, and for higher prices.
Before all this, Italian wine didn’t have much traction in the U.S. Most connoisseurs subscribed to the conventional wisdom that it was inferior to its French counterpart and not worth spending money on (even though it was cheap). Of course, there was a profusion of red-sauce restaurants in American cities, neighborhood feeding troughs with checkered tablecloths, and in those establishments, it was customary to order a bottle or glass of Chianti. The advantage of ordering a bottle was that you could take it home, put a candle in it, and transform it into a romantic lamp.
Suddenly, the market seemed flooded with wines critics described as Super Tuscans, although the term had no defined legal meaning. They continued spiraling upward in value and even became de rigeur with collectors. Prices for the current vintages of the top Super Tuscans are far from modest: Sassicaia (2021, $300), Ornellaia (2021, $280), Guado al Tasso (2020, $360),Solaia (2021, $370), and topping out at Masseto (2021, $970).
What happened? In simple terms, the more familiar Italian wine smelled and tasted to Americans, the more popular it became, and varieties such as Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc and Merlot evolved into seemingly standard components of the blend. Eventually, the entire Italian wine classification had to be changed to reflect this phenomenon. The pre-1971 aroma fingerprint of Chianti was red fruit, earth, leather and smoke, with hints of animal musk as the wine aged. Americans don’t want their wine to smell like leather and earth, much less animal musk: They want something they can recognize, or at least vaguely similar to the Cabernet Sauvignon they had last night.
As a former sommelier, I can attest that this reality frequently overlaps into the restaurant world. Sommeliers are trained to discretely pre-qualify a customer who orders an unusual bottle (an older vintage, an obscure grape variety), but there isn’t always time to do this. On several occasions, diners sent back bottles of distinctive Italian wine because someone at the table complained it was too acidic/tannic/harsh/funky. I had opened the bottle prior to the arrival of food, and the guests were expecting a cocktail.
Am I suggesting that there was a profit motivation behind Antinori’s decision to blend Cabernet into Tignanello? Absolutely not. Cabernet appeared in the wines of Carmignano as early as 1600, and by the 19th century the region’s producers had developed a tradition of blending Cabernet Sauvignon with Sangiovese. Despite that, it was a shock in 1971, and Antinori was perceived to be taking a dangerous risk with a 600-year-old legacy.
This is where things become tricky. I can’t recall ever talking to a winemaker who didn’t say that he/she was focused on “planting the right grapes in the right soil.” It’s a mantra, but the truth is there’s more than one suitable grape for nearly every vineyard site. If this weren’t the case, Sangiovese wouldn’t have been celebrated as the traditional red grape variety of Tuscany at the same time as Cabernet was flourishing in Carmignano. Imagine if the American market demanded high-quality Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc in the same proportions as Cabernet Sauvignon: wouldn’t those white grapes be planted in profusion in areas such as Howell Mountain, Mount Veeder and Pritchard Hill? You bet they would. Sometimes there’s a fine line between planting the right grapes in the right soil and planting the grapes the market demands.
Much of the difference between traditional Italian wine and the 2025 version comes down to the contrast between Old and New World. There was once a clear distinction between the two. Old World wine (from France, Italy, Spain, etc.) had an aroma and taste that reflected the region where it was grown; yes, there was fruit underneath, but the first thing to hit your nostrils was usually a reflection of the soil. New World wines (California, Australia, New Zealand) tended to be polished fruit bombs. Old World was made to accompany food, whereas New World fared best on its own as a cocktail. Yes, these are oversimplifications that are growing murkier with time, but the one thing we know about cliches is that they are true.
Is this a bad thing? Are One World Wines something to be criticized and denigrated, or are they the harbingers of the future? A lot of producers don’t care what you think, provided you buy their wine; as long as you’re drinking any sort of wine, there’s a possibility that someday you’ll graduate to something better (White Zinfandel drinkers excluded). So enjoy your Cabernet, regardless of where it comes from.
Agreed. I've been lucky enough to have it twice (didn't buy it, of course...all good journalists are freeloaders)
Fascinating background, thank you. You're correct that I compressed the timeline to make it clearer for the average person (who won't read a 2,000-word blog post because there's too much competing for his/her attention). The emergence of international varieties in Italian wine was certainly a gradual process, although Antinori's inclusion of Cabernet in the 1971 Tignanello was the event that kicked it off. The breakthough vintage for Sassicaia didn't come until 1985, and as late as the early 1990s, Angelo Gaja was still convincing people that Italian wine had a place at the top of the charts as well as at the bottom. It's hard to isolate a tipping point, because we're dealing with diverse consumers in many different markets. But at least you enjoyed your 850-pound lunch ($1100 as of this morning).