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Credit: Svetlana Iakusheva / GettyImages
(Image credit: Svetlana Iakusheva / GettyImages)

What is ‘salinity’ in wine?

When discussing the topic recently, a friend said that it sounded horrible – why would anyone want to drink salty wine?

I can see her point. But for those who don’t yet know, salty/saline/salinity are THE words du jour.

A decade ago, saltiness was mostly associated with regions like Jerez, Galicia and Muscadet.

But today, it is seemingly ubiquitous, with winemakers, importers and sommeliers adopting it into their common lexicon.

So how does this feel and taste in a wine? Alice Feiring (in The Dirty Guide to Wine) likens the sense of salinity in wine to that of mineral-rich water, and I couldn’t have put it more perfectly.

Take Vichy Catalan sparkling water. It has an undeniable saline, mineral thwack.

It reminds me of the moment when you add a sprinkle of salt to an under-seasoned dish, only for it to spring to life, suddenly becoming three dimensional, vivid, layered and unashamedly moreish.

I want to argue that wine and its flirtation with salinity is no different. It feels like the wine takes on another dimension, and awakens in you another sensation.

Diving in

When I was commissioned to write on the topic of salinity, I thought I’d explore the intellectual side to salinity in wine, and why it matters.

And so I began the deep-dive, dusting off old books, calling in favours, and reading scientific articles that use phrases like ‘metallic cations’ and ‘feldspar particles’.

I rang winemakers and texted importers. I grilled a friend studying for the Master of Wine.

I chewed the proverbial fat to better grasp the science behind this slippery concept.

Salinity through sapidité

A number of conversations I had raised the idea of sapidity – something akin to umami – that hard-to-pinpoint savouriness, being the driving factor behind the sensation of salinity.

I really resonated with this concept that salinity in wine is felt, like umami in food, rather than tasted.

Jean-Claude Mas of Domaines Paul Mas – an epic Languedoc estate spanning 650ha – talks specifically of his vineyard Marseillette (near Carcassonne), which used to be a lake but was drained in the 18th century.

This expanse of salt-rich land has been planted with a myriad of vines and fruit trees ever since.

He says that the relationship between salinity and wine is an important one – something that has been celebrated and sought after for centuries.

He argues that the high salt content in the clay there gives sapidity to his wines.

The overarching scientific consensus, however, is that vines are unable to sequester any sort of aromatic profile from the ground in which they take their nutrients.

For example, grapes grown in soil high in magnesium don’t smell and taste of magnesium.

Studies by the likes of Professor Alex Maltman (author of Vineyards, Rocks & Soils: The Wine Lover’s Guide to Geology) refute the idea that any nutrients absorbed by vines actually permeate into the final wine.

This argument cuts through the beating heart of wine that is a reflection of terroir – the centuries-long belief that the ground in which the vines grow is somehow the guiding light for the soul of the wine.

This feels a little bit like the vinous equivalent to a child being told that Father Christmas doesn’t exist – and is definitely too large (and emotional?) a topic to dissect or debate right now.

The plot thickens

So I called on Alejandro Muchada of Muchada-Leclepart – the highly regarded biodynamic estate in Jerez known for its strikingly saline wines.

His insights were fascinating, if at times quite complex. Alejandro said that they had long believed that the driving factor to the clear-cut salinity in their wines was drawn from their calcareous albariza soils.

But they were aware that their plot of Muscat – making their Elixir cuvée – was planted on sandy soils and was still noticeably saline.

Similarly, he pointed out, the celebrated potatoes of Sanlúcar de Barrameda – also planted on sandy soils – were famous for their saline undercurrent. The plot thickens.

Where does that distinctive salty twang come from, then, if not the soil? Alejandro cites, ‘the influence of the ocean, through the winds and many dewy mornings, influences the plants and their fruits’.

It is the idea that these environmental factors are a conduit, shaping the microbial life of both the soil and the wine itself, ultimately producing the ‘elements that awaken that [saline] sensation in us’.

A slow nourishing

I was also keen to get the thoughts of one of my favourite winemakers (and producer of salty-edged wines), Jean-Yves Devevey in Burgundy’s Hautes-Côtes de Beaune.

While he jokes that they’re located on land that millions of years ago was indeed a sea, he believes that the topsoil is the key factor to creating the sensation of salinity.

Jean-Yves also farms biodynamically, speaking passionately of the importance of living soil.

He says that allowing his soils to breathe by not using heavy machinery and favouring biodynamic preparations like bouse de corne (also known as preparation 500) promotes this soil activity.

It creates what he describes as a ‘solution du sol’ – a nutrient-rich living solution, drawn from the active soil, nourishing the vine and, he believes, transmitting this saline ‘energy’ into the wines.

Both Jean-Claude and Alejandro agree that the role of viticulture – the fostering of life and biodiversity – is pivotal for this.

Alejandro believes that chemical farming and the disturbing of the soil causes Jerez’s native Palomino grape to lose the intense character and salinity that his vineyards foster.

Jean-Yves and Alejandro talk about how this nourishing, active work continues through to the cellar, where slow, gentle vinification and aging are key to preserving the most natural elements of the wine.

This includes whole-bunch pressing, gravity settling, wild fermentation, extended lees ageing and a very sensitive approach to sulphur additions.

While the heart of salinity is built in the vineyard, their work in the cellar is to cajole and preserve these natural characteristics.

In fittingly French form, Jean-Yves likens it to the measured process of ageing cheese – simply allowing it the time for the natural development of deeper dimensions.

A fifth flavour

Scientific insight supports and deepens our understanding of wine.

But I’m loathe to strip away all sense of allure and romance. I like the idea of some things being a bit ineffable.

At first, I dismissed my reflections on salinity as needlessly emotive.

But I stand reassured hearing my own thoughts echoed in Alejandro’s words: ‘Finally, there’s a deeper reflection I always ask myself: why do we like salinity in wines?

‘It seems to be something universal; in all cultures and throughout history, saline wines have been appreciated.

‘Perhaps it’s that sensation that makes you salivate and invites you to take another sip.

‘Perhaps it’s a memory within us, of our entire history in which we were “ocean” or “sea” and it comes back to us, like a recognition of what we were.’

Wherever salinity comes from (and I am not sure it matters), it is the word of the moment.

And more than that, according to the winemakers, it is an ethereal quality to be savoured. So next time you take a sip of wine, watch out for that fifth dimension.

Amber’s pick of three ‘salty’ wines

Muchada-Léclepart ‘Elixir’, 2022

Shrine to the Vine / Keeling Andrew

£55

An real journey in the glass; a textured body full of notes of toasted almond, citrus peel and of course, a crystalline salinity.

Domaine Ferrandière Grand Vin, 2022

EWW Wines

£15

This is a full, heady wine that is packed with tropical fruit – think mango, pineapple and guava – wrapped in just a hint of oak and underpinned by an elegant saline backbone.

Domaine Jean-Yves Devevey Hautes-Côtes de Beaune 18 Lunes, 2021

Emile Wines

£40

This long-aged cuvée is a stunning take on classical Burgundy; it is taut yet full, giving hints of white pepper, bacon fat and just a hint of salt-laden butter.