Born from vines so old they creak when the wind blows, Dirk Niepoort’s Charme hails from the shadier corners of Vale de Mendiz — emotionally unreachable 350 meters above sea level.
The grapes are picked indecently early, before they’ve even finished puberty, and foot-stomped into submission in granite lagares by human beings who presumably have very clean feet. The resulting liquid is bled—literally—in a saignée ritual that leaves part of the must to become Port and the rest to become Charme. Is it still Douro or is it trying to be Burgundy? This question doesn’t make much sense, really. Charm is a stern reply to the old-school heavy-handed Douro reds.
Interestingly, the wine itself undergoes 15 separate fermentations — yes, fifteen — before being assembled like a precision weapon inside French oak, some new, most not, as if Dirk Niepoort is trying to whisper, “See? I can behave.” But don’t mistake that for restraint. This is still a wine aged in 500L barriques, fermented in stone, and held together by nothing but nerve and schist. The tannins? Powdered velvet laced with threat. The acidity? Think river stones dissolving into fruit. The structure is tight, polished, a little arrogant, a bit rustic.
The color is diluted blood. The nose is sour cherry.
Officially, Charme is “Burgundy-inspired,” but it doesn’t taste like Pinot Noir so much as it tastes like someone thinking about Pinot Noir while hallucinating red currants in a Portuguese ravine. On the palate, it moves from raspberries to smoke to a flicker of clove before landing, finally, on something rich and long and oddly calm. It’s less a tasting note, more a series of flashbacks.
Is it rustic? Sort of. Is it reductive? Slightly. Is it trying to convert Douro into a religion of delicacy? Very possibly. Look, Douro doesn’t have to be this big alcoholic monster. It’s not Bordeaux, it’s not Cab. Charme isn’t a wine you drink because you’re thirsty, rather because you’re suspicious of reality and need something beautiful to hold onto.
