For a state that dominates the United States wine industry, California’s winemakers remain largely uninterested in some of wine world’s lesser-known varieties. But this is exactly how Matthew Niess has come to distinguish himself.
Drawn to non-vitis vinifera hybrid and native grape varieties, Niess has pioneered a project of planting dozens of unconventional vines in multiple microclimates in the state, curious to see how they take in a region that typically prefers wines made from the so-called “noble grapes,” the Chardonnays, Cabernet Sauvignons, and others.
Among those vines is a variety with roots that stretch deep into American history. Catawba is its name, and Niess released his first version of his wine sourced from it under his North American Press label, and in a format that will ring a bell for students of America’s viticultural past.
His initial vintage of Catawba isn’t the first result of the grape being grown in California, but it’s the first that’s been grown there in more than a half century.
“There was no Catawba vineyard in California for more than 60 years,” Niess said. “But now there is.”
Long before California dominated American winemaking, a pink-skinned grape was the US’ most celebrated variety — and it earned that reputation, in part, as a sparkling wine. Likely a hybrid of native vitis labrusca and European vitis vinifera, Catawba gained prominence in the early 19th century, especially in the Ohio River Valley.
In the 1830s, Cincinnati lawyer-turned-winemaker Nicholas Longworth began crafting a semi-sweet sparkling Catawba using the traditional méthode champenoise. His wines were an unexpected sensation. Within 20 years, Longworth’s bubbly was winning praise across the Atlantic, with some European critics declaring it a legitimate rival to Champagne. Even Henry Wadsworth Longfellow immortalized it in verse (pdf).
But the high faded. Vine disease, shifting markets, and eventually America’s Prohibition era decimated Ohio’s wine industry. By the early 20th century, Catawba had largely slipped into obscurity, with sparkling versions reduced to regional curiosity — sweet, fizzy, and nostalgic.
In recent years, though, Catawba has begun to resurface. A small number of winemakers, particularly in the Great Lakes and Finger Lakes regions, have begun to reimagine it — not just as a sweet summertime sipper, but as a dry or off-dry sparkling wine with historical pedigree.
Enter Niess’ expression of the wine.
His Catawba vines are grafted onto 20-year-old root stock at a vineyard farmed by Roger King in Suisun Valley, in the old riverbed of Suisun Creek.
“The cool thing that I really love about where they are planted is, for one, they are totally dry farmed,” Niess said. “Water is such a precious resource here that finding varieties that can be productive without irrigation is huge.”
He harvested his first vintage in 2023 from a single row of vines, enough to produce about 25 cases of what he’s named “Pariah.” Incredibly dry, Niess’ sparkling Catawba carries notes of strawberry and rose, delivered — of course — against an energetic flurry of bubbles.
The plan is to expand his Catawba block, as well as his offerings, to include a still rosé version of Catawba.
Reception so far for his sparkling wine has been good, especially among natural wine enthusiasts whose aperture for unconventional stories and tastes make room for wines from off the beaten path. But there have also been those who’ve reacted negatively.
Niess recalled pouring at an event in California for a crowd of more conventional wine drinkers. Normally he might lean into the uniqueness of the grapes from which he sources much of his wine. But reading the room that day, he said he kept off his usual soapbox, opting instead to quietly pour his wines and scrutinize blind reactions. He recalled one incident that struck him.
“You could see in her face she just loved it. Her eyes lit up and there was a smile on her face,” he said.
So he ventured further, explaining more about the grape, its native American roots and heirloom status. The weather of the moment instantly changed.
“She looked at me, she poured it out, and then just walked away — on to next producer,” he said. “So this is what we have to overcome. The problem is overcoming that stigma of what’s in your brain, that hybrid grapes don’t make good wine.”
Niess knows he’s working against a current — not just of climate, but of culture. But that’s precisely what makes his work feel necessary. By reintroducing heirloom varieties like Catawba — and doing so with thoughtfulness, skill, and intention — he offers an alternative narrative about what California wine can be: not just world-class, but distinctly North American.
This isn’t nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It’s a challenge to rethink value. In an era of increasing water scarcity, climate unpredictability, and consumer openness to difference, Niess and others like him see hybrid and native grapes as tools for resilience — and as a creative frontier.
In little sips of these lesser-known wines, there’s a faint signal that the future of American wine could look more like its past than anyone expected. And if that future is a little pink, sparkling, and stubbornly homegrown — even better.