Wine savants have their shorts in a knot these days. Big corporations, they complain, are starbucking the little guys, swapping quirky wine styles for a bland sea of sameness. Only the heartless suggest this trend might have a positive side. That it could drive up quality and bring good wine to more people.

In Australia, the mega-wine-corp takeover is daily news. So it seemed like a good place to investigate whether size has anything to do with making good wine. Does small always mean better?

At Shadowfax, a medium-sized winery in Victoria, Matt Harrop is the very model of the winemaker/artiste. Young and idealistic, he seems oblivious, even contemptuous of the market and the current economy. As he sees it, people should be taught to love his wines, to pay more for them, and that’s that. Management can afford to indulge him. And a good thing, too, because the wine is fabulous. Harrop’s enthusiasm is catching. He bounces around the winery like a puppy dog, showing off samples from different vineyards, vintages and techniques. He’s clearly in love with his work.

A small winery in the Hunter Valley eschews all that sentimental flapdoodle. A philosophy emerges as I question them: Why is the fruit wired so high on the vines? It’s easier to pick. Why do you plow the ground in only one direction? The posts stand up better that way. Why do you pump fermented juice back through the must? Because our tanks are built like that. Why are the vines so far apart? Well, it seems the rows are wide because the tractors are wide, and the tractors are wide because the rows are wide, and none of it has anything to do with the wine. Which, for the record, I find short on flavor and tooth-achingly acidic.

But they’re flexible, they assure me. "Our wine maker is no prima donna. Just tell him what changes to make." If only making great wine were as simple as downloading the recipe. You might as well say to Tom Clancy, "I want to write a bestseller. Just tell me which words to type."

Taylors, in the Clare Valley, is one of the largest family-owned vineyards in Australia. (They go by Wakefield in the U.S.) The fermentation tanks would look at home in a Texas oil refinery. Winemaker Helen McCarthy hails from Southcorp, the giant that ate Penfolds, Rosemount and Lindemanns. A long line of pre-poured glasses await me for tasting, along with a nice new notebook and pen. The whole thing screams corporate and soulless. But, what do you know, the wines are not just delicious, but distinctive and complex. What gives?

Both McCarthy and vineyard manager Ken Noak speak passionately about their work. In the vineyards, a vast mosaic of tiny parcels reflects their constant experiments with different grapes, soil formations and row direction. The vines are closely spaced, low and immaculate. In one place they follow a sharp S-curve, as if a giant comb had whipped them around the contours of the hill. I ask if planting like that really makes any difference. Oh, yes, they say. It’s hell on the tractors and workers, but it’s worth it for the wine.

Australia has pockets of ancient vines bearing magic fruit. But the yield gets lower each year until finally it doesn’t pay to farm them. So you pull them out and re-plant. Some wineries do it early on; they’re not running a charity, after all. Others can’t bear to stop squeezing out exquisite wine, even at a loss.

That attitude has nothing to do with size. It’s about passion and commitment. Bacchus is one tough God to serve. He demands both sacrifice and humility. If you don’t respect him, all the business plans in the world won’t get you good wine.

By Jennifer Rosen: http://www.vinchotzi.com