I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

Sitting opposite us, the dark-suited, dark-haired figure waved an elegant hand at the bottle of white Burgundy which he’d just fished out of a carrier bag and planted on the table with the air of a conjuror at a party. “You’ll like this,” he said; it was a statement, not a suggestion, delivered in a faint accent with American overtones and a hint of gutturality. In this totally unremarkable West London pub, a bottle of Meursault looked as out of place as a KGB officer. Which he was. We did like it, of course, who wouldn’t? It made the greasy steak and chips almost bearable, and was one of the best wines I’d ever tasted at that point in my life. I was 33 that year, 1978, and as a newish BBC foreign correspondent I wasn’t particularly well paid. He’d brought the Meursault with him to show us how sophisticated he was, and to counter the blandness of the food. But why had he suggested The Mitre as a place for lunch? It was handy for the Soviet embassy up the road, certainly; but I realised that the real attraction for him was the high-backed seats that enclosed our table and kept our conversation private. Sergei was a major in the KGB, masquerading as a press attaché. The habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in him. The Meursault started to work on my companion, a gossipy, amusing, slightly naïve BBC executive. It worked on me, too, but under the influence of alcohol I tend to go quiet and introverted. Not so Harry. He delivered the brief lecture about Soviet harassment of our Moscow correspondent which he’d been planning. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t make Sergei burst into tears. On the contrary. “Ah, yes, the famous Declan.” Sergei managed to put the accent on the second syllable. “Such good Russian. A pity he wastes his time hanging around those drop-outs and wastrels.” I was particularly impressed by ‘wastrels’. “I suppose you mean dissidents,” I said, pushing my glass across for more Meursault. The label read ‘1968’; the Soviet embassy must have had a superb cellar. Sergei laughed scornfully and poured. “I hear Declan’s marriage isn’t going so good now,” he said. “Ah, no, his wife left him for an airline pilot,” Harry replied, giggling. I kicked him sharply: you didn’t feed personal details about your colleagues to KGB officers. “What?” Harry said, looking at me. We saw the bottle out. Sometimes I think I can still taste that rich, green-gold collection of butter, almond, citrus and, could it have been, or is it just my imagination after more than 40 years, hints of bracken and mayflower. At the end, we stood up and shook hands. “So you’ll go easy on Declan from now on?” Harry said. “Well, Declan must stop creating bad propaganda against the Soviet Union.” He had a good ear: this time the accent was on the first syllable. Sergei turned in the direction of the embassy, and we headed back to Television Centre. “Bloody good wine those Russkies can afford,” Harry said, and gave his high-pitched laugh.For journalists and spies, booze is a famous lubricant, a fuel, even. I came from a teetotal background, yet when I started as a foreign correspondent I soon found myself ordering a glass of single malt as a means of self-protection, while someone I was trying to pump for information opened up and talked in a way he or she never would if I’d ordered a Britvic orange. Yet there were exceptions. In Belfast and Derry, where I started my reporting career, the leaders of the Provisional IRA were mostly ultra-Catholic and never drank a drop; and as I branched out and began reporting on the Middle East, I found that organisations like Hezbollah and the followers of the Ayatollah were as teetotal as I had once been. There were no bars to meet them in, either. Fortunately, though, cities like Cairo and Beirut were more sophisticated. I soon found that anywhere with a sizeable Christian population, Egypt and Lebanon, of course, but also Syria, Iraq and westernised countries like Turkey and Pakistan, made allowances for thirsty westerners and permitted them to drink, even if in cities like Peshawar you had to sign a big leather volume and register yourself as an alcoholic. The bar in the old Commodore Hotel in Beirut was a wonderful centre for professional alcoholics of this kind. I first went there in June 1982, when West Beirut was under hourly attack from Israeli planes and tanks, and there were no shelters to protect us. The presiding spirit of the place was a correspondent called Chris Drake, a hospitable soul who dispensed booze and information even-handedly. When the barrage was going on, it would have been suicidal to leave the Commodore, and the building shuddered to every nearby explosion. Chris Drake had a parrot, and when the bar was packed in the evening with journalists glad to still be alive, it would imitate the sound of a shell in flight with startling accuracy. Most of the people there, not me, thank God, had walked into the bar on their first night, heard the parrot’s hugely convincing whistle, and thrown themselves on the floor shouting “Incoming!”. There would be a roar of laughter, and someone would help them up and offer them a glass of arak, an infusion of grapes and the seeds of the anise plant. I acquired a real taste for arak at that time, and I still think of that slightly oily, metallic, liquorice-tasting liquid hitting the back of my throat and burning its way down. A few years later, during another upsurge of fighting, the Commodore was heavily shelled by the Syrian army. The building was destroyed, and no trace of the parrot was ever found. When peace was restored and there was money around, the Commodore was rebuilt, much bigger and more glitzy, but the architect designed a new bar precisely where the old one had once been. You can still see the space on the floor where many a famous journalist measured his length when the parrot did its party trick. I took my wife and 13-year-old son there a couple of years ago, and one afternoon, when the bar was empty, my son insisted on re-enacting the whole thing. In China, things were different. Meetings with underground figures usually took place at their homes or outdoors, given the fear of surveillance. I often chose Ritan Park in Beijing, where teahouses served pu-erh tea and offered a discreet place to talk. By contrast, official meetings required alcohol, specifically Maotai, a fierce baijiu distilled from sorghum at over 50% ABV. At one banquet, after being insulted by a local Party official, I tried to outdrink him. The plan failed, he had help, but we still ended the night collapsed together, singing in two languages. The next day, I was told this had enhanced British prestige. Countries where alcohol is banned present different challenges. In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I smuggled in a 27-year-old bottle of Laphroaig disguised as Fanta, only to pour it down the toilet when soldiers began searching rooms for alcohol. They never entered mine. After the fall of the Soviet Union, I tried to track Sergei down but never found him. Before that, though, I had taken my revenge by signing him up to every unwanted mailing list I could find, encyclopaedias, dubious magazines, and more inventive subscriptions besides. It made me feel very good.And yet, if I imagine meeting him again, I always picture the same thing: Sergei standing in the doorway, holding a superb bottle of Meursault. For that, at least, I’ve always been grateful. This article was written by John Simpson, who reflects on his experiences reporting across the world, and the role alcohol has played in the art of face-to-face reconnaissance. Illustrations by Natsko Seki. Originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson reflects on reporting from conflict zones, recalling memorable bars, encounters and the role alcohol plays in the subtle art of face-to-face reconnaissance.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson on bars, encounters and how alcohol shapes reporting, trust and intelligence gathering worldwide.

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

Situata nel cuore della Côte d’Or, la collina di Corton domina il paesaggio, ma i suoi vini, soprattutto i bianchi, sono spesso sottovalutati. Abbiamo incontrato i principali produttori della zona per esplorarne il pedigree e il potenziale, tra vini potenti e di grande longevità.

Discover the pedigree and potential of the hill of Corton’s whites – the fine Chardonnay from Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Exploring Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Corton-Charlemagne: il Grand Cru del futuro?

Wine writer Tamlyn Currin is well known for her love of off-the-beaten track wines, in particular wines from Germany. FONDATA asked her to consider why it is that Riesling fans (of which she is most certainly one) are so much more zealous than fans of other grape varieties.

Examine Riesling's authenticity as a terroir ambassador and its varied styles. Dive into its global celebration and why it's cherished by enthusiasts. 


FONDATA: Exploring Riesling's popularity

Riesling, it’s a tribal thing

 When the UK entered the first coronavirus lockdown in March 2020, there was a sense that the end of long, thoughtful, funny and serious conversations was dangerously close. Over a Zoom call, sat at our respective kitchen tables, F+R’s Patrick O’Connor, creative director Alan Aboud and myself, a journalist and editor, started to wonder if we could work together in some way to explore topics usually explored at the communal tables that were sadly empty.  The first project we worked on together marked the 90th birthday of iconic Lebanese winemaker Chateau Musar and the simultaneous publishing of a book celebrating the winery by Académie du Vin Library. Working together with music consultant Leo Walton, we conceived a package of content for FINE+RARE’s website to coincide with F+R’s exclusive release of various mixed cases of Chateau Musar vintages going back to the 1960s.  As part of the content package, I wrote three articles for the F+R website, and worked with Leo to create four Spotify playlists featuring Lebanese music from the relevant decades of the Musar vintages being released: the 1960s, 1970s, 2000s and 2010s. Leo and I also suggested the potential to add more cultural context to both the wine and our selection of music by producing a podcast in which we interviewed a Lebanese musician about musical culture and heritage in the region. We explored various ideas before interviewing two members of the Beirut Groove Collective – a group of DJs with a reputation for unearthing records from the 1960s, 70s and 80s and giving them a new audience. We asked the DJs to give us the low down on their legendary all-night vinyl-only parties in Lebanon’s capital, and about Beirut’s surprisingly vibrant music scene throughout the Civil War (1975-1990). We also asked Ernesto about his new reissue project with BBE Records and the first release in the series: Ihsan Al-Munzer’s 1979 synth-led Belly Dance Disco album.  This idea – of creating original editorial content that proactively ventured into topics in and adjacent to the worlds of fine wine and spirits in order to enrich the FINE+RARE experience – immediately appealed to all involved. Between us, we started to flesh out the idea for a new content platform that could explore and commission stories that took advantage of our combined knowledge, skillsets and networks, plus FINE+RARE’s access to the best producers and most interesting personalities driving quality in the worlds of fine wine and exceptional spirits.  While the concept was always for FONDATA to be a multi-media platform whereby we would produce content in whatever medium seemed most relevant to a given subject matter – podcast, video, blog or print – we focused our initial efforts on producing a large-format, print journal. It would provide a brilliant canvas for us to commission the best writers, photographers and illustrators, and it would also be the perfect format to function as a physical mission statement, something we could send to F+R customers. Doing this in 2020, when we were in lockdown, seemed like a great way to maintain connection and morale in an unprecedented moment in living memory. We formed a small ‘bubble’ to sit, appropriately distanced, in Patrick’s back garden in Hackney to brainstorm the idea and start mapping out what stories we could potentially commission for our first FONDATA journal. For the inaugural issue, one story in particular was pivotal to realising our ambition: commissioning American essayist, author and regular contributor to The New Yorker, Adam Gopnik to write a piece for us. In his book, Paris to the Moon (Quercus, 2000), Gopnik likens Jean-Philippe Derenne’s L’Amateur de Cuisine book (Éditions Stock, 1996) to “a medieval almanac, offering a timeless, secure, benevolent universe of food.” In our initial conversations, we’d identified Wine Grapes, A complete guide to 1,368 vine varieties, including their origins and flavours (Allen Lane, 2012) – the weighty 1,240-page tome authored by Jancis Robinson MW, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz – as a book we’d love to celebrate in some way. We wondered if Gopnik would be as enamoured with the book as much as Derenne’s and if he’d write something for us about it and its value to wine lovers and gastronomes alike. We duly sent him a copy of Wine Grapes (clothbound and slipcased) and a note introducing ourselves and outlining FONDATA’s ambition. He loved the book and the idea for the piece, so we contacted Jancis to ask if she would be happy to be interviewed by Adam. It turned out they were both fans of each other’s work. Our first feature was underway. But how would we present the piece? What would FONDATA look like? Alan asked Jancis if she would agree to be our cover star for our first issue. When she agreed, we had to work out how to bring the inaugural cover to life. “Gavin Bond popped into my head,” Alan, recalls, of the task at hand, “as he has become the ‘go-to’ photographer for celebrity portraits, especially in the film and fashion business. I felt Jancis deserved that status and reverence. Of course, the wine world reveres her, but no wine journal seems to be able to look beyond a shoot involving wine bottles and grapes.”   With Gavin Bond on board, the next step was to think about the shoot itself. “We enlisted the help of a wonderful floral design company, Studio Lupine,” Alan explains of his art direction. “We briefed Raggie Furuseth, the designer, to create a wildly original space in which Jancis could be photographed. The resulting portrait is a stunning and sensitive study of one of the world’s most learned and charming wine writers in her prime.” Another crucial part of our first issue planning was around design concepting and setting out our production values. As a kind of guiding light, Alan and I had adopted a mantra: “This isn’t a magazine”, as FONDATA would have none of the concerns of a regular magazine. We didn’t want to print on flimsy paper. We didn’t want to create something predictable or ephemeral, but rather an object that felt it had more permanence, more lasting value. FONDATA, we were all very clear, would strive from the outset to be a joyous, opulent celebration of cerebral, long-form editorial content.  Alan began working with his studio designer, Haley Austin, exploring different oversized formats, experimenting with page layouts and type treatments to realise his vision for how FONDATA would look. At the same time, he commissioned Rick Banks of Foundry 37 to create a bespoke logotype for FONDATA’s masthead based on his F37 Caslon typeface. We also adopted F37 as our core typeface for body copy, and to use at large scale for feature headlines and beautiful, full-page pull quotes.  In terms of our editorial direction, we were keen from the offset to commission editorial that explored evergreen (and ever-fascinating) topics. What does it mean to collect? How has the pandemic affected our lifestyles, and how much of that is positive? How do ideas germinate, and how does genius emerge? How important is history and tradition to innovation and revolution? What are the most significant drivers and the biggest hurdles for excellence? Once the Gopnik feature was in the proverbial bag, we set to work commissioning an issue full of features that we hoped would appeal to a wine-loving audience but not feel like we were trying to sell them something.  We approached Jancis Robinson’s co-authors of Wine Grapes, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz, to call out five relatively obscure grape varieties from around the world to champion them and the producers making remarkable wines with them. We also commissioned botanical artist Sarah Jane Humphrey to illustrate each variety.  We asked the former director of London’s Design Museum, Deyan Sudjic OBE, to contemplate the history of social spaces. To accompany his feature, we asked him to approach a number of highly regarded architects and interior designers to illustrate their visions of social spaces of the near future. As a result, we soon added John Pawson, AB Rogers, Paloma Strelitz, and Jon Marshall to our list of contributors. We tasked journalist and author Dylan Jones OBE with critiquing wine’s critical landscape, connecting him with some of the world’s leading wine writers and critics to discover how the pandemic had reshaped their work lives and lifestyles.  Author and historian (and one of the most elegantly dressed gentlemen about town) Nicholas Foulkes very literally wrote the book on cigars. His son, Max, is a Master of Havana and works at Davidoff in Mayfair. And it was Nicholas’ father-in-law who first introduced him to the pleasures of cigar smoking. Especially for our first issue, Nicholas pondered the joy of his relationship with his sons and the idea of passing cultural knowledge and enthusiasms from one generation to the next. We commissioned Julian Broad to shoot a portrait of Nicholas with his sons.  I spent time talking with restaurateur-turned winegrower Alex Xu and wrote a piece about how he’d come to completely reshape his future by planting three hectares of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay vines in the foothills of the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain in China’s most idyllic province. I also interviewed Waterford distillery owner Mark Reynier to find out how (and why) he’s bringing notions of terroir, traceability and transparency to the fore in the world of single malt whisky.   Meanwhile, British chef and food writer Thom Eagle contemplated the value of spending more, rather than less, time in the kitchen, and artist Stewart Walton illustrated the piece.  We commissioned educator and business guru Germana Di Falco to interview fashion designer Brunello Cucinelli about his philosophy to business and life itself, and we engaged British-born, LA-based writer and critic Geoff Dyer to chart the slow journey towards appreciation of and reverence for well-chosen wine. The issue signs off with a Letter from California penned by winemaker Maya Dalla Valle, who reflects on her 11-year journey to become the winemaker at her family’s celebrated vineyard in Napa. The resulting inaugural issue is everything we hoped it would be. As Patrick says in his publisher’s letter on its very first page, it is a celebration. One that delivers rich, engaging editorial content in a format that feels lavish and collectable in and of itself. “It is also a collective,” he continues. “The best minds brought together to tackle the subjects that captivate, so arresting in their absence – experience, space, people and family. [This issue] became a journey into the sound of the things that matter to the soul of the collector, the reasons things exist, the FONDATA.”

FONDATA Editor Gavin Lucas on the content platform’s journey from ideation to realisation

Exploring how the FINE+RARE Group created FONDATA, a unique wine and spirits content platform

The FONDATA genesis story

FONDATA: The genesis story

America’s native spirit has never been in greater demand. After years in the doldrums with production at record lows of 500,000 barrels per year, Bourbon is experiencing one of the greatest Cinderella stories in the modern spirits industry era. At last count, the number of barrels maturing in the United States had swelled to 10.3 million per year, which is a whopping 436% increase since 1999.   The reasons for the pendulum swinging back in Bourbon’s favour are multiple. The introduction of the first single-barrel Bourbon from the mid-1980s, coupled with the classic cocktail revival in the late ’90s to early ’00s, started to pique interest. Within a few short years, the Old Fashioned cocktail and brands like Blanton’s and Pappy Van Winkle were appearing front and centre in some of the biggest TV shows and films in America. Drinkers and the wider whiskey world were starting to wake up to the fact that Bourbon was a seriously good spirit. Producers couldn’t fill barrels fast enough. There was new dawn for high-priced, collectable American whiskey – and bottlings were soon like gold dust.   “Right now, in Kentucky, if I go to a liquor store, I can’t find our products on the shelves,” Drew Mayville tells me. “They are all gone. People have bought them or they don’t even make it to the shelf.”  Mayville has worked in the alcohol industry for over four decades, for the first 23 years at Seagram’s (before “it was put up for sale and my bubble burst”) and for the past 18 years at Sazerac, which produces some of the most coveted Bourbons on the market (think Pappy’s, Blanton’s, E H Taylor and Eagle Rare) at its Buffalo Trace distillery in Kentucky.   “People think [the Bourbon boom] happened overnight but it didn’t,” the Master Blender and Director of Quality says.   “I would say about 10 or 15 years ago it started to make its cycle back to favour,” he adds. “Even Pappy Van Winkle, which is one of the most sought-after Bourbons that we make, didn’t happen overnight.”   Mayville has witnessed the cyclical nature of drinking trends throughout his career and seen the various booms and busts in the United States as tastes moved from dark spirits to white spirits and back again. He believes one of the reasons Bourbon is so popular right now is largely down to its approachability.   “American whiskey tends to be very palatable,” Mayville explains in his Canadian drawl. “Scotch is more of a learned taste; lots of people drink Scotch around the world because they are so used to it.  “Part of the reason that Bourbon is very palatable is the corn. It provides a lot of that sweet fruitiness,” Mayville adds.   In order to be called Bourbon, the spirit needs to be made from at least 51% corn. The second grain in 95% of Bourbon produced is rye, which gives it a spiciness. The other 5% of Bourbon has wheat in place of rye – these wheated Bourbons are softer, as the fruit notes from the corn are accentuated by the addition of wheat. (Straight rye whiskey is also made from corn and rye, but with the rye dominating, meaning it can’t be classed as Bourbon.)   Contrary to popular belief, Bourbon can be made anywhere in the United States but 95% of Bourbon is produced in Kentucky. Bourbon must be distilled no higher than 160 proof (80% alcohol) and matured in newly charred oak barrels.   Despite its current popularity, Bourbon does have a long distilling tradition; it was first produced in Kentucky in the 1780s when distillers discovered charring barrels mellowed corn whiskey. After a strong start, Bourbon struggled during the two World Wars and was heavily affected by the temperance movement and Prohibition in the United States. Sales recovered by the middle of the century and American whiskey entered something of a golden age in the 1950s.  Unfortunately, this prosperous period was short-lived when drinkers once again turned their backs on brown spirits in favour of white spirits in the 1960s and early ’70s, kickstarting the vodka revolution that has only recently started to wane. This about-turn resulted in the first American whiskey surplus – known as a lake in world whiskey and loch in Scotland. Producers were left with gallons upon gallons of surplus whiskey and inevitable closures followed.   “We kinda skipped a generation and now we’re going back that way,” Mayville says stoically.  Now, with sales more buoyant than ever, there is a rush to ramp up production – fast. Sazerac is in the process of spending an eye-watering $1.2 billion on the Buffalo Trace distillery in Frankfort, Kentucky. A new column still, cookers and boilers are all being installed to double capacity. New, 60,000-barrel warehouses – the largest in Kentucky – are also being built every four or five months, at a cost of circa $30 million. This is scale on an unprecedented level.   Buffalo Trace is not alone in this endeavour. Producers of Old Forester and Woodford Reserve Brown-Forman are increasing their distillery space, and the makers of Four Roses have spent more than $50 million on expansion. Global spirits behemoth Diageo has also invested a reported $115 million on a new distillery and four warehouses with a total capacity of 330,000 barrels for its Bulleit Bourbon and other, as yet unannounced American whiskey brands.  “We’ve been making more and more every single year but it’s just never enough,” Mayville tells me.   “It’s a lot of money and it’s a big risk because if people don’t buy the product in 10 years from now, you’re going to have a lake of whiskey,” Mayville adds with knowing caution.   It’s hard to imagine the current Bourbon boom going bust when producers are showing such confidence in the category and bottlings such as Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve can sell on the secondary market for upwards $20,000, but there are no guarantees.   For Mayville, this change in fortunes is a real boon but his real focus is on the quality of the liquid and innovation at the stills – the sales figures are somebody else’s concern.    “The part that really excites someone who has been around as long as I have is doing new things and innovation,” he says with glee. Much to this industry veteran’s delight, this creativity is championed at the very top of his organisation.   “We can go away, do experimentations, spend money, and not even tell anyone – and it’s actually encouraged,” he says, still clearly unable to believe his good fortune.  Mayville says the American drinks market is great at keeping him honest, always expecting something that wows and excites them.  “We’re always, always trying to innovate, embrace that change, and try and make better products,” he adds.“ We run so many different experiments, trying to make better whiskeys. It’s hard to list them because there are so many. There are thousands of barrels ageing right now that are experiments.”   One of his most recent experiments was the Colonel EH Taylor 4 Grain, which was named one of the best whiskeys in the world in 2017 by Jim Murray in his Whisky Bible.    “You can’t predict exactly what’s going to happen,” the Master Blender says humbly. “We’re doing so many experiments – another one could well be one of the best whiskeys in the world.”   With creative genius like Mayville at the helm of some of these distilleries, continually striving for quality, it’s hard to see the Bourbon gold rush ending any time soon. One thing that is for sure, though, is whiskey lovers and collectors will continue to scramble for what little Bourbon there is on the market until distillers can mine their liquid gold. Browse all American whiskey or read more Editorial 

After some very challenging years, American whiskey producers feel like they’ve struck gold. Demand for Bourbon is at an all-time high and distillers can’t pump out enough liquid to meet a seemingly unquenchable thirst. Holly Motion investigates the Bourbon boom 

Exploring the reasons for the current Bourbon boom in the United States with Buffalo Trace’s Drew Mayville, who produces Pappy Van Winkle, Blanton’s and more

Exploring the Bourbon whiskey boom

Gold rush: the Bourbon boom

The knife is a descendant of the sword, that emblematic and destructive weapon of war. We learn to respect it from an early age. Though powerful and dangerous, this day-to-day working tool is the one item in the culinary arsenal used to cut flesh in the preparation of food. Fingal Ferguson of the renowned Gubbeen cheese family in Ireland, and maker of world-class knives, remembers his mother Giana in the early days of his parents’ farmhouse cheese revival in the 1970s, cutting the curds with her grandfather’s dressage sword on the side of the Aga. It was not, however, this splendid, dramatic rapier that triggered his passion for the craft, but a hobby that grew out of butchering. Ferguson’s handsome handcrafted knives, which he started making 20 years ago, come in all shapes and sizes from small paring knives to cleavers, and have acquired cult status at home and abroad. They are coveted by those who love cooking – from domestic cooks to celebrity chefs – and those who value craftsmanship and beauty, not to speak of functionality, in the tools they use. His collection, full of character, ranges from high quality satin hand-finished steel to the higher end Damascus patterned blades with handles carved from maple, beech, chestnut, bog oak, spalted poplar, alder, Micarta (a composite), carbon fibre, buffalo horn and, more unconventionally, compressed rock-hard Donegal tweed, and gemstone turquoise.  These knives are much in demand – at one point in 2017 he had 980 people on the waiting list. Francis Mallmann – the world-renowned Argentinian, Michelin-trained, Patagonia-loving chef famous for open fire cooking – declared Ferguson’s knives the best, and ordered a set of 22, one for each of the tasks in his kitchen. “He is one of my heroes as I love cooking with fire,” Ferguson reveals when we meet in his workshop on the family farm not far from the fishing village of Schull in west Cork, one sunny September morning. Located far out on the most south-westerly tip of Ireland, nestled beneath Mount Gabriel with breathtaking views across the Atlantic to Fastnet Lighthouse, Coney Island and Cape Clear, Gubbeen (which means little bite) is a 250-acre coastal farm with a 140-strong cheesemaking herd of Friesian, Holstein, Jersey and Kerry cows that graze peacefully in the surrounding fields. It is here Ferguson grew up and became in turn a farmer, cheesemaker, butcher, charcuterie-maker, knifemaker, husband and father.  “I was two and a half when mum and dad started making cheese, so I grew up with it. The farm is the backbone of everything we do, and you are either mucking about in the yard or putting on whites to clean the cheese,” he says with a smile. Tousle-haired, dressed in a bleu de travail workman’s jacket, followed by his border terrier, Mouche, he shows me around the farm where the cheesemaking is in progress, and to a barn piled high with straw bales at the entrance to his workshop. Flocks of geese and Barbary ducks patrol the yard, undisturbed. A nifty Jack Russell called Sunny makes an occasional appearance, checking out newcomers.   Grounded, thoughtful, practical and creative, Ferguson comes from pedigree stock on both sides of the family. His father Tom was in his twenties when he inherited the farm, run by four generations of resourceful Fergusons, including his great-grandfather who introduced an innovative and successful milking system in the 1880s that benefitted the whole area. Tom’s mother Mary was a founding member of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association and ran one of Ireland’s first farm guesthouses.  Tom met Giana Luke – then in her twenties, of Austro-Hungarian ancestry, and daughter of the playwright Peter Luke – when she was visiting an uncle, a writer living in Inish Beg beyond Baltimore. “I was drifting around with a dog and a tent,” she later recalled. The pair fell in love, married in 1975 and started their life together. “She was a dreamer with a fascinating culinary background, and he was a west Cork farmer and a doer. Opposites attract,” Fingal smiles, adding that his own marriage to Dubliner Ciara Rogerson, a high-powered, Oxford-educated consultant statistician, carries on the family tradition.   Giana’s grandfather, hugely influential in her love and appreciation of food, was the Eton-educated Sir Harry Luke who spent 40 years in the British Colonial Service and dined for England in far flung places like Aleppo, Tonga, Tbilisi, Sierra Leone, Transcaucasia (present day Georgia), Armenia and Azerbaijan. His 1954 book, The Tenth Muse: A Gourmet’s Compendium, is a tour de force of descriptions of the culinary cultures he encountered on his extensive travels. Fingal’s own name he attributes to his parents’ love of Oscar Wilde whose middle name was Fingal – indeed one of his own five children is called Oscar. Memories of growing up between west Cork and occasional trips to his grandfather’s house in Jimena de la Frontera, in Andalusía, Spain, were huge influences: “being immersed in Spanish food and those long tables and robust flavours and if there was no garlic, there was no menu. That Spanish influence led us to preserve food with nothing left to waste. Food preservation was logical – we either share, swap or preserve,” explains Fingal whose self-built smokehouse was a pioneering step in establishing the farm’s charcuterie business. A strong work ethic is part of the Ferguson dynamic. “I was never pushed or forced into farming,” he says. At the Quaker school in Newtown in Waterford where he was educated, “if you were crap at something you were allowed to fail, but you had to compensate somewhere else and I was drawn to hands-on learning like woodwork because I love making things and hate having nothing to do. I can take most machines apart and put them back together again.” Having become the farm’s butcher, he got into knives, and with a family connected to food, needed to learn how to sharpen the tool of his trade properly. After school, when he spent some time in New Zealand “milking 800 cows on the North Island”, he made his first knife, then did a knifemaking and bladesmith workshop with Owen Bush & Bushfire Forge in the UK. “But my real inspiration,” Ferguson reveals, “was the knifemaker Rory Conner up the road here in Ballylickey who had trained with Bob Loveless in the US, one of the world’s top knifemakers. We used to contact Rory for knives for special occasions, for wedding presents – he is a real craftsman. All this led to knifemaking becoming my hobby.” In the workshop furnished with machinery, grinders, belts and assorted tools, Ferguson gives me a lesson in knifemaking, explaining that it has two essential parts – the metallurgy “taking the steel to make a blade and how different steels make different things. And the second part is the handle which can be classic or crazy – we live our personalities in our things, so you can have a carbon steel knife with a jet-black bog oak handle sitting right next to a shiny Damascus steel knife with a vibrant multicoloured handle.” Strangely, most of the parts of the knife are named after parts of the body – the belly, the throat, the cheek, the heel and the spine. Sheets of steel of different types are stacked in a corner of the workshop. The painstaking method of making a knife begins, Ferguson carefully explains, when suitable steel is cut and drilled into the shape of the blade, and he shows me the design of the blade marked out on the steel. “It then goes into a kiln for a short specific period at temperatures as high as 1,080ºC depending on the type or process. It is at these temperatures where the magic of metallurgy takes place and we can transform it from soft into hard steel. It is then quenched or cooled rapidly as a key part of the process. After some little adventures with the tempering cycles which balance the hardness and makes the knife more useable, it is ready to become a blade, ready for more grinding and thinning out, defining the edge and then polishing ready for the handle.” Demanding skill and precision, “you could be hours making a knife – and the level of obsession will determine the outcome,” he adds. The level of workmanship in a knife can, in turn, inspire a reverence that affects how its owner wields it. Some of Ferguson’s knives are made from Damascus pattern welded steel which adds an eye-catching beauty when polished and etched – these steels can be outsourced or, as he explains, makers can go through the lengthy, highly skilled and more advanced process that involves more than 60 layers of lamination and that can take years to master. Japanese knifemakers, in particular, have embraced these skills, drawing on Japan’s great historical swordsmithing tradition; when the Samurai were forbidden to carry weapons, their swordmakers turned their craftsmanship to making cutlery instead. “One of the interesting psychological things about a Japanese-influenced knife, with its hidden tang design, is that you might treat the knife differently, use it differently,” says Ferguson. “Images will be conjured up of the precise, thoughtful and accurate knife skills of the Japanese.” In some of his work, he draws on such influences to make knives based around thinner edge geometry and around more precise use. “Western knives tend to be sturdier for more general use.”  Ferguson believes that “a knife is either practical or emotional. You can have a Damascus steel knife, beautiful to look at, but another with a broken handle may be your go-to knife. Knifemaking has to do with weight, balance, edge geometry and geometry. A knife goes through the ultimate form of abuse – every day it is wet and dry. It might be left on top of the cooker. There is a knife for every job in the world and that’s what makes our life so interesting. With all these different knives there is an element of creativity that allows for specialisation and so many elements that one can get obsessed about. One of the easiest knives for a cook to use, with an edge like a razor blade and a light handle, can be the first knife to break if used to cut up bones, so the boundaries and capabilities are endless.” His views on popular TV shows about knifemaking are interesting. “Forged in Fire is not aimed at knifemakers, just as MasterChef is not for chefs. These are shows for lay people that give you a little insight wrapped in drama, and help them learn about your world. The most important process is the attention to detail.”  He stores materials for the handles in a disused kiln and describes how they are attached to the blade with Loveless bolts. “These countersink nuts into the hole in the handle so as you tighten them, they become like a clamp. The bolster area is the most vulnerable area of the knife, so you are strengthening the bolt hole at its weakest point.” Back at his house – a beautiful building dressed in stone from Mount Gabriel, with mesmerising views of the sea – Ferguson keeps the finished knives in wooden boxes in an upstairs room away from the chaos of children’s toys and a busy kitchen downstairs. This is where orders are dispatched, packaged in heavy-duty canvas rolls, tied in a similar fashion to his charcuterie netting, and stamped with his logo: crossed knives that form the shape of a capital F. The appeal of Ferguson’s knives is stunningly obvious. But despite huge demand, his output isn’t set to increase any time soon. “After one of my knives became a viral sensation on social media, I had more than a thousand people wanting it, so I could spend the rest of my life making them. But the knifemaking side of the business has become a way in which I can channel my creativity.”  Ferguson invests a range of emotional energies into the knives he makes, each of which is a unique creation. “You can be gung-ho and vent if you are tired or emotional – or, if in a calm mood, you can be precise and careful. There is also a point where you can cut yourself or break the knife, so there is room and a role for every state of mind.” It is a delicate balance, and he feels blessed in that people want these knives, but they are not something that can be mass produced.  His profile has led to some odd demands. He has been asked for knives with handles made from the wood of a sentimental apple tree, or to be bejewelled with precious gems. He’s even been asked to work gold into the process of making a blade. “You can go to extreme lengths, and part of me wants the knives I make to go up on a wall and be displayed. You can have your haute couture of knives, and indeed the ones I’ve done now are very different; there is an evolution because I’m part of a community of knifemakers. Another part of me wants to see my knives on family tables being used every day.” While he is happy to work to specific requests from his clients, Ferguson is a man in tune with the fluidity of process, and the never-ending learning curve. “You can spend your life becoming a cheesemaker, gardener, farmer, making really good silage for the cows, but these are adaptable moving targets and as soon as you feel you know everything, you realise how much you don’t know – it is a process of continual learning and that’s how food led to the knives. The handmade knife is a tool that makes sense to a cook like a Mont Blanc pen to a writer. Carpenters respect their chisels. You don’t need to buy a handmade knife unless it is something that brings you pleasure. But you want people to enjoy the knife for what it is. Rory (Conner) always said that a good knife should be recognisable in the pitch dark – that you should know which way is up.” This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Fashion editor and author Deirdre McQuillan meets Fingal Ferguson to find out how butchery inspired him to become a knifemaker.


FONDATA: A Descendant of the Sword

A Descendant of the Sword 

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Questo è il prezzo che hai pagato per questo articolo.

Prezzo di costo

Dopo aver aggiunto il nuovo indirizzo, verrai reindirizzato a questa pagina.

Crea un nuovo indirizzo

La tua notifica verrà eliminata. Sei sicuro di voler continuare?

Il prezzo minimo al quale sei disposto a vendere. Se il prezzo di listino scende al di sotto di questo valore, la tua inserzione verrà rimossa.

mostra tutti gli articoli che hai pre-ordinato, inclusi i vini en primeur, e tutti gli articoli nella tua watchlist.

Futures

È possibile impostare un prezzo minimo per gli articoli in vendita basato su una percentuale del valore netto unitario attuale.

Puoi impostare un prezzo di mercato per gli articoli che stai vendendo basato su una percentuale del valore netto unitario corrente.

mostra tutte le azioni che hai effettuato sugli articoli nel tuo Portafoglio.

raggruppa ogni azione per tipo - Acquisto, Vendita, Consegna e Trasferimento in entrata - così è chiaro a colpo d'occhio cosa è successo a ciascun articolo.

Storico

mostra tutti gli articoli attualmente in transito da o verso {shortName}.

In transito

La consegna locale è gratuita per ordini superiori a 1.800 HK$ (in un'unica destinazione). Per ordini inferiori a questo importo, la consegna costa 150 HK$ fino a quattro casse e 50 HK$ per ogni cassa aggiuntiva.

Le spedizioni partono da €15 in Italia e da €45 verso la Svizzera e il resto d’Europa per un massimo di 48 bottiglie (75 cl). I costi variano in base alla destinazione. Per spedizioni più grandi è possibile richiedere un preventivo.

La data indicata di seguito è quella in cui il tuo ordine verrà spedito dal nostro magazzino locale. La data di consegna finale, insieme ai dettagli completi di tracciamento, ti verrà fornita una volta che il nostro team avrà elaborato la tua richiesta.

Puoi organizzare il ritiro presso il nostro negozio al 22° piano, 8 Wyndham Street, Central Hong Kong.
Gli orari di ritiro sono dalle 9:30 alle 18:00, da lunedì a venerdì.

Puoi organizzare il ritiro presso il nostro magazzino STI INTERNAZIONALE SPA, in Viale del Lavoro 57, 37051 Bovolone, Verona.
Gli orari di ritiro sono dalle 8:30 alle 12:30 e dalle 13:30 alle 17:30, dal lunedì al venerdì. Siamo chiusi nei giorni festivi.

Questo è il valore di mercato stimato attuale per questo articolo.

I prezzi impostati manualmente verranno sovrascritti. I vini già inseriti non sono interessati.

Aggiorna tutti i vini non inseriti al prezzo di mercato corrente.

Imposta tutto al prezzo di mercato

rappresenta tutti i vini attualmente presenti nel tuo Portafoglio che non sono conservati con noi. Premi l'icona

La mia cantina

Nome

Prezzo netto

Nuovo portafoglio disponibile

Nuovo portafoglio

Non hai alcuna fattura in questo momento.

mostra tutti gli articoli del tuo Portafoglio che sono attualmente sul mercato.

In vendita

mostra tutti gli articoli attualmente presenti nel tuo Portafoglio. Da questa pagina puoi eseguire azioni individuali su di essi.

Panoramica

mostra tutti gli articoli attualmente in attesa di un'azione da parte dell'utente.

In sospeso

Questo è il prezzo di mercato dinamico dell'articolo al netto del margine di negoziazione.

Questo è l'importo del profitto che riceverai se la tua inserzione verrà venduta.

I pagamenti pre-autorizzati consentono transazioni automatiche per tuo conto, garantendo pagamenti fluidi e senza complicazioni. Questo permette di elaborare addebiti ricorrenti, abbonamenti o pagamenti programmati senza approvazione manuale ogni volta.

Il numero di casse che desideri mettere in vendita

Il tuo articolo del catalogo verrà archiviato. Sei sicuro di voler continuare?

I tuoi articoli del catalogo verranno archiviati. Sei sicuro di voler continuare?

Prima di richiedere la consegna, puoi modificare la quantità per ciascun articolo nella tua selezione qui sotto.

*Il prezzo di mercato è dinamico e può variare. Al momento della vendita, dal prezzo finale sarà detratta una commissione di negoziazione del 10%.

Prezzo di mercato totale*

Il prezzo fisso personalizzato al quale desideri vendere ciascun articolo.

Dividi in {caseSize} singole bottiglie da {bottleSize}cl.

Titolo

mostra tutti gli articoli che attualmente conservi con noi. Questi articoli possono essere venduti.

Disponibili per la vendita — gli articoli conservati con {name} sono idonei per essere inseriti nel marketplace.

Profilo

Questo articolo si trova presso FINE+RARE.

Questo articolo si trova presso FINE+RARE HOME Hong Kong, ed è disponibile per la consegna o il ritiro in sede. La maggior parte delle consegne a Hong Kong può essere effettuata entro 3 giorni lavorativi; la data esatta sarà comunicata al momento dell'organizzazione della consegna. Le consegne internazionali richiedono tempi più lunghi, ti preghiamo di contattarci per maggiori dettagli.

I vini venduti en primeur saranno rilasciati dal produttore dopo limbottigliamento, tipicamente 18 mesi dopo la fine della cosiddetta campagna. Il tuo vino sarà poi conservato da FINE+RARE in un deposito doganale fino a quando deciderai di richiederne la consegna.

Ci riforniremo di questo articolo al prezzo garantito dalla nostra rete di fornitori e organizzeremo una spedizione rapida a FINE+RARE.
 I tempi di consegna dipendono da molte variabili, ma in genere per un approvvigionamento rapido sono 2-4 settimane.
 Una volta confermato l'ordine, ti terremo aggiornato sulla data di arrivo prevista.
 Ogni articolo viene controllato all'arrivo dal nostro team di esperti e le fotografie sono disponibili su richiesta (si prega di notare che potrebbero essere applicati dei costi).

Reperiremo questo articolo attraverso la nostra rete di fornitori e ne organizzeremo la spedizione a FINE+RARE.
 I tempi di consegna dipendono da molte variabili, ma una stima media è di 6-12 settimane.
 Una volta confermato lordine, ti terremo aggiornato sulla data di arrivo prevista.
 Ogni articolo viene controllato al momento della ricezione dal nostro team di esperti, con fotografie disponibili su richiesta (si prega di notare che potrebbero essere applicati dei costi).

Noon

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