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  

Xiao-Li Meng, professore di Statistica Whipple V. N. Jones a Harvard e fondatore e direttore responsabile di Harvard Data Science Review, si è lasciato ispirare da uno studente per combinare vino e statistica — ottenendo intuizioni ben oltre quanto entrambi si aspettassero.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Semplicità nelle statistiche, complessità nel vino, il resto nei biscotti della fortuna.

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

I vini Reynaud sono leggendari. Pronuncia "Rayas" a una certa gente e ne svengono. Lo stile unico di questa iconica tenuta di Châteauneuf-du-Pape – pallido, inquietantemente aromatico, dalla consistenza quasi borgognona e incredibilmente longevo – ha un seguito fervente, una cerchia di appassionati di Reynaud desiderosi di scoprire tutto ciò che Emmanuel Reynaud tocca. 
Il fascino rustico della proprietà – ben lontano dai grandiosi edifici di molte tenute famose – unito alla tendenza della famiglia a rifuggire la fama, preferendo dedicarsi alla coltivazione silenziosa delle proprie vigne, ha solo alimentato il fuoco. Nascosti nella parte settentrionale di Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Ch. Rayas e i suoi proprietari sono sfuggenti, il che li rende ancora più ricercati. 
Non mancano gli elogi per questi vini rari e speciali, il cui fascino, dato l'approccio di Reynaud basato sul minimo intervento, sfiora il mondo del vino pregiato e naturale. William Kelley è un fedele sostenitore ed è uno dei tanti a sottolineare l'eccellente performance della proprietà nelle "off-millesimate", dove il profilo distintivo della proprietà traspare, al di là dell'annata e della regione, rivelando il loro "profumo accattivante, le texture sensuali e l'eterna giovinezza". Robert Parker ha descritto il Rayas del 1990 come "uno dei migliori vini rossi giovani che abbia mai assaggiato". Per Nicolas Grainacher (Vinous), "La sostanza, la finezza e l'intensità racchiuse in questi vini rendono difficile non innamorarsene". Neal Martin (Vinous) forse lo ha espresso in modo più conciso: "Dio ha inventato il vino per bere vini come questo". 
La storia dell'impero Reynaud 
Nel 1880, Albert Reynaud, notaio di Avignone, perse l'udito a soli 45 anni. Non più in grado di esercitare la professione di avvocato, acquistò una tenuta a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, in una zona chiamata Rayas, dove trascorse i suoi giorni coltivando viti, albicocche e ulivi. Nel 1910, suo figlio Louis Reynaud assunse la gestione della tenuta. Louis aveva studiato agraria ad Angers ed era particolarmente interessato alla viticoltura. Sradicò alberi per piantare nuovi vigneti e imbottigliò il primo vino della proprietà nel 1920, usando il nome "Rayas", il nome della foresta presente sul loro appezzamento di terreno. Fu l'inizio del Rayas come lo conosciamo oggi. 
Louis aggiunse notoriamente la dicitura "Premier Grand Cru" alle etichette del Rayas, una classificazione autoproclamata del vino, sfidando notoriamente le regole della denominazione (introdotte nel 1936). Conquistando la reputazione e le vendite della proprietà, iniziò a espandere l'attività. Tra il 1935 e il 1938 acquistò Ch. des Tours a Vacqueyras, affidando al figlio Bertrand la proprietà più ampia di 58 ettari a nord-est di Châteauneuf-du-Pape, non lontano dalla città di Orange. Più o meno nello stesso periodo, costruì una nuova cantina e una nuova cantina a Rayas, portando gli edifici entro i confini della denominazione. Dopo la Seconda Guerra Mondiale, nel 1945, Louis acquistò Ch. de Fonsalette, una tenuta più a nord di Orange, a Lagarde-Paréol, e con essa l'intera gamma di proprietà Reynaud era già disponibile. 
Quando Louis morì nel 1978, i vini Reynaud erano tra i più famosi del Rodano. Dopo la sua morte, il figlio minore Jacques rilevò Rayas e Fonsalette, mentre Bertrand continuò a gestire Ch. des Tours. Con il cambio di proprietà a Rayas e Fonsalette, la qualità diminuì leggermente, ma presto Jacques iniziò a produrre vini all'altezza del nome Reynaud. 
Le vecchie vigne di Rayas, piantate su terreni sabbiosi, esposte a nord/nord-est, circondate da una pineta, producono vini di eccezionale eleganza e finezza aromatica, vini dal profumo ammaliante, dal colore pallido e dalla delicatezza quasi da Pinot, ma con una persistenza e una longevità fenomenali. 
Jacques era noto per la sua eccentricità. Recluso, felice tra le vigne e mai incline ad accogliere visitatori, si diceva che a volte si nascondesse in un fosso per evitare giornalisti o altri addetti ai lavori. La sua avversione per la ribalta non fece che accrescere il fascino dei vini. Morì piuttosto improvvisamente nel 1997, mentre faceva shopping di scarpe a Courthézon. Non avendo figli, suo nipote Emmanuel, figlio di Bertrand, che fino a quel momento aveva gestito Ch. des Tours dal 1989, ereditò sia Rayas che Fonsalette, prendendo le redini di tutte e tre le proprietà. 
La transizione tra Jacques ed Emmanuel non fu graduale, poiché Emmanuel ristrutturò la tenuta e ripiantò parti del sito, ma all'inizio degli anni 2000 la qualità era di nuovo all'altezza del nome Reynaud. Lo stile è cambiato tra le generazioni e, mentre i vini di Jacques erano più strutturati e solidi, Emmanuel predilige espressioni più sensuali e profumate. Negli ultimi due decenni, poco è cambiato nelle proprietà Reynaud: lo status mitico dei vini si è confermato solo con ogni nuova uscita. La nuova generazione, i figli di Emmanuel, Louis Damien e Benoît, è già coinvolta, pronta a continuare l'eredità di famiglia. La filosofia Reynaud 
L'approccio di Reynaud è vecchio stile: qui regna la tradizione. La monocoltura moderna non è il metodo – con varie colture in tutto il tenute e biodiversità alimentata da ampie fasce boschive. Le viti – tutte ad alberello, molte con un'età significativa – sono coltivate esattamente come sono sempre state, biologicamente con input minimi, arate a cavallo. 
L'uva è tutta raccolta a mano, i grappoli interi fermentano con lieviti indigeni in vasche di cemento. Da quando Emmanuel ha preso in mano la situazione, le parcelle sono state vinificate separatamente. Le macerazioni sono delicate, generalmente inferiori alle due settimane con un singolo rimontaggio al giorno. L'invecchiamento avviene in grandi botti di rovere vecchio, senza l'utilizzo di legno nuovo in nessuna delle proprietà – anzi, il demi-muid o foudre più giovane della tenuta potrebbe avere ben 30 anni. Le aggiunte di solforosa sono minime, con solo una piccola quantità durante la fermentazione e un'aggiunta finale all'imbottigliamento, con i vini imbottigliati senza chiarifica e senza filtrazione. Il metodo è la massima semplicità, incentrato sull'espressione di ogni sito – e i risultati parlano da soli. Le cantine sono rustici edifici agricoli, che offrono solo i requisiti di base, senza l'impiego di tecnologie moderne e, visti i vini prodotti, non necessarie. 
Il Grenache è il cuore di tutti i vini Reynaud: l'uva che prospera nel loro terroir ed è la magia del Rayas. Oltre al Rayas, il Cinsault viene utilizzato per conferire eleganza e morbidezza, mentre il Syrah è stato a lungo evitato, utilizzato solo a Ch. de Fonsalette. Louis Reynaud credeva che la varietà fosse originaria del Rodano settentrionale e, a parte la piccola porzione che arrivava nelle Côtes du Rhône, il resto del Syrah veniva venduto in grandi quantità sotto il suo regno (spesso ai ristoranti locali, che lo usavano nelle loro salse). La cuvée Côtes du Rhône Syrah fu introdotta solo sotto la guida di Jacques Reynaud, inizialmente venduta ai ristoranti che ne avevano apprezzato la qualità nelle loro salse. Non c'è Mourvèdre in nessuna delle tenute, con Emmanuel Reynaud che ritiene che i loro terreni siano troppo asciutti per l'uva. I vini e le tenute Reynaud 
La famiglia Reynaud comprende tre tenute distinte: Rayas, Fonsalette e Ch. des Tours, sebbene Fonsalette non abbia una propria cantina. 
Ch. Rayas 
Rayas è la tenuta originale dei Reynaud, acquistata nel 1880, e prende il nome dal clima. Nella parte settentrionale di Châteauneuf-du-Pape si trovano i 12 ettari di vigneti, circondati da 11 ettari di foresta. Dimenticate i tipici galets roulés o pudding stones della regione, noti per la loro capacità di trattenere il calore: Rayas sorge su terreni rossi, ricchi di ferro e sabbiosi, su terreni argillosi più ricchi. I terreni sono poveri e le viti ad alberello sono piantate a bassa densità, con appena 2.500 ceppi per ettaro, con una resa di appena 10-20 hl/ha. Negli anni '80 sono stati effettuati significativi reimpianti, il che significa che le viti hanno ora un'età media di 40 anni, sebbene vi siano ancora alcuni esemplari sopravvissuti dagli anni '40. 
L'esposizione a nord del sito si combina con l'influenza delle aree boschive, offrendo ombra e umidità, prolungando la stagione vegetativa e preservando la freschezza dei vini. I Reynaud sono tra gli ultimi a vendemmiare, spesso solo a ottobre/novembre, fino a due mesi dopo i loro vicini. I vini che ne derivano, tuttavia, non sono caratterizzati da una maturazione intensa, ma da eleganza e finezza. 
Mentre Châteauneuf consente 13 varietà rosse, a Rayas troverete solo Grenache Noir, con due ettari dedicati alle uve bianche: Grenache Blanc e Clairette. I vigneti di Grenache possono essere suddivisi in tre sezioni: Le Levant, Le Coeur e Le Couchant, ciascuna delle quali prende il nome dalla sua esposizione al sole, rispettivamente all'alba, al culmine e al tramonto. Scrivendo per The World of Fine Wine, William Kelley descrive così le tre componenti del vigneto: "Le Levant è il più floreale ed etereo, e contribuisce alla spina dorsale del vino; Le Coeur è il più completo, e contribuisce allo scheletro del Rayas; e Le Couchant, con i suoi toni fruttati più ricchi e simili a una composta, apporta la parte grassa". 
Tutta la raccolta avviene a mano. Il Grenache viene mantenuto sui raspi, i grappoli interi vengono pigiati prima di una delicata macerazione per un massimo di due settimane (un rimontaggio al giorno) e della fermentazione con lieviti indigeni. Il vino viene pressato e invecchiato in vecchie botti di rovere per poco meno di due anni.
La delicatezza e la finezza del vino che ne deriva ricordano la Borgogna più pregiata. Di colore pallido, il Rayas è profondamente aromatico, con incantevoli note floreali e una consistenza eterea e setosa che bilancia l'intensità terrosa e sapida del vino. Ogni anno vengono prodotte tra le 1.200 e le 1.500 casse del fiore all'occhiello Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I vini invecchiano magnificamente e lo stesso Emmanuel consiglia di attendere 20-25 anni prima di aprire una bottiglia di Rayas per apprezzarne appieno l'evoluzione. 
Le uve bianche sono piantate in tre parcelle a Le Levant, che comprendono due ettari. Il Grenache Blanc è stato piantato negli anni '40, '50 e '95, mentre il Clairette è stato piantato nel 1986. Fermentato in vecchi foudre (da 80 a 100 anni), acquistati di seconda mano da Louis Reynaud (nonno di Emmanuel), il Rayas Blanc è un blend 50:50 di Grenache Blanc e Clairette, invecchiato in vecchie botti di rovere per circa 11 mesi. Il vino è prodotto in volumi estremamente limitati, con solo circa 400 casse prodotte per ogni annata. Ricco ma equilibrato, questo raro bianco è immensamente profumato con note di mandorla e fiori bianchi, intensamente minerale e strutturato, e può invecchiare per almeno un decennio. 
Il Pignan è talvolta considerato un "secondo vino" a Rayas, ma in realtà proviene da un sito specifico della tenuta, un unico appezzamento di due ettari circondato da pini sul confine settentrionale della proprietà con terreni meno sabbiosi. Anche il Grenache in purezza, prodotto esattamente allo stesso modo a Rayas, offre un'espressione più immediata e accessibile dello stile Rayas, pur mantenendo profumi, purezza e struttura simili, ed è comunque in grado di invecchiare a lungo. Può, a volte, e soprattutto nelle annate più fresche, rivaleggiare con il suo fratello maggiore, Rayas. Ogni anno vengono prodotte circa 650 casse. 
I vini Rayas vengono tutti commercializzati solo al momento del loro ingresso nella finestra di consumo, mentre i rossi spesso escono dalla tenuta solo oltre un decennio dopo la vendemmia. 
Ch. de Fonsalette 
L'"ultima" aggiunta alla galassia Reynaud, Ch. de Fonsalette fu acquistata da Louis Reynaud nel 1945. La proprietà è ampia, con una superficie totale di 120 ettari, ma con 12 ettari di vigneti tra boschi, terreni agricoli e uliveti, a nord di Orange, a Lagarde-Paréol. Oggi rientra in gran parte nella denominazione Côtes du Rhône Villages Massif d'Uchaux (istituita nel 2005), tuttavia i vini sono tutti etichettati come Côtes du Rhône. Più a nord, il microclima è più fresco rispetto a Rayas e, stilisticamente, i vini sono più sobri di quelli di Ch. des Tours, ad esempio, ma non così eterei come quelli di Rayas. 
I terreni qui sono molto diversi da quelli di Rayas, con ghiaia, sabbia e puddinga rossa. I vigneti sono coltivati ​​a Grenache, Cinsault e Syrah per i rossi, e a Grenache Blanc, Clairette e Marsanne per i bianchi. Le viti sono generalmente vecchie, con la più vecchia piantata nel 1929. 
La filosofia in vigna e in cantina è esattamente la stessa di Rayas e, poiché la proprietà non dispone di una cantina propria, anche i vini vengono prodotti a Rayas. I rossi sono fermentati a grappolo intero, con una macerazione massima di due settimane e un rimontaggio al giorno. I vini vengono affinati in una combinazione di vasche smaltate e grandi botti di rovere vecchio, per poi essere imbottigliati circa un anno dopo. 
La gamma di Ch. de Fonsalette comprende tre vini. Il Côtes du Rhône Rouge è un blend di 50% Grenache, 35% Cinsault e 15% Syrah, la cui elevata percentuale di Cinsault conferisce al vino una particolare intensità e finezza aromatica: un vino che sussurra e cattura. Esiste un secondo rosso, un Côtes du Rhône Syrah, 100% Syrah, un vino strutturato, dai profumi fruttati scuri, che offre una potenza contenuta e una profondità discreta. Sotto la direzione di Louis Reynaud, questo vino veniva venduto sfuso, imbottigliato solo per la prima volta sotto la direzione di Jacques Reynaud (a partire dal 1978) e venduto localmente, principalmente ai ristoranti, prima di essere offerto più ampiamente sotto la direzione di Emmanuel. Il Côtes du Rhône Blanc è un blend di 80% Grenache Blanc, 10% Clairette e 10% Marsanne, che produce un bianco strutturato e complesso, con note di frutta a nocciolo ed erbe aromatiche e un retrogusto salino. 
La Pialade 
Questo vino rappresenta una piccola anomalia nella gamma Reynaud. Prodotto solo in alcune annate, La Pialade Côtes du Rhône è vinificato e invecchiato a Rayas, con parcelle declassate provenienti da Rayas o Ch. de Fonsalette. L'assemblaggio è tipicamente composto da 85% Grenache, 15% Cinsault e 5% Syrah. Prodotto in piccole quantità, e ancora più raro dato che non viene prodotto ogni anno, è spesso descritto come un "Rayas quotidiano" – più aperto nello stile, ma può eguagliare il Rayas per sottigliezza e delicatezza, anche se non ha la stessa profondità. 
Ch. des Tours 
Acquistato da Louis Reynaud alla fine degli anni '30, Ch. Château des Tours è la tenuta di origine di Emmanuel Reynaud, che ne ha preso in carico la gestione dal padre Bertrand nel 1989. Affidata a Bertrand fin dall'inizio e mai gestita da Jacques Reynaud, la tenuta si è sempre distinta da Château Rayas e Château de Fonsalette, sebbene tutti e tre siano sotto la guida di Emmanuel dal 1997. Benoît, figlio di Emmanuel, che ha studiato enologia in Svizzera, ha recentemente assunto la guida di Château des Tours, lavorando a stretto contatto con il padre. 
La proprietà prende il nome dalle torri o tour che incorniciano l'edificio del castello. Situata a Vacqueyras, non lontano da Orange e a nord-est di Châteauneuf, si estende su 40 ettari, coltivati ​​a cereali e ulivi, oltre che a uva. Essendo stata a lungo gestita separatamente, la proprietà dispone di una propria cantina. Sebbene la filosofia Reynaud sia comune a tutte e tre le tenute, i vini di Château des Tours sono... des Tours sono stilisticamente distintivi, offrendo più struttura, potenza e intensità rispetto allo stile più sottile, intenso e profumato di Rayas e Fonsalette. La vinificazione è in gran parte simile a quella di Rayas e Fonsalette, con fermentazione in cemento e maturazione in vecchie botti di rovere. Sebbene le uve rosse siano per lo più fermentate a grappolo intero, questa è l'unica proprietà in cui piccole porzioni vengono diraspate. La gamma è più complessa a Ch. des Tours con una selezione di vini imbottigliati con il marchio Ch. des Tours, alcuni con il marchio Domaine des Tours e un rosé prodotto con l'etichetta Parisy. Ci sono cinque vini con l'etichetta Ch. des Tours: Vacqueyras: un blend di 80% Grenache e 20% Syrah, un vino strutturato e potente prodotto esclusivamente dalle viti più vecchie della tenuta. Côtes du Rhône Rouge: un blend di 65% Grenache, 20% Syrah e 15% Cinsault, un rosso morbido e succoso, ricco di frutta e spezie. Côtes du Rhône Rouge Grande Réserve: Prodotto solo in annate specifiche, questo è di fatto il Vacqueyras declassato quando non c'è abbastanza colore - prodotto nel 2002, 2014 e 2015. Côtes du Rhône Blanc: Prodotto in volumi molto limitati, questo bianco è 100% Grenache Blanc - un vino floreale e strutturato che vale la pena provare. Côtes du Rhône Blanc Grande Réserve: Prodotto solo in annate specifiche, questo non è un imbottigliamento declassato (come il suo fratello rosso), ma un imbottigliamento speciale dei migliori Clairette e Grenache Blanc della proprietà. Il vino 50% Grenache Blanc, 50% Clairette è stato prodotto nel 2003, 2014 e 2015. L'etichetta Domaine des Tours proviene interamente da Ch. des Tours, tuttavia, è un progetto leggermente separato, che offre generalmente vini più accessibili, quasi tutti etichettati come IGP o Vin de Pays. Ci sono quattro vini sotto l'etichetta: Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Rouge: Si tratta di un blend profondamente espressivo di Grenache, Counoise, Syrah, Cinsault, Merlot e una miriade di altre varietà. Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot: Questo 100% Merlot proviene dai terreni argillosi più ricchi della proprietà, producendo un vino più opulento ed esuberante. Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot-Syrah: Un blend di Merlot e Syrah, che varia a seconda dell'annata, è un vino concentrato che unisce la generosità del Merlot con la speziatura del Syrah. Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Clairette: Questo 100% Clairette è puro e fresco, guidato dalla mineralità. Con la sua etichetta propria c'è Les Tours Grenache Blanc, un 100% Grenache Blanc ricco, maturo e generoso, ricco di frutta a nocciolo, imbottigliato sotto la denominazione Vaucluse. L'ultimo vino di Ch. des Tours è il Parisy rosé, un Grenache/Cinsault Vin de Table secco e delicato, pensato per il consumo quotidiano. Le etichette stesse non specificano l'annata, con queste informazioni visibili solo sulla cassa di cartone. Quali vini Reynaud sono prodotti e dove? Ch. Rayas, Pignan, Ch. de Fonsalette e Pialade sono tutti prodotti a Rayas Ch. des Tours, Domaine des Tours, Les Tours Grenache Blanc e Parisy sono tutti prodotti a Ch. des Tours.

Pochi vini possono vantare lo status di culto del Rayas, un vino che si distingue a Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Qui, offriamo una guida essenziale ai vini prodotti dalla famiglia Reynaud nel Rodano: Rayas, naturalmente, ma anche quelli di Château de Fonsalette e Château des Tours.

Everything you need to know about the wines made by Emmanuel Reynaud – Rayas, Pignan, Chateau de Fonsalette, Chateau and Domaine des Tours, and Parisy  

Guide to Rayas, Fonsalette and Des Tours – the Reynaud wines

Tutto quello che devi sapere su Rayas

Group CEO Patrick O’Connor reflects on Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry and early vintage defined by small yields, precise viticulture, restrained winemaking and a new wave of estates delivering wines of real distinction.

Patrick O’Connor, Group CEO, explores Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry, early vintage shaped by precision, small yields and standout wines.

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur: vintage overview      

Bordeaux 2025: vintage overview               

Inside Burgundy – Jasper Morris MW  Côte de Beaune  Jasper Morris MW’s first assessment of Burgundy 2024 reveals a vintage of extreme adversity yet unexpected classical poise, particularly for whites. An “exceptionally wet year,” marked by poor flowering, mildew pressure, and limited sunshine, made 2024 one of the most challenging recent seasons. Conditions worsened moving north, with the Hill of Corton and northern Beaune hardest hit, while mid-slope vineyards benefited from better drainage and earlier flowering. Harvest was tightly compressed between 12–16 September.  Despite the difficulties, Morris calls 2024 “much more applicable” as a return to classic Burgundy than 2021, especially for whites, where quality is “relatively homogenous” and characterful. He found wines defined by citrus, fresh apple, and, at their best, “rapier-like acidity” and tension. These whites will be “accessible early,” though he warns buyers to avoid those lacking backbone and energy.  Reds are more mixed and occasionally fragile, yet the finest examples show charm and harmony. Morris highlights “aromatic pinots that could make you smile at first sniff,” with unusually refined tannins, aided by a return to a classical 100-day ripening cycle. Village wines and well-managed premiers crus represent the sweet spot of the vintage.  Chablis  Chablis faced the harshest conditions in 2024: floods, frost, hail, and relentless rain, with total rainfall reaching 634 mm and many organic producers harvesting below 10 hl/ha. Some, like Guillaume Vrignaud, “made hardly any wine and sold it off.” Morris expected “green… ugly and flawed” wines but found most were sound and “less fragile than their 2021 counterparts.” While few are truly great, many show classic Chablis character—crisp, defined, with “crushed oyster shell” notes. Best for short- to medium-term drinking, 2024 in Chablis demonstrates resilience and surprising drinkability after a punishing season.  Côte de Nuits  In the Côte de Nuits, Morris sees 2024 as a vintage of delicacy rather than power. Harvest ran 12–16 September, with Nuits-St-Georges hit hard by rain and further north affected by uneven conditions and hail. Losses came mostly from coulure rather than mildew, especially around Gevrey-Chambertin. Whole-bunch fermentation and reduced stem use were key, and while some wines need time to integrate, many show light, perfumed character. “If you like dark coloured powerful wines… there is nothing here for you,” notes Morris. Only 2% of wines achieve top accolades, making careful selection essential.  Explore Jasper Morris MW’s reports, notes and scores on his site (subscribers only)  Vinous – Neal Martin  Neal Martin portrays 2024 as a season of extremes, where relentless rain, frost, and mildew tested every winemaker. Flowering was uneven, yields sharply reduced (Pinot Noir suffered most) and frost damaged parcels from Marsannay to Clos de Vougeot. As one winemaker reflected, “Each day in the vineyard felt like a battle,” capturing the relentlessness of the season. Tiny harvests demanded meticulous vineyard work and careful vinification, with whole-bunch decisions critical: “2024 was not a vintage to play recklessly with stems.”  A sunny, warm August offered salvation, allowing grapes to reach phenolic ripeness. Martin notes it “enabled some to capture the brightness and freshness of vibrant red fruit where Pinot Noir reaches its apex” and lent Chardonnays “razor-sharp tension and delineation.” Whites show energy and mineral clarity, while reds are delicate, transparent, and expressive rather than powerful.  Despite the challenges, skill and perseverance triumphed. Careful vineyard management and thoughtful vinification produced wines of elegance, freshness, and charm. As Martin concludes, “The bottom line is that 2024 is an endlessly fascinating vintage that will enamour the small number who imbibe the fruits of much labour.”  Explore Neal Martin’s reports, notes and scores on the Vinous site (subscribers only)  Burghound – Allen Meadows  Allen Meadows’ Burghound report describes 2024 in the Côte de Nuits as a vintage of extreme difficulty and delicate character. Following “rain, rain, and yet more rain,” growers faced poor flowering, rampant mildew, and historically tiny yields, with clusters sometimes reduced to 15–20 berries. Meadows notes that “the variability in 2024 is that of 2023 squared,” making disease control, rigorous sorting, and careful vinification essential to preserving quality.  Despite the challenges, the best wines are “ultra-fresh, wonderfully energetic, impeccably well-balanced and the most transparent reds we’ve seen since 2010.” Alcohol levels are modest, around 12.5–13%, enhancing clarity and finesse rather than weight or power. Harvest ran from 16–21 September, slightly later than the traditional 100-day rule, allowing vines to achieve ripeness amid persistent rainfall.  Vinification emphasized restraint: light extraction, reduced stem use, and careful temperature control preserved purity and avoided harsh tannins. Minor faults, mostly reduction from copper or sulfur sprays or slight volatile acidity, rarely detract. Meadows notes some wines are “too skinny or too lean,” but the best display crystalline transparency that “puts the intrinsic terroir on parade.”  Most wines suit mid-term cellaring: villages and premiers crus are approachable in 4–8 years, while top grands crus can age 10–15. Stylistically, 2024 reds are elegant and energetic, rewarding careful selection in a year of extreme variability.  Explore Allen Meadows’ reports, notes and scores on the Burghound site (subscribers only) Jancis Robinson – Jancis Robinson Jancis Robinson MW sums up 2024 as “nightmare… misery… exhausting… unremittingly grim,” with “gruesome” final yields. Heavy rain and unusually low temperatures during flowering severely damaged Pinot Noir, particularly in the Côte d’Or, while Chardonnay fared slightly better. Many vignerons abandoned organic viticulture for systemic sprays to save their crops. Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey achieved “respectable, but most unusual for 2024” yields of 35–40 hl/ha only by switching early.  Losses were severe: reds down up to 80%, whites about 30%. Robinson notes that “the cool summer meant acidities were high, and successful reds could be described as pretty, but never concentrated,” with pale color and barely perceptible tannins. Late August brought some warmth, raising sugar levels, though many producers still had to chaptalise. She warns this is “a vintage to drink relatively early,” emphasizing elegance over opulence, fragility over power.  Cellar work was complicated by tiny harvests. Half-full tanks increased the risk of oxidation or stuck fermentations. Oak use was moderated, though some grands crus required up to 50% new barrels to fill them. Extraction and whole-bunch fermentation were carefully managed, with co-fermentation across parcels common.  Despite the challenges, Robinson highlights successful producers including Bertrand Bachelet, Yvon Clerget, Comte Armand, Philippe Colin, Sérafin, and Joseph Drouhin. Regions south of the Côte d’Or fared better, producing more generous, sophisticated wines. She frames 2024 as “a triumph of resilience over nature,” rewarding careful selection and precision in the cellar.  Explore Jancis Robinson's reports, notes and scores on her site (subscribers only) Jancis Robinson – Matthew Hayes  Matthew Hayes describes 2024 as a vintage “all over the shop,” marked by extreme scarcity, mildew pressure, and uneven quality across the Côte d’Or. Some estates, like the newly launched Domaine Henri Rebourseau, produced nothing, while others managed only tiny parcels. Yet Hayes notes, “producers actually had some wine; the second relief was that these had turned out better than feared.” Quality varies by village, vineyard, and even row, making careful selection essential.  The season was relentlessly difficult. Pinot Noir struggled with coulure, millerandage, and mildew, while Chardonnay fared slightly better thanks to earlier flowering. Organic producers faced doubled labor and costs, with some switching to synthetic sprays to save their harvests. Final yields were punishingly low, with red grape losses up to 85%. Harvest began in mid-September, balancing ripeness with botrytis and powdery mildew risks.  Winemaking focused on tiny lots, cautious extraction, and moderate oak. Reds are elegant, medium-bodied, and dominated by red fruit, while whites show precise acidity and finesse. Hayes notes, “This is not the Pinot Noir we have recently come to expect.”  Scarcity keeps prices high, yet the best wines are balanced and surprisingly drinkable. As Hayes concludes, “The bottom line is that 2024 is an endlessly fascinating vintage that will enamour the small number who imbibe the fruits of much labour.”  Explore Matthew Haye’s reports, notes and scores on the Jancis Robinson site (subscribers only) Decanter – Charles Curtis MW Pommard & Volnay 2024: Early-drinking Pinot Noir   Charles Curtis MW highlights Pommard and Volnay as the standouts in 2024, a vintage where Pinot Noir struggled across Burgundy. The northern Côte de Beaune largely avoided the worst rain and mildew, producing wines with the lush, supple fruit the region is known for. Pommard ranges from firm and tannic to approachable, while Volnay shows silky, expressive character.  Yields were exceptionally low: Paul Zinetti of Comte Armand recorded just 15 hl/ha, and Paul Négrerie of Château de Pommard 14 hl/ha. Careful extraction was key to avoid green tannins, producing wines of elegance over ripeness. Frédéric Lafarge notes that Volnay’s 2024 shows purity and terroir expression, comparing it favorably to 2021: “2024 showed more finesse and complexity due to the longer vegetative cycle.” Overall, the vintage is lighter than usual, suited to earlier drinking, though the best wines from top producers can age five to ten years.  Best Value Burgundy 2024 Wines   Finding value in 2024 requires a selective approach, as low prices rarely coincide with scarce wines. Curtis recommends starting with regional appellations, particularly the Hautes-Côtes of Nuits and Beaune, where top performers include Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Nuits Les Dames Huguette (Dufouleur) and Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Beaune blanc (Guiton).  Further south, the Côte Chalonnaise offers excellent options, with Maison Chanzy (Bouzeron), Domaine Belleville (Rully), Château de Chamirey (Mercurey), and Domaine du Cellier aux Moines and Domaine Stéphane Aladame (Givry/Montagny) standing out. Curtis also praises the Mâconnais for Chardonnay, noting “bright acidity, fresh fruit, and solid structure,” with Pouilly-Fuissé in particular shining.  In short, 2024 may be small in volume, but careful exploration of Pommard, Volnay, the Hautes-Côtes, southern Burgundy, and the Mâconnais reveals wines that combine quality, typicity, and attractive drinking windows.  Explore Charles Curtis MW’s reports, notes and scores on the Decanter site (subscribers only) Wine Advocate – Kristaps Karklins
 Kristaps Karklins portrays 2024 in Chablis as a season of extreme attrition, marked by frost, hail and what he calls “historic mildew pressure—among the highest ever recorded.” Yields dropped by “60% to 70% on average,” with some estates losing entire crus, including Dauvissat’s Séchet, Montée de Tonnerre and Les Clos. By late August, rainfall had reached “around 600 millimeters, compared with the average 380,” making healthy fruit scarce and rigorous sorting decisive. Growers who waited to harvest were rewarded with “greater texture and mid-palate amplitude,” while early picking risked under-ripeness and dilution.  Despite the hardships, barrel tastings reveal notable successes. The finest 2024s are “classical Chablis,” defined by tension, clarity and site transparency, and approachable earlier than most vintages. While they cannot rival the concentration of 2023 or 2022, Karklins suggests they may delight purists more than a random selection of riper years. “No one would call 2024 a historic vintage,” he concludes, yet among the best producers the wines are “unmistakably, even nostalgically Chablisien,” rewarding careful selection with freshness, character and authenticity.  Explore Kristaps Karklins reports on the Wine Advocate site (subscribers only) Wine Advocate – William Kelley In a shorter spotlight on Verget and Domaine Guffens-Heynen, William Kelley describes 2024 as wetter and more overcast season following the warmth of 2022 and 2023, though mercifully spared the frost damage that scarred 2021 and 2016. Volumes are reduced, but quality is “solid,” and some wines “transcend the vintage,” reaching levels of maturity that are unusual for such a challenging year. Jean-Marie Guffens likens the domaine’s 2024s to 1998, a vintage that performed better in the Mâconnais than in the Côte de Beaune.  The true stars for Domaine Guffens-Heynen, however, are the bottled 2023s. Kelley ranks 2023 alongside 2020 as one of the finest vintages for domaine in the last 10 to 15 years and among the best of Guffens’s career. If the 2020s are “almost neoclassical” in style, the 2023s are more flamboyant, setting up a compelling contrast between two outstanding expressions of the domaine that will invite comparison for decades to come.  Explore William Kelley’s reports, notes and scores on the Wine Advocate site (subscribers only) Discover and shop the releases from this year's vintage or read the rest of our coverage of Burgundy 2024 here

The critics are starting to declare their verdict on the 2024 vintage. Here’s your crib-sheet to what the leading names, including Jasper Morris MW, Neal Martin, Allen Meadows, Jancis Robinson, William Kelley and more are saying about the latest Burgundy vintage.

Discover expert insights on Burgundy’s 2024 vintage from the top industry critics. Your essential guide to the latest vintage verdicts.

Burgundy 2024 – what the critics are saying

Burgundy 2024: the critics’ verdict

The beauty of Bordeaux wines is that each vintage follows the next, yet no two are ever alike. Reading back over my notes on the 2025 vintage, one thing becomes clear: one could almost write the exact opposite of 2024. In 2024, excessive rainfall during ripening forced some châteaux to delay their harvests with great care. In 2025, the situation was reversed: in the vineyards, one could almost imagine rain dances, pleading with Mother Nature to water the parched soils. Drought defines the vintage. Opposite in their development, the two vintages nevertheless converge on one point: volume. 2025 stands as the smallest vintage since 1991 – a statement that already applied to 2024. In Bordeaux, a pressing question now arises: can great, even very great vintages – as 2025 appears to be – still coexist with generous yields, as in 2016? Let us remain optimistic. 2025 is a beautiful vintage, which comes as a relief for the entire industry. Yet a deeper question lingers: does “normal” still exist in viticulture in an era of climate disruption? What was the biggest challenge for winegrowers in 2025? Eric Boissenot: Overall, the year was fairly easy from a vineyard perspective: no major disease pressure, low mildew risk, and the vines coped well with the drought—likely even better than in 2022. Thomas Duclos: Most likely, the biggest challenge was staying calm and level-headed towards the end of the growing cycle, which saw a heatwave around mid-August followed by rainfall in early September. Julien Viaud: With hindsight, this vintage was much easier than others. Spring and summer conditions were generally favourable. The greater challenge came in the cellar, where it was essential to manage the richness of the material. The fruit was abundant and concentrated, and the winemaker’s role was to be precise, measured, and restrained in order to express the very best the grapes had to offer. Could you share a few thoughts on the 2025 yields? Eric Boissenot: Yields were low, even very low. This was due, on the one hand, to limited floral initiation (resulting in fewer bunches), and on the other hand to small berry size at harvest (across all grape varieties), caused by the low rainfall throughout the vintage. Thomas Duclos: The 2025 vintage was affected by a low number of bunches—a direct consequence of the 2024 conditions (poor floral induction) combined with a dry growing season. The result is therefore low yields. Julien Viaud: Yields in 2025 were not high, mainly for physiological reasons. The issue is that both the size and number of bunches—determined the previous year within the buds—were limited from the outset. The potential was therefore already constrained. How would you describe the style of the 2025 vintage? Eric Boissenot: First of all, it is a very early vintage, shaped by a warm and dry climate. It then benefited from rainfall in late August and early September, which helped the vines manage water stress. As a result, alcohol levels remain moderate (around 13–13.5% vol) for a warm year. While it shows a warm and very ripe character, it also retains a classic, distinctly Bordeaux style that is both balanced and highly drinkable. Thomas Duclos: 2025 is a Bordeaux vintage shaped by climate change. Julien Viaud: It is a sunny vintage, but not “solar” in the sense that it allowed for ripe grapes full of fruit expression, without excessive sugar (and therefore alcohol), and without a loss of acidity (and thus freshness). It is an approachable, generous, and charming vintage, with wines bursting with aromas and delivering real pleasure. If you had to sum up 2025 in one word or a short phrase, what would you choose? Eric Boissenot: High density Thomas Duclos: Futuristic Julien Viaud: Intense and fast-paced Conclusions Reds: Well-balanced wines, showing fine concentration and the freshness so characteristic of Bordeaux—perhaps, as Julien Viaud suggests, a style the world might envy. They retain a solid yet never heavy tannic structure, resulting in wines that are both vibrant and structured. A beautiful vintage, even exceptional in certain cases. Whites: The first grapes arrived at the cellar as early as August 11. The wines are highly expressive, with good mid-palate weight and a certain creaminess. They also stand out for their freshness, which brings energy and lift. Sweet wines: When the rains came in late August / early September, the grapes were in excellent health, allowing Botrytis cinerea to develop evenly. The style is rather opulent, with lovely complexity. Bordeaux 2025 overview: A historically low-yield vintage, the smallest since 1991. A prolonged heatwave period, exceeding those of 2003 and 2022. Marked drought throughout the summer, enhancing grape concentration. Decisive rainfall at the end of August / beginning of September, helping to balance ripeness. Exceptionally early harvest, among the earliest ever recorded. Moderate alcohol levels, thanks to day/night temperature variation and late August / early September rainfall. Low pH levels, bringing freshness and tension to the wines. An extreme vintage in climate, yet precise and balanced in the glass. Rarity, freshness, and control: 2025 ticks all the boxes of a great modern Bordeaux. About Inside La Place Inside La Place is a specialist newsletter published by Roland Coiffe & Associés, offering expert commentary, vintage analysis and insider perspectives from across the Place de Bordeaux. Bordeaux 2025 Each spring, the Bordeaux En Primeur campaign gives collectors the opportunity to secure the new vintage before bottling – follow Bordeaux 2025 with FINE+RARE as our team travels to Bordeaux next week, sharing insights, producer highlights and release alerts. Explore now.

Written by Gerda Beziade of négociant Roland Coiffe & Associés, this Inside La Place piece explores the Bordeaux 2025 vintage – one of the smallest in decades – combining her analysis with insights from leading oenologists Eric Boissenot, Thomas Duclos and Julien Viaud.

Gerda Beziade explores Bordeaux 2025, with insights from leading oenologists on style, yields and quality.

Inside La Place: Bordeaux 2025 Vintage Insights 

Inside La Place: Bordeaux 2025

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