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

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.

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               

A vintage earned the hard way The growing season: Pressure without pause The wines: Classical, transparent, terroir-driven Producers who rose to the challenge Positioning Burgundy 2024 A vintage to buy thoughtfully and early A vintage earned the hard way Burgundy 2024 will be remembered as one of the most testing growing seasons of the last decade. Relentless spring rain, unyielding mildew pressure, episodes of localised hail and deeply uneven flowering pushed growers to their limits. Yields collapsed across large parts of the Côte, often by 50–80%, with some domaines barely reaching 10 hl/ha. In villages such as Vosne-Romanée, Nuits-Saint-Georges, Chambolle-Musigny, Gevrey-Chambertin and Savigny-lès-Beaune, the losses were devastating. And yet, against all expectations, the wines themselves tell a different story. 2024 is not a vintage of excess or easy charm. It is a classical year, one defined by purity, freshness and an almost stubborn transparency of terroir. Many vignerons, reflecting on the wines in barrel, have drawn comparisons to 2010, 2012, 2014 and even 2016, not because the conditions were similar, but because the results are finely structured, saline, precise wines, shaped by restraint and experience rather than power. This is Burgundy at its most honest. The growing season: Pressure without pause The difficulties began early. From April through June, rainfall was almost continuous, creating ideal conditions for mildew. Even the most diligent growers were pushed to extremes. Treatment schedules doubled or even tripled: 17 passes at Georges Lignier, 22 at Charles Audoin (against a norm of 12), 17 at Pavelot, 17 again at Faiveley. Organic viticulture, in particular, was placed under immense strain. Some domaines made the painful decision to abandon organic certification mid-season in order to preserve what fruit remained. Others refused. Audoin persisted with organic practices despite catastrophic losses, sacrificing yield in favour of principle. At Domaine Lamarche, Nicole Lamarche chose to stop treatments altogether once the damage was done, preferring to let the vines recover naturally rather than force a compromised crop – a decision that may yet prove prescient for future vintages. Flowering was irregular and prolonged, leading to widespread coulure and millerandage. Localised hail compounded the damage: Audoin’s Clos du Roy in Marsannay was effectively wiped out. By early summer, it was clear that 2024 would be a year of scarcity. Then, finally, the season turned. From August onwards, conditions stabilised. Nights remained cool, days were warm but not excessive, and crucially the weather stayed dry. Harvests began between the 14th and 21st of September, slightly later for whites and Aligoté. Thanks to rigorous sorting, sanitary conditions were generally good, and what little fruit remained ripened cleanly. Alcohols settled modestly, typically between 12% and 13%. Many domaines opted for small chaptalisations to bring balance rather than richness. Acidity remained healthy, pH levels often between 3.2 and 3.6, though some, like Lignier, intervened gently to avoid excessively high pH. It was, in every sense, a vintage that had to be earned. The wines: Classical, transparent, terroir-driven Reds: Precision over power Across both the Côte de Nuits and Côte de Beaune, the reds of 2024 speak quietly but clearly. Red fruit dominates: cherry, raspberry, wild strawberry, framed by saline notes and fine, linear tannins. There is freshness rather than weight, definition rather than density. Alcohol levels rarely exceed 13%, and the balance between fruit, acidity and structure is striking. Several producers have likened the vintage to 2012 for its texture, to 2010 for its precision, or to 2016 for its harmony, though with a distinctly modern clarity. Despite the concentration imposed by low yields, these are not massive wines. Many will drink earlier than expected, yet the underlying structure suggests graceful ageing, particularly from well-sited Premier and Grand Cru vineyards. Whites: One of the vintage’s great successes If there is a consensus emerging, it is this: white Burgundy lovers should pay close attention to 2024. With pH levels often between 3.2 and 3.35 and alcohols in the 12–13% range, the whites are taut, mineral and saline, with a cut reminiscent of 2014. There is energy here, wines that feel built for the cellar rather than the tasting bench. For collectors who prize tension, definition and longevity over richness, 2024 will be a compelling proposition. Producers who rose to the challenge The defining characteristic of 2024 is not uniformity, but differentiation. This is a vintage that rewards decisiveness, experience and clarity of philosophy. At Georges Lignier in Morey-St-Denis, repeated rainfall washed away organic treatments, forcing the domaine into laborious hand-spraying. A decisive early intervention ultimately preserved yields of 24 hl/ha, dramatically higher than neighbouring vineyards at 8 hl/ha. The Clos de la Roche stands out for its generosity and classical breadth. Charles Audoin endured one of the hardest seasons in Marsannay, remaining organic through 22 treatments and losing Clos du Roy entirely to hail. The wines evoke 2010 in their purity and structure, with Les Favières emerging as a highlight. Louis Jadot, facing heavy losses and a demanding season, spoke of “fighting to keep Burgundy affordable” yet produced precise, harmonious wines – including St Aubin En Remilly, one of our favourite plots and a FINE+RARE exclusive which we are proud to secure each year, bottled only in magnum. At Hudelot-Noëllat and Fourrier, volumes are heartbreakingly small but the wines are clear, fragrant and unmistakably from their place. Paul Pernot’s whites show vibrant freshness and deep acidity, with Puligny-Montrachet Les Folatières standing out for its tension and grace.  The 2024s from Alvina Pernot combine the freshness of 2017 with the accessibility of 2021, yet offer greater depth and poise.  At A-F Gros, frost proved more damaging than mildew, reducing yields by 70%. The increasing use of Clayver amphora (now close to 50%) has brought a vivid, electric quality to the wines, particularly the Richebourg. Olivier Bernstein produced just two to four barrels per cuvée, yet the wines combine the charm of 2016 with the lift of 2017. Bonnes-Mares is especially compelling, and the domaine remains focused on deepening consumer understanding through tastings and back-vintage context. In the Côte de Beaune, Guillaume Lafon marks his first vintage fully at the helm. With almost no new oak and a preference for demi-muids, the wines prioritise purity and line. The Bourgogne Blanc is a standout, carrying a clear Lafon signature. At Domaine des Lambrays, Jacques Devauges described 2024 as “a difficult vintage with a happy end.” Yields fell sharply (16 hl/ha for Clos des Lambrays) yet the wines, made with 80% whole bunch, possess remarkable poise. His claim that “2024 Lambrays will age 100 years” may sound bold, but the structure supports the ambition. Meanwhile, Nicole Lamarche endured losses of up to 90%, producing just one barrel of Vosne Village and four of Échézeaux. As ever, the wines are spiritual and precise, and her decision to step back in the vineyard may well strengthen future vintages. Across Marsannay, Savigny and Gevrey, domaines such as Bouvier, Pavelot, Chézeaux and Hérestzyn-Mazzini all delivered wines of striking purity, often from minuscule quantities, proof that old vines, careful sorting and restraint paid dividends. Positioning Burgundy 2024 This is not a vintage built for hype. It does not trade on power or immediate seduction. Instead, its strength lies in substance. Scarcity is real, many domaines report their smallest crops in decades, but speculation misses the point. The true narrative of 2024 is integrity: who stayed the course, who adapted intelligently, and who resisted the temptation to force a result. Collectors will recognise this instinctively. The wines speak a language that Burgundy lovers understand: freshness, salinity, site expression and balance. Whites, in particular, will attract those who cherish the great classical years. Above all, 2024 stands out as a perfectly transitional vintage. While waiting for more structured years such as 2020, 2022 and 2023 to open, 2024, like 2021, offers wines that are approachable in their youth. Following the generosity of 2017, the now fully open 2019 and the fruit-forward 2021, it takes its place among vintages defined by immediate pleasure, allowing richer years the time to settle in the cellar. A vintage to buy thoughtfully and early Burgundy 2024 is a year where experience mattered more than weather, and philosophy mattered more than yield. Production is painfully low, but quality is consistent among serious growers. For collectors, the focus should be clear: Domaines with rigorous viticulture and judgement under pressure Producers refining and clarifying their stylistic identity Grand Crus from houses that embraced restraint High-performing villages such as Marsannay, Savigny and Santenay, where value remains This is a vintage whose story deserves to be told with clarity and conviction, an instructive vintage for newcomers and new buyers fortunate enough to secure a bottle, but also one that offers immediate pleasure for collectors. Read more or browse all available Burgundy 2024 en primeur. 

There are vintages that arrive fully formed, almost generously so. And then there are vintages like 2024 – years that must be wrestled from the elements, where judgement, discipline and philosophy matter as much as sunshine.

There are vintages that arrive fully formed, almost generously so. And then there are vintages like 2024. 

Burgundy 2024: vintage overview

Dopo un inverno mite, senza gelate né grandine, da marzo a giugno è arrivata la pioggia. Peronospora e colatura sono comparse presto e non sono mai scomparse del tutto. Alcuni viticoltori hanno raddoppiato i trattamenti, poiché le tempeste hanno ripetutamente spazzato via la protezione. Alla fine della stagione, le precipitazioni si sono attestate intorno ai 1.200 millimetri, quasi il quaranta percento in più del normale. Il prezzo da pagare per le rese è stato pesante. Molti domaine hanno perso tra un quarto e il quaranta percento dei loro bianchi e, in alcuni casi, fino al settanta percento dei loro rossi. Da luglio in poi è tornato il sole, portando un ritmo più costante e uve sane per ciò che è rimasto. La maggior parte è stata vendemmiata tra la seconda e la terza settimana di settembre, con un'attenta selezione sia in vigna che in cantina. Ciò che è emerso è un'espressione più fresca, più fine e più tradizionale della Borgogna. I vini hanno un'alcolizzazione moderata, un'acidità chiara e un senso di sobrietà che piacerà a coloro che amano la linea classica e l'equilibrio della regione. Charles van Canneyt lo ha espresso al meglio: "Non è perché abbiamo avuto maltempo che abbiamo prodotto un vino cattivo". Le nostre prime degustazioni sottolineano questo punto. Da Paul Pernot i bianchi mostrano una freschezza vibrante e una profonda acidità, con il Puligny-Montrachet Les Folatières che si distingue per la sua tensione e grazia. Da Alvina Pernot, i 2024 portano la freschezza del 2017 e l'accessibilità del 2021, ma con maggiore profondità e compostezza. Louis Jadot, alle prese con pesanti perdite e una stagione impegnativa, ha parlato di "lottare per mantenere la Borgogna accessibile", producendo tuttavia vini precisi e armoniosi, tra cui St Aubin En Remilly, uno dei nostri appezzamenti preferiti e un'esclusiva FINE+RARE che siamo orgogliosi di aggiudicarci ogni anno, imbottigliato solo in magnum. Da Hudelot-Noëllat e Fourrier, i volumi sono incredibilmente piccoli, ma i vini sono limpidi, fragranti e inconfondibilmente tipici del luogo. La domanda sul mercato continua a evolversi. Negli Stati Uniti, il panorama delle aste rimane forte, con i collezionisti alla ricerca di vini d'annata in un contesto post-tariffario. Il Regno Unito continua a essere leader in termini di diversità e valore, supportato da una delle reti di importazione e agenzie più sofisticate al mondo. L'Europa centrale, in particolare Italia e Svizzera, è in costante espansione, con i collezionisti che guardano oltre i classici, pur continuando a preferire il Borgogna bianco, il Bordeaux rosso e lo Champagne. Hong Kong rimane il mercato in più rapida crescita per i vini bianchi, con un entusiasmo costante per lo Chardonnay pregiato e lo Champagne maturo.
 
Come il Borgogna En Primeur nascerà in questo contesto è incerto e certamente diverso dal Bordeaux En Primeur. Il crescente predominio del Borgogna bianco e la combinazione di rarità, qualità, desiderabilità e, in alcuni casi, valore ancora reale, segnano un'emergere che sembra al di sopra delle denominazioni e delle tendenze. Il Borgogna continua a evolversi secondo i propri ritmi, plasmato più dalle decisioni dei singoli viticoltori che dal ritmo collettivo. Quanto lontano arriverà questo ritmo dipenderà dalla rilevanza in un mercato in cui persino Michelin mette in discussione il suo marchio di punta, Robert Parker, e dove voci indipendenti come Jamie Goode, spinte da una curiosità sconfinata e libere da vincoli editoriali, continuano a mettere alla prova ogni ipotesi. Con Borgogna 2024, la scarsità definirà la campagna, ma lo sarà anche l'autenticità. I ​​vini sono plasmati dalle avversità, ma portano grazia e purezza. Quest'anno ci ricorda perché la Borgogna rimane la più umana tra le regioni vinicole pregiate. La prossima settimana condivideremo i nostri primi profili di produttori e le prime note di degustazione da tutta la Borgogna. Per ora, brindiamo ai viticoltori che hanno resistito all'anno e a un'annata fatta non di abbondanza, ma di spirito. 
Scritto da Patrick O'Connor (CEO), Craig Norton (Amministratore Delegato) e Antoine Ninot (Senior Buyer) di FINE+RARE, a seguito di una recente visita in Borgogna. Scopri tutti i Borgogna 2024 finora pubblicati.

La scorsa settimana siamo stati in Borgogna per un’analisi pre-campagna, incontrando alcune delle voci più rappresentative della regione. Conversazioni sincere, atmosfera riflessiva: ogni viticoltore ha raccontato un’annata che ha messo alla prova pazienza e resilienza.

Our early look at Burgundy’s 2024 vintage reveals a year of challenges and quiet beauty — shaped by resilience, balance and authenticity.

A first look at the Burgundy 2024 vintage

Borgogna 2024: prime impressioni

I’ve written this having just finished my second en primeur report for Decanter magazine. Four weeks of intensive tasting, two weeks of intensive writing – Primeurs is both the best and hardest period of the year, exhausting and rewarding. But, where one tasting finishes another one arises: tomorrow, I fly to Canada for a tasting of Bordeaux 1982 wines – with the legendary vintage showcased in 40 top bottles at a charity dinner in Vancouver. Sometimes my life feels like a dream.   Despite not having a background in wine before joining Decanter in 2011, and certainly no family cellar filled with dusty treasures, I became enthralled the moment I was handed my first glass of fine wine – at my desk, no less. “How is this a job?” I thought to myself. Many years of tastings and trips passed, meeting the world’s foremost winemakers and writing about wine in various ways, however the “critic” role (more of an American designation than British, I think) was never one I coveted – and certainly not one I expected to ever have.    The barrier to entry seemed so high, even though I was already working at Decanter, which understandably tended to only use “regional experts” and Masters of Wine, many with decades of experience and often living in their chosen region – something I now fully understand and would encourage any budding wine writer to do.   Skip forward a decade or so and I’m now responsible for Decanter Premium, overseeing the digital strategy for subscriptions and content behind the paywall on decanter.com – and now Bordeaux correspondent too, having taken over from long-time Decanter contributor Jane Anson in July 2021.   When Jane moved on, the question was who would fill the position. A combination of desire on my part and the lure of a challenge (who wouldn’t want this job?), happenstance (in that I had not long moved to live in Bordeaux city, placing me in the perfect location to take up the role), and a shortage of qualified candidates in the region, all seemed to work in my favour.  While Decanter authoritatively covers wines from all around the world (one of its biggest selling points for me), Bordeaux is what we call “heartland content” – and the stats don’t lie. It’s consistently the most-read and paid-for content we produce, by far. From Primeurs to livrable “in-bottle” tastings to estate verticals and incredibly old horizontals, there’s always something to taste, at every price point, in every conceivable style. And with around 7,000 estates, there’s no end of new cellars to see, new vineyards to walk into and new winemakers at the helm.   So there’s pressure, especially writing for the magazine with its expectation of quality and deep understanding. But, there’s also non-stop dynamism, and living here brings the action so much closer, something I never truly understood before. An hour each way from my home, I can be in Saint-Emilion, Sauternes or Saint-Julien.   The Decanter name is hugely respected in Bordeaux and I’m extremely fortunate to have been welcomed so generously and thoroughly. The last 22 months have been spent tasting and visiting estates as much as I can. I’ve done dozens of verticals that have yet to be published, spent weeks with winemakers in vineyards and cellars, talked to consultants about changing styles and négociants about market trends. I took part in my first harvest last year (thank you Cheval Blanc) and my first blending session this year (thank you Nicolas Glumineau, General Manager at Pichon Comtesse).   I've also been inducted into the Commanderie du Bontemps of the Médoc, Graves, Sauternes and Barsac, as well as the Hospitaliers de Pomerol (two historic brotherhoods, now modern-day societies that encourage, support and help promote the wines and winemakers of their respective regions). These are all enriching experiences that are the building blocks of my Bordeaux knowledge.  Somehow I thought having done the 2021 en primeur tastings and report last year (as well as two in-bottle reports since I started – all with around 900 wines sampled each time) the 2022 report would be easier – it wasn’t. Tasting is actually really tough – not only physically demanding and tiring, but mentally exhausting. It goes without saying that experience is helpful, comprehension and context are key for notes and scores, but passion is also a must. I’m building the first two, the latter I still have in abundance.   Despite sometimes pinching myself, looking back there’s a strange sense of destiny attached to my current role. My first ever work trip was to Bordeaux (and I ended up buying an apartment almost round the corner from the hotel I first stayed at). My first fine wine vertical was – amazingly –  of First Growth Ch. Mouton Rothschild with the then brilliant winemaker Philippe Dhalluin at Café Lavinal in Pauillac. My first article was about a Bordeaux panel tasting and I even had maps of Bordeaux vineyards on my bedroom wall in London, something I had forgotten until I came across some old photos recently.   An added bonus, my father only drinks Bordeaux wines so this job definitely earns me favourite child status.  As much as it’s serious and hard work, it’s also huge fun, interesting, glamorous and ever-changing. I think humility and gratitude are important, as well as a genuine enthusiasm to tell the stories of these wonderful wines and the people who make them.  Is the role of “critic” my true calling – above publishing, improvement strategies and brand building? I don’t know. What I do know; I love writing. I love Cabernet (Sauvignon and Franc)! I love mature Bordeaux (and am currently seeking out as much 2001 as possible). I love blind tasting the region’s wines to try and place them in their appellations (despite myriad differences in viticulture and vinification this is somehow still possible – the power of Pauillac, the prettiness of Margaux, the minerality of Saint-Estephe). I love the light in Saint-Emilion at dusk during the summer – is there a more romantic wine region?    But most of all, I love the joy and passion surrounding winemaking – not limited to Bordeaux, but the family histories, long-standing traditions, connection to gastronomy, focus on innovation and investment – they all give the region an extra glint in my eye.   What I don’t love, however, is my dentist telling me off and trying to find a place to store all my bottles... but there are worse problems, admittedly. (Speaking of which, if anyone wants to drive me round the region for next year’s Primeurs, applications open soon!)  For now, I'm excited to see how this year's Primeurs campaign goes. There's no doubt that many producers have created exceptional wines worth buying, but whether the market is sufficiently dynamised by the prices is another question. I'm eagerly awaiting a copy of this year's Bordeaux guide (on sale with the June issue of Decanter) filled with all the wonderful happenings in Bordeaux right now, as well as looking forward to discovering some of the hidden non-classified gems of Margaux. The sun looks set to appear for the first proper time this week, sending temperatures up and kickstarting the 2023 growing season – and, as with any vintage, there’s already so much to look forward to.  Read more about Bordeaux or browse all Bordeaux listings  Photography: Luke Carver

Georgie Hindle had big shoes to fill when she took over from Jane Anson as Decanter’s Bordeaux correspondent in 2021. Here she talks about how she fell for the region and what it’s really like working as a wine critic

Decanter’s Bordeaux correspondent Georgie Hindle takes us behind the scenes in Bordeaux, talking about life as a wine critic

Behind the scenes with Decanter’s Georgie Hindle

Mi sono seduto per la prima volta con l’enologo Chris Phelps quasi due anni fa, immergendomi nel suo straordinario percorso. Avendo lavorato in realtà come Dominus, Caymus e Inglenook, fu il caso – o forse il destino – a portarlo a fondare la sua etichetta, Ad Vivum, nel 2007. 
 Era seduto sopra un tino di frutta appena in fermentazione quando fu colpito da un “coup de foudre” – innamorandosi all’istante di Sleeping Lady Vineyard, un sito coltivato dal suo caro amico Larry Bettinelli. Comprò il mosto a metà fermentazione e da allora lo fa a ogni vendemmia. 
 I blocchi specifici che riempivano quel tino si trovavano contro i Mayacamas, proprio nella parte più alta del vigneto, che è il sito più meridionale di Yountville. Qui le viti sono riparate dall’ardore del sole pomeridiano, preservando acidità e aromi nel frutto, mentre un flusso d’acqua sotterraneo permette al sito di prosperare anche negli anni più siccitosi. Ogni anno, da soli 1,5 acri di Cabernet Sauvignon, Phelps crea un’altra espressione del sito. 
 Le parcelle esatte sono cambiate leggermente nel tempo. Nel 2007, le viti erano tutte Clone 191 – il clone che riteneva migliore per il sito, ma il blocco aveva bisogno di essere reimpiantato, quindi si iniziò a usare frutta da una parcella adiacente, piantata con Clone 7. Dopo un “balletto attentamente ponderato” bilanciando le due parcelle, l’annata 2024 segna il ritorno all’uso esclusivo della frutta dalla parcella originale, ora reimpiantata con Clone 191 (e noto come Clone 34, geneticamente identico al 191). 
 Phelps ha lasciato il suo lavoro quotidiano (lavorando per altre cantine) alla fine del 2023, potendo finalmente concentrarsi esclusivamente su Ad Vivum, oltre a un progetto più recente con il figlio Josh (Coil Wines). Sebbene avessimo già degustato le uscite correnti, all’inizio di questo mese abbiamo potuto assaggiare per la prima volta un trittico di vecchie annate. Hanno confermato quanto sia speciale questo sito, così come il talento di Phelps nel saperlo catturare in bottiglia. 
 Le tre annate che abbiamo assaggiato sono state 2016, 2017 e 2018 – tre anni molto diversi a Napa. Tutte e tre, tuttavia, riescono a combinare grande freschezza con la lucidità di Napa – dando vita a vini sorprendentemente già approcciabili. 
 2016 Ad Vivum 
 Con le parole di Phelps, il 2016 è stata “un’annata classica di Napa”; il clima è stato caldo a fine giugno, permettendo alle viti di concentrarsi sulla maturazione del frutto, mentre l’autunno ha portato temperature più fresche. Phelps ha vendemmiato dal 7 ottobre, fermentando in rovere francese nuovo al 21% (il resto in acciaio inox), con un totale di 19 giorni sulle bucce prima dell’elevage di 18 mesi in rovere francese nuovo al 65%. Ha sempre avuto “un’armoniosità”, ha osservato Phelps, e ciò è certamente vero degustando il vino. 
 Il naso offre frutto scuro dolce, purezza di grafite e accenni di fiori sollevati oltre a una vena erbacea. Il palato è lineare e puro, con acidità salivante e un cuore saporito di frutto maturo, dolce cassis e tannini maturi che forniscono una presa asciugante sul finale. Sebbene sia il più vecchio di questa mini-verticale, sembra quasi il più giovane e beneficerà certamente di ulteriore tempo in bottiglia. Un blend di 56% Clone 7 e 44% Clone 191 di Cabernet Sauvignon. 
 2017 Ad Vivum 
 L’annata 2017 è una di quelle che saranno ricordate per sempre per gli incendi a Napa, sebbene fortunatamente Ad Vivum non ne sia stato colpito. Dopo un germogliamento precoce, la stagione di crescita è stata segnata da tre ondate di calore – a metà giugno, a fine agosto e a metà settembre. Avere un sito più fresco, ombreggiato dal sole pomeridiano e con sufficienti riserve idriche è stato fondamentale per Phelps. Ha vendemmiato dal 5 ottobre, portando in cantina 55% Clone 191 e 45% Clone 7 di Cabernet. È stato fermentato in rovere francese nuovo al 25%, trascorrendo in totale 20 giorni sulle bucce (Phelps ha notato quanto facilmente colore e tannino arrivassero in questa annata calda), prima di essere elevato 17 mesi in rovere nuovo al 70%. 
 Il naso qui è brillante e profumato, combinando frutto scuro dolce – ciliegie nere e ribes nero – con slancio floreale e mina di matita. C’è una splendida purezza del frutto, che prosegue su un palato denso ma fresco, mostrando una succosa eleganza. C’è una masticabilità appagante nei tannini, fermi ma vellutati, che incorniciano le ondate di frutto che scorrono verso il lungo finale salino. Invitante e goloso, è difficile resistergli ora. 
 2018 Ad Vivum 
 Sebbene l’annata 2018 a Napa sia iniziata con un germogliamento relativamente tardivo, temperature più fresche e uniformi hanno dato vita a una stagione di crescita lunga, producendo rese relativamente abbondanti – eppure senza alcuna diluizione, grazie alla stagione prolungata. Phelps ha vendemmiato dal 17 ottobre, con il blend che è tornato verso circa due terzi di Clone 191 di Cabernet dalla parcella originale e un terzo di Clone 7. Fermentato in rovere francese nuovo al 25%, Phelps ha lasciato il 2018 sulle bucce per 23 giorni – leggermente più a lungo rispetto ad altre annate, ritenendo che il frutto strutturato avesse bisogno di più tempo per raggiungere il suo potenziale, cosa rispecchiata da un’elevage di 20 mesi in rovere nuovo al 75%. Phelps osserva quanto generoso sia stato questo vino fin dall’inizio, ma quanto abbia sviluppato ulteriore opulenza e profondità in bottiglia. 
 Questo è un vino splendido: il naso è intenso, esuberante di frutto scuro e con una soddisfacente vena erbacea. Sebbene il ribes nero e la prugna nera siano splendidamente maturi e setosi, c’è un’acidità brillante che porta una freschezza meravigliosa – per un palato agile e vibrante. I tannini sono rotondi e levigati, conferendo struttura senza sforzo, mentre c’è un bordo salino e saporito nel lungo finale. Esplora tutte le offerte attuali di Ad Vivum, inclusa una cassa mista di 2016, 2017 e 2018, o leggi di più sulla California

Dal 2007, Chris Phelps lavora con appena 1,5 acri di Cabernet Sauvignon nel vigneto Sleeping Lady a Yountville. Il vino che ne è nato è Ad Vivum, una splendida espressione di questo luogo speciale. Abbiamo incontrato Phelps per una degustazione in miniatura del progetto.

Exploring Chris Phelps’s Ad Vivum Napa Cabernet Sauvignon wine from Yountville’s Sleeping Lady Vineyard through three vintages, 2016, 2017 and 2018 

Tasting Ad Vivum Napa Cabernet Sauvignon – 2016-2018 

Degustazione Ad Vivum: 2016-2018

Jane Eyre

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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.

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).

Jane Eyre

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