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  

Coming off the back of an extremely successful 2015 vintage, 2016 is a fascinating comparison. Both are exceptional but with distinctly different personalities. 2015 is exuberant, rich and decadent; 2016 is arguably more precise, detailed and elegant. No doubt these vintages will be forever compared, showcasing the extraordinary potential of Sangiovese in this special part of Tuscany.  Speaking to some of the top producers in the region, you can’t help but feel their personal preference is with 2016 – a vintage that might not be so immediate as 2015 but is more complex, classic and with a huge capacity to age. Either way, both vintages are a testament to the increasingly adept handling of the delicate Sangiovese grape in Montalcino in recent times, producing wines of great depth and complexity. 2016 is a touchstone vintage for Brunello di Montalcino. It is a vintage of purity, so free from affectation that it will no doubt be the benchmark against which all other vintages are compared, past and future. The growing season  For many vignerons in Montalcino the growing season in 2016 requires little exploration simply because it was so temperate. “2016 was the perfect vintage for my mental state” says Francesco Ripaccioli from Canalicchio di Sopra. From start to finish the growing season could not have been better. Francesco explains how in some vintages it is the growing climate that dictates the style of the vintage. If it is a hot vintage you feel it in the grapes, the sugar concentration, the berry flavour, the added alcohol and power this brings. In a cool vintage you feel the balsamic notes and the ethereal perfume. “Nature cannot be controlled but can be interpreted” he states, “and sometimes a big effort is needed to interpret a vintage”. But 2016 was the complete opposite. In 2016, nature did not dictate style. The moderation and clemency of the climate allowed the grapes to develop in pristine condition devoid of any characteristics brought about by extremes. This, Francesco contently concludes, “allowed for each of the territorial identities throughout Montalcino to shine through”. The year began with a very cold spell in January with 12 days below freezing, which cleaned the vineyards of disease and mildew spores from the previous vintage. Bianca Ferrini of Podere Giodo outlined the importance of the rainy winter that followed, building up good groundwater reserves for the drier summer months ahead. The spring brought more rain but the risk from fungal attacks stayed low, no doubt due to the cold winter leaving the vines in good health. Budding, flowering and fruit-set all came and went without issue. Ideal conditions saw impressive yields with good, even cluster formation and healthy vines right up to the point of veraison (when the grapes start to ripen). Despite good yields there is little concern this will lead to diluted wines, Francesco Ripaccioli commented. Under the DOCG, grapes grown within the Brunello di Montalcino designation have strict rules on production – capped at 8,000 kilos per hectare (which results in just 1.5 kilos of grapes per vine). Although Canalicchio di Sopra crop a little lower than that, over-production in the region more generally in 2016 is not an issue. Intermittent rain showers continued up until August meaning that Poggio di Sotto (who practices organic viticulture) found the growing season more challenging than most. Fortunately for them, explains Luca Marrone, the southern location of their vineyards and the “never-ending west breeze from the valley kept the vineyards dry”, protecting the grapes from any onset of mildew.  Bianca Ferrini also outlined the importance of the winds during the summer: “the constant breeze in the vineyards encouraged good balance in the vines and was central to the outstanding organoleptic properties that developed in the grapes”. For Bianca, the “regularly paced rainfall, the summer heat and the drying winds laid the foundations for a great vintage.”  Another key element to the style and success of the 2016s was the notable diurnal drop in temperature between day and night during the summer months. This ensured long, slow ripening of the grapes which Ferrini states “was crucial both for aromas and tannin development”. Riccardo Talenti also emphasised how this kept pH levels low in the grapes, giving the wine high levels of freshness and acidity despite the ripeness, a great sign for longevity. For Sabina Sassetti “2016 was another near-perfect vintage in Montalcino.”   “I cannot remember a better last 20 days prior to harvest.”  – Francesco Ripaccioli, Canalicchio di Sopra
 The most important part of the growing season is always veraison during the last 20 days leading up to harvest. It is here where rain, humidity, sun hours and diurnal temperatures are key. It is where the aromas, flavours and acid profile of the wines are formulated and in 2016 Francesco Ripaccioli cannot remember a better last 20 days prior to harvest. There was no huge temperature hikes of 40 degrees like 2015. The highest it reached was 35 degrees. A great vintage he believes, needs to reach 2000 on the Huglin sun hours index and in 2016 it was up to 2500. As Gianpiero Bertolini at Biondi-Santi states, right through veraison “the autumn day and night temperature swings played an important role in the final complexity of flavour and health of the grapes at harvest.” Biondi-Santi picked early, starting on the 19th September. “Our concept of “grape maturity” favours the fragrance of the fruity notes and a well-balanced alcohol content” states Gianpiero. Poggio di Sotto also picked some of their crop early, picking their first grapes three weeks earlier than most in Montalcino.  Harvest of the oldest vineyards at lower altitude (200 metres), where the berries are more sensitive to the heat, took place from the 2nd to the 15th of September. “We don't mind if the sugar content is relatively low for the current standard”, states Luca Marrone. “In 2016 the alcohol content was typical for Poggio di Sotto, around 13% to 13.5 % in the first days of picking and 14% in the last days”. Unlike 2015 it was a long harvest for them, picking their final plots in October. Riccardo Talenti started picking on the 18th September: “A normal picking date for Talenti in a great vintage”.  “2016 is the deepest and most elegant of vintages”  – Riccardo Talenti, Talenti For Canalicchio di Sopra the harvest was quick – just 10 days beginning on the 27th September. It was very clear to Francesco that all the fruit was ripe and ready, with very little concern regarding analysis. In vintages which are more difficult to read, he is constantly in the vineyard measuring potential sugar levels, tasting berries, and getting analysis from the laboratory to make picking decisions. In 2016 virtually no analysis was required, the quality of the fruit so effortlessly transparent. For Sabina Sassetti harvest began at the beginning of October. For her, this is when the grapes reached perfect ripening and, consequently, the proper accumulation of polyphenols, allowing tannins to be gentle and easily accessible on the palate.  Comparing two epic vintages in Brunello: 2015 versus 2016  2015 produced wines that were a product of the extremes of the vintage. The warmth brought a fantastic maturity to the fruit, a richness and opulence to the palate and generally more rounded tannins. 2016 in comparison is less forward and more serious. Francesco Ripaccioli describes the wines as “extremely elegant, more complex, more ethereal”. He appraises the vintages perfectly by describing the 2015s as horizontal wines and the 2016s as vertical wines. Whilst the 2015s might be more approachable and their appeal more immediate, the 2016s are more cerebral and he believes have “double the length of the 2015s on the finish”. He explains that 2015 was a vintage made great by the climate, and you can feel that impact in the wines. 2016 in comparison does not have the exuberance and warmth but instead offers complex floral sensations, tighter, more linear structure and a beguiling freshness which he believes will see the vintage age beautifully.  “2016 is a wine of “nerve” and energy, with lots of fresh fruit and a well present acidic backbone.” – Giampiero Bertolini, Biondi-Santi Francesco is still a great fan of 2015 and so he should be, his La Casaccia was awarded perfect scores in 2015. He believes 2015 and 2016 will be compared to the last great duo of top Brunello vintages: 2006 and 2007. It will be down to each drinker’s opinion which vintage is better. “The vintages will always be divided by personal preference”, he concludes. What is so exciting is that whilst 2016 and 2015 are both great vintages, they are also completely contrasting in style.  Biondi-Santi’s Giampiero Bertolini believes “2015 is a vintage of sun and warm temperatures. A vintage of generosity, both in structure and alcohol, where the ripe, fruity notes abound. Whereas 2016 is a wine of “nerve” and energy, with lots of fresh fruit and a well present acidic backbone.”  For Sabina Sassetti, the slightly cooler weather in 2016 versus the previous year, gives the wine a higher acidity, resembling the widely praised 2006 vintage. The result is a fresh and elegant wine with a firm structure. James Suckling’s recent report declared Sassetti’s 2016 Brunello potentially the wine of the vintage, awarding it 100 points.  “Think of the 2015s as horizontal wines and the 2016s as vertical wines” – Francesco Ripaccioli, Canalicchio di Sopra Riccardo Talenti feels “2015 is warmest and most voluminous, 2016 deeper and more elegant”, comparing 2016 to 2006 or a more complex 2010. Luca Marrone of Poggio di Sotto likes to consider the mood of 2015 as “explosive – already lively with the immediate impact of its complexity, in such a way mirroring the early ripeness of the vintage.” The wines of 2016 also imitate its growing season. “It was a slow and steady path. It's gentle and shy at the first approach, with an introverted talent that will reveal power and elegance in the long run.”  Canalicchio di Sopra also compares 2016 to 2006 and 2010 but believes 2016 is better. “It has something more than 2010, more identity, more freshness. He describes 2016 as a cross between 2013 (one of his favourite vintages for its freshness and floral notes) combined with the fruit purity and ripeness of 2010. For Biondi-Santi, 2016 in terms of freshness and ageing ability is similar to 2010, whilst Ferrini compares it to 2006, 2010, 2015 and 2019.  Perhaps the most important factors when it comes to considering your 2016 purchases are purity of site and style. The growing season being so perfect, so unaffected by any climatic extremes, 2016 offers the purest expression of terroir, of variety and of each of the individual Brunello winemaker’s talents. This is a touchstone of a vintage, against which all other vintages, past and future, will be compared. Read all our coverage of Brunello di Montalcino here

We caught up with some of Brunello di Montalcino’s top producers for their insight into the exceptional 2019 wine vintage

Comparing two epic vintages in Brunello: 2015 versus 2016 with Poggio di Sotto, Talenti estate, Canalicchio di Sopra, Biondi-Santi

Brunello 2016 a magical year for Montalcino wines

Brunello 2016: a magical year in Montalcino

For the aperitif For Domaine Long-Depaquit’s Matthieu Mangenot it is the energy and power of Champagne Brut Nature Les Marnes Blanches from Jeaunaux-Robin, that makes it his choice at Christmas. “I can't say for sure if it is the 100% Chardonnay selection or the very elegant vinification in Burgundy barrel that is this Champagne’s (hidden) tribute to our region but there is absolutely no ‘make up‘ with this Champagne. With no dosage it is a true expression of Chardonnay and terroir. To me, it is the best sparkling to get you ready for Christmas dinner!”  Klaus-Peter Keller (Weingut Keller) and his family love Champagne Bérèche & Fils or Krug, “but we will definitely enjoy some sparkling wines from Germany too!” he adds. Gianlorenzo di Neri from Montalcino’s Casanova di Neri is also choosing something local, with a 2002 Trentodoc – Giulio Ferrari Riserva del Fondatore, as well as a family favourite, Champagne Egly-Ouriet’s Blanc de Noirs. Saskia de Rothschild (Ch. Lafite-Rothschild) breaks the mould and prefers to drink ice-cold Sauternes as an aperitif rather than sparkling wine. She is still toying on whether to go young or old, deciding between a 2017, an 2007 or 1989 from Ch. Rieussec. The whites White Burgundy seems the overwhelmingly popular choice for the Christmas table. Francisco Baettig (Viña Errázuriz, Viñedo Chadwick and Baettig wines) opting for a bottle of Pulingy-Montrachet Les Combettes from Etienne Sauzet. “I love the elegance and balance of this appellation, and the purity of the wines from this producer.” Neri is saving his last bottle of 2005 Bourgogne Blanc by Coche-Dury alongside a 1991 Terlano Rarita, a Pinot Bianco blend released 25 years after it was made, proving the incredible ageing potential of top whites from Alto Adige. Mangenot has also opted for a rarity for the special day – a magnum of 2012 Nuits-Saint-Georges Blanc from Château-Gris (Albert Bichot). Chardonnay accounts for just 2% of the Nuits-Saint-Georges appellation. “The wine has a lot of richness and a beautiful tension due to the altitude of the vineyards,” says Mangenot: he is pairing it with cod fillet and citrus cream. Keller is bucking the trend and unsurprisingly opting for dry Rieslings, specifically from the 1990s, along with an eagerly awaited bottle of 1959 Mosel Piesporter Schubertslay. In 2008, Keller (although based in Rheinhessen) took over 0.7 hectares of this incredibly steep slope in the Mosel and he is using his Christmas dinner to do some research on this Mosel site with some serious bottle age. The reds Keller is not holding back on the reds: he’s got a 1966 Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and a 1991 Clos de la Roche Grand Cru from Hubert Lignier lined up. Gianlorenzo di Neri is also opting for a Clos de la Roche, although his is a 2006 from Armand Rousseau. At the Neri household they love to compare Grand Cru Burgundy with their Brunellos, “It should be amazing to taste our 2006 Tenuta Nuova alongside.” Beyond Brunello and Burgundy, they will also be enjoying some top Nebbiolo, but it’s not an easy choice. “For Barolo we love so many producers, Elio Grasso’s Runcot – 2008 should be delicious now – or possibly Giacosa’s 2007 Barbaresco Asili Riserva.” For Mangenot, “The middle of winter is a good period to open a bottle of sunshine like Cornas Vin Noir 2012 from Domaine du Tunnel (my wife loves it!) – concentration, density, beautiful complexity, silky tannins… And a bunch of aromas that turns your dinner into a summer journey in a convertible car with your nose in the wind!” Beattig is also opting for Northern Rhône Syrah from his favourite producer Pierre Gonon, a Saint-Joseph. “I love the complexity of aromas, the spiciness. The structure of the wine, but at the same time the polished tannins. The mix of freshness, complexity and depth... love it.” At the Rothschild household it will of course be Lafite: “1988 or/and 1996: two absolute favourites of mine these days,” Saskia explains. “The 1988 is pure Lafite, extremely complex and evolving and the ’96, thanks to its perfect balance, is just so easy to drink that you’ll finish the bottle without even noticing it.” Jean-Guillaume Prats (CEO of Domaines Barons de Rothschild Lafite) is staying pretty loyal too, opting for Pomerol’s Ch. l’Evangile 2010. To finish Finally the sweets and fortifieds: there is never a better time to open aged Ports to go with the cheese and desserts of Christmas. For Lafite’s Jean-Guillaume Prats it will be Dow’s 1977 – in his words, “perfection”. Mangenot is also going for Vintage Port: Graham’s Quinta dos Malvedos 2001, “to go with a homemade chocolate mousse, and the rest of the bottle definitely to enjoy slowly by the fire with the family… Fruits, flowers, creamy character, it is a treat for the nose and the palate I wouldn't miss it at any price.” Keller decides on the sweet wines more spontaneously: “One of our favorite combinations is matching 40 and 50-year-old Ausleses with game dishes. It can taste so great. The anticipation is already great.” If fortifieds are not your thing, then take Jean-Sébastien Philippe of Lafite’s recommendation: he’ll be having a glass (or two) of Cognac de Lafite Très Vieille Réserve. He believes it is one of the most astonishing selections of old eaux-de-vies in Cognac. Browse our full range

There’s no better time than Christmas to open a treasured bottle or two. Ahead of the big day, we asked a handful of our favourite winemakers – from Saskia de Rothschild to Klaus-Peter Keller – to tell us what they’ll be uncorking

We find out the special bottles some of our favourite winemakers and distillers are uncorking this Christmas

What winemakers are drinking this Christmas

Think of a cocktail. Is vermouth in it? If you’re thinking of a classic cocktail, there’s every chance it is. The Martini, Negroni, Manhattan – I could go on. And on. For whatever reason, vermouth has not always received the recognition it deserves for propping up so many exquisite mixed drinks. In fact, I’d hazard that a fair amount of cocktail lovers don’t know vermouth is in their glass at all, or, if they do, their knowledge of the liquid might be a little patchy. When it comes to vermouth, there are a few things you need to know. Vermouth is an aromatised wine which hails from Torino, Italy. It is generally accepted that vermouth – as we know it, not the kind prescribed by Hippocrates in 400BC for ailments – was invented in the 16th century. In 2019, a Geographical Indication was introduced to protect the style and quality of vermouth from its birthplace, Turin. Under these regulations, vermouth must be made with at least one Italian wine, wormwood must be the predominant flavour and the wormwood used must be grown in Piedmont. The final liquid must also be between 16% and 22% alcohol in order for it to be labelled “Vermouth di Torino”. The two most common styles of vermouth are sweet and dry. The former is red in colour and as such is often called Rosso. This is the style used in your Manhattan and Negroni. Dry vermouth is white (Bianco) in colour and will be used in your classic Martini. Four classic Vermouth-based cocktails The Negroni It might be hard to believe given the Negroni’s current notoriety, but this simple serve of equal parts vermouth, Campari and gin was incredibly slow to catch on. As is often true in cocktail lore, there are a couple of people credited with its invention. The most widely accepted is a Count named Camillo Negroni who asked a bartender at Caffè Casoni in Florence to make his Americano cocktail a touch stronger. They duly obliged and switched the soda water for gin. This is believed to have taken place in 1919. A smaller camp credits a man named General Pascal Oliver Comte de Negroni with the invention of the cocktail in Senegal between 1855 and 1865. Setting aside the inventor for the moment, the Negroni, unrefutably, became de rigueur in the early 20th century – requested across Europe and favoured for its bitterness and alcoholic strength. Orson Welles was a very high-profile fan, famously quoted in 1947 for saying: “The bitters are excellent for your liver, the gin is bad for you. They balance each other.” In the years that followed, the Negroni’s popularity waned when appetites became more saccharine in nature. In the early 2000s, things shifted again as the Negroni began to appear on cocktail menus at some of the best bars in the world. It wasn’t long before the recipe featured in cocktail books and drinks sections of influential titles, such as The New York Times. Fast forward to today and the Negroni is regularly named the most popular cocktail by patrons and bartenders alike. There are countless riffs on the original recipe and an entire week is dedicated to celebrating it. How to make a Negroni 30ml sweet vermouth 30ml Campari 30ml gin Ice Slice of orange (garnish) Pour all ingredients into a glass with ice and stir well. Add garnish. The Manhattan The Manhattan has assumed many guises over the years, making its exact origin a hotly contested subject. Some believe Sir Winston Churchill’s mother was served the first Manhattan cocktail at the eponymous club in New York in the early 1880s. Others question the validity of this claim as she was likely in the UK, pregnant with the future Prime Minister, around this time. Some believe a New York bartender by the name of Black invented the recipe at the Hoffman House. The earliest known record of the Manhattan, in which this name and the recognised recipe, appear is in The Sunday Morning Herald in September 1882. Unhelpfully, some referred to a very similar recipe as a Jockey Club or Turf Club Cocktail. The classic recipe consists of Rye or Bourbon, sweet vermouth and bitters. During Prohibition, it was not uncommon for people to use a different whiskey as the base ingredient. If you substitute American whiskey for Scotch whisky, you have a Rob Roy cocktail. How to make a Manhattan 50ml Bourbon 25ml vermouth 3 dashes of orange bitters Cocktail cherry (garnish) Add all ingredients into a glass filled with ice and stir. Strain into coupe or Martini glass and garnish. The Americano The Americano recipe was invented at Gaspare Campari's bar in Milan in the 1860s. The cocktail of equal parts Campari, vermouth and soda water, was originally named “Milano-Torino” after the principle ingredients’ home towns of Milan and Torino respectively. The simple serve was renamed in honour of its growing fanbase: American tourists. The Negroni recipe was based on the Americano and contains two of the three main ingredients – with the soda water switched for gin. While many associate James Bond with the Vesper cocktail or a Martini – shaken, not stirred – the first cocktail associated with 007 in Ian Fleming’s work was actually an Americano in Casino Royale. It is later written, in A View To Kill, “Bond always had the same thing – an Americano”. How to make an Americano 30ml sweet vermouth 30ml Campari Soda water Slice of orange (garnish) Fill glass with ice, add Campari and sweet vermouth. Top with soda water and stir gently. Garnish. The Adonis A slightly less well-known vermouth-based cocktail, the Adonis was invented in honour of its Broadway musical namesake. The musical, based on William Gill’s novel, first opened in Chicago in 1884 and went on to become the longest-running show of its era. As the name suggests, the story follows a beautiful male statue who comes to life and ultimately opts to return to stone. The first reference to the Adonis cocktail was written in 1887. How to make an Adonis 60ml Oloroso Sherry 30ml sweet vermouth 2 dashes of orange bitters Stir all ingredients with ice. Strain into chilled glass. Browse all spirits or read more Editorial 

No drinks trolley is complete without a bottle of vermouth. It’s required in countless classic cocktails and is a remarkable drink in its own right. We chart vermouth’s rise to prominence and explore the history of four of the most famous vermouth-based cocktails.

Alll about vermouth’s rise to prominence and explores the history of 4 of the most famous vermouth-based cocktails - The Negroni, The Manhattan, The Americano

How four vermouth-based cocktails became classics

The history of vermouth in cocktails: shaken not stirred 

“Meet my girlfriends,” calls Telmo Rodríguez down the phone, laughing as he flips his camera to show two enormous shaggy-haired mutts. The skies are crisp and blue on the other side of the screen, the sun beating down on Remelluri, his family estate in Rioja Alavesa. The camera swings across the horizon as he introduces me to one of his team before rushing indoors to sit down for our call. There’s an almost frenetic energy to Rodríguez – and that energy is what in many ways defines the maverick winemaker, who has been one of the transformational forces in Spanish wine.  His parents purchased La Granja Nuestra Señora de Remelluri – a farm that has been home to vines since at least the 14th century – in 1967. Growing up on this special property, young Rodríguez went off to study winemaking in Bordeaux, then trained at properties including Cos d’Estournel, Domaine de Trévallon, Chave and more. He returned home inspired and excited to use his new-found knowledge on the family property in the early 1990s. But his father didn’t welcome Telmo’s ambition: the market didn’t want great or even good Rioja, he told his son – the market wanted cheap Rioja. Although he wasn’t allowed to make changes to the red, Rodríguez was given free rein to create the property’s first white wine. And that wine rocketed him to fame. White Rioja has always been niche (today just 9% of the vineyard area is planted to white grapes), but in the 1990s its future was looking uncertain – with the traditional, oxidised style of wines such as López de Heredia’s Tondonia Blanco fallen from grace, and many producers had given up on making these wines (as with CVNE’s Monopole Clásico, which has since been revived). Rodríguez wanted to create a wine of place, rather than a wine of style, and used complex field blends planted at higher altitudes to do so. Fermented and aged in a combination of tank and oak, Remelluri Blanco was unlike any other wine in the region. Robert Parker wrote of the 1996 vintage that it was “the finest white wine [he had] ever tasted from Spain”. The multi-variety blend doesn’t include the region’s trademark white, Viura, and is technically illegal – a fact that perhaps has only increased its appeal.  But Rodríguez was frustrated by his father, by the limitations put on him and his wines. Restless and with a rift in the family forming, he flew the coop to focus on his own project. In Bordeaux he had become friends with a fellow Spaniard, Pablo Eguzkiza, who had been working at Pétrus, and together they had already started making wine – beginning with an old-vine Garnacha from Navarra in 1994. With that wine, Compañía de Vinos Telmo Rodríguez was born.  Their vision was to make real Spanish wine – the wines that had been made before, as they saw it, France started to sway the industry. When the deadly louse phylloxera had swept through France in the late 19th century, killing its vineyards, the nation looked south, across the Pyrenees to Spain. Producers travelled there to make wine and feed demand, and Rioja in particular saw an influx of business and money – but this uplift also came with French influence. In Rodríguez’s view, this was the ruining of the trade – Rioja, which had once been a wine of site, became a wine of oak. And soon, across Spain, the variety that once defined its many regions was being over-written with international varieties. Spain became known for cheap wine – and producers were racing to the bottom.  “The worst are the British,” says Rodríguez. “They say they know Rioja and they know Sherry, but, in a certain way, the British market killed Sherry and killed Rioja because they are very happy to have a cheap Reserva for a few pounds.” The dominance of what he describes as “industrial brands”, the larger houses that buy in fruit from across the region, aged in American oak for “traditional” styles, and French for “modern”, is abhorrent to him.  “I’m sorry, you don’t know anything about Rioja. Tell me one village. Tell me one taste. Tell me one landscape. Tell me one mountain. Nobody knew anything,” he says. He explains how Labastida – a village neighbouring Remelluri – was once the Vosne-Romanée of Rioja, home to 330 different wine producers in 1680. But over the years, that history has been blended away.  Together, Rodríguez and Eguzkiza set out to uncover and reveal the Spain of yesteryear, working with old vines, native varieties and traditional methods to champion what they saw as the true Spanish wines. From their beginnings in Navarra, they looked to Arribes del Duero, to Rueda, to Málaga, to Aragon and back to Rioja, then Ribera, Toro and Sierra de Gredos.   “Now we are showing what is real,” Rodríguez tells me, with a sense of satisfaction. In Rioja, for example, they created Bodegas Lanzaga in 1998, looking to focus on the terroir around the town of Lanziego. The Consejo (regulatory body), however, didn’t allow them to use the name of a village on the label until 2017. For almost two decades they protested this rule, featuring the name on the label, but redacted (inspired in part by the art of Jenny Holzer). Today, there is a clear, and growing, movement of producers looking to focus on single-site expressions of Rioja’s best vineyards, shifting away from cross-regional blends and the dominance of oak. This echoes what is happening elsewhere in Spain, as producers focus on indigenous grapes and identifying what makes each of its varied regions unique. It’s a revolution – one that Rodríguez has been at the forefront of. It's easy to think of this rockstar duo as flying winemakers – having so many projects scattered around the country, only touching down briefly to sign off on blends before they’re off to their next event. While inevitably their schedule is intense, their focus is firmly in the vineyard and on reflecting each individual place and site – rather than crafting a range that speaks of their influence. “It’s a very honest approach to a place,” Rodríguez says. The references throughout our conversation only emphasise this: Burgundy, the ultimate “terroir” wine, is where he finds his inspiration; while the Super Tuscans are repeatedly scorned for their internationality.  Matallana is quite possibly Telmo Rodríguez’s most ambitious project to date. He and Eguzkiza first made wine in Ribera del Duero in 1998, and have slowly built up 21.5 hectares of vines around the region.  “My dream was to do a very good Vega Sicilia. I wanted to do the Vega Sicilia that I used to drink in the past,” explains Rodríguez, talking about bottles from the 1940s, ’50s or ’60s. Back then, he says, it wasn’t an estate wine but fruit was sourced from around the region. For him, Vega Sicilia is now too “Bordeaux-style”. He argues that while in Rioja the soils are quite consistent, Ribera del Duero is incredibly varied. They have chosen to work with a range of vineyards across five villages – Sotillo de la Ribera, Roa, Fuentecén, Fuentemolinos and Pardilla – ranging from quartz-rich or pebbly soils reminiscent of Châteauneuf-du-Pape to chalky albariza and clay-heavy sites. This diversity is what helps bring complexity to the wine, with each one producing a different expression of Tinto Fino.   The work involved in each of the Compañía de Vinos Telmo Rodríguez projects is painstaking, tracking down special parcels, reviving soils and replanting or grafting where necessary, working organically and biodynamically, to achieve the quality they’re looking for. For Bodegas Lanzaga, for example, it was over a decade before they produced the first vintage of their top wine, Las Beatas, from a 1.9-hectare plot of the same name (first made in 2011).  For Matallana, they wanted to track down the region’s very best, historic vineyards in each of the five villages. But it’s not been easy. All too often they’d been abandoned, some needed re-planting entirely, or otherwise re-grafting with massal selections, and serious work to bring the soils back to life. They wanted to work with unirrigated bush-vines and field blends – vineyards farmed as they might have been in the 19th century. And then there’s the complex ownership: to buy just six of their 21.5 hectares took seven years, purchasing tiny plots from 40 different families.  Although they’ve been making wine here since the 1999 vintage, it wasn’t ready until relatively recently – and Rodríguez considers the 2014 the first “real” vintage of the project. Before that point they had made three wines, a selection of fruit from the oldest vines that went into the “Grand Vin” Matallana, a second wine M2 and the unoaked Gazur from younger plots. “They were prototypes, we were learning,” explains Rodríguez. From 2014, there is only one wine, with a change in the label to reflect the shift.  As with the older vintages from Bodegas Lanzaga, the label shows a list of redacted vineyard names – which are still not permitted to feature on the labels in Ribera del Duero. “All those vineyards are the guarantee of the purity of our wines,” says Rodríguez. In fact, the label is embossed, so beneath the censored text, you can feel the names of these terroirs. He’s moved to reduce the oak, using some foudres and tinajas (amphorae), while also acknowledging that the wine needs movement and oxygen to polymerise the tannins. The result, however, is a more delicate wine. At the end of the day, he says, “We don’t care about the winery… our wine is the landscape, is the soils.” The difference between the “new” and “old” Matallana is striking. The 2020 is pure, vibrant – a mineral wine with crystalline fruit that speaks of place.  “I don’t want to be pretentious, but we want to create another iconic wine from Ribera del Duero,” says Rodríguez. There’s no shortage of ambition here – and they’re looking to increase production to around 40,000 bottles a year (up from around 25,000 currently). “It took us 25 years… but we knew we were doing something rare, different.” The latest move has been to partner with Jean-Guillaume Prats (currently of Ch. Léoville Las Cases, previously of Ch. Lafite Rothschild and Cos d’Estournel), and start distributing the wine via La Place de Bordeaux, to bring the wine to an even bigger audience.  Rodríguez is now 61 – but there’s no sign of him slowing down. “People say that I’m too old to plant vineyards,” he says, clearly finding such a thought absurd. He’s just planting three hectares he tells me – vineyards that will be amazing, he feels, maybe in 15 years’ time. On the day we talk, he had five local youths coming to meet his team, the children of local viticulturalists in Labastida; they’d be making wines together with the best 2,000 kilos from each of their family’s plots – a project that has been going four years. There’s no looking back from this vigneron, whose eyes are firmly on the horizon, as he continues to push boundaries and forge a future for those that will follow him.  Explore all wines from Telmo Rodríguez and Matallana or read more Editorial 

Telmo Rodríguez is one of Spain’s most famous names. Since the 1990s, he has been a controversial figure, fighting for the nation’s vinous heritage. We caught up with the relentless revolutionary to talk about his journey, the real Rioja and his most challenging project to date

Telmo Rodríguez is one of Spain’s most famous winemakers. We caught up with him to talk his journey and his most challenging project to date, Matallana

Telmo Rodriguez – the eternal battle

Telmo Rodríguez: the eternal battle

“It’s difficult when you don’t have vines, a winery, any equipment or money,” Stéphane Dief – co-owner and winemaker at Clos Manou – tells me. “You say you want to be a winemaker, but it is complicated. Our advantage, however, was being able to do exactly what we wanted.” Over the last 25 years, he and his wife Françoise have slowly grown their tiny estate in the northern reaches of the Médoc, beyond Saint-Estèphe, where they make wine that offers some of the best value in the region.  Saint-Christoly-Médoc – the miniscule village that is home to their domaine – is where Stéphane grew up, while Françoise is from less than 15km away. Although Françoise’s family had vines, neither she nor Stéphane were working in the production side of the business, but they fell in love with wine. Via his brothers-in-law – who worked at Ch. Mouton Rothschild and Ch. Rauzan-Sègla – Stéphane started tasting some special wines, buying older vintages at auction – and was soon determined to give it a go himself.  Together, the couple bought a mere 12 ares and produced their first vintage in 1998, 600 bottles that they labelled as Clos Manou – “Clos” because they felt it wasn’t grand enough to use “Château”, and “Manou”, Stéphane’s nickname. It was such a success that their hobby rapidly became a full-time gig and the duo left their day jobs in 2000.  In some ways it doesn’t sound like they were doing anything remarkable. They wanted to make attractive wines that reflected their site, and to do so with precision and care. Their ambitions were modest. And yet, for Bordeaux, their small-scale, hand-crafted approach was – and is – atypical.  They sought out specific parcels of old vines, those planted before clonal material became commonplace, favouring the natural complexity of massal selection. They chose to work only with high-density vineyards – around 10,000 vines per hectare, a point at which Stéphane feels the vines self-regulate, meaning there’s no need to green harvest and often less de-leafing required.  In principle, they are close to organic – however, in a bid to avoid dependency on copper, they use bio-controls that aren’t permitted under organics, specifically phosphonic acid. They don’t use any herbicides, insecticides or chemicals – but believe that copper, as a heavy metal that kills soil’s microbiome, is best used minimally, and they prefer to use something that doesn’t leave trace levels in the final wine.   Almost everything is done by hand, with 12 full-time employees working on the estate. There are no protocols or routines. “We do things by watching, observing our vines and drawing conclusions and echoing those conclusions the following year,” Stéphane says.  The 2003 vintage was a turning point. Robert Parker gave the wine 93 points – an incredible score for such a modest Médoc, writing that it was “better than many of the vintage’s ‘big’ names”, “drop-dead-gorgeous” and a “prodigious effort”. Given the critic was at his peak, his influence was significant – and suddenly Clos Manou was in enormous demand.  “C’est notre métier, mais notre passion aussi," Stéphane says – “It’s our profession, but it’s our passion too." That explains perhaps why, for 11 years, he didn’t take a day off. “My wife wasn’t very happy with me,” Stéphane tells me, laughing cheekily.   Today they have 18.5 hectares of vines, scattered between Saint-Christoly-Médoc and Couquèques, all within a three-kilometre radius. They sit across three different soil types – gravel over clay, limestone-clay and sand, with some sitting very close to the estuary itself. Stéphane thinks of them as three children – one of which, the gravel over clay, is naturally gifted. But just because the other two need a bit more work, doesn’t mean they are any lesser. There is, he says, no such thing as “un petit terroir”. One special parcel dates back to 1850. Planted before phylloxera swept through the region, it’s managed to survive thanks to its sandy soils. In certain vintages they make a special “Cuvée 1850” from the block.  Despite the vines averaging 45 years in age, the yields are generally good – sitting at around 50hl/ha. Stéphane emphasises that low yields don’t equate to better quality, necessarily – the balance of your vines is what matters most.  It’s undeniable that climate change has been a benefit here, beyond Saint-Estèphe, where once it was a struggle to ripen fruit. In 2018, Clos Manou had 15% alcohol – but, thanks to their clay soils, the pH was a vibrant 3.52, bringing great freshness to balance the wine. He’s still thinking about the long-term impact of the rising mercury, however, and experimenting with small portions of whole-bunch, inspired by the likes of Guillaume Pouthier at Les Carmes Haut-Brion. Stéphane feels that it can add tension and make the wines feel more dynamic, even on just 5% of the blend. “On est des vrais vignerons – comme il y a en Bourgogne," Stéphane tells me ("We are true vignerons – as there are in Burgundy"). Unlike larger properties where there are various directors who influence decisions – it’s just them deciding what to do. Despite looking further afield for their inspiration, he and Françoise don’t want to go against the grain of the region. “We want to be a bit unorthodox, but we are nevertheless Bordelais,” he says.  Clos Manou is, in essence, a family business. There’s nothing remarkable about their modest ways, but their freedom to start with a blank page has allowed them to create something that is no longer the norm. Inspired by the Bordeaux of yesteryear, everything is low-tech yet done with great precision. The wines are fresh and pure, yet distinctly savoury and earthy – with a natural intensity that points to their old vines. You can see the addition of larger oak and amphorae in more recent vintages, bringing more vibrancy. They are somehow rustic yet fine. Little has changed here since 1998; let’s hope that that remains the case, and the Dief family continue to craft humble expressions of Bordeaux that are very much extraordinary.  Browse all listings of Clos Manou or read more about Bordeaux 

At first glance, Clos Manou might seem run-of-the-mill. But this small estate in the Médoc is far from it. We sat down with Stéphane Dief to talk about how a hobby became his life, the freedom of a fresh start, and why his family’s wines are worth seeking out

We talk to Stephane Dief about his family estate in the Medoc, Clos Manou – one of Bordeaux’s best-value wines and best-kept secrets

Why Clos Manou is anything but ordinary

Anything but ordinary: Clos Manou

“I met Anselme Selosse when I was 13 and that really entered in my heart. He’s really a special person that changed the world of wine [for me],” Matteo Bisol tells me. It’s perhaps not what you’d expect of the young winemaker who represents the 21st generation of the Bisol family – a family that made their name with, and has become synonymous with, fine Prosecco.  Meeting the iconic Champagne producer – considered by many the pioneer behind the region’s grower movement – has stuck in Bisol’s mind, however. Partly, he believes, because he was at just the right age – partway between child and adult, his mind open to new ideas. “He was always talking about wine as a living thing, you know,” Bisol says. “I got it and I always thought it was very important.” He’s been immersed in the family business as long as he can remember. From the age of 10, he spent his summers working in the Bisol winery. “Once I arrived in the morning five minutes late and my father fired me. And then he hired me again because he didn’t want me to leave, being at home doing nothing,” says Bisol, laughing at the memory.  But Matteo Bisol has left the hills of Valdobbiadene behind, now in charge of his family’s very personal project: Venissa. It was Matteo’s father, Gianluca that embarked on the adventure over 15 years ago – but somewhat by accident. He was visiting the island of Torcello, which is home to one of the oldest churches in Venice – founded in 639 AD. “In front of the basilica, there’s a beautiful garden – a little bit hidden – but he saw some vine leaves,” Bisol explains. “He knocked on the door of the owner and introduced himself.” Gianluca spoke to the woman that owned the garden, who told him that a few of the vines were a local golden-skinned variety – Dorona. And down the rabbit hole, he went…  He started researching the grape and its history – discovering that viticulture had long been a part of life in the Venice Lagoon. For almost 2,500 years, vines had been grown on the islands – an integral element of the region’s culture. Before motors and speedboats, the islands were a three-hour journey from the mainland, so isolated that they had a totally different culture – “a culture based on nature, based on farming”, Bisol explains. Their isolation forced self-sufficiency, with every bit of space on each island used to grow something. With religion integral to Venice and indeed Italy’s history, wine – used for twice daily mass – was an essential part of life.   This history lives on in local nomenclature: one of the islands is called Le Vignole, one was known as Vigna Murata (now Lazzaretto Nuovo), San Francesco del Deserto was previously called Isola delle Due Vigne, a road on Murano is called Via della Vigne. Many islanders made wine, with presses for the fruit of the vines in their back garden or field. But as the islands of the lagoon became less distant, with the zip of an engine, many of the vineyards were pulled up, and those that remained were destroyed by the catastrophic floods of 1966.   After this initial discovery, Gianluca Bisol started seeking out Dorona vines – a quest that Matteo remembers vividly. “Really from the beginning, I was on the boat, with the bicycles on Sant’Erasmo looking for more Dorona grapes,” he says, describing their search for a variety that was – at the time – on the brink of extinction. It was a farmer, Gastone, on the island of Sant’Erasmo who really opened Gianluca’s eyes to working with Dorona. He was one of the last farmers in Venice to still make wine for personal consumption.   “A great person, a very beautiful person and very wise – he introduced us to the Dorona history and to the way he was making the wine in the past,” Bisol tells me. Thereafter, Gianluca hunted down cuttings and eventually –in 2006-2007 – planted 0.8 hectares of Dorona on the island of Mazzorbo.   It was tradition – rather than current fashions – that led them to make a white wine with extended skin contact. The wine had always been made with skin contact, and they decided to push it further, with a month of maceration, extracting as much flavour as possible from the unique variety. They also decided that the wines needed time to find their balance after such a long period of maceration. They considered barrel ageing, but didn’t want to change the profile of the wines with the flavour of oak, so instead opted for concrete – and two years’ élevage. The resulting wines have a fine phenolic grip and distinct mineral, even saline, freshness, with a nutty complexity that is reminiscent of mature white Hermitage, Burgundy or Jura Savagnin and Chardonnay – yet also unlike anything else. It’s this unique character that Bisol feels is why the wine is such a success. “We never tried to fit Venissa in any category… we just make the wine that we feel is the right thing for Venissa grapes,” he says  Since the first vintage in 2010, and when Matteo took over in 2013, they’ve learnt a huge amount. “There are parts of the vineyard – different parcels – that have a lower salt concentration in the soil,” Bisol explains. The more saline soils restrict the yield, producing smaller and even more concentrated berries. It was this discovery that led to the introduction of Venusa, a second wine that is made for earlier drinking, in 2017 and comes from the less saline plots. Of course, with two wines, it means that the already tiny volumes of the top white, Venissa Bianco, are even smaller – with just 2,000 bottles made a year. “It’s such a small vineyard that we know the plants one by one,” Bisol says, with an almost paternal fondness.  With each vintage, as well, they have pushed quality even further – learning how to get the most from the previously almost extinct Dorona. They’ve been making the wine for 20 years, but – as Bisol says – “Twenty years means you made it 20 times. Twenty times is nothing. Every year we see how the wine is responding, and we learn every year more things that allow us to make better and better wines.”  And making wine in this remarkable place, with its salt-soaked soils, is far from easy – something that the flood, or “acquaalta”, of November 2019 brought vividly to life. Although the vineyard is shielded by a wall, it couldn’t hold back the water – and once receded they had to wash the vines one by one with fresh water, and the soil as well, to try to remove the potentially catastrophically high salt content. It was only when the vines emerged from dormancy in the spring that they knew whether or not they’d done enough to save them.  “It also reminded us how resilient this grape variety is, which is actually the resilience of Venice – which has been a city or republic for more than 1,000 years,” Bisol says. The Dorona grape, like the region’s people, has adapted to its surroundings. Fortunately, with the introduction of MOSE in 2020, the city’s barrier system designed to shield it from high tides, flooding hasn’t threatened their crop – and vineyard – since.   It's clear talking to Bisol, that Venissa is much more than a wine. Not only is it a symbol of Venice’s resilience, but a project to preserve the city’s great traditions.The glass bottles come from the island of Murano, but it’s the labels that are particularly special. They work with Marino Menegazzo of Mario Berta Battiloro, the last goldbeater not just in Venice, but Europe – who hammers out a sheet of goldleaf for each and every bottle they produce, from the workshop that once was home to Titian. The design changes each year, with the leaf for each bottle very slightly different thanks to its hand-crafted nature. With Marino Menegazzo in his 70s, and no one to inherit the family business, this tradition – like the Dorona wines – is at risk.  “This part of the history of Venice, it’s an history that is very important and our role at Venissa is really to keep this history alive,” Bisol says. “For us, winemaking is really important, of course my family comes from winemaking, it has a history of 500 years in winemaking. But when we realised the history that was behind this city, behind agriculture and grape growing, and behind all these other handcrafting techniques, it became even more important for Venissa, as our role of preserving the heritage rather than just making a wine… We really believe that preserving our tradition is even more important than winemaking.”   While the family started with just 0.8 hectares on Mazzorbo, they soon started making a red from 2.75 hectares on Santa Cristina (with vines that were previously farmed by the Swarovski family). Now, they’ve planted Dorona on two more islands, harvesting the fruit for the first time this year. Under the Bisol family’s protective eye, it’s clear that this special Venetian tradition has found its guardian angel.  The Venissa wines are exclusively available from FINE+RARE in the UK; if you’d like to visit Venissa, please contact us. Browse all current listings and find out more about the estate here. 

Venissa is an estate like no other, crafting wine from the indigenous Dorona grape grown on islands in the Venice Lagoon. Sophie Thorpe spoke to Matteo Bisol about his family’s mission to preserve this unique Venetian tradition 

The Bisol family has made it their mission to save viticulture in the Venice Lagoon. We talk to Matteo Bisol about their island vineyards and making Dorona

Matteo Bisol of Venissa on making wine in Venice

Fighting the tide: Venissa’s quest to save Venice’s vineyards

Ch. Latour doesn’t need PR. The Pauillac estate, one of Bordeaux’s five hallowed First Growths, is rightfully revered. But browse Google and there’s an almost eerie absence of stories about what you’d imagine is one of the world’s most storied estates. It can, and does, let its wines do the talking. Sure, when it broke ranks and walked away from en primeur in 2012, there was a flurry of activity – as the wine world rushed to record Latour’s momentous decision. But even then, the news came via a letter to négociants, none of whom were particularly willing to comment on record. There’s been little noise from the estate itself. Even the release of its first vintages since it left en primeur (2012 and 2013, for the Grand Vin, in 2020 and 2021, respectively) didn’t come with the patter of press interviews. It’s hard not to draw comparisons between the style of its wines – powerful, precise and stern – and the team here. Their quiet breeds confidence. The estate has some of the Médoc’s finest terroir. Right next to (just 300m from) the Gironde, the temperature is moderated; this combined with the natural airflow shields them from extreme weather (even in severe frost years such as 2017 or 2021, the damage at Latour has been negligible). But it is the soils – the free-draining gravel layered over sticky blue clay (the latter the same sort as found at Pétrus) – that makes the place truly special. While the property’s reputation stretches back to the 14th century, many pinpoint the moment it was bought by François Pinault in 1993 as pivotal. The billionaire – who currently sits at number 32 on the Forbes list – invested heavily and hired CEO Frédéric Engerer, the man who has in turn led Latour firmly to the front of the pack. Of the 10 most recent vintages of Latour reviewed by the Wine Advocate, four received perfect scores, another two got 98 points. This is a property at the very top of its game. So why the silence? “We are all focused on what we do. When François Pinault bought the estate, when Frédéric Engerer joined as CEO, the aim is to make the best wine possible. That’s the priority,” Jean Garandeau, the property’s Sales and Marketing Director, tells me. “We are not sending tons of press releases,” he says. “We like to communicate with our clients one-to-one.” The face of Latour amongst the trade, Garandeau seems equally mysterious when looking at his digital footprint. He grew up around wine – guaranteed with a Burgundian mother and Bordelais father (“We were used to having good wines and good food at our table,” he tells me). But it was the commercial side that officially drew him, heading off to business school in Paris, before a stint at Moët Hennessy managing the marketing for Krug. He arrived in Bordeaux in 2010, working across Pinault’s straight flush of wine estates (under the Artémis group) – now including Eisele Vineyard, Ch. Grillet, Domaine d’Eugénie, Clos de Tart and, of course, Latour. Unsurprisingly, given the places, the people and bottles involved – it’s a gig he’s happy to keep. The challenge with such pedigree, of course, is how one manages to stay on top. Asking Garandeau, he says: “Never get satisfied by what you are doing.” And it seems there’s no risk of complacency at Latour. Despite the limited drip-feed of information, it is clear that the First Growth is more than happy forging its own path. The property started experimenting with organics in 2007 – “to understand the impact of these methods in a oceanic climate”, Garandeau explains. They picked the most sensitive plots to test the limits of organic viticulture. Almost a decade later, they converted the entire estate, becoming officially certified in 2018. The historic heart of the estate, L’Enclos, is now farmed entirely biodynamically – although they don’t plan to shift the entire 95 hectares to biodynamics. While Garandeau won’t offer any details, there are “lots of experiments – but nothing we are communicating about”. The aim, however, is “to make this place in harmony with its environment”. Since the winery was renovated in 2001, the team has been able to vinify plots individually, allowing a broader palette when it comes to blending. Today, they’re also looking to reduce sulphur – in particular when the grapes first arrive at the winery, feeling it is something that results in fruit of greater purity and complexity. What’s next? “Constantly looking at what could be the solutions of tomorrow to fight against climate change, to introduce even more biodiversity at the estate,” Garandeau says. To find out exactly what those solutions are, we’ll need to wait and see. There’s a clear reluctance to reveal too much. Perhaps of course, it’s because – inevitably – people continue to ask about the shift away from en primeur, the reasons behind it, and whether they feel they made the right choice. So, did they? With only two vintages released under the new system, it’s too soon to say. But, there’s no doubt that demand for Latour remains strong. While Bordeaux properties are holding back and increasing proportion of stock for mature ex-château releases with perfect provenance (and an associated premium), no one – yet – has been bold enough to follow in the First Growth’s footsteps. This month sees the release, or re-release, of a parcel of 2005 Latour – a star-studded vintage that has left critics suitably impressed (Antonio Galloni described the wine as “life-affirming”). It was, in Garandeau’s words, an “easy” growing season – dry and warm but with doses of rain at the appropriate junctures – that produced stunning wine, only on the cusp of its extensive drinking window. “It combines a lot of very top elements. It’s a vintage that has naturally a great backbone, great tannin structure, magic of ripe and quite juicy fruit at the same time… but keeps that wonderful balance,” he says. “It’s definitely in the league of the great vintages we produced in the 20th/21st centuries.” It’s hard to imagine the lure of this fabled stalwart of the fine wine scene fading. Approachability is over-rated – this is a property in it for the long-term. And as anyone lucky enough to have tasted any number of legendary vintages from this estate knows, it’s well worth the wait. Browse all current available listings of Ch. Latour or read more Editorial

Few wine producers are as lauded as Ch. Latour. Ahead of the release of their 2005, Sophie Thorpe attempts to look behind the curtain at the legendary First Growth estate

Looking behind the curtain at legendary First Growth estate Ch. Latour ahead of the release of their 2005 vintage.

Behind the curtain at First Growth Ch. Latour 

Ch. Latour: the power of silence

Gigi Bianco

Barbaresco

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