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  

Rome’s Baths of Caracalla fell into ruin in the 6th century. This illustrated reconstruction appeared in Hutchinson’s History of the Nations, published in 1915. Credit: Classic Images (Alamy Stock Photo). It took a shock to the system on the scale of the Covid-19 pandemic to demonstrate how much our lives can be reshaped by the humblest of objects. When restaurants, hotels, cafés and night clubs have all been closed for months on end – and when we are excluded even from each other’s homes – then park benches and patio heaters become stand-ins for the more elaborate architecture of everyday life that usually enable the interactions we depend on to function as social beings. For much of 2020, only the most rudimentary tools for conviviality were left to us. This works better at some times, than others. On a warm sunny day, all it takes to create an instant convivial space is a bench. This simple structure is the means for people to meet, share a view, a conversation, and perhaps a picnic. Add a back, arms, and a USB charger plus a Wi-Fi connection to the bench, and the proposition grows layers of complexity. It has become a people-attractor and a conversation starter too. This last year has helped us to understand better how to appreciate, through their absence, the things that make us the most human: being together, sharing food, drink and conversation, and marking the key moments in life. While we were forced into isolation, our attempts to replicate some of these experiences, with the use of a screen and a fitful broadband connection, showed us how inadequate they inevitably are. The experience suggests that social change, when it comes, is about an acceleration of what already exists – more than it is about a complete reinvention. Buying more online than we ever did in department stores is going to be a permanent shift. Some of us are less likely to fly to Australia for 24 hours for a business meeting than we were in 2019. But there are other things that will not change. We will still want to celebrate birthdays and weddings in the company of others. We will always want to meet our friends and look for chances to make new ones. And we enjoy doing all those things in the kind of spaces and places that make the most of the moment, which can make the seemingly routine into an occasion. Even at the basic level of the park bench, there are nuances to deal with. Chatting side by side is not the same experience as a face-to-face conversation. However, for some people, direct eye contact is as aggressive as an all-caps text message. It is why a walk in the park can be the best way to share a secret, and why Sigmund Freud conducted his consultations from behind the back of his couch. What we sit on is as significant as how we sit. In the average western living room in the 1960s, the armchair was the seat of power, occupied by family patriarchs. The matriarch, if she was lucky, got a slightly smaller version to herself. The sofa was designed in the same style, just large enough for two, and was for the use of supplicant sons-in-law. As the domestic world has expanded, so the sofa has taken on the dominant role over every other piece of domestic furniture. Sofas have been getting bigger for some time and are now reaching the size of lifeboats. They’re expected to cope with everything from conversation to work, assuming multiple roles as stand-in dining table, desk and bed. Social spaces, from the most intimate scale to the grandest, form an essential part of both our personal domestic worlds – in which we share our privacy with a selected group of friends and family – and the public one that we all share. It is a scaled sequence that runs all the way from a candlelit interior with a couple of chairs, a plain wooden table with two wine glasses, to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan, which, with its heroic iron-roofed arcade, has a strong claim to be regarded as the mother of all shopping malls. When it opened in 1877, the newly empowered bourgeoisie (in their straw boaters and stiff detachable collars) took to it as the setting for their daily promenades on the way to and from the Duomo, Milan’s cathedral, where they celebrated Mass, or en route to a performance of a Verdi opera at La Scala. Stopping to take coffee and pastries, they would meet each other for an aperitif at Biffi or dinner at Savini, and explore the exotic wares that the shops in the Galleria had to offer. As futurist artist Umberto Boccioni demonstrated in his painting from 1910, Riot in the Galleria, there was a darker side to such spaces. He portrayed the agitated response of a turbulent crowd of well-dressed spectators to the sudden violence of a fight between two women – sex workers perhaps. The disturbing scene, depicted in pointilliste style (and based on an incident that actually took place), is bathed in lurid electric light, evoking the frenzied atmosphere of this giant outdoor room and its extraordinary impact on the behaviour of a mass society. An unintended consequence of the lockdown has been the enforcement of the monogamy-based model of the nuclear family. It made the year particularly difficult for all those who don’t subscribe to it. We will need places we can dress up for again, places we can show off in, even places in which we can behave badly. The painting is, in some senses, a reminder that urban life is essentially about tolerance. Complex spaces have always been a vital part of urban life. Almost 2,000 years ago, the Romans built the Baths of Caracalla on a lavish scale, with three separate pools, libraries and gymnasia – and gardens large enough to accommodate 1,600 people at a time in comfort. Its mosaic and marble floors, its frescoes and sculptures made it one of Rome’s essential landmarks, not only as a monument to the glory of the emperor who built it – though it certainly was that – but also as a place to be used by people, day and night. Its magnificence, and the sense of the joy of a great shared civic space, inspired the American architect Charles McKim when he designed New York’s Pennsylvania Station, one the most sublime railway stations ever built. The central waiting room, barbarously destroyed 50 years after it opened, was a convincing recreation of the baths of Caracalla that lifted the spirits of anyone who passed through it. The months of isolation have taught us how important shared spaces of all kinds are to the way that we live. They are the places in which we meet each other to celebrate the important rituals of life, as well as to pursue the seemingly trivial (actually essential) compulsion to gossip about one another. As an essentially self-conscious species, we need alibis to give ourselves permission to be convivial. We construct reasons to meet each other, like the 19th century clubs of Pall Mall, or their democratic paraphrase – with its provision of gender segregation, and games room, and its mix of intimacy and ceremony – the Victorian pub full of mirrors and cut glass. Or in today’s context, a bowling alley configured to allow players and their friends to sit at a table, order food and drinks, and watch each other play, and to hear each other converse. Some public spaces do better at conviviality than others. The Las Vegas casino, for example, is designed to be the opposite of convivial. Slot machines on an industrial scale obviate the need for any form of human interaction. With its glass dome, and 25 miles of bookshelves, the old round reading room at the British Museum is certainly a very special space, although it has now lost its intellectual raison d’être and has become a dead monument. In its day, a reader’s ticket conferred membership of an exclusive club that included Oscar Wilde, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and George Orwell. But as the museum’s insistence on silence suggests – beyond unspoken flirtation over the book stacks – it was not a place that was fundamentally about conviviality. The Berghain Club, the raw, concrete world capital of techno music based in a redundant power station in Friedrichshain, in what was once East Berlin, is another very different kind of public space, and – in its own way – an equally spectacular social space. It has a pickier door policy than the British Museum but a similarly committed membership. In this case, the limit on conviviality is not silence, but the sheer volume of sound that makes the 18-metre-high main spaces vibrate, and which makes conversation inconceivable. A truly convivial space needs to work on multiple levels, to offer a variety of zones, some of which can encourage concentration, and others that can be distracting. Some may be more intimate than others. It’s a drive that is leading to an interesting range of cross-fertilisation. Cinemas that serve food more ambitious than popcorn and hot dogs are being equipped with sofas instead of tip-up seats. Health spas come with restaurants. However, not all convivial spaces encourage multiple uses. Orchestration and control are part of the experience at those English clubs that frown on members showing any signs of working, to the extent of asking them to put away notebook and pencil – never mind laptops – over lunch. Some aspects of what we have learned from the last year will colour life well into the future. The private dining room is a long-standing restaurant tradition, which has been given a new lease of life. We can also expect to see signs of change in the workplace. The Silicon Valley model has aspired to look as domestic as possible, furnished with sofas and kitchen tables, surrounded by vintage and deliberately non-matching chairs. A year of working at home is likely to encourage a more formal environment. But while we continually try to find new tools to make conviviality possible, the objectives remain the same. In a year in which all our assumptions about how we live together have been turned upside down, the world’s designers and architects have had to face the challenge of how to deal with the impact of the pandemic on our homes and our cities. As city centres empty out, and people avoid crowds, how can we find ways to socialise? 
Deyan Sudjic asked four leading designers and architects to explore the future directions that conviviality can take for FONDATA. John Pawson Architect John Pawson has always focused on the idea of designing the architecture of conviviality. In his recently released Home Farm Cooking book, produced with his wife Catherine and published by Phaidon, we see what matters most. Every Pawson interior is designed with how it will feel to use it in mind – is it to be enjoyed by somebody on their own, or with others? He takes away the distractions and lets us focus on how we use and feel in a room. He makes some spaces in which to read and to concentrate, others in which to share the preparation of a meal, and yet another to enjoy the result in company. Intrinsic in his philosophy is the importance of creating a setting where one can appreciate light at different times of the day – whether it is the shades of white as revealed by degrees of sunlight or the warming effect of firelight by night. johnpawson.com AB Rogers Ab Rogers was inspired by the spontaneous street life of the neighbourhood in 
East London in which he lives and works to come up with a range of furniturelike structures to give social spontaneity a helping hand. “Whether it’s planned 
or serendipitous, we wanted to design a set of colourful pieces that could help 
to turn a momentary catch-up on the street into an impromptu drinks party, 
anchored by a tuned-up bollard. Or make a surprise anniversary dinner possible 
under a street lamp … or make a breath of fresh air turn into a long lunch with 
new friends at a long table under the trees.”  abrogers.com Paloma Strelitz Paloma Strelitz, an architect, and co-founder of the Turner Prize winning 
collective Assemble, took an overview of how shopping streets might recover 
from lockdown, to generate new life: “convivial, accessible, sustainable and 
enjoyable for all”. The experience of negotiating streets in which precautions 
against the pandemic had caused restaurants and food shops to migrate to 
the pavement, made her think about ways to make this a permanent quality.
“It’s an opportunity to empower local business. Shops could open their 
facades to the street, creating an expanded space of public interaction, and 
daily theatre.” She would keep the car in its place, with priority for pedestrians and bikes, 
and banned altogether at weekends. What were once parking places would 
become green borders, combining play space, raised planters, flower beds 
and trees, allowing the street to become a promenade. Meanwhile the street 
would be animated not just by cafés, but studios and workshops putting the 
making process on show. Oh, and a mobile bar too.  assemblestudio.co.uk Jon Marshall  Jon Marshall, an industrial design partner at Pentagram in London, found himself 
thinking about ways to bring together two very different kinds of object: a hamper, 
designed to carry utensils food and drink securely, and a shooting stick. “They 
aren’t really about shooting,” he explains. “The shooting stick is actually a very 
convenient way of carrying the means to sit anywhere with you.”  The hamper allows for the sense of anticipation that comes from preparing for 
a pleasurable occasion. The two objects have very different aesthetics – one is 
vaguely mechanical, the other has a kind and rustic quality. For Marshall, the idea 
of the shared walk – with the chance of stopping for a picnic – is the very essence 
of conviviality. pentagram.com/about/jon-marshall This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

The past year has seen a huge change in our ability to interact, and opportunities to be social. Deyan Sudjic considers the importance of conviviality for human beings – and the public spaces we design.

Deyan Sudjic considers the importance of conviviality for human beings – and the public spaces we design.

FONDATA: The Importance of Being Convivial

The Importance of Being Convivial  

È una mattina umida e nebbiosa quando arrivo ancora una volta nelle strade molto tranquille di Auxey-Duresses per il mio pellegrinaggio annuale a degustare la nuova Collezione Maison Leroy. Lo scorso anno Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy era a Monaco, quindi non vedo l’ora di rivederla e degustare insieme – proprio nel giorno del compleanno di sua figlia. Due cani corrono fuori per salutarmi con entusiasmo: il barboncino nero Nine di 13 anni e la Grand Basset Griffon Vendéen Olga di cinque anni, entrambi rapidamente tranquilli una volta consolati con qualche carezza gentile. Madame, nel frattempo, si trova dietro di loro, elegante e discreta come sempre. Parlando brevemente dello stato del mercato, ripete quanto la cosa più importante sia la felicità dei nostri clienti. Era al centro dei suoi pensieri quando ha deciso i vini per la collezione di quest’anno, dominata dalle annate 2017 e 2018, con il vino più vecchio del 2011. È bene variare un po’, mi dice. Dopo il rilascio estensivo della biblioteca dello scorso anno, con un turbinio di annate passate, quest’anno voleva dare ai più giovani la possibilità di brillare. Descrive il 2018 come un’annata più completa: c’è più vino, più materia rispetto al 2017; eppure il 2017 è più raffinato e delicato, in qualche modo più accessibile. Parliamo di cosa rende un vino un “grand vin” e lei dice: “La qualité, c’est les rendements.” (“La qualità, sono le rese.”) Prendendo l’Aligoté come esempio, spiega che raramente produrrà più di 20 hl/ha per l’Aligoté del Domaine Leroy e del Domaine d’Auvenay – e per lei questo è il limite per ottenere un vino di alta qualità. È impossibile fare un buon Aligoté a 40 hl/ha, sostiene – come sa bene degustando quei vini acquosi e diluiti. “Preferirei bere acqua,” confessa. Non è un segreto che il suo Aligoté sia speciale: e Gilles Desprez (braccio destro di Bize-Leroy) ricorda di essere rimasto una volta sbalordito da una bottiglia di 1999 D’Auvenay Aligoté servita in cieco – un vino che tutti intorno al tavolo avevano scambiato per un bianco Grand Cru. Non c’è miglior giudice di un vino della degustazione alla cieca – come ben sa Bize-Leroy. Ancora oggi, degusta tutto ciò che viene imbottigliato sotto l’etichetta Maison Leroy alla cieca. Recentemente stava assaggiando alcuni 2024 per la gamma e nota come sia facile trovare un eccellente Nuits-Saint-Georges o Gevrey-Chambertin, ma troppo spesso rimane delusa dai Vosne-Romanée e Chambolle-Musigny – faticando a scoprire vini in questi villaggi degni del sigillo di approvazione Leroy. La nostra degustazione inizia quest’anno con i rossi, partendo da una serie di 2018, assaggiati da sud a nord, “dans le sens de la Côte” (lungo la Côte), prima di passare ai 2017, poi a un 2016, un 2015, un 2012 e, infine, il vino più vecchio della collezione di quest’anno, un Nuits-Saint-Georges 2011. I bianchi includono un’appellation che degusta raramente e una che quasi mai entra nella gamma: Savigny-lès-Beaune Blanc. Il 2018 della collezione di quest’anno, tuttavia, è speciale – un vino che non saresti pazzo a chiamare Corton-Charlemagne alla cieca, mi dice. E (ovviamente) Bize-Leroy ha ragione: è sontuoso, con un livello di ricchezza e densità che supera di gran lunga quello di un semplice “village”. Con l’aria, si sviluppa ulteriormente, offrendo una complessità impressionante. Madame guarda Gilles: “Peccato che non abbiamo alcun Corton qui per fare un confronto,” dice. Gilles conferma che non ce n’è nessuno a portata di mano mentre lei considera il vino davanti a sé, prima di insistere – “Sei sicuro che non ne abbiamo qui?” Il messaggio è chiaro: Gilles dice che potrebbe essercene in un altro edificio e parte alla sua ricerca. Continuiamo a chiacchierare, degustando l’Auxey-Duresses 2018, un po’ timido dopo il Bourgogne Blanc 2018 (nelle sue parole: “il miglior Bourgogne Blanc che abbiamo mai avuto”) e lo splendido Savigny. Chiedo se ci sono vini che compra ogni anno – un’idea che rifiuta subito: non ha alcun contratto, ogni vino è selezionato esclusivamente per la sua qualità in quella specifica annata. Chiarisco che intendevo se ci fossero vigneti specifici che le piacciono particolarmente e che acquista anno dopo anno – e dice che sia Meursault Gouttes d’Or che Chassagne-Montrachet Morgeot sono certamente tra i preferiti, anche se tutto dipende da come hanno gusto. Gilles torna con una bottiglia senza etichetta, immediatamente riconoscibile dalla forma come Domaine Leroy. È senza fiato (merita qualche presa in giro, ma ha anche corso su e giù per 200 scalini per recuperare la bottiglia in questione). Il vino – un Corton-Charlemagne 2018 della proprietà – viene rapidamente aperto e servito. È tipicamente Leroy: il naso è leggermente smorzato, con un po’ di riduzione e le note di popcorn che spesso si trovano nei bianchi di Bize-Leroy. Al palato, questo è ciò che si definisce concentrato: raramente ho trovato tale concentrazione in un Corton-Charlemagne, anche nelle annate mature della Maison Leroy. Madame afferma che molti lo chiamerebbero rosso se servito totalmente alla cieca, data la sua “matière”. “Questo è un grand vin,” dice. Spiega quanto sia speciale il cru, in cima alla collina, sopra il suo Corton Renardes: “C’est un terroir à rouge.” (“È un terroir da rosso.”) Tornare al Savigny-lès-Beaune Blanc sembra un esercizio inutile dopo il Corton-Charlemagne – ma lo è lontano dal vero. Il Savigny ha beneficiato di essere stato ossigenato e lasciato aprirsi per un’ora. In effetti, non è affatto ridicolo paragonarlo al suo fratello maggiore. Anzi, Madame Bize-Leroy si sofferma su di esso, dicendo che trova il Savigny più equilibrato – il vino appare splendidamente stratificato, senza essere pesante o denso. È di gran lunga il miglior Savigny-lès-Beaune Blanc che abbia avuto la possibilità di assaggiare e – come dimostrato da questo confronto – potrebbe competere con molti Corton-Charlemagne. Naturalmente, il Corton-Charlemagne Domaine Leroy 2018 è ancora un bambino – un vino costruito per l’invecchiamento che avrà bisogno di anni prima di essere accessibile, e la stessa Bize-Leroy conferma che non sarà rilasciato a breve. Ha tutto per diventare un vino eccezionale in futuro, ma il Savigny è quello da bere ora. Questo è il mio decimo anno a FINE+RARE e sono relazioni come questa a definire la nostra attività: avere la possibilità di condividere un momento con una delle leggendarie produttrici di Borgogna, parlando apertamente e onestamente di due dei suoi vini, è davvero speciale. Alcuni sono veloci a liquidare Maison Leroy come “solo” l’etichetta négociant di Bize-Leroy, forse per ignoranza o per mancanza di esposizione alla gamma. Non posso fingere che questi vini siano economici, ma non posso nemmeno fingere che Madame Leroy sia come gli altri produttori. Il suo naso è straordinario, il suo accesso vastissimo, e i vini risultanti unici. Posso solo ammirare questa donna di 93 anni, il modo in cui descrive i suoi vini, la sua umiltà, per non parlare dei vini che portano il suo nome. Degustazione della Collezione Maison Leroy 2025 2018 Bourgogne Blanc: Il Bourgogne Blanc 2018 della Maison Leroy è estremamente espressivo. Quasi esuberante al naso, mostra concentrazione, mandorle tostate, succosa arancia sanguinella e verbena. Il palato è altrettanto impressionante – e sarebbe facile confonderlo alla cieca con un Meursault molto buono. Analogamente al suo corrispettivo rosso, il vino ha guadagnato profondità al palato rispetto all’ultima degustazione. È vivace ed espressivo, pur conservando quella caratteristica pienezza così piacevole. Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy mi dice che raramente, se non mai, ha avuto un Bourgogne Blanc di questo calibro – e a questo punto possiamo solo concordare! Bere 2025-2031. 2018 Meursault: Il Meursault 2018 della Maison Leroy è meno immediatamente espressivo del Bourgogne Blanc, degustato poco prima – ma non lasciatevi ingannare. Si percepisce la tensione e la serietà di questo vino, con accenni di mineralità affilata al naso. Al palato è concentrato e raffinato, ben bilanciato e sfaccettato, con una complessità cremosa. Rispetto al Bourgogne Blanc, questo è chiaramente di un altro calibro – un vino più aristocratico con maggiore densità. Pur essendo già accessibile, trarrà beneficio da altri tre-cinque anni in cantina per esprimere il suo pieno potenziale. Bere 2027-2035. 2018 Savigny-lès-Beaune Blanc: Il Savigny-lès-Beaune Blanc 2018 della Maison Leroy è ricco al naso. Deliziose note di brioche sono accompagnate da mela leggermente ammaccata e frutti agrumati più luminosi, con tocchi delicati di fior di limone. Man mano che il vino si ossigena, continua a guadagnare densità, strato dopo strato – creando un vino succoso e invitante. Al palato, il vino è immediatamente ricco e profondo – impossibile da confondere alla cieca con un semplice village. Ha la ricchezza tipica di un Corton-Charlemagne, perfettamente bilanciato tra potenza e tensione. È di gran lunga il miglior Savigny-lès-Beaune Blanc che abbia mai assaggiato e surclasserebbe molti Corton-Charlemagne presenti sul mercato. È già godibile ora, ma ha tutto per invecchiare senza sforzo. Bere 2025-2040. 2018 Auxey-Duresses: Proveniente da un terroir che a volte può essere un po’ troppo flamboyant o invasivo, l’Auxey-Duresses 2018 della Maison Leroy appare molto discreto dopo il Savigny-lès-Beaune. Con note di mandorle fresche e un accenno di riduzione al naso, è leggermente smorzato. Al palato, il vino mostra chiaramente la concentrazione dell’annata, pur rimanendo elegante e contenuto, con un accenno di pepe bianco. È delizioso ma avrà bisogno di qualche anno in più per essere accessibile. Bere 2028-2035. 2018 Bourgogne Rouge: Degustato l’ultima volta a febbraio 2022, il Bourgogne Rouge 2018 di Leroy mostra ancora un naso molto affascinante e delicatamente profumato, oscillante tra petali di rosa secchi e piccole bacche rosse, ma sembra aver guadagnato peso e densità. Mantiene una splendida acidità che bilancia la concentrazione dell’annata, il finale è pulito e vibrante. Una delle nostre versioni preferite della cuvée negli ultimi anni, giovane e già godibile, continuerà a evolversi positivamente per altri sette-dieci anni. Bere 2025-2035. 2018 Monthélie: Al naso, il Monthélie 2018 della Maison Leroy mostra bellissime note di viole avvolte in un mix di bacche rosse e nere, soprattutto ribes nero. Quegli aromi floreali puri e delicati si ritrovano anche al palato, accompagnati da tannini molto sottili, quasi con un accenno di dolcezza che fa venire l’acquolina. Un vino molto completo che eccelle in questa annata più calda: una splendida espressione di questo terroir che, per me, mostra l’eleganza di Volnay con una sensazione in bocca leggera. Bere 2027-2037. 2018 Volnay: Servito subito dopo il Monthélie 2018, il Volnay 2018 della Maison Leroy ha un naso leggermente più discreto. Profumato e tutto dedicato alla finezza, ma un po’ timido a questo stadio. Al palato c’è buona concentrazione e precisione, ma manca la freschezza e il mordente che ci si aspetterebbe a questo punto. Sicuramente elegante e raffinato, ma senza quel piccolo “twist” che arriverà con qualche anno in più in cantina. Bere 2028-2040. 2018 Savigny-lès-Beaune: Come il suo corrispettivo bianco, il Savigny-lès-Beaune 2018 della Maison Leroy potrebbe essere scambiato per un Corton alla cieca. Ha un naso concentrato e solare con profilo di frutta più scura. Anche al palato mostra densità: il vino è succoso e ricco, ma non pesante. È ben bilanciato, con tannini delicati e una finezza precisa. È succoso quanto accessibile. Bere 2027-2037. 2017 Gevrey-Chambertin: Uno dei punti salienti della Collezione Maison Leroy 2022 al momento del rilascio. Il vino ha mantenuto tutta la sua profondità, complessità e potenza, ma si è leggermente chiuso. È ricco di ciliegie scure dense, accenni di spezie dolci e sottobosco. Al palato offre una struttura generosa e equilibrata, avvolgente, anche se leggermente smorzata rispetto a tre anni fa. Offre comunque un finale molto lungo con note fresche persistenti. Un grand village Gevrey che avrà bisogno di qualche anno di cantina! Bere 2030-2040. 2017 Pommard: Il Pommard 2017 della Maison Leroy esprime il terroir, combinando more mature e profonde con accenni di ribes nero e un tocco di rusticità, bilanciato dalla freschezza e precisione dell’annata. Al palato ha struttura ferma ma delicata con tannini morbidi, muscolosi e vellutati. Degustato subito dopo i 2018, appare più accessibile (come spesso accade con i 2017). L’acidità guida il cuore del vino, conferendo sapidità e lungo finale. Bere 2025-2035. 2016 Santenay, Premier Cru, La Comme: Immediatamente espressivo, il Santenay Premier Cru La Comme 2016 della Maison Leroy proviene da un terroir sottovalutato, al confine meridionale di Chassagne-Montrachet. Il naso affascinante e sfaccettato oscilla tra lampone e ciliegia succosa con un accenno di liquirizia. Il vino avvolge la bocca; si percepisce la sostanza, con una texture delicata e raffinata. Mostra chiaramente la concentrazione dell’annata e le rese minuscole, ma tutto è avvolto in una bocca elegante – creando un vino di grande equilibrio. Bere 2025-2035. 2015 Chorey-lès-Beaune: Ricco al naso, il Chorey-lès-Beaune 2015 della Maison Leroy appare inizialmente timido, ma con un po’ di ossigenazione si nota quanto sia denso e saturo, con aromi di mirtilli maturi, more e un accenno di spezia (forse cannella). Al palato è concentrato con tannini avvolgenti e strati di frutti di bosco – lampone, fragola e mirtillo. Ha molto da dire e offrire, con un finale sorprendentemente persistente, ma beneficerà di qualche anno in più in cantina per esprimere tutto il suo potenziale. Bere 2028-2040. 2012 Côte de Nuits Villages: Realizzato con frutta proveniente da Nuits-Saint-Georges e Corgoloin, il Côte de Nuits Villages 2012 di Leroy è sempre un po’ chiuso al naso e leggermente austero. Ma è anche elegante e delicato, con note floreali che si combinano con aromi terziari. Al palato appare in una fase leggermente imbarazzante, molto denso con tannini morbidi e integrati, ma in qualche modo disgiunto tra frutti scuri e carattere terziario. Lo lascerei riposare qualche anno prima di ritornarci. Bere 2030-2040. 2011 Nuits-Saint-Georges: Finemente profumato, il Nuits-Saint-Georges 2011 di Leroy offre un naso delicato di frutti rossi misti sostenuti da note terrose, un po’ di pot-pourri e un accenno di spezie. Al palato è concentrato e affascinante, ma con l’aria si apre ulteriormente mostrando densità, ancora giovane per un village di 14 anni. Verso il finale si percepisce un accenno di rusticità che stimola l’acquolina. È lontano dalle aspettative austere che si potrebbero avere da questa combinazione di annata e appellation. Non ha ancora raggiunto il suo plateau di bevibilità, ma è perfettamente accessibile ora. Bere 2025-2040. La nuova collezione Maison Leroy sarà rilasciata presto: puoi vedere tutti i vini della collezione 2025 qui. Contatta il tuo Account Manager per registrare il tuo interesse.

Ogni anno, il nostro Direttore Acquisti e Partner Corentin Margier visita la Maison Leroy ad Auxey-Duresses per assaggiare le nuove uscite. Qui, racconta la sua degustazione con "Lalou", la leggendaria matriarca dell'impero Leroy.

Ahead of the release of the 2025 Maison Leroy Collection, we visit Lalou Bize-Leroy to taste with the legendary matriarch and winemaker 

Lalou Bize-Leroy: a living legend – Burgundy’s matriarch 

Lalou Bize-Leroy: una leggenda vivente

Ogni novembre, il mondo del vino guarda alla Borgogna per l'asta degli Hospices de Beaune. Ci immergiamo nella storia di questa istituzione filantropica, della tenuta e dei vini che produce.

Explore the history of Burgundy’s Hotel-Dieu and Hospices de Beaune, its wine estate and the famous annual auction, the Vente des Vins

Your guide to the wines of the Hospices de Beaune

Tutto quello che c'è da sapere sugli Hospices de Beaune

Alcune regioni vinicole seguono il proprio ritmo. Dai rossi dolci della Rift Valley etiope alle bollicine delicate degli Altos de Pinto Bandeira, Arnica Rowan esplora terre remote con approcci unici alla viticoltura e al vino, pensati quasi esclusivamente per la propria gente.

Arnica Rowan explores wines that don’t make it to the international market – with distinctive styles from Ethiopia, Brazil, Thailand and beyond

Discover the wines of Ethiopia, Brazil and beyond

Non destinato all'esportazione

A prince’s kiss rouses the cursed princess from a century-long slumber in Sleeping Beauty
but the man responsible for Bordeaux’s long-overdue reawakening was not a prince (this being the French Republic after all) but Alain Juppé, France’s former Prime Minister.  Bordeaux had been comatose, earning it the nickname la belle endormie, but the indefatigable politician has given the city the kiss of life. Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2007, it is now the most desirable place to live in France and was voted “European Best Destination 2015’. Bordeaux's renaissance is a real-life fairytale. Bordeaux was a “melancholy, unwelcoming place” just 20 years ago but the arrival of Alan
Juppé as mayor in 1995 has transformed the city’s fortunes, making its centre as elegant as its wines. Blackened buildings and abandoned warehouses are now a thing of the past and, with the arrival of the high-speed rail link, connecting the city to Paris in just two hours, living in Bordeaux is as aspirational as drinking its first growths.” When Juppé was elected as mayor in 1995, Bordeaux was not the modern and vibrant place it is today. Deputy mayor Stephan Delaux, who worked alongside Juppé for more than two decades, admits: “Bordeaux had a reputation as a melancholy, unwelcoming town. The town wasn’t modern – that is to say that in the town centre, cars, trucks, buses, car parks dominated. The building fronts were black, the waterfront was a relic of a once-busy
port; the warehouses [on the waterfront] were empty. The people of the city no longer knew they lived by a river – there was no life there.” He paints a rather depressing picture but throughout its history, Bordeaux’s sons have
portrayed the city in a none-too-flattering light: the novels of Nobel-prize-winning writer François Mauriac (1885-1970) whose bust now stands in the leafy public gardens, depicted Bordeaux and the surrounding areas as a bleak and uptight place to live in the early 20th century. Similarly, one of Alfred Smith’s (1854-1932) best-known works ‘Le Tramway devant les Quinconces par temps de pluie’ depicts a grey, wet day on the banks of the Garonne, umbrellas up and those without hurrying, heads bowed. It’s not a place you would have aspired to live.  Things didn’t get much better during the 20th century: local tour guide Veronique Baggio recalls a ramshackle apartment she lived in in the 1980s. “The building’s bathroom was in the attic so I had to leave my apartment to use it.  At that time the city was trying to push locals to improve the inside of buildings [to improve living conditions].  It wasn’t until the late 1990s that they started to focus on cleaning up the outside of the buildings and the public places.” Today, the buildings are impeccable – a mass sandblasting effort has unveiled the natural caramel and blonde tones of the local limestone, which were long hidden. Here and there, a few reminders of the past can be seen along its narrow streets: a blackened façade, as if smeared with charcoal.  Yet the renaissance of Bordeaux required more than a spit and polish. The length of the city’s riverbank had long been hidden by a line of ugly warehouses designed to cater to the needs of a port city. Since the 19th century, sugar and spices from far-flung places were unloaded to be reloaded by local timber and wine. The commercial port moved away in the 1970s from the city centre but the warehouses remained, as did the businesses that catered for the all-male docking crews.  Charles Sichel, export director of Maison Sichel, a wine merchant in the Chartrons district since 1883, explains:  “20 years ago there were a few seedy bars [on the quais] and where the new bridge is [Pont Chaban-Delmas] there were working girls. It was interesting taking customers out to lunch when there were girls standing in the doorways waiting for business – it was quite something – but I can’t remember them ever saying anything!” How times change. The waterfront is now the playground of the Bordelais, filled with joggers,
cyclists and prams promenading along its length; a place for concerts, festivals and open-air markets.  It is a sunny day and a Viking cruise liner lounges at the edge of the city centre overlooking children skipping in the water mirror, a slick of water that, as its name implies, reflects the classical architecture of the Place de la Bourse (Stock Exchange Square). It has become Bordeaux’s iconic postcard picture (and an unwitting urban water park) and represents the new face of the city – clean, bright and, dare I say it, fun.  The reawakening of the city has been noticed far beyond the city’s ring road; it has become the most desirable place to live in France, according to a survey commissioned by the Observatoire du Bonheur in 2015. Asked in which French city they would most like
to live, nearly one in five respondents answered Bordeaux – ahead of Montpellier, Toulouse and streets ahead of Paris.  Just an hour’s drive from the beaches of the Atlantic and three hours to the ski slopes of the Pyrenees, Bordeaux is now within commuting distance of Paris. A high-speed rail link (TGV) cuts the travel time between the two cities from more than three hours to two hours and five minutes in July 2017.  The spruce-up now continues beyond the city centre. Gliding north along the quai past Sichel’s office in the Chartrons district, the tram has started to deposit an unprecedented number of tourists in the Bacalan district. It’s certainly not the prettiest of suburbs, home to run-down docks, abandoned factories and a huge concrete mass that was once a submarine base, but the Juppé magic dust is now being sprinkled here and the opening of the Cité du Vin in June 2016, a towering sphere of gold and silver in a Frank Gehry meets Zaha Hadid-construction, is a pivotal part of its future. Tourists  - and most locals -  have had no reason to come here but that’s changing with 421,000 visitors walking through its doors in 2018. La belle endormie has woken up but the city continues to dream big. Sichel is rightly proud of his hometown. “Now, every time my customers come here they all comment on how beautiful the area has become. Juppé has turned this city around.” Explore more Editorial

Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2007, it is now the most desirable place to live in France and was voted “European Best Destination 2015’. We explore the renaissance of Bordeaux 

Exploring the renaissance of Bordeaux, from being named a UNESCO World Heritage site to being crowned the most desirable place to live in France 

Bordeaux revival - the city's transformation

Bordeaux revival: A reinvention of the city

It was a small yellow aphid that disregarded national borders, wiping out the livelihood of every grape grower in its way and there was no known cure nor effective prevention in its first devastating years. Even when a cure was discovered, growers were reluctant – and often financially unable – to use it.  As a result, phylloxera vastatrix  – vastratix meaning ravager – continued to nibble on the roots of vines across western Europe, sucking the lifeblood from the vines and leaving wounds for any passing infection. By 1900, 2.5 million hectares of France's vineyard had been uprooted, causing production to slump, encouraging dodgy dealers to make fake wine, and leading to mass protests.  The story of phylloxera in Europe started as a well-intentioned gift. In 1862, an American grape grower sent some cuttings of native vines to his friend in the Rhône Valley who planted them, unaware of the damage it would inflict on his compatriots. Within a year, local growers were lamenting their sick vines. Phylloxera had wanderlust, sparing no French region; nor did it respect the country's finest terroirs or illustrious châteaux.  However, a concerted national response to the potential ruin of the country's national beverage was not forthcoming. The French government was too busy putting on International Exhibitions in Paris (1867), opening the Suez Canal (1869) and waging war on Prussia (1870-71). In 1870, the government acknowledged there might be an issue, offering a 20,000 Franc reward for a cure. Remedies were offered including burying living toads in the vineyard, adding volcanic ash from Pompeii to the soil or inviting a marching band to play to the vines. Unsurprisingly, the vines continued to die. In 1880, a solution was finally accepted: graft European varieties to the roots of American vines. However, grafting noble French varieties - vitis vinifera - to the roots of these lowly American varieties seemed like sacrilege to many growers. It was thought they would affect the nobility of their precious wines. There was also the issue of cost: uprooting your vineyard, replanting and then having to wait between three and five years for a crop did not feed a family and the concept of state aid was still a long way off.  As a result, many tried to limp on for as long as possible, injecting carbon bisulphide, an expensive and toxic solvent used to vulcanise rubber, into the soil to stave off the inevitable.  The producers in the south of France were the first to be hit in the 1860s and they replanted with high-yielding hybrids. By the turn of the century, the Languedoc was producing more wine than ever before. However, the region's unscrupulous merchants made up for the initial shortfall at peak phylloxera by bulking out grape juice with sugar and water while others made wines from raisins. These practices continued despite the replanted vineyards returning to full production, causing a huge oversupply and depressing prices.  Urged on by a growing labour movement, hundreds of thousands of people took to the streets in 1907 to call for change. The Champagne Riots of 1911 The Champenois followed suit, rioting in the streets in 1911 and the root of their troubles also lay with phylloxera.  In 1892, the Marne was invaded by its first phylloxera aphid and, by 1910, 40% of the region had been affected. But this was no time for production to fall: Champagne sales were booming and to make up for the shortfall, dodgy merchants (and some of the seemingly reputable houses) brought in wines from the Loire and the south of France by the train-load. The wines were made sparkling in their cellars and the bottles emerged, as if by magic, as Champagne. Supply and demand economics suggested that the growers should have been earning more for their fruit as phylloxera affected supply and sales boomed, but fake Champagne kept prices low. Having borne the cost of replanting their vineyards, this was not how growers imagined they would be rewarded and protests ensued.  While most vineyards in Champagne and beyond are now planted on American rootstocks, there are some vines and vineyard owners that play wine roulette and grow vitis vinifera on their own roots. For example, three plots belonging to Bollinger were planted in 1960 in the traditional pre-phylloxera way. One has succumbed to the vine louse but the remaining two parcels are the source of Vieilles Vignes Françaises, a rare Pinot Noir-based Champagne that provides a taste of a bygone era.  We asked Denis Bunner, Bollinger’s Deputy Cellar Master, about the Aÿ-based Champagne House's rarest wine, Vieilles Vignes Françaises, which is produced on its own roots.  Why did Bollinger begin producing Vieilles Vignes Françaises in 1969?  An English journalist Cyril Ray proposed the initiative to Madame Bollinger following a visit in 1967 and this inspired Madame Bollinger to create a wine from the precious vines to commemorate her 70th birthday, which saw the first bottle produced in 1969. The wine was launched in 1974. Are the vines pre-phylloxera? If so, they must be more than a century old. No, the current plots in Aÿ were planted in the 1960s but it is impossible to give an age to the vines due to the perpetual renewal and the way the root system grow [the system is called provignage, which is like vine fostering when there is an empty space to fill. Take a cane from one vine, train it down into the soil and partially bury it with the end sticking out until it forms a separate vine. This is also done in the Nacional vineyard at Quinta do Noval]. There were three plots that weren't grafted but there are now only two. What happened? third plot succumb to phylloxera?  The third plot in Croix Rouge de Bouzy was attacked by phylloxera at the end of the 1990s – the vineyard didn't have protective walls around it. The last vintage was 2004 as we had to uproot it when it fell prey to the infestation. How many acres do the two remaining plots cover?  The Clos Saint-Jacques (Aÿ) covers just over half an acre while the Clos des Chaudes-Terres, which lies within the boundaries of Bollinger’s own lands, covers a little over a third of an acre. In total, they represent 0.36 hectares. Is there anything special about the soil of these two plots that means it resists phylloxera?  The soil is not remarkably different from that in the rest of Aÿ and as per the rest of Champagne it features chalk. Is this special cuvee made every year?  No. Only in declared vintages. What is the average production of Vieilles Vignes Françaises?  This varies by vintage, but falls within the range of 2,000 to 3,000 bottles. A total of 2,420 numbered bottles of the 2009 Vieilles Vignes Françaises vintage were produced. Read more Editorial

Following the release of Bollinger’s latest vintage of Vieilles Vignes Françaises, we talk to Denis Bunner, Bollinger’s Deputy Cellar Master about the Aÿ-based Champagne house's rarest wine, as well as delving into the archives to explore the history of the fatal vine louse.

Phylloxera and Bollinger’s Vieilles Vignes Françaises on the wine grown from vines planted on its own roots and thus vulnerable to attack by the louse.

Phylloxera and winemaking

Phylloxera: a vine pandemic

Burgundy expert Jasper Morris MW has had his finger on the region’s wine pulse for several decades. Especially for FONDATA, he profiles eight domaines to watch, producers that are bringing vital energy and fresh winemaking talent to the celebrated wine region 

Jasper Morris MW on eight of Burgundy’s most exciting domaines – including Eleni & Edouard Vocoret, Chantereves, Alvina Pernot and more 

The new Burgundians – Jasper Morris MW 

The new Burgundians

Bluxome Street Winery

United States

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