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

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

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

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

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

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

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

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

There are times when you put a question to a winemaker and he puffs out his cheeks and rubs his chin and you know he’s thinking, ‘Journalists.’ When I ask Promontory’s David Cilli what exactly is meant by ‘interpretation of terroir’, he courteously describes the process of trying to get the wine to reflect the character of the land. But he gives the impression my question was like quizzing Monet on how he got his effects. If you don’t get it, you probably won’t. The character of Promontory, on the day I visit, is quite something. It’s early May and the rain, which has been falling steadily all night, has turned to a lashing downpour that has raindrops bouncing six inches off the windscreen. We’re in a jeep piloted by winegrowing director Cory Empting and since turning off the main road we’ve been climbing steadily through dripping stands of oak with pocket-handkerchief vineyards between them. ‘Shall we stay in the car?’ asks Empting. ‘If we could,’ Will Harlan suggests from the back seat. I’m here with Empting, Cilli and Harlan. Bill Harlan has appeared briefly but I don’t see him again until we sit down to taste. He formally handed over control of Harlan Estate, Promontory, Bond and The Mascot in 2021, appointing 37-year-old Will managing director. Cilli (44) arrived in 2012 and is in charge of vineyard and winemaking at Promontory. Promontory is an 840-acre fastness, a deep valley folded into the foothills of Mount Veeder, on the west side of the Napa Valley. From the highway, you think the looming ridge you’re looking at is the edge of Sonoma. But there’s another ridge beyond and between them this interesting domain. It’s remote, even by Napa standards (contrary to opinion, there are plenty of wild spaces in the county). The ultra-refined French Laundry is a couple of miles away but it might be in Wisconsin for all the relevance it has up here. Bill Harlan had come upon it hiking in the 1980s. ‘I used the Carmelite monastery [we’d passed it on the way up] as a base and just started climbing’. There were no vines but he was intrigued by its seclusion. It might be possible vineland for the Napa project he had in mind. In the end, Harlan Estate was founded less than a mile to the north but for 25 years Harlan kept the idea of that parcel tucked under his hat (he never mentioned it, Will says) before it came on the market in 2007 and he snapped it up. "Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir" The owner – the Harlans don’t reveal who that is – had planted 80-odd acres of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was neglected, the vines overgrown. Trees had been felled and never collected. ‘It was a mess,’ Will says. ‘It looked like a logging operation.’ But it is magnificent. Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir. The whole estate is thickly forested, the vines often shaded on three sides. An old drovers’ road, running through the woods, will suddenly open out on a wide vista of vineyard and scree. Everything is deeply, lushly green in the steadily falling spring rain. The geology of the land is unusual, in that it rests on two distinct fault lines and consists of all three soil types that are found in Napa: volcanic, sedimentary and metamorphic. ‘You get all three in the same soil pit,’ Cilli notes. This, combined with the wild variation in aspect and the microclimate of the valley-within-a-valley, gives credence to Harlan’s claims that this part of Napa is like nowhere else in California. When the celebrated soil scientists Claude and Lydia Bourguignon came, they found the experience ‘novel’. Cilli said he fell in love with Promontory at first sight. It reminded him, in part, of his native Tuscany, but it was the wildness that captivated him, ‘I love that character that you can see in the wines.’ He said it was probably ‘the only project that could keep me in the valley.’ You get the impression none of them can quite believe their luck. ‘It somehow redefined what looks beautiful,’ Will says. It also redefined their ideas of winemaking. He goes on: ‘We were used to control. Harlan in the 1990s was obsessed with organisation and uniformity but Promontory was wild.’ The theme of wildness recurs. Harvest times are key to ‘find a way for it to come through,’ Will says. Empting: ‘Pick too late and you lose the ruggedness.’ Ageing, in the magnificent Howard Backen-designed chai, is all in Stockinger Austrian oak barrels ranging in size from 10,000 to 46,000 litres, for up to 36 months. ‘The fine-yet-tight tannins required longer barrel-ageing but [we] didn’t want the wine to be overpowered by new oak’. It’s a constant process of refinement and improvement – ‘we learn something new each season’. Empting: ‘It has blown every expectation out of the water. We were excited and we were scared. We didn’t know what this beast would be. Our learning curve has been very steep, it remains very steep. At least now we’re starting to get our arms around it but at the beginning, it was like: God, we cannot figure this thing out.” "I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness" You have to remember we’re talking about winemaking here, not Wittgenstein. But ‘interpretation of terroir’, if it’s to mean anything at all, should be taken seriously. I’ve seen vineland all over the world – rock-strewn fields in the Andean foothills, rainless Spanish deserts – but I’ve never seen anything like Promontory. Were I to be tasked with bottling the soul of that vineyard, I’d reach for metaphor as well. And so we come to the missing shade of blue. This is the concept propounded by the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, that an idea can be formulated without a previous sensory impression to give rise to it. He asked, Could a shade of blue missing from a spectrum be imagined by an observer? Harlan says (with a smile – he does have a degree in philosophy) that Promontory is the missing shade of red. ‘Until you’ve seen and experienced it, you don’t know that it’s missing. And so for us this was that final piece. The piece that wasn’t there that we had the opportunity to understand and try to translate into the wine.’ The next morning, in gorgeous May sunshine, we gather to taste. It’s almost the same group, though smaller, that did the mighty vertical of Harlan estate from magnum in 2020. Bill Harlan is there (he sweetly thanks the team for allowing him to taste, saying it’s the first full vertical of Promontory he’s ever done), Will, Empting, Cilli and the journalist Elaine Brown. We wonder, at the end, if there is thread that runs through the wines. In my notes the words ‘deceptively light’ recur, as do ‘structure’ and ‘stone’. Reaching for metaphor again, Will Harlan compares the structure of the 2016 to cathedral stone, which has ‘both weight and lightness. It’s intricately carved and light filters through the windows.’ I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness. Will Harlan calls this vintage an ‘inflection point’ and notes how the tannins are the ‘main differentiators’. Yes, agrees Cilli, ‘and because of the character of levity and lift, we have to be precise with the tannins.’ The younger vintages have an astonishing latent energy, tannins under tight rein, aromas bursting, the fruit compacted. Brown and I were struck not by the sophistication of these wines but by their honesty. Brown WhatsApped me later. ‘Promontory is the most transparent to place. The wines are impressively well crafted and elegant while still offering an almost wild or primal complex of flavours.’ "The wines are unmistakeably Californian but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa" ‘How do we take wine from a wilderness and have sophistication?’ Will asked. It’s a great question – with their resources, the Harlans could do anything they liked with Promontory. After all, they have to make a wine that will please their audience. But this was so unexpected. The tasting revealed a keen focus on the land and the vintage. The difference between the years was often marked – the challenge of 2015 for example showed in the wine – yet we could see that common thread running through, even as the wines increased in elegance. And what of Will’s quest for the missing shade of red? The wines are unmistakeably Californian – that splendid 2017 could come from nowhere else – but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa, which is quite a claim, in the world’s most cultivated wine region. Perhaps the last word should go to Bill Harlan, who started the whole thing. He speaks hardly at all during the tasting, his Old Testament face giving little away. At the end of the morning, he talks of his fascination with the ‘ongoing discovery’ of the project. The wines have character, layers and depth, he says, and – by way of praising their authenticity – he notes, ‘You never know what’s coming next.’

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites, with a vertical tasting of 14 vintages revealing the wild beauty, elegance and remarkable evolution of its wines.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites.

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

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

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

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur: vintage overview      

Bordeaux 2025: vintage overview               

A marzo di quest'anno, Opus One ha annunciato l'assunzione di Meghan Zobeck come Direttrice della Vinificazione. È il primo passo nella transizione, poiché l'enologo di lunga data Michael Silacci intende lasciare l'azienda nei prossimi cinque anni. Silacci è in Opus dal 2001 ed è oggi una vera e propria leggenda nella valle: trovare un successore adatto non è un compito da poco. 
Zobeck non era necessariamente la scelta ovvia. Ha scalato rapidamente i ranghi dell'élite vinicola di Napa, ma è entrata nel mondo del vino solo nel 2012. Quel passaggio è stato un atto di fede per Zobeck, un atto insolito per qualcuno immerso nel mondo della NFL. 
Zobeck è cresciuta a Greeley, in Colorado, "una città di contadini", come lei stessa l'ha definita, ma che per puro caso era anche il luogo in cui i Denver Broncos tenevano i loro ritiri di allenamento ogni anno. Durante il liceo, ha trascorso le sue estati lavorando per la squadra, come facevano molti locali. Frequentò l'università (poi la facoltà di medicina), ma continuò a lavorare per i Broncos, passando a tempo pieno mentre studiava per gli esami MCAT. 
Durante l'ultimo anno di università, fece uno stage con la squadra, lavorando con gli osservatori e sedendosi nella "war room" il giorno del draft. "Adoravo l'azione, il ritmo veloce", dice. Più o meno nello stesso periodo, si rese conto che la medicina non faceva per lei: accettò invece un ruolo nella negoziazione dei contratti dei giocatori per i Broncos, diventando una delle poche donne a ricoprire quel ruolo, e ne fu entusiasta. Fu un viaggio di fine settimana a Los Olivos, nella Santa Ynez Valley, a far nascere il suo interesse per il vino e, più specificamente, per la vinificazione. Tornata a casa, trovò un annuncio su una rivista locale per un negozio di birra artigianale, che offriva la possibilità di acquistare uva durante la vendemmia. Ben presto si mise a sperimentare, fermentando lotti di vino nella sua cantina e organizzando feste di imbottigliamento con gli amici. "Ho visto come unisse davvero le persone", dice. Ha viaggiato in altre regioni vinicole e si è innamorata del modo in cui il vino combinava scienza, creatività, storia e comunità. La NFL le era stata utile, ma era giunto il momento di fare il grande passo e lasciarsi i Broncos alle spalle. 
Ha prodotto la sua prima vendemmia a Clos Apalta nel 2012 e non si è più voltata indietro: ha vendemmiato in Piemonte, Bordeaux e Barossa, prima di concentrarsi su Napa, prima presso Stag's Leap Wine Cellars e Screaming Eagle, poi ha accettato un incarico con il consulente di punta Philippe Melka. Più recentemente, Zobeck è stata enologa presso Burgess Cellars, dove ha avuto carta bianca per plasmare i vini, dalla vigna alla cantina. 
Zobeck ha incontrato per la prima volta Michael Silacci al Premiere Napa Valley, il suo primo a mostrare campioni di botti di Burgess. Silacci è venuto ad assaggiare e poi, in una chiara dimostrazione di approvazione, ha continuato a consigliarle altri. Zobeck si stava concentrando su uno stile di vino più fresco, un ritorno al Burgess di un tempo, ma stava anche lavorando a un approccio rigenerativo in vigna, e presto scoprì che il team di Opus One stava conducendo esperimenti simili. Lei e Kimberlee Marinelli, Assistente Enologo e Viticoltrice di Opus One, si misero in contatto e iniziarono a discutere di tutto, dagli impollinatori ai fermenti autoctoni. Zobeck fu colpita dalla chiara mancanza di compiacimento da parte di una proprietà che non aveva bisogno di dimostrare ulteriormente il suo valore. Non immaginava che Silacci stesse osservando ciò che stava facendo con particolare interesse, e decise che avrebbe potuto essere l'erede al suo trono. 
"È un lavoro che non penseresti mai, nemmeno tra un milione di anni, di poter trovare", racconta Zobeck del momento in cui le fu proposto di diventare Direttore della Vinificazione di Opus One. Non avrebbe certo rifiutato un'opportunità del genere, soprattutto quando avrebbe avuto la possibilità di lavorare con Silacci per diversi anni. Zobeck raccoglierà l'eredità di Silacci presso Opus One, una tenuta in continua evoluzione durante il suo mandato. L'agricoltura biologica è stata la norma presso Opus per oltre due decenni, sebbene l'azienda abbia richiesto la certificazione solo nel 2021. Per oltre un decennio, Silacci ha sperimentato la biodinamica, ma ha scoperto che le viti erano diventate troppo vigorose. Ha abbandonato l'approccio prima di lanciarsi nell'agricoltura rigenerativa a partire dal 2022. L'azienda ora utilizza colture di copertura permanenti tra le viti, contribuendo ad abbassare le temperature nelle chiome, trattenere l'acqua nei terreni e allungare il periodo di maturazione, senza aumentare i livelli di zucchero. Silacci ha sperimentato l'agricoltura a secco dal 2007 e ha ridotto l'irrigazione in tutta la tenuta, sebbene per ora rimanga essenziale. Il team spera, tuttavia, di poter avviare un nuovo sito di coltivazione a secco a Oakville una volta che le viti saranno stabilizzate. Tutto questo lavoro si riflette nei vini prodotti oggi. 
"Opus One non è la Napa stereotipata dei primi anni 2000", sottolinea Zobeck. "È uno stile fresco, e per mantenerlo dobbiamo coltivare in modo diverso". Silacci è famoso per aver detto di non voler lasciare le sue impronte nel vigneto o le sue dita sul vetro, ma Zobeck nota come la sua influenza su Opus One sia evidente nel corso degli anni, soprattutto a partire dal 2004. Dal 2019, tuttavia, Ritiene che il vino si sia evoluto ulteriormente, con una maggiore trasparenza del sito. L'annata 2023 è appena stata imbottigliata con una modesta gradazione alcolica del 13,5%, indicativa dell'attuale approccio della tenuta, che intende proseguire. 
Silacci prevede di rimanere per almeno tre anni, lavorando al fianco di Zobeck come enologo capo. Un periodo di transizione di questa durata testimonia la visione a lungo termine di Opus One, che non guarda solo alla prossima annata, ma al prossimo decennio e oltre. L'entusiasmo di Zobeck per il ruolo è evidente, così come la sua ammirazione per la squadra attuale. Come nella NFL, un buon capitano è fondamentale, ma ci vuole più di un giocatore per vincere una partita, e Zobeck completa una formazione già impressionante. È un passaggio di consegne davvero notevole. 
L'annata 2022 di Opus One uscirà il 1° settembre 2025. Sfoglia tutti gli annunci attuali di Opus One o scopri di più sulla California

Originariamente una joint venture tra Robert Mondavi e Ch. Mouton Rothschild, Opus One è una delle tenute più famose di Napa e ora ha un nuovo Direttore della Vinificazione. Abbiamo incontrato Meghan Zobeck per saperne di più sull'ex campionessa della NFL che ha preso il posto di Michael Silacci.

Meeting the new woman at the helm of Napa’s Opus One – Meghan Zobeck, who is taking over from Michael Silacci to make some of the valley’s most famous wines 

Opus One’s new Director of Winemaking: Meghan Zobeck 

Scelta del draft: Meghan Zobeck dell'Opus One

It’s easy to make assumptions about William Kelley. In some ways, he seems like a caricature of the stereotypical wine writer: an excruciatingly RP English drawl, a doctorate in 19th century history from Oxford, a childhood divided between London’s Belsize Park and more rural Suffolk, and a cellar of seemingly endless depths (or so his Instagram suggests). And yet, there’s much more to the Wine Advocate’s Editor-in-Chief than meets the eye. Kelley sprung from anonymity rapidly. His mentor was Hugo Dunn-Meynell, a family friend who had been a protégé of André Simon and managed the Wine & Food Society for 15 years; organising Dunn-Meynell’s cellar formed Kelley’s early vinous education. He joined Oxford’s famous Wine Circle, acting as President for three years during his studies, which concluded with a PhD. “Education in the humanities is the only form of institutionalised punishment where you get extra time for good behaviour,” Kelley says with a chuckle. Academia wasn’t for him, but, as he tells me, with a casual shrug: “I kept getting scholarships and things, so I kept on doing it.” Wine, meanwhile, played an ever-growing role in his life – from pillaging his college’s cellars, helping the staff decant old vintage Ports, increasing involvement in the Wine Circle, and trips to visit producers. Kelley penned his first feature for Noble Rot in 2015, a spotlight on the late, elusive Henri Bonneau. He was published in Decanter the following year, where he soon secured the North American beat. He covered Burgundy’s 2015 and 2016 vintages for the magazine, before joining the Wine Advocate team in 2017 – just two years after he’d first started writing about wine. In March of this year (2024), he took over as Editor-in-Chief – arguably the biggest job in wine writing. That’s quite the trajectory for someone who fell into the job. “I always wanted to make wine,” Kelley says. “Writing about it sounded like a good idea to make some money, you know? I found the meaning afterwards.” And that meaning is what makes Kelley so interesting, both as a writer and an editor – one that is quietly leading a revolution at the Wine Advocate. I always wanted to make wine,” Kelley says. “Writing about it sounded like a good idea to make some money, you know?  “What we do can be amazingly useful in disrupting hierarchies and forcing critical reflection,” Kelley tells me. “I don’t think we do enough of those things currently – but this is something we’re going to do more of.” In his mind, the Wine Advocate’s purpose is “to keep everybody honest”. The publication was purchased by the Michelin Guide in 2019 (having held 40% since 2017), and Kelley’s been talking to the Michelin team – about how they choose which restaurants get reviewed, and the criteria on which they’re judged, looking for possible synergies. The difference between two and three stars, for example, is more subjective than whether or not an establishment makes it into the guide – and it’s similar with wine. Although there will always be an element of subjectivity, especially when it comes to the two- or three-star equivalents, Kelley is trying to bring more consistency to the way wines are scored. He’s brought in technical training for the entire reviewing team – looking at perceptive thresholds for faults such as brettanomyces and mouse, while also ensuring that they’re all using the same lexicon – that one person’s cinnamon isn’t another’s clove. He cites the world of perfume, where training is intensively scientific and perfumers have to pinpoint hundreds, if not thousands, of specific scents – strikingly different to the world of wine, where tasting is often just “free association”. The team even sends samples off to a laboratory for analysis. This is all part of how Kelley hopes to tackle the inflation, and compression, of scores (“a huge problem” he confesses) – which in turn is devaluing both ratings and the role of those that give them. Kelley is unusual in the critical sphere, for both making wine and reviewing it. He’s received criticism for this duality, although openly declares any interests in reviews (such as for Domaine Felettig, an estate from which he buys fruit). His experience in the vineyard and winery, however, gives him a unique perspective and allows him to engage with producers on a deeper level – something he wants to see more of across the team. What we do can be amazingly useful in disrupting hierarchies and forcing critical reflection When I ask how the publication determines what gets reviewed, Kelley explains how, for a long time, writers at the Wine Advocate had KPIs for the number of reviews published – trying to tackle as much as possible of the increasingly diverse world of fine wine in a bid for relevance. But he’s clear that needs to change: “We need to embrace the idea of reviewing fewer wines in more depth and following them more closely, because that reflects how people consume today,” he says. Part of that, for him, involves getting into vineyards and wineries to see how people are working, and spending enough time to fully understand it. He wants to put an end to gathering samples in anonymous tasting spaces; for him, the supposed neutrality of that experience is limiting. “How do you invest in the stock market if you know nothing about a company’s performance?” he says. “How do you define authenticity? For me, it’s about taking risks. It’s about exposure to negative consequences in pursuit of a goal, a conviction,” Kelley tells me – and it’s authenticity that he wants the Wine Advocate to be championing. “We’re in a period when winemaking conditions are more extreme, where traditional hierarchies of sites are being upended, and for the industry to digest all of that, we can be immensely useful voices.” He's clear that wine remains old-fashioned in many ways with an “aura of tradition” that consumers like, whether the family pedigree of certain estates (“We don’t want seventh-generation politicians, but suddenly we like nothing better than to buy a seventh-generation wine.”) or antiquated classifications (“Having a great classification is very nice – but it shouldn’t be a licence to print money. It should be an obligation to do better.”). The Wine Advocate, however, has the ability to champion young producers, shine a light on new names and question the current state of the industry. It can – in short – disrupt the status quo. One of the challenges with wine is that critics and writers are often dependent on producers for access, especially when it comes to the rarest and most sought-after wines. Truly impartial judgement is difficult when a low score or negative review risks not being invited back. (Kelley himself has been banned from estates – and sometimes later un-banned.) The industry is riddled with such conflicts of interest. But, for Kelley: “It’s not actually about avoiding [conflicts of interest], because you can’t… our business is about managing them; it’s about being very transparent.” We’re in a period when winemaking conditions are more extreme, where traditional hierarchies of sites are being upended While there are of course strict rules in place regarding hospitality and producers, the Wine Advocate’s expenses policy is generous enough, Kelley assures me, to allow writers to “engage with [producers] as an equal” – and ensure there’s no pay-to-play. Wine criticism isn’t renowned for its generous salaries, yet Kelley notes how important it is for reviewers “to be paid enough to buy the wines and have an independent relationship with [them]”. He highlights how it’s the bottles that he might have misjudged that have shaped him most professionally – lingering long in the memory as he tries to unravel how and why he might have misread a wine. Inevitably, Kelley is having to take a step back from reviewing to allow him to steer the ship. He’s expanding the team and plans to keep writing about Burgundy for now, but is keen to avoid “sitting on” any particular region (“I want to actually try to create new voices,” he says). When we talk, he hasn’t even hit six months in his role as Editor-in-Chief, and there is clearly more he wants to tackle, bringing further nuance to the way the Wine Advocate rates and reports on wines and producers. Wine writing was never the goal, however, and as he approaches a decade in his accidental career, his feet are getting itchy. He’s juggling his small project in the US (Beau Rivage) and his Burgundy label (largely négociant with two tiny parcels of his own, Beaune Premier Cru Les Chouacheaux and Côte de Beaune) alongside the job – and that’s where he wants to be. Once he’s finished his work reforming the Wine Advocate, he’ll be found among the vines in Burgundy. Wine is – and always will be – his life. “If it’s not an obsession, you’re not doing it right,” he says. It is this almost manic focus – a combination of true passion and intellectual curiosity – that is likely to define his work, both at the Wine Advocate and beyond.  Explore more Editorial

Earlier this year, William Kelley was named Editor-in-Chief of the Wine Advocate, taking over from his colleague Joe Czerwinski. We sat down with him to find out more about how he stumbled into writing, the role of critics today and why – for him – wine is much more than just a job    

The Wine Advocate’s new Editor-in-Chief, William Kelley, on stumbling into wine writing, the role of critics and why wine is much more than a job

Talking to the Wine Advocate’s William Kelley

Advocating for change: William Kelley

Juliette Couderc didn’t have the easiest start at Ch. l’Evangile. She arrived in September 2020, in the heart of the pandemic, and just in time for the 2021 growing season – a vintage that saw incredible mildew pressure and a return to the chaptalisation that was, pre-climate change, normal for the region.  But the 31-year-old isn’t one to shy away from a battle. The Sunday before I spoke to her, she’d broken a finger playing rugby – something about which she was particularly blasé (it was “very, very blue”, she told me). Indeed, she used to play fullback for Narbonne’s team in the Fédérale 1 league, and now represents the local Libourne squad. In a wine region that is dominated by the slick and suited, she’s a breath of fresh air.  Born in the Charente, Couderc studied winemaking in Bordeaux and Montpellier before travelling to opposite ends of the earth – Chile and then New Zealand – to learn her craft. But L’Evangile – one of Pomerol’s most respected names – is a far cry from the wineries she started in. Both Escudo Rojo (a Mouton Rothschild project) and Wairau River in Marlborough were big operations, giving her exposure to larger-scale winemaking. She returned to France and worked her way through Burgundy and the Rhône before settling in the Languedoc for several years, focusing on viticulture. It was here that she first met Olivier Trégoat, who was then Technical Director of Domaines Barons de Rothschild’s projects in Chile, China and the Languedoc. In 2017, he recruited her – then aged just 26 – to head up the vineyards for Long Dai, their winery in Shandong Province. She’d planned to only stay a year, but then she was made Technical Director, managing work in both the vineyards and winery. It was Covid’s arrival, along with China’s strict lockdowns, that saw her return home – and Olivier Trégoat, who had just taken the reins for L’Evangile and Rieussec gave the talented winemaker her next opportunity, as Chief Operating Officer at Ch. l’Evangile.  For the rest of the team – including a Cellar Master that had been there 20 years – she may not have been the obvious choice. Despite growing up just an hour away, the 29-year-old had never worked in Bordeaux, let alone one of the region’s top estates – one that is sibling to First Growth Ch. Lafite Rothschild.  “At the beginning, it was pretty stressful for me,” she confesses, “because I’m pretty young in comparison to the rest of the team.” But it didn’t take long for them to realise why she’d been chosen. She’s not the sort to sit behind a desk. She was instantly out in the vineyards and winery talking to the team, digging into the DNA of the estate – and gently starting to question why they did things this way and that.  Baron Eric de Rothschild bought shares in Ch. l’Evangile in 1990, taking full ownership in 1998. Significant investment and change followed, with a new winery completed in 2004, extensive replanting and an additional seven hectares bought to complement the original 15. Bearing in mind the Rothschild family has owned Lafite since 1868, L’Evangile is just a baby – but that hasn’t held them back. Robert Parker gave the 2009 vintage 100 points – and the estate has been a cult address ever since.  L'Evangile is big by Pomerol standards, with 22 hectares spread over various sites. Between four and five hectares sit on the appellation’s famous blue clay (shared by Pétrus), with the rest on sandy clay and gravel soils. It’s the Merlot from that blue clay that contributes the creaminess that is key to the property’s fingerprint – along with soft yet dense tannins. Couderc is looking to make sure that that fingerprint shines through in the wines, even with climate change.  Her appointment is part of an ongoing shift at Domaines Barons de Rothschild. Since Saskia de Rothschild took over in 2018, she’s been pushing for a new vision, putting Jean-Sébastien Philippe in place as her right-hand man, and a flurry of fresh faces throughout the company, with the hope to move from “aristocratic” to “up-to-date” – and certainly more approachable, breaking the fourth wall to talk to consumers. This is the new generation taking over at the highest level. The broader vision is enormous, with the cornerstone establishing an agricultural ecosystem. They are reintroducing corridors of vegetation, establishing ponds and natural waterways, and planting cover crops to improve biodiversity and soil health. They’re re-structuring the vineyards, breaking up plots into smaller parcels, reducing vineyard density, re-orienting vines and adjusting the trellising, working on massal selections and trial plantings of different varieties, as well as moving towards biodynamics – all with extensive trials and studies to ensure changes are for the long-term. Indeed L’Evangile has become a “laboratory” of sorts for the family, with many of these changes introduced at the smaller estate before they are implemented at Lafite. At L’Evangile, the aim has been to pull back – unmasking the terroir. Couderc is experimenting with ways to manage extremes – both drought conditions (as experienced in 2022) and mildew (as in 2021). One key from her point of view is managing the vineyard to retain freshness in the wines – reducing the canopy size and using cover crops, as well as farming both organically (certified since 2016) and biodynamically (certified since 2018).   When she first arrived, she plotted areas to harvest based on how the fruit tasted, planting flags to mark off areas, often stopping partway along a row. Although having done it “blind”, the final map matched up with the different soil types almost exactly. The differences between these parcels are particularly accentuated in hot years, with as much as a week between harvest dates for plots. And, as Couderc tells me, while once they might have waited a little, with warmer September days, finding exactly the right moment to pick has never been so important.   With each parcel harvested separately, it can be treated differently, Couderc explains – pushing the extraction of Merlot on the blue clay, for example, but being more careful for gravel-dominant sections which can bring overly “straight” tannins.  She’s also planting more Cabernet Franc, having seen the success of the variety on sandy plots. Naturally more resistant to mildew and bringing welcome freshness, she feels it will be key for the future – and aims to have it represent around 30% of the vineyards eventually (up from around 20% currently).   In the winery, élevage has been the focus – tweaking to find the right balance. She’s worked closely with Trégoat, Saskia de Rothschild and the cooper Taransaud to find the right oak profile, which has then been translated across three additional coopers (including the Rothschilds’ in-house operation) for barriques, as well as starting to use both foudres and amphorae. For Couderc, amphorae are tricky – with a risk of crude tannins, but the ability to emphasise tension and freshness which she likes, anticipating they will represent a small but important 8-15% of the final blend each vintage. Foudres were trialled on the second wine (Blason de l’Evangile) first, but will now also be used for the Grand Vin. With the natural generosity of Merlot, Couderc sees her job as “to keep the austerity, the freshness” of the wine – while also preserving the innate density of their terroir.  Tasting through a flight of vintages, it’s easy to see the transformation that is underway here. The 2015, for example, is one of the last “old-style” vintages, only enhanced by the generosity of the year. The wine is exotic, rich and ripe – a voluptuous, decadent wine that envelops you. By contrast, the 2019 and 2020 display a crunch and vibrancy, while not losing any of the property’s signature density. The 2022, meanwhile, manages to take the generosity of the year and contain it – with restrained precision and perfume, smooth but gravelly tannins and a seductively lighweight feel.  It's clear already that Couderc is set to be a star – and L’Evangile will only rise higher with her.   Browse all Ch. l’Evangile listings or read more about Bordeaux 

 One of the newest members of the team is Juliette Couderc – who took over as Chief Operating Officer at Ch. l’Evangile in 2020, aged just 29. Sophie Thorpe sat down with the vigneron to talk about Lafite’s Pomerol sibling and the evolution at this prestigious stable of estates

Sitting down with star vigneron Juliette Couderc, the Chief Operating Officer at Pomerol’s Ch. l’Evangile – owned by First Growth Ch. Lafite Rothschild

Talking to Juliette Couderc of Ch. l’Evangile

All change: evolution at Evangile

There are few people that get to taste Bordeaux as often or as thoroughly as the Wine Advocate Editor-in-Chief Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW. Based in Napa, her knowledge of how the Bordeaux varieties are managed – both in Bordeaux’s moderate climate and the hotter region of Napa – has become a huge asset in understanding and assessing Bordeaux in a warming climate. With such exposure to vintages past and present, being mentored by the world’s most influential critic Robert Parker, there’s no one better to consider what defines Bordeaux today.  Perrotti-Brown has a clear idea of how and why Bordeaux has changed so much in the last 20 years, while at the same time emphasising that there’s no “hard stop” to an era. An individual château’s period of change can be different to its neighbours. “It seems like every château has had its challenging period,” she says, “whether it be a dogmatic winemaker, recurring faults in the winery or even financial difficulties.” Each era of Bordeaux is not simply defined by set vintages, however – with the benefit of hindsight – she believes you can see clear, defining moments over the last two decades where the style of Bordeaux has changed. Like much of the wine world in the 1980s and ’90s, Bordeaux châteaux were still understanding the effects of faults in their wines – whether it be volatile acidity, dissolved oxygen or Brettanomyces. With increased emphasis on ripeness and new oak, these issues only increased. “Brett and other faults love new oak and higher alcohol, it was almost a perfect storm,” she explains. But as this became more of an issue in the region, it led to more research, bringing about a much better technical understanding of why these things were happening. It was this scientific awakening that Perrotti-Brown believes was the catalyst for the modern era. “Momentum for change has sped up in the last 20 years and there have been lots of triggers,” she says. “There is a better understanding of what ripeness is, precision viticulture and winemaking, the development of technology and of course there is climate change.” But outside this and perhaps the most important “trigger” behind this change, she believes, is money. “To run a château has become very expensive: 30 or 40 years ago many of these châteaux were simply operating as agriculturalists, now it is a multi-million-dollar business.” Big money has no doubt brought about big investment and Perrotti-Brown believes in many ways it has “levelled the playing field”. A lack of investment in the winery and vineyard is now a rare excuse for poor performance. “It has raised the standard throughout the region. Investment and greater precision has created a lot of diversity – more than we have ever seen before.” In terms of taste, the most positive developments in Bordeaux for Perrotti-Brown come from the vigneron’s better understanding of ripeness, both in terms of tannin ripeness and fruit concentration. “Hindsight is a beautiful thing,” she quips, “but we have seen dark periods on both sides of the spectrum in Bordeaux.” There were real issues with lack of ripeness through much of the 1970s and ’80s. High production levels saw diluted grapes harvested and simply chaptalized (sugar added) to bring up the alcohol, then at fermentation, the must was overworked to extract enough colour and tannins. Since top Bordeaux was known for its long ageing potential, this was necessary to create the structure to age – “Otherwise you were going to end up with a diluted, watery mess,” explains Perrotti-Brown. This extended maceration saw the extraction of very hard tannins – “the wrong sort of tannins that come at a later stage of extraction”. “It is better extraction techniques, only extracting quality tannins, that is a major reason behind the most recent improvements,” Perrotti-Brown explains. She points to the legendary 1982 vintage. “A lot of people at the time were saying the tannins of the ’82s were too soft, too juicy, too fruity and it just wasn’t true.” The vintage was warm, particularly for that era. “At harvest the vignerons were picking grapes with a natural ripeness to the tannins, which meant during extraction the tannins and colour came easily.” They didn’t have to overwork the grapes to extract the tannins, producing wines that were great in their youth and have since aged incredibly well. It was the quality, not quantity, of tannins that stood the 1982s in such good stead, a lesson that wasn’t necessarily learnt instantly. Overworking the musts and a lack of concentration continued to be commonplace throughout much of the ’80s and ’90s. Many wines were hugely extracted and required plenty of patience. “You compare that with now,” she says. “I was discussing the 2020 vintage with Ch. Margaux’s Philippe Bascaules – and he barely needed to touch the grapes during extraction.” At better ripeness levels (as seen in 2020), the colour and tannins extract themselves. In the mid-90s to early 2000s, however, there was “a chase for ripeness”, in Perrotti-Brown’s words. “It was the beginning of the garagiste era – with reductions in yield, later picking and an emphasis on power. You had super low yields, producing behemoth, impenetrable wines in their youth, 200% new oak etc – people were really pushing the boundaries.” It is a style that is seen by many as actively encouraged by Perrotti-Brown’s mentor Robert Parker, who at this point was arguably the most influential man in Bordeaux. The incredibly hot 2003 vintage marked a watershed moment for Bordeaux. “Bordeaux winemakers had never seen anything like it. Grapes were turning to raisins on the vine,” Perrotti-Brown says. Despite the year’s conditions which exposed the push toward ripeness, the emphasis on power continued up until the 2010 vintage. Despite the focus on ripeness and extraction, there were some exceptional vintages – but Perrotti-Brown questions how well these wines have since aged. This is, in her view, a key shift in the region. She compares tasting the 2005s en primeur, with tasting the vintages of today. While 2005 was clearly a fantastic vintage, tasting these wines so young was really difficult, with aggressive tannins. Many winemakers were, Perrotti-Brown says, “making wines by formula”. A high-quality vintage gave vignerons a free ride to push the extraction even more. The criticism often made of 2005 is that it has taken such a long time to come around. Similar issues are raised with the same vintage in Burgundy. The year was at the height of the trend for maximum ripeness and extraction, for both Bordeaux and Burgundy, and the resulting wines shut down for a long period. Perrotti-Brown accepts that people have different expectations on when to drink Bordeaux, but she loves to drink wine in its mid-life, when there is both primary fruit and tertiary development. The problem with the 2005s, she says, is that that window never really opened: the wines remained closed, only beginning to open up now, when there is little primary fruit left. “Many of the ’05s are, wow, exceptional now, but you miss that sweet fruit and it’s what I like about the modern vintages,” she says. Looking back, “Winemakers could have dealt with 2005 much more wisely.” The 2009 vintage provides an interesting contrast. Like the ’82s, the natural ripeness of the tannins meant the wines didn’t shut down in the same way the 2005s did. Of course, higher levels of alcohol also helped increase the potential tannin extraction. Alcohol is a solvent. Increased ripeness, which in turn leads to higher alcohol levels, can therefore lead to too much phenolic extraction. While this was a risk for many wines in the early 2000s, fortunately today’s winemakers know much more about how to handle riper fruit. The 2010 vintage might have been the last year of big, bold, extracted wines, it was nature rather than the Bordelais that dictated the change, Perrotti-Brown notes. The ’11, ’12, ’13 and ’14 vintages meant winemakers had to deal with cooler, more difficult vintages. It was not possible to produce bold wines in these vintages and retain balance. This was almost a period of introspection for Bordeaux and, for Perrotti-Brown, it led to a distinctive development where “the ethos of precision” took charge from the 2015 vintage. While there are of course exceptions, from 2015 Perrotti-Brown feels you started to see more plot-by-plot management of the vineyard, with picking times becoming much more accurate – picking plots and fermenting them separately, “rather than throwing everything together”. Extraction also became much more precise, focusing on only the quality tannins – a marked change from the previous era. This new ethos brought, in Perrotti-Brown’s view, a lot of “soul-searching” in the vineyard, with people like Alfred Tesseron spearheading a movement toward more sustainable practices. But overall, Perrotti-Brown notes, “There is so much creativity too and many people are doing different things. It has created a lot of diversity.” Amongst the creative changes happening in the winery and vineyard, developments in the wine’s élevage always seems to be a big talking point in Bordeaux. Oak is an integral part of the Bordeaux “recipe”, but – after an over-reliance in the 2000s – its use was becoming increasingly scrutinised. “Oak doesn’t ever go,” she says. “It settles down, integrates and evolves with the fruit, but it can push itself forward.” “Oak is absolutely necessary for giving shape and spice to the fruit, as well as tannic interest to the wine,” says Perrotti-Brown: for her, it’s about oak being used “smartly”. “Most people have pulled back on the new oak from the 2015 vintage onwards, but, like the tannins, it is not about more or less oak, but about using it more wisely. There is a much better understanding of oak today and much better quality of oak being used. What it lends to the tannin structure is a nice back up to the skin tannins and a spiciness in the background.” The new era – from 2015 onwards – is certainly contributing to Bordeaux being “on a good run”, in Perrotti-Brown’s words. But while there is great consistency today, she’s under no impression there won’t be problems ahead. “Warm, dry vintages have become the norm, but how warm and how dry before this becomes an issue? Bordeaux was lucky in 2020 that they got a bit of rain in August,” she says. While a lot has changed over the last 20 years in Bordeaux, there are no guarantees for the future. No matter the technology, Bordeaux’s fate lies in the hands of the shifting climate – and terroir, or more specifically the clay or limestone soils equipped to deal with hot, dry conditions, has never been so important. For now at least, though, Bordeaux is basking in its era of precision, with 2020 the third great vintage in a row. Let’s hope Mother Nature holds the region in her favour a little longer. Read our summary of Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW's report (including the wines she rated most highly) in our round-up of the critics’ verdict on the vintage Find out more about Bordeaux or read more Editorial 

No doubt that the style of Bordeaux has shifted over the past two decades. But what’s caused the change – and are the wines better? We sat down with one of the world’s most influential wine writers, Wine Advocate Editor-in-Chief Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW, to delve into what defines modern Bordeaux

The Wine Advocate’s Editor-in-Chief Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW on 20 years of change in Bordeaux – and what defines modern Bordeaux

Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW on the Bordeaux evolution

Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW on the evolution of Bordeaux

Chien

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