Dagli inizi nel Beaujolais negli anni ’80, il movimento del vino naturale è diventato un fenomeno globale. Ma quale influenza ha avuto poco più a nord, nelle storiche denominazioni della Borgogna? Simon J Woolf esplora il confine sempre più sfumato tra viticoltura classica e naturale

From Beaujolais to Burgundy, how has the natural wine movement shaped a terroir-driven region? For FONDATA Simon J Woolf explores the changing landscape.

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

Natura vs. Intervento: la ricerca della vera identità della Borgogna

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

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  

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

Lebanon's lost legacy: viticulture Despite being more southerly than the great wine regions of Europe, the Beka'a’s elevated altitude on average around 1000m above sea level – means that it’s a full 10ºC cooler than Lebanon’s Mediterranean coastline. The climate is positively European with wet, often snowy winters and warm, dry summers. It’s very well suited to winemaking, a local craft that dates back millennia. Lebanon itself is geographically situated in the cradle of civilisation. It was here, even before
the Greeks and Romans emerged as dominant cultures in the Mediterranean, and the Canaanites (later known as Phoenicians), peace-loving traders from the Levant, established some of the earliest known well-organised cities: the trading ports of Byblos, Sidon and Tyre. Phoenician culture was at its peak between 1500 and 300BC – a period that saw them explore and dominate the Mediterranean, developing trade routes, setting up outposts and cities as far afield as North Africa (Carthage, now Tunis, Tunisia) and the Iberian peninsula (Gadir, now Cádiz, Spain). The word ‘Phoenician’ directly connects the people of the Levant with both an impressive entrepreneurial spirit and an awe-inspiring work ethic. More precisely, it is an exonym originating from ancient Greek that describes Tyrian purple. This highly prized dye was a major export of the Canaanite port towns, in particular Tyre, hence the name. The labour-intensive production of the colour involved collecting the mucous secretions of thousands of sea snails. 12,000 snails yield a paltry 1.5 grams of dye – which is why it was so highly prized and the clothes it coloured were reserved for royalty. Tyrian purple was not the only ingenious product that the Phoenicians exported. Their legacy also includes the invention of glass-blowing techniques, and the development of the very first abstract (non-figurative) writing system (from which the Greek alphabet was derived) is credited to the Phoenicians and their Canaanite ancestors. It was almost certainly developed primarily to keep records of sales and ultimately function as an essential accounting tool. We also have the Phoenicians to thank for the word ‘Europe’ – which comes from their word ‘Erob’ meaning ‘where the sun sets’. While it is thought that the world’s first-ever wine was made over 8,000 years ago in the Caucasus Mountains between the Black and Caspian Seas to the northeast of the Levant, it was the Phoenicians that produced, exported and made famous the ‘fragrant wines of Lebanon’ mentioned in the Bible’s old testament (Hosea 14:7). And with their grip on Mediterranean trade, they marketed it and exported it along with, crucially, the knowledge of how to make it. The agricultural treatises of Carthaginian writer Mago, (thought to be writing around 350 BC) were among the most important early texts in the history of wine to record ancient knowledge of winemaking and viticulture. It’s important to remember the function of wine in society in Phoenician times. It wasn’t just a drink. It was, rather like the Tyrian purple dye, complicated and labour intensive to make, exceptionally highly prized and valuable and not just because of how it tasted – but because of its effect and function.  Biomolecular Archaeologist Professor Pat McGovern at the University of Pennsylvania Museum is a specialist in fermented beverages and his research reveals more about wine in Phoenician life. “The wines of ancient Lebanon and Syria,” he says, “were much more than a technological marvel. They were the social lubricants to break down barriers, stimulate music and the arts and bring people together. They were the supreme religious symbol for prosperity and well-being, in life as well as death. And they were the medicines for dissolving and dispensing botanicals, to rest the weary, relieve pain and cure disease.” Taking their wine to the Pharoahs of Egypt and further west to Portugal to trade it for local silver and tin, Phoenician winemaking equipment has been discovered in Valepeñas in Spain. As Phoenicians established Cádiz (Spain) as early as 1100BC, it is most likely that Phoenician wines – not Roman wines – were the forerunners to sherry. Perhaps the most enduring legacy of these seafaring traders was, in fact, the propagation of ancestral grapevines from the Levant that ampelographers believe gave rise to several modern grape varieties in Europe. According to research published by the University of California-Davis on the Integrated Viticulture Online Database, the French wine grape Mourvèrde may have first been introduced to the wine region of Catalonia around 500BC. By 64BC, Seleucid Syria and Lebanon had been annexed to the Roman empire by emperor Pompey. Peace and prosperity followed as the people of Byblos, Tyre and Sidon were granted Roman citizenship. Trade boomed and new wealth generated from exports of cedar, pottery, jewellery, perfume, purple dye and wine to Rome, enabled an era of widespread construction and urban development. One of the building projects the Romans invested in at this time was the enhancement of the already millennia-old temple complex at Baalbek in the Beka'a Valley. At a site which the Greeks and the Romans referred to as Heliopolis 'the City of the Sun' (where Phoenician god Ba’al had once been worshipped), the Romans rebuilt and reconsecrated the temples to their gods Jupiter, Venus and Bacchus, gods of wine, fertility, ritual madness, festivity, dance and theatre. The 700-acre site remains, to this day, the largest and best preserved Roman temple complex anywhere in the Empire. How the ancients moved the 800-ton quarried stone blocks that form the base of the temples still baffles the world’s brightest engineers. The temple to Bacchus at Baalbek is a monument to the importance of wine in the region, and the site became a symbol of Lebanon itself in the 1960s, thanks to the cultural impact of the Baalbek International Festival. Established in the mid-1950s, the festival brought celebration, theatre, music and dance back to the site through performances by international music stars and, crucially, nurtured and celebrated home-grown talent, perhaps most famously Fairouz and the Rahbani Brothers who became huge stars in Lebanon and right across the Arab world. Lebanon’s potent winemaking heritage is not lost on the makers of Chateau Musar. Far from it. As well as its vineyards in the Beka'a, the winery also grows vines near Byblos and the Hochar family’s charismatic winemaker, Tarek Sakr, is as passionate about the history of the land as he is about the grapes he grows there. “Byblos has been known since Phoenician times as an exporter of cedar wood and wine,” he enthuses. “Vines were cultivated in the hills surrounding Byblos, fermented in stone vats dug into the landscape. Then, the wine was put in Canaanite jars (these were the predecessor of the Greek amphora – yes, Phoenicians invented these too), sealed with resin to stop oxidation, and taken to the harbour for export.” Tarek also tells of a recently discovered archaeological site in the village of Edde a few kilometres from Byblos. “The site suggests that most of the hills near the city have been growing vines for thousands of years. This makes sense as the place where our nearby vineyards are located, on a hill overlooking Byblos, is called Vines Passage. You can smell the history of winemaking here. This is undoubtedly the birthplace of viticulture.” While he has spent many years planting and tending to its vines as an integral part of the Musar winemaking process, Tarek’s knowledge of and connection to the land and its ancient traditions run even deeper than his many years of experience. The result of a DNA test found that he is genuinely of Phoenician descent. It would seem that when it comes to Lebanon’s unrivalled contribution to the world of wine, we still have much to thank the Phoenicians for. Explore more Editorial 

Most of Chateau Musar’s vines are grown in Lebanon’s Beka'a Valley, a fertile plain about 30km east of Beirut, situated between Mount Lebanon on the west and the Anti-Lebanon mountains to the east. 

Most of Chateau Musar’s vines are grown in Lebanon’s Beka'a Valley. We look into the viticultural legacy of the region and the impact of the cultural heritage

The wines of Lebanon

The wines of Lebanon: a phoenician phenomenon

Montrachet, Chambertin, Richebourg: these names will send chills down the spine of any Burgundy lover. But many of the Côte d’Or’s most famous domaines are looking beyond these grand names, making wines from vineyards and appellations that might otherwise fly under the radar. With reputations at stake, the likes of Domaine d’Auvenay, Coche-Dury and Bizot put as much effort and care into these “lowly” wines as for their Grands Crus. Quality in these appellations is soaring – with better vine material, cooler sites that are benefitting from the warming climate, not to mention better winemaking and know-how all contributing. Here we offer a guide to just a handful of the treasures to be found in Burgundy if you look a bit further afield. Auxey-Duresses Right in the middle of the Côte de Beaune, Auxey-Duresses is a small, sleepy village situated above Meursault. Prior to AC regulations, the white wines of Auxey-Duresses were sold as Meursault and the Pinots sold as Pommard or Volnay. While probably better known for Pinot Noir production, some of its top wines are Chardonnays made in a specific part of the appellation directly bordering Meursault.  Here, high up on the hill, over the brow of Meursault’s highest vineyards you will find vineyards facing unusually north-west. While these vineyards are too cool to adequately ripen Pinot Noir, they have proven to be a great climate for Chardonnay, particularly in today’s warming climate. In a warm vintage, the whites can give the top Meursault vineyards a run for their money. Domaine Leroy, one of Burgundy’s most eminent estates run by Madam Lalou Bize-Leroy, has holdings in this part of Auxey-Duresses in Les Lavières, while Domaine d’Auvenay also regularly produces an Auxey-Duresses Blanc on this particular northwest-facing slope from the vineyards of La Macabrée and Les Boutonniers. Depending on volumes D’Auvenay can produce three separate Auxey-Duresses Blanc cuvées in one vintage or if volumes are down will blend into one. While these are expensive options, the quality is undoubtedly there and this is a great lesser-known spot in the Côte d’Or to source outstanding Chardonnay, particularly in warmer vintages.  Domaine Roulot, Olivier Leflaive and a Jasper Morris MW favourite Domaine Diconne (which has vines dating back to 1924) also produce excellent Auxey-Duresses Blanc on these slopes adjacent to Meursault. While stricter in style than their neighbours, they remain fantastic value. For reds, Domaine Comte Armand’s Premier Cru Auxey-Duresses is another great buy. Made from two complimentary Premier Cru sites – La Duresses (whose brown clay soil brings density and tannic structure) and Les Breterins (on lighter soil bringing fruitiness) combine to make a fabulous Auxey-Duresses well worth discovering. Monthélie Next door to Auxey-Duresses, sandwiched in between Meursault and Volnay, is another lesser-known appellation which has an impressive line-up of producers on its roster. Comtes Lafon, Coche-Dury, Philippe Pacalet, Domaine Roulot and Leroy all produce Pinot Noir from this little, oft-forgotten appellation.  Monthélie is actually one of Bize-Leroy’s favourite appellations for her Maison Leroy selection. Historically, Monthélie tended to produce Gamay more than Pinot Noir, but that is not the case today. While the village wines tend to be a little lean and err too far towards vegetal flavours, the Premiers Crus within the appellation deserve much more attention. Domaine Coche-Dury produces a Premier Cru Les Barbières, while Comtes Lafon’s Premier Cru is in Les Champs Fulliot.  Both have full south exposure, enabling the wines to ripen fully even at higher Hautes-Côtes-like altitudes. In the warmer vintages, you could be justly rewarded for sourcing wines from this under-appreciated little corner of Burgundy. Monthélie is also home to Domaine Potinet-Ampeau, whose collection of older bottlings can wow the senses, provides a fascinating and educational insight into mature Burgundy. Pernand-Vergelesses Few Chardonnay appellations in the Côte d’Or are as underrated as Pernand-Vergelesses. Proximity to Corton-Charlemagne makes this unsurprising. This winemaking enclave, tucked behind the hill of Corton, has long been a consistent appellation where you find outstanding quality at a fantastic price.  While consistent in quality, it is often inconsistent in quantity due to its position between two rising hills. The lay of the land produces natural airflow that attracts hailstorms and is also susceptible to frost as cold air sits in this natural pocket of vineyards. If the region escapes these climatic perils, the Chardonnays are linear and have a flinty, mineral character. The wines can age well, gaining richness as they mature. A top producer of particular note is Domaine Rapet – of whom Wine Advocate critic William Kelley recently noted, “It’s a mystery these wines are not better known or distributed.” Being the biggest landowner of Corton-Charlemagne, they are one of the region’s most consistent white wine producers. Domaine Chandon de Brailles (based in Savigny-lès-Beaune) is also widely recognised for producing the best Pinot Noir in the appellation.  Their Pernand-Vergelesses Premier Cru Ile de Vergelesses regularly competes with top Pinot Noirs made in the more famous appellations and is often described as one of Burgundy’s bargains given the quality. Other better-known producers such as Dugat-Py and a more recent purchase in 2012 by Domaine Jean-Claude Ramonet (one of the world’s top Chardonnay producers) – testify to the quality found here. Perennial FINE+RARE favourite, Domaine Jean-Marc & Hugues Pavelot, also produce outstanding Chardonnay from Pernand-Vergelesses. Morey-Saint-Denis While Morey-Saint-Denis can hardly be described as under the radar, it continues to be undervalued amongst its neighbours despite its obvious pedigree. Morey-Saint-Denis’s prime location in the Côte d’Or sandwiched between Gevrey-Chambertin and Chambolle-Musigny, for some reason – despite being home to five Grands Crus (Clos de la Roche, Clos de Tart, Bonnes Mares, Clos des Lambrays and Clos St Denis) – never gets the same limelight as either of its neighbours.  It’s possible to blame the autonomous nomenclature of its Grands Crus – with only Clos St Denis having a clear link to the village. It has meant that Morey-Saint-Denis as an appellation is seen as somewhat lesser in quality than its neighbours. Another reason might be that, like Auxey-Duresses, before the AC regulations came into play, the wines of Morey-Saint-Denis were either sold as Gevrey-Chambertin or Chambolle-Musigny.  Outside the Grands Crus, our excellent recent discovery is Domaine René Bouvier. Their  Morey-Saint-Denis En la Rue de Vergy is a simply stunning Pinot Noir no matter where it is from. While only classified as village, this vineyard is surrounded by Morey-Saint-Denis’s most illustrious Grands Crus – Clos des Lambrays, Clos de Tart and Bonnes-Mares – on the border with Chambolle-Musigny. In a sunny vintage, this cooler site has excelled and remains one of the great value-buys of 2019. Chassagne-Montrachet Rouge It is not simply lesser-known appellations that get missed. While its Chardonnays get all the attention today, Chassagne-Montrachet was historically a Pinot Noir appellation (as was Meursault). Today, Pinot Noir only represents about 20% of production within the Chassagne-Montrachet Premiers Crus, but until the 1960s, the appellation was dominated by the red grape. Some of the top Pinot Noir sites here were judged to be as good as Musigny, Clos de la Roche and Clos de Tart. Today Chardonnay is the better variety in the village, but there are still top examples of Pinot Noir to be found – often at a great price for the quality. The red wines from the Clos Saint Jean Premier Cru are often described as a unique expression of Pinot Noir – a wine of fantastic finesse, quite at odds with the appellation’s reputation for robust reds. It is arguably the finest site for red wine in Chassagne-Montrachet. Jean-Claude Ramonet produces a top example and Premier Cru La Boudriotte is also great, if not a little leaner in style. Marsannay Most Burgundy buyers rarely explore further north than Gevrey-Chambertin in search of the next big thing, but all indications point in that direction. Marsannay was only given appellation contrôlée status in 1987, encompassing three districts of Chenôve (on the outskirts of Dijon’s urban sprawl), Marsannay La Côte and Couchey.  Unique to the appellations of Burgundy, Marsannay can produce a rosé wine from Pinot Noir.  The foundation for the village’s reputation, many vineyards within the appellation are dedicated exclusively to rosé production. If a red wine is made in these vineyards, it must be declassified to Bourgogne Rouge). While Sylvain Pataille and René Bouvier make the most serious and age-worthy rosés in the appellation, the whites and reds are arguably the most exciting development in recent times. The village of Marsannay is arguably producing the best Pinot Noir for the money in the whole of Burgundy. Cult producers such as Domaine Bizot with Jean-Yves Bizot’s Marsannay Clos du Roy and his Bourgogne Le Chapitre, situated just south of Dijon, are already on aficionado's radars.  These wines are made in tiny quantities and has only further increased the collectability of these wines made in a distinct style (100% whole-bunch fermentations and zero sulphur additions). If sourcing Bizot wines is too painstaking and out of one’s budget, there are plenty of other exceptional growers in this region. Domaine Audoin is producing outstanding Premier Cru Marsannay that can compete with some of the top Gevrey bottlings and the wines still remain fantastic value. Domaine René Bouvier also makes exceptional wines from Marsannay. Côte Chalonnaise: Givry, Montagny and Rully Outside the Côte d’Or, to the south in the Côte Chalonnaise, Mercurey dominates the limelight compared to neighbouring appellations Rully, Montagny and Givry. When handled correctly, however, Givry, can produce fantastic, powerful Pinot Noir that also offers finesse. Rully and Montagny are also a great source of Chardonnay and remain outstanding value.  Montagny only produces Chardonnay – the top producers being Domaine Stéphane Aladame, Domaine Bruno Lorenzon and Domaine Maxime Cottenceau. Rully produces white and red, but the domaine's Chardonnay represents one of Burgundy’s best-value white wines. Producers worth looking out for include Domaine Jaeger-Defaix and Domaine Vincent Dureuil-Janthial. Domaine Joblot is the leading producer in Givry. Their wines consistently compete with those in the Côte d’Or, a beacon for the appellation’s reputation, yet remain sensibly priced. Of the estate’s 14 hectares, nine are Premier Cru, including some of the village’s finest plots such as Clos de la Servoisine and Cellier aux Moines.  L’Empreinte –  a blend of their four red Premier Cru sites (Clos de la Servoisine, Cellier  aux Moines,  Clos  Marole  and  Les Bois  Chevaux – is the property’s top wine. The white, Cuvée Mademoiselle, is a blend of  their  older-vine  Premier Cru  Chardonnay from  En  Veau  and  Clos de la  Servoisine. Joblot is rightfully praised by the likes of Clive Coates MW,  Robert Parker, Allen Meadows and Jasper Morris MW for being the leading address in Givry and one of the greatest estates in Burgundy. Hautes-Côtes de Nuits Situated over the brow of the main Côte d’Or slope and further to the west are the vineyards classified as the Hautes-Côtes (the higher slopes) of the Côte de Nuits. Typically around 100 metres higher in altitude, only the southwest and southeast slopes are warm enough to ripen grapes, but geologically parts of the region are identical to the Côte d’Or.  With warmer vintages, quality here is greatly improving and you can find some outstanding wines at a great price. Two top examples of this come from Vosne-Romanée’s Domaine Gros Frère & Sœur and Domaine David Duband. Both estates have invested heavily in the region believing in the potential of these cooler sites in a warming climate. Aubert de Villaine’s Domaine de la Romanée-Conti also produces an Hautes-Côtes de Nuits Blanc, from grapes grown on the slopes below the historic Abbaye de Saint Vivant. Browse all Burgundy listings or read more Editorial

While the Grands Crus and top villages steal the headlines, often with eye-watering pricing to match, there is so much more to discover in the Côte d’Or. We explore a few of the lesser-known appellations being exploited by some of Burgundy’s grandest producers

lesser-known, best vlue wine appellations of the Côte d’Or: Auxey-Duresses, Monthélie, Pernand-Vergelesses, Marsannay, Côte Chalonnaise: Givry, Montagny Rully

Wine discoveries off the beaten track in Burgundy

Off the beaten track in Burgundy

Many factors come into play when tasting Chateau Musar vintages. Was it a warmer Cabernet year (1999, 2000, 2005)? Was it cooler, making Cinsault more influential in the blend as in 1998? Or was it a Carignan year like 2003? Will grape prominence be less relevant than the dodging of bullets across the Beka’a in a vintage we’re lucky to see the appearance of at all?  The tasting notes that follow shine a light on the vintage, the weather conditions, and the family events that helped shape the wines. There is also an insight into the mindset of the winemaker, Serge Hochar, as he became less influenced by his background in Bordeaux and increasingly confident in the wines emerging from his own terroir in Lebanon. Hochar family wines live for a long time and their flavours linger in the mouth and memory long after the bottle is drained. Some of these wines have been tasted à point, at the peak of perfection, but many have yet to reach this moment, and they are judged on their potential. Even more fascinating, perhaps, are the notes on wines that are perhaps just past their prime, but still delivering fascinating nuances that astound the taster – some of these wines elicit the most evocative tasting notes of all. For the Hochar family, a new wine, however shapely or pleasing, is always pregnant with promise for the future. Many of the notes below show the best that the wines can be – but they also underline the fact that for each taster Musar’s most sublime moment will be different. Although the Hochar family does not believe in the concept of defining a wine with numbers, ratings have been included to give some guidance.  Jancis Robinson MW, Bartholomew Broadbent and Steven Spurrier award marks out of 20 for each wine. Michael Broadbent prefers a five-star scoring system. All notes were taken in 2018/19 with the exception of Michael Broadbent’s. Chateau Musar: the reds One-third of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cinsault and Carignan, aged for a year in French Nevers oak. 2013 Chateau Musar  "Dense, deep red, still hints of purple at the core and little age on the rim. Marvellously warm Mediterranean fruits on the nose, autumnal in style but youthful in their rich, robust, vigorous presence. The essence of Lebanon in a glass, rich with spice and cooling breezes, the dry, herby fruit flows with energy over the palate before giving way to a finish that confirms the structure, fruit and tannins blending exuberantly with intriguing hints of much more to come in the next decade." Steven Spurrier, Score: 18/20, Drink: 2020-2040  2009 Chateau Musar  "Mid-crimson. Light, sweet start. For the moment it’s a little simple. Bright, ripe red fruit. Slightly burnt edge. Lots of tannins. Quite dry and youthful on the finish. Much longer bottle age needed. By far the most youthful wine in this vertical tasting." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 17+++/20, Drink: 2028-2050  "Deep ruby colour but light translucent rim. More primary sweet baked red fruit notes and a lovely bloody, cured meat Rhone character. This is a complex nose – sweet candied blackberry, raspberry, cardamom, tobacco – a very pure nose.  Dense tannins still not fully integrated but will get there and very well balanced with a vibrant line of acidity running through the palate. A real Italian flair to the wine but the tannins are so silky, beautifully handled. Still plenty of life in this wine." FINE+RARE 2008 Chateau Musar  "Heady and beguiling with a gamey note on the nose. Very sweet and young; well balanced on the palate. No hurry at all to drink this youthful ferment. Very tight, dry wine that is so much younger than any other vintage tasted. So much more youthful than a Bordeaux 2008!" Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 17.5+++/20, Drink: 2025-2045 "After blending, [Head Winemaker] Tarek [Sakr] was raving about this vintage. I asked him to add 0.5% of any wine he liked and we’d taste it again in two weeks. An act of faith or la folie? We tasted it again. He raved again; the wine had changed colour and bouquet." Serge Hochar "Dark, blood red. Really powerful nose with tonnes of young, juicy blue and red fruit. Behind this, layers of dried fruit emerge (prunes and raisins) and tobacco, generally a much darker and more brooding profile than the initially youthful nose suggested. Leather and smoked meat, as well as mineral graphite, but also fresh mint and liquorice. Complex and ever-changing in the glass that invites you to keep going back and discovering more. Again, fantastic acidity, plus velvety tannins." FINE+RARE 2003 Chateau Musar  "Mid-garnet. Quite a bit deeper and younger-looking than even the 2001. A little marine influence (oyster shells?) on the somewhat reticent nose. Rather different from many of these Musars. Sweet start and very vigorous and fun. If I had not tasted vintages back to 1961, I might have taken this for a fully mature wine. It already gives masses of pleasure with some milk-chocolate notes and quite a bit of light dry tannin on the end. Excellent drive. Long and dramatically big, but with good freshness on the finish." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2016-2035 "A vintage with high alcohol and acidity. Rainiest winter in 15 years, then not a drop of rain from April throughout a hot, sunny summer. Heatwave during flowering reduced the harvest by 30%." Tarek Sakr, Head Winemaker "Darker than more recent vintages, gun smoke, spice and hints of leather. Rich darker fruit, riper with dense, sweet mid-palate. Balanced though, with Cinsault contributing acid and vibrancy that is often absent in 2003s. Fruit profile is richer and darker and tannins riper and juicy, perhaps not as refined as the excellent 2008, but still with Musar DNA. Smoked meat and charcoal. Delicacy throughout. Fascinating and delicious." FINE+RARE
 2000 Chateau Musar  "Reasonably mature. Brick-red rim, autumnal faded red bowl. Mouthwatering acidity on the nose that can be smelt a foot away. Lovely aromas of damp autumn forests, decaying leaves and wood combine with a slightly chocolatey sweetness. A little spirit developed over the course of the evening: almost a Drambuie or Grand Marnier character. Slightly sweet on the palate with very long, classic autumnal Musar notes, soft, mature and Old World, braced by that lovely acidity. Still full flavoured and crisp on its long, lingering aftertaste, finishing with notes of liquorice and sherbet." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20   "A Cabernet Sauvignon year. One of my clients called it 'a lioness' of a wine." Serge Hochar "Bright ruby red with the start of some brick around the edges. Sweet fruit, baked strawberries, rosewater and pomegranate. Peppery spice. Some leather and petrichor. With more air, burning embers and deep, meaty fruit and spice. Lovely sweet tannins on entry. Elegant and fresh, but with an enveloping warmth and caressing softness, though it remains both light and structured thanks to the depth of flavour and superb acidity." FINE+RARE  1998 Chateau Musar  "Pale, jewel-bright garnet. Light, spicy, particularly well-integrated nose, already well developed. A sweet start on the palate; the opposite of heavy; a really lovely wine: fresh, sweet, with some very slight mintiness and a dry finish. Very long, and nicely mature: seems just right now. It will go beautifully with food. One of my favourite wines in this collection. Is it the Cinsault I like so much?" Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2012-2030 "Tarek said: 'Let’s bottle at the end of the second year. Let’s try!' We did 20,000 bottles like this, then the rest a year later, as usual. We tasted the wines four years later. Something was missing in the earlier-bottled wines. They had an obvious Chateau Musar character but were not necessarily better. Identity is permanently important. We went back to the original formula." Serge Hochar "Cool year, Cinsault dominated. Cold and rainy until June, with a sunny, dry summer. Harvest began on 9th September." Tarek Sakr, Head Winemaker  "Similar in style to the 1997 but with more fruit concentration, the aromas more earthy and
dried leather, but the lifted perfumed floral tone still dominates on the nose: dried roses, sweet licorice, candied cinnamon – lovely additional set of oak flavours that add aromatic complexity. Lovely texture – tannins are seamless – silky and long – provide structure but are sweet and resolved, backed by vibrant acidity keeping the wine fresh. Fruit is plump, rich, ripe, very much on the red fruit spectrum – raspberry, red cherry. Great acidity. Light fresh tobacco and light leather notes coming through on the finish. Great integration and drinking very well now. Difficult to pick between the '97 and '98 – the '97 is more ethereal – it tastes like quality aged Burgundy! '98 is plusher and more concentrated but less ethereal." FINE+RARE
 1997 Chateau Musar  "Very light in colour with maturity on the rim: salmon ruby. Surprisingly intense and concentrated nose with strong ash and autumnal smells; great acidity, damp leaves and old bonfires. On the palate, very sweet fruit and a long finish that goes through several evolutions (one developing old pomegranate flavours) in the longest aftertaste of any Musar. Full mouthfeel defies the lightness of the wine. Almost chewy in texture. Intense volatile acidity." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20  "We had two harvests – before and after a week of heavy rain – and made a big, big wine. Two years after bottling it changed direction and began to create heavy sediments. It was the biggest surprise in my life. This wine was behaving like a human going through an adolescent crisis. Which way is it heading now? The only thing I know is that I trust my wines. It is already an interesting wine, and starting to taste beautiful." Serge Hochar "Translucent Pinor Noir-esque colour with tremendous clean aromatics – lifted floral notes,
fresh aniseed, scented aromatic tea leaf, red cherry, strawberry, pomegranate, so perfumed. Seamless tannins, silky soft but there is a delicate framework and the fruit concentration provides lovely depth. Fruit remains very fleshy. Very clean considering the age, and lovely refreshing, vibrant acidity, remarkably stable at 24 years of age. Lovely, ethereal quality to this wine, reminds me of a great aged Burgundy with the acid and florality!" FINE+RARE 1979 Chateau Musar  "…misleadingly pale, fully mature; nose like squashed strawberries; sweet, long, delicious." Michael Broadbent "Vibrant red with a hint of mahogany but still red on the rim. Astoundingly young and vigorous with warm red summer fruits and a definite hint of roses on the nose; has the feel of a wine at least 20 years its junior. The sweetness of fruit continues on the palate with a backbone of tannin to firm it up – without losing the old-fashioned ‘burgundian’ richness and just the right level of acidity to refresh the palate for another glass. This must always have been an exceptional wine, as it remains today." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20 1974 Chateau Musar  "Good depth but still light, with a mature-looking, orangey rim. Very vibrant, sweet-fruited nose, alive and drawing attention to itself. Very old, elegant fruit on the palate, with a touch of cheese rind. Extraordinary texture: velvety and syrupy at the same time; deep, with high acidity and a very long finish. Biscuity flavours (‘Playbox’ biscuits: if you are English and of a certain age, you’ll remember licking the sugary coat off those). Although past its prime, it is fascinating, like an old man with many stories to tell. You can imagine the wartime conditions through which this wine has aged, enduring much and remaining strong, until now as it begins to lose its way." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 19/20 "My ’74 I wasn’t happy with. But it developed! In 2000 I tasted it again. Now I think it is nearly ready to drink." Serge Hochar 1970 Chateau Musar  "In 1983, richly coloured; pine needles and vanilla; soft, velvety, well-balanced, yet powerful and plump like Château Petrus. Labelled ‘Réserve Rouge. Grand Cru’, still deep and rich, complete." Michael Broadbent, Score: five stars  "Dark, shaded ruby; just the sort of colour I would expect from a 1970 red Bordeaux. Light, very Cabernet nose. If I were given this blind I would be tempted to head straight for Bordeaux, though it would have to be a comely château such as Palmer perhaps, and a fairly ripe vintage. Perhaps 1961? But then there is probably more sweetness and a bit more exoticism than one would find in a Bordeaux of this evident age... Mouth-filling and again that note of violets, candied this time. A little dusting of tannins on the end. Lovely wine." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18/20, Drink: 1985-2022 1964 Chateau Musar  "Mature rim but not for its age: still tons of vibrant life in its red colour. Very little sign of ageing. Nose is very big, more like a mature Châteauneuf-du-Pape or other big, structured Rhône wine. Very concentrated and deep with autumnal bonfire ash. Spectacularly good, huge on the palate: damp decaying leaves; great acidity; volatility balanced by brown sugar flavours; delicious, sweet, long on the finish. Hardly any age. A great classic wine." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20 "I had been in Bordeaux. I was 25. I prefer not to qualify the attitude of the French towards me, but no-one hurt me: they respected my oenological degree. However, I never took them a wine of my own. I was pretentious, my way! Was it as a reaction to this? I don’t know, but 1964 was my wild wine." Serge Hochar 1961 Chateau Musar  
"Slightly sludgy rust colour. Sweet, rich and thoroughly exotic. Old leather handbags? With some biscuit slurry (dunked, not-too-gingery ginger nuts?). Ethereal and lifted. Beautiful sweetness as it hits the palate then real freshness and super-clean, thoroughly mature aromas. Gloriously mature but not at all old. Does taste like a wine from a bygone age… Long and rich on the finish. Amazing to think that Cinsault can last this long. No variety imprints itself. Just a little chewiness on the end suggests a solid accompaniment would be wise." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20,  Drink: 1980-2028  1960 Chateau Musar  "Great depth for a wine of this age. Still very solid red with a touch of maturity on the rim. Looks about 15 years old. Classic nose: mature Bordeaux in character; signs of age and aromas reminiscent of very old cellars in France; lovely autumnal smells and meaty redcurrant fruit. Perfection on palate: full fruit and a great mouthfeel, with sweetness, length, great texture and perfect evolution; a little spicy and hot on the finish. Like an old Bordeaux but with better acidity, then a lovely aftertaste that conjures up the bonfire smells of autumn country walks. At its peak now. One of the best Musars I’ve ever tasted." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  "That summer I was invited to Château Langoa-Barton for an internship with Ronald Barton. What I saw, tasted and learned there affected me. If I had to describe myself, I was a civil engineer who made wine and who had started to discover the complexity of wine. I was trying to understand, to observe. I knew that nature will never repeat herself and for a while I thought I might change all the grape varieties that we were growing, but to plant grapes and make good wine takes 20 years, and what if I was wrong?  "However, I experimented a little with Grenache, Mourvèdre and Merlot. Looking back there were three stages to my winemaking. Between 1959 and 1964 I was making wines without an objective, with what we had at hand. From 1960 to 1970, having studied in Bordeaux and been influenced by Saint-Julien and Saint-Estèphe, I now realise that I was trying to produce wines in that style. Since 1970, I have been producing my wines, my way. Les vins du terroir Libanais." Serge Hochar 1959 Chateau Musar  "The oldest vintage presented by Serge Hochar in London in August 1979: fine, rich, mature; delicious bouquet; sweet, soft, fabulous. Twenty years later: orange-tinged; lovely old nose; still delicious. Last tasted at Musar in Beirut, Dec 1999." Michael Broadbent, Score: five stars Chateau Musar: the whites A blend of two local varieties, Merwah and Obaideh. Both grapes are partly fermented in oak
barriques (25% new each year) where they mature for a further nine months. They are then
blended, bottled and aged for a further six to eight years before release. 2012 Chateau Musar  "Fine fresh-looking lemon-yellow, but shows reassuring maturity. Dry honey and spices on the nose; a controlled richness of fruit on the palate that reminds me of Ygrec: complex, dry but with sweetness in its DNA before natural acidity lifts the exotic aftertaste. Lanolin smooth but not easy to assess (and not meant to be at this stage). Young white Musar that retains its mystery." Steven Spurrier, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2020-2035 2000 Chateau Musar  "Medium depth golden-yellow; no maturity showing. Still very closed on the nose, subdued, with a light floral nettle aroma. A bit astringent on the palate, but with mellow, soft textures and good acidity too. Needs time. By the next morning, the nose had come alive. The palate was beautiful, like a spicy Petite Suisse cheese, with great length. Nose continuing to develop on day three." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20 1992 Chateau Musar  
"Deep orange gold. On the nose, beginning to mature and open up. Good depth and concentration. Lovely flavours of old Cheddar and surprisingly high acidity. Very good length on the aftertaste. Will age for a long time. After an hour in the glass, the wine started to develop characteristic honey aromas that also revealed themselves on the palate alongside a beautiful vanilla and beeswax aroma. The next morning saw it develop a rich, sweet, cognac-like nose; bone dry, powerful yet elegant on the palate with pronounced alcohol and a long finish. By day three, the middle nose had developed even more." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18.5/20 "The weather was terrible. We had winter until June. Hail came. Biblical weather! I tried to make a Chateau Musar red, but two years later found it wasn’t up to standard, so we distilled it. The best grape that year was white Obaideh." Serge Hochar 1975 Chateau Musar  "Deep orangey gold; looks like a late harvest wine in colour. Nose; wow! Incredibly intense, concentrated, dry, very deep and austere: a combination of leather saddles, barnyard and old mahogany musky characters with mouthwatering citrus orange acidity. Astonishing complexity and intensity on the palate, with a syrupy texture. Massive, deep powerful, concentrated and long. Delicious flavours keep changing like a kaleidoscope in this mouth-filling but elegant wine. On day two it had aromas of sweet Australian ‘Tokay’ and a bite of cognac-like alcohol." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  1972 Chateau Musar  "Golden brass-yellow, very bright and alive. A superb nose with good depth and concentration, combining notes of apricot, brown sugar, cigar box and old charred wood. Unique. On the palate: a delicious, dry lean wine with a sweet finish and tremendous length. In perfect condition with a lovely lingering aftertaste. Very cerebral. Tastes of very old cellars. Day two saw an amazing development of the nose: very hard to describe but utterly riveting to the brain." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  [All extracts from 'Chateau Musar: The Story of a Wine Icon' have been published online with the kind permission of the Académie du Vin Library.] Read more Editorial 

The rise of Chateau Musar is legendary. We take a closer look at the vintages that have cemented the Lebanese estate's enviable reputation in the hearts and minds of critics and collectors alike.

Exploring the vintages that have made Chateau Musar such a fine wine icon – from 1972 to 2013 

Chateau Musar tasting notes year by year

I am too disorganised to call myself a collector, but I often find myself thinking about the multiple meanings of collecting. I have a room full of books left unread from one year to the next, whose mute reproach I feel every time I am in their presence. I have half a dozen radios, from Marco Zanuso and Richard Sapper’s folding Brionvega TS502 to a Danish-made Beolit 707 from Bang & Olufsen, with its slide rule tuning device. I have a manual typewriter.  Most of us accumulate such random clutter. These were never possessions that were primarily about being useful – the Brionvega and the Beolit have long since been supplanted by a bluetooth speaker and a smartphone. They represent my membership of the design tribe.  The books carry other layers of meaning. My five years at university are on one shelf. The traces of the eight years I have spent writing a just-completed biography of Boris Iofan – Josef Stalin’s preferred architect – are spelled out in the titles of the books on another shelf. The typewriter was inherited from my father and it serves to remind me of childhood. The closest that I come to having a collection that a serious collector might acknowledge is in my chairs: a Rover chair that Ron Arad salvaged from a car, a Gio Ponti Superlegera, an Eames Lounger, a Harry Bertoia, George Sowden’s Palace chair from the 1983 Memphis collection and a deconstructed armchair designed by Rei Kawakubo. On a larger or smaller scale, humans develop complex relationships with their possessions that can go from the professionalism of full-blown collecting, to the casual significance of a row of junk shop finds on a mantlepiece. They can tell us a lot about ourselves. Marina Warner’s guide to the house in Hampstead, now run as a museum, in which Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life, offers an arresting insight into the significance that collecting had for him. She describes the ranks of ancient bronze, ceramic and marble figures parading across the desk that Freud brought with him to London from Vienna where he no longer felt safe due to Nazi occupation in 1938. Certainly, they are beautiful, and mostly they are precious. Thanks to their association with Freud, even the few that have been established as 20th-century forgeries will have become valuable. Some are almost 4,000 years old and reflect the religious and political practices of the distant past. Others, such as Freud’s art deco cigar case, come less freighted with history. But as Warner says, “they were also tools of thought, the kitchen utensils of his imagination”.   The batterie de cuisine of psychoanalysis included Egyptian coffin masks from the Roman period, Chinese jade and gold brooches, Roman glass, a 2,500-year-old sphinx, sarcophagus lids, Babylonian cylinder seals and Egyptian heart scarabs, as well as a 19th-century neck rest from New Guinea, modern metal porcupines, and Balinese figures. The pieces in pride of place on his desk, placed in apparently random order, were his special favourites, a tiny fraction of his collection that had become permanent fixtures. From time to time, Freud made space for a few new acquisitions to get a look in. “A collection to which there are no new additions is really dead,” he told his biographer Ernest Jones. After a short interval, most of the new things would be moved into the glass-fronted cabinets positioned around his study, where they were placed in more organised groups than those standing on his desk. Greek sculptures went on a shelf together. A cluster of representations of the Egyptian god Horus were grouped on another.  In Freud’s lifetime, the collection was continually changing. Before his move to London, he toured Vienna’s antiquities dealers almost every week on the look-out for new finds. He was ready to exchange pieces for items he could not afford to buy, and was generous in gifting pieces to friends and pupils he thought would appreciate them. Freud also had no qualms about buying items that came on the market in questionable circumstances, in particular, from the unofficial excavations (sometime after 1906) at a Roman fort in Hungary.   Despite the important part it played in his life, Freud wrote very little about collecting. The nearest that he came to spelling out what drove his interest in fragments of ancient sculpture, was when he compared his own exploration of the unconscious minds of his patients to an archaeological excavation of an ancient city. “The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist, must uncover layer after layer of the patient’s psyche before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures.”  Freud was known to share his dining table with choice specimens to act as companions during a meal. “I must always have an object to love”, he confessed to his colleague and rival Carl Jung. When he was writing his book The Interpretation of Dreams in 1895, Freud spent the summer at Schloss Bellevue outside Vienna. He took a selection of what he called “my old grubby gods who take part in the works as paperweights for the manuscripts” with him.  Before Freud left Austria for England in 1938, his desk, his consulting room, and his study at Berggasse 19 were photographed by Edmund Engelman. Engelman’s 150 images helped Freud’s architect son Ernst to transpose the desk and its contents from a dark back room in a Viennese apartment to a sunlit Hampstead villa.  Like most collectors, Freud could never limit himself to a single field. Ronald Lauder the former MoMA chairman, for example, is known for the collection of Viennese modernism that forms the basis for his own museum, the Neue Galerie in New York. He also collects (in depth) in 15 other fields with little apparent connection between them. Lauder is fascinated by the work of the Japanese designer Shiro Kuramata. He has a collection of arms and armour going back to The Crusades, and another of World War Two memorabilia. He owns some of Egon Schiele’s finest works, as well as various 18th-century French artworks. Fellow collector Rolf Fehlbaum (head of Vitra) has one of the largest collections of modern chairs in the world, and gave Frank Gehry his first European commission to design a gallery for it, but he is equally fascinated by toy robots manufactured in Japan since 1937. He calls them tiny kinetic sculptures. Where possible, he acquires their original packaging too. Perhaps the best way to understand the psychology of collecting is to see it as a spectrum. At one end, it is about order and control. In a messy and uncontrollable universe, a collection offers at least a semblance of certainty. A collection of this kind is based on provenance, completeness and authenticity. An over-restored vintage Bugatti is less desirable to a collector than one in original condition.  Every previous owner, every detail of its making forms part of its record. A red Olivetti typewriter designed by Ettore Sottsass that once belonged to David Bowie was sold at Sotheby’s for US$65,000. You can buy one (that hasn’t been owned by Bowie) for US$750, which is still a lot of money for a piece of obsolete technology. Some collectors attempt to make patterns from the things that they acquire or, like jigsaw puzzlers, set out to complete a picture by locating every piece of a set. Some try to document the evolution of a species whether the subject of their interest is biscuit tins or the eggs of a particular type of bird. Some forms of collecting require the active engagement of the collector. Wildflowers need to be picked and dried quickly before they are pressed into a book. Butterfly collectors used macabre methods such as poison jars, or squeezing the thorax, to dispatch their prey without causing so much distress that they risk damaging delicate wings. At the other end of the spectrum, the accumulation of stuff by people who die alone in homes overwhelmed by stacks of ancient newspapers and tins of cat food, is a kind of sickness. It’s a condition that can overwhelm even the most celebrated of artists. In the last 17 years of his life, Andy Warhol filled a succession of cardboard boxes with a seemingly random accumulation of objects: taxi receipts, a vinyl Ramones single signed by Joey Ramone, a piece of an ancient, mummified foot, pastel-coloured corsets and a selection of metal dentures. Every time he had a full box, it was sealed and shipped off to storage in a warehouse in New Jersey. A typical box has 400 objects in it, some have as many as 1,200. Items in them include a piece of Caroline Kennedy’s wedding cake – Warhol seems to have been a regular guest at Kennedy weddings. He showed up 20 minutes after the wedding ceremony for Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger had started, in the company of Grace Jones. He was in black leather, and wearing two wigs; she had on a huge green fur hat.   Warhol’s boxes are a collection of the uncollectable and the uncontrollable, which, thanks to the resources of the Andy Warhol Foundation, has been tamed after six years of work by a dedicated group of archivists and cataloguers. The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh has aestheticised the cardboard boxes. They sit on back-lit shelves in the museum to suggest that this is not a random collection of trash that Warhol never looked at, but, in the view of the museum, is in fact a time-based art piece, comprising at least 500,000 objects that took 30 years to complete. It presents a considerably less impressive sight than British Regency period architect Sir John Soane’s museum. The architect of the Bank of England put as much effort into adapting his Lincoln’s Inn Fields house (and subsequently the two adjoining houses) to display his Hogarth paintings, a sarcophagus and his architectural models, as he did to accumulating the collection itself. The Nobel prize-winning Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, The Museum of Innocence is an eloquent exploration of the hoarding end of the collecting spectrum. What initially appears to be an account of a doomed love affair, quickly reveals itself as an exploration of the meaning of collecting. The story’s main protagonist Kemal starts acquiring things when his relationship with his lover Füsun is going well. When she drops an earring, he finds it and puts it to one side. As Füsun falls out of love with him, Kemal begins an increasingly desperate accumulation of objects that record their relationship. He picks up each of the cigarettes that she smokes. When she has stopped seeing him altogether, Kemal starts hanging around at her parents’ house and stealing pieces of cutlery that she might have used.  What makes Pamuk’s book particularly remarkable is that he acquired a house in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district that had belonged to a Greek merchant in the Ottoman era, and transformed it into a physical Museum of Innocence. It is, of course, very far from innocent; everything inside it is a lovingly created fiction. The first thing that you see once you get inside, is a wall covered with 4,213 cigarette ends, each of them carefully annotated in Pamuk’s neat handwriting, with imaginary details of the time and place they were smoked. The rest of the house is full of equally carefully fabricated objects from cosmetics to movie posters that reflect Pamuk’s vision of the modernising Turkey of the 1970s. “I think getting attached to objects happens in traumatic times and love is a trauma,” Pamuk once said. “Perhaps when they are in trouble, people hoard things.”  When Pamuk gave me a tour of his museum, he told me about meeting Warhol’s archivist, and expressed his reservations about the significance of the boxes in Pittsburgh. “Hoarding objects reaches the level of collecting only when there is a story that unites them,” he said. But that is a novelist criticising another, less narrative art form. While Freud’s desk in Hampstead was always useable, if overcrowded, the desk in fashion designer Paul Smith’s office in Covent Garden is completely overwhelmed with a snowdrift of collected objects that sweeps over an office chair, down onto the floor, and back up to the shelves that line every wall. There are stacks of books and magazines, cameras and mountains of vintage cycling jerseys. There is an i-Mac computer, a gift from Jony Ive that Smith has never used. Computers aren’t Smith’s thing. In any case, it’s too late now, short of purging half the contents of the room: there is no way to get near it. There are toy tin cars, collections of bottles from Moroccan markets, a pink bicycle and a lot of rabbits. “I once said in an interview that seeing a rabbit brings me luck, and they haven’t stopped pouring in ever since,” explains Smith. Collecting began, as did so many things in Smith’s career, with his early enthusiasm for cycling. Growing up in Nottingham in the 1950s, there was a newsagent which occasionally had a copy of L’Equipe, which would portray the heroes of the Tour de France in their yellow jerseys in colour on the cover, but in sepia inside. He bought the magazine, fascinated by the images, even if he couldn’t read it. “I can remember once saying, ‘I really like Jacques Anquetil’ to my father, which baffled him, since none of our family had ever been abroad. I saved my pocket money so that I could upgrade the gears on my bike from Simplex to Campagnolo. The box it came in was as important to me as the gear itself.”  What attracted Smith to the Campagnolo box, along with stamps and matchboxes which he has in large numbers – not just in his office but at his Nottingham HQ where he has an archivist trying to make sense of it all – is the way that designers can say so much in such a tiny space. He showed me a Japanese book of matches produced for a Tokyo nightclub in the 1970s. “It so clearly says it’s ‘contemporary’. You can hear the jazz already.”  Despite the huge assortment of assembled objects, Smith is reluctant to describe himself as a collector. “I just have a large quantity of the same things,” he says, matter of factly. “In my head, a collector is someone who selects an item or a subject. They collect them because they know a lot about them. Maybe I have a little knowledge about cycling jerseys.  In the early 1980s, on my first trips to Japan and India, I just got a bit carried away. I bought lots of Japanese furniture. In India, for some reason, I bought 15 wardrobes, and a piece of furniture that doubled as a staircase with drawers.” Smith had them all sent home on the Trans-Siberian Express.  He suggests that his is a collection that has found him. “Things collect me,” he says. “For some reason I started to be sent things, and they still keep coming.” There is an individual who regularly sends Smith artefacts that come unwrapped but covered in postage stamps. Others send him letters, toys, books and even ancient packets of razor blades. One visitor took careful photographs of his office, and later sent him a precisely detailed model of his office, complete with its chaotic contents. Smith’s London home, where he lives with his wife Pauline, is much calmer. “The house is hers. I do have one room for my stuff, but it’s mostly at the office that I get to look at things.” In 1996, patron of the arts and barrister Jill Ritblat gave the V&A Museum the largest single donation of clothes in its history, more than 1,000 items. There are ski outfits in postmodern pastel shades from the 1980s, and challenging Japanese experiments from Yohji Yamamoto and Issey Miyake, as well as couture from Dior and Saint Laurent. There is work by Alexander McQueen, Biba, Mary Quant, and Christian Lacroix, Emanuel Ungaro and Victor Edelstein, and an evening outfit produced by a dressmaker based on an idea of Ritblat’s own design.  The early days of British fashion from the 1960s are represented by Foale and Tuffin, and Zandra Rhodes, and from the 1980s by Margaret Howell and Katharine Hamnett. There is tailoring from Tommy Nutter and work by Giorgio Armani. It is by no means a complete account of contemporary fashion, but it is certainly extensive, and like the personal wardrobe that it is, combines some very special pieces made for family occasions, with more everyday wear. The connecting thread of Ritblat’s collection is Ritblat herself. These were all pieces that she had bought to wear. They were not chosen like stamps, or old masters, or celadon vases to make a self-conscious collection, but were the result of a continuing sequence of choices over time. Taken together they are a reflection of her life as an English woman of a certain background, at a particular time in the country’s history. “I never saw it as a collection, it was more like my diary, though I have never had time to write a diary. Each piece brings back memories of when I wore it,” says Ritblat. She made her first donation to the V&A at the end of 1996, but kept back the things that she wanted to be able to go on using, and they formed the core of a donation to the Design Museum of another 400 items in 2013. Ritblat is ambivalent about fashion. As a child she was somewhat self-conscious about being dressed by her mother, who had studied fashion herself. She was relieved to be able to assume the camouflage of the complex uniform rituals of an English public school for girls in the 1950s. “I loved my school uniform at Roedean; we were expected to change our clothes four times a day, as chic as anything. Scratchy afternoon dresses, regulation school loafers, very nice blazers and pleated skirts.” As a student barrister, she found herself adopting the formal uniform of the legal profession, but then as a married woman began to build a wardrobe that reflected the life that she was leading. Later, when she was making her own choices, she was early to discover Miuccia Prada. “What you pick out is based on whether it suits you and on the zeitgeist,” she explains. Smith, Heseltine and Ritblat represent three very different approaches to collecting. For Smith, the unruly mountain of things in his office, is, like the collection on Sigmund Freud’s desk, part of the tools of his imagination, a source of imagery and ideas for his work as a designer. It’s also a means of establishing his personality. Heseltine’s garden is an investment of time, resources and creativity in the remaking of a place that speaks to the future using living organisms that will outlive us all. Ritblat’s clothes are a record of the full life of an individual. All of these collections provide insights into unique people, their lives and times. In their different ways all three reflect on the nature of collecting, and its ability to be a creative activity in itself. In a world in which technology threatens to abolish the material world altogether, objects have not lost their allure. Their physical condition marks the passing of time in ways that pixels and code cannot do. Collecting is the means all of us have to create histories of our times, and even more, of ourselves. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two. 

In order to explore the mindset of the collector, Deyan Sudjic shines a light on the collected objects of Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol, and speaks to three British collectors to better understand what it is that makes collecting such a vital part of the human experience.

Exploring the mindset of the collector and why the act is a vital part of the human experience, with a focus on Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

Kurt Orban Cellars

United States

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