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  

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

Matthew Fioretti non è esattamente il tipo che piace a tutti. L’uomo al timone di Cerbaiona non usa mezzi termini – e ha opinioni ben definite su, beh, praticamente tutto, sospetto. Ma è anche incrollabilmente onesto, con un approccio schietto che risulta piacevolmente rinfrescante – e piuttosto insolito nel mondo del vino di pregio. Ha una visione e una storia da raccontare, ma non è una narrazione costruita da un’agenzia di PR; è la sua. 
 Fioretti è da tempo coinvolto nel mondo del vino, avendo gestito un’attività d’importazione negli Stati Uniti (Summa Vitis), focalizzata principalmente sui vini italiani. Si è trasferito in Italia nel 2004 e ha chiuso l’operazione Summa Vitis nel 2009, puntando a produrre vino in prima persona. Dopo alcuni tentativi infruttuosi, ha saputo che Diego Molinari – storico proprietario di Cerbaiona – stava cercando di ritirarsi. Insieme a un gruppo di investitori (il più importante dei quali è il collezionista americano Gary Rieschel), Fioretti ha acquistato la proprietà nel 2015, per una cifra che si dice si aggiri intorno ai 5,8 milioni di euro. 
 Molinari era ormai negli ottant’anni e, sebbene il sito fosse eccezionale, la proprietà era in cattive condizioni e necessitava di interventi. Come riportato qualche anno fa, Fioretti ha intrapreso subito un progetto radicale di restauro della tenuta e ha inaspettatamente deciso di declassare le annate 2014 e 2015 a Rosso di Montalcino, rilasciando solo nel 2021 il primo Brunello dell’era Fioretti, con l’annata 2016 – la prima interamente realizzata dal nuovo team. Ora, quasi un decennio dopo, Fioretti sta iniziando a realizzare la sua visione per la tenuta – come abbiamo scoperto durante una visita all’inizio di quest’anno, affrontando problemi che “non sono facili da risolvere”. La sfida, spiega, è stata quella di evolversi da “artigiano” a “atelier”. Sotto Molinari, la proprietà aveva acquisito una reputazione leggendaria, ma l’operazione era rudimentale – una tradizionale impresa familiare che faceva le cose come si erano sempre fatte. Fioretti vuole portare la tenuta nell’era moderna, elevando il terroir con precisione tecnica per creare vini che continuino l’eredità di Cerbaiona. È, dice, “una transizione che non mi aspettavo di fare”, ma che considera essenziale per salvaguardare il futuro di Cerbaiona. 
 La distinzione tra artigiano e atelier è sottile – ma si riduce a un’enfasi sull’artigianato più che sull’arte, con un impegno verso la coerenza, per cui precisione e igiene in cantina sono fondamentali, così come un elevato livello di conoscenza tecnica. Ammette di aver immaginato un approccio più “hands-off” in cantina, dopo aver importato molti vini naturali nella sua precedente carriera, ma ha rapidamente capito che la vinificazione di alto livello è piena di “compromessi necessari” (scendendo in dettagli come il problema della quercetina). Come mestiere, la vinificazione non può essere soggetta ai “capricci del produttore”, come suggerisce sia tipico dell’approccio artigianale. “Preferisco lavorare in modo più meticoloso,” spiega. 
 L’americano parla a ritmo serrato, passando da TS Eliot e il concetto di “critico puro” ad Albertolli e al neoclassicismo, in mezzo a dettagli tecnici su chiarifiche e filtrazioni. La tenuta è chiusa ai visitatori, deliberatamente, per evitare distrazioni da ciò su cui Fioretti vuole concentrarsi – fare vino. Mentre ci guida rapidamente attraverso la cantina, con la testa che ci gira cercando di assorbire ogni dettaglio, ci illustra esattamente come sta portando una nuova esattezza all’operazione. I vigneti sono stati tutti ripiantati e un oliveto in forte pendenza è stato sostituito da viti, con portinnesti e cloni selezionati provenienti dal vivaio Guillaume in Francia, per garantire la migliore materia prima possibile. Un tempo considerato troppo impegnativo da coltivare, Fioretti è convinto che l’ex oliveto possa essere il miglior sito della proprietà. Le vecchie stalle e il granaio che fungevano da cantina e deposito sono stati accuratamente ristrutturati, con l’installazione di impianti idrici e di drenaggio in tutto l’edificio, e l’aggiornamento di tutte le attrezzature. Elemento importante, Fioretti ha aggiunto un laboratorio interno completo – qualcosa di estremamente raro per una tenuta di queste dimensioni, tanto più in Italia, dove l’approccio high-tech non è affatto la norma. 
 L’uva ora viene tutta raffreddata dopo la vendemmia, diraspata e sottoposta a macerazione a freddo, utilizzando gas inerte per proteggere il mosto. Sebbene per le sue prime cinque annate Fioretti avesse utilizzato tini di legno verticali per la fermentazione, è passato all’acciaio inox per una migliore igiene e controllo della temperatura (preferendo un massimo di 26°C), oltre a poter programmare automaticamente rimontaggi e follature. Ha iniziato a co-inoculare per la fermentazione primaria e malolattica, così che i vini vadano in botte molto puliti – e possano essere solforati immediatamente. 
 Si tratta di aggiustamenti, modernizzazioni minori, ma uno dei cambiamenti più significativi che Fioretti sta apportando riguarda il tempo che il vino trascorre nel legno. Mentre Molinari prediligeva oltre quattro anni in tonneaux da 500 litri, Fioretti ha iniziato gradualmente a imbottigliare prima e utilizza una combinazione di barrique da 350 litri e botti da 15 ettolitri. “Anche due anni [il minimo imposto dal disciplinare] nel legno sono troppi,” afferma – prima di riconoscere subito che questa opinione è tutt’altro che accettata, e che legalmente non può ridurla ulteriormente. I vari consorzi forse non la apprezzano, ma è una visione sempre più comune tra i giovani produttori in Italia, frustrati dai requisiti minimi di affinamento in rovere e dal loro contrasto con i vini che i consumatori di oggi vogliono bere. Come dice Fioretti, tuttavia, “La nozione di legno è molto delicata.” E anche se preferirebbe poter affinare il vino in altri contenitori durante i primi due anni di vita, riconosce che l’élevage in rovere ha un impatto benefico sulla chimica del vino – aiutando la stabilità. Con un vino così amato, potrebbe sembrare controverso cambiare qualsiasi cosa – specialmente il modo in cui viene prodotto, ma questo non ha fermato Fioretti. Guardando alle vecchie annate della tenuta, persino alla leggendaria 2010 da 100 punti, talvolta rimane deluso, ritenendo che il potenziale sia molto più alto. Parte del suo piano per riflettere quel potenziale è imbottigliare prima, permettendo al frutto di emergere e dare al vino un miglior equilibrio – qualcosa che ritiene fondamentale per il potenziale di invecchiamento. È anche attento a mantenere il grado alcolico moderato, con un massimo di 14 o 14,2%, anche negli anni più caldi. E, cosa più importante, dice, un buon vino deve essere delizioso. Dopo aver assaggiato le annate 2019 e 2021 con Fioretti – i risultati, finora, lo sono davvero. C’è una vivacità e una purezza che li rendono irresistibili, senza sacrificare la struttura che permetterà a questi vini di durare nel tempo. 
 Accanto a Cerbaiona, Fioretti ha anche creato l’etichetta M.L. Fioretti, che descrive come “parte garagiste, parte petit château”. Era desideroso di esplorare vitigni autoctoni, che “fanno parte della famiglia – ma non sono tutti purosangue”, così come parcelle di varietà bordolesi (uve di pedigree indiscutibile) – purché piantate nel posto giusto. Il Casaglia Colorino è brillante e speziato, mentre il San Vito (purtroppo l’ultima annata è la 2021) è un Merlot meravigliosamente ricco e vibrante. Sono vini affascinanti che permettono a Fioretti di sperimentare di più – al di fuori dei vincoli della denominazione Brunello di Montalcino. 
 In modo controverso, Fioretti ha dichiarato Cerbaiona una “No Scores Zone”, riecheggiando il sentimento di Teobaldo Cappellano secondo cui i punteggi numerici sono divisivi, nella migliore delle ipotesi – e non rendono giustizia all’arte della vinificazione. Nelle sue note sull’annata 2018, Fioretti ha scritto: “Questa è un’altra annata per il conoscitore, il vero amante del vino e della vite. Pazienza se il ‘collezionista’ ne resterà privo.” Parole che potrebbero far storcere il naso a qualcuno, ma la motivazione è chiara: una passione sincera per il vino. È qualcosa che traspare chiaramente nella nostra conversazione – e nei vini che sta producendo. Non troverete valutazioni online per le nuove annate di Cerbaiona, ma una cosa è certa: li vorrete nella vostra cantina. 
 Esplora tutte le attuali offerte di Cerbaiona e M.L. Fioretti, o leggi di più sull’Italia

Finora non avete visto recensioni di Cerbaiona sotto la guida di Matthew Fioretti. Con l’arrivo dei primi punteggi delle ultime uscite, è utile considerarli nel giusto contesto: il focus resta su artigianalità e precisione tecnica. Nel 2024 abbiamo parlato con l’enologo alla guida del cambiamento.

It’s all change at the cult Brunello di Montalcino winery Cerbaiona since Matthew Fioretti took over in 2015. We sat down with him to find out more.

Change at Cerbaiona – Matthew Fioretti

Cambio a Cerbaiona: Matteo Fioretti

Arvine: Switzerland’s hidden treasure Berry colour: white
 Arvine, pearl of the Alps The ultimate Swiss grape variety, Arvine can produce captivating, complex wines of international stature, from dry to sweet. It is native to the Valais, southern Switzerland, where it was mentioned for the first time in 1602. Since the late 19th century, it has often been called Petite Arvine to distinguish it from Grosse Arvine, a completely different and rare local variety. I have not so far been able to uncover Arvine’s parents by DNA testing. It is often said that Arvine was introduced to Switzerland by the Romans. Its name allegedly derived from helvola, a grape variety mentioned by Cato the Elder. I refute this claim for two very simple reasons: firstly, it is impossible to establish botanical identity between the vague descriptions of Latin authors and modern varieties, and secondly, helvola grapes were black-berried. I think instead that its name comes from the local dialect arvena, itself probably derived from the Latin advena, meaning ‘just arrived’. This name could have been given to the variety shortly after its birth (or arrival?) in the Valais. It is a late-ripening variety, with small berries and compact, small bunches. It is quite productive, but prone to wind damage and susceptible to fungal diseases. Arvine covers 218 hectares (539 acres), almost exclusively in the Valais, representing only 1.48% of the country’s vine-bearing area. It produces complex, lively wines that can age well, with aromas of citrus and rhubarb, and a firm structure, as well as a characteristic salinity on the finish. Champions of Arvine In the Valais, several outstanding producers make excellent varietal Arvine wines. For dry wines, I would recommend Cave Benoît Dorsaz in Fully, Valentina Andrei in Saillon, Didier Joris in Chamoson, Cave de l’Orpailleur in Uvrier and Domaine des Muses in Granges, among many others. For the sweet wines, produced from grapes that are naturally left to shrivel on the vine, the undisputed champion is Marie-Thérèse Chappaz in Fully. From her biodynamic vineyards, this icon of Swiss winegrowers crafts some of the best sweet wines in the world, especially from Arvine. Her Petite Arvine Grain Noble is highly sought after, and her otherworldly Arvine Grain par Grain, made exclusively from botrytised berries harvested by hand, berry by berry, is almost impossible to find. Arvine has rarely been planted outside Switzerland. In Italy, it was introduced to the neighbouring Aosta Valley in 1970. In 1992, Angelo Gaja, one of Italy’s most famous wine producers, planted 0.36 hectares in Serralunga (Piedmonte). The result was a disaster, in his words, mainly because of problems with coulure and wind damage. In France, some vine parcels exist in the Languedoc and in the Rhône Valley, where charismatic winemaker Michel Chapoutier planted half a hectare in Tain-l’Hermitage, but he was not convinced by the results and has now abandoned the experiment. Outside Europe, it is produced only in Mendocino, California, by one adventurous producer, Ernest Vineyards, which makes a varietal wine under the Edaphos label.

Dr José Vouillamoz
 
Areni: Armenia’s national treasure Berry colour: BLACK 
History in a bottle Areni is the most important red variety in Armenia. It most likely comes from the village of Areni in Vayots Dzor, at the southeastern end of the county, where the world’s oldest cellar (4000 BC) was discovered in a cave in 2011. Interestingly, the grape remains found at the bottom of the old karas (the traditional clay jars) buried in the cave look very similar to the pips of the modern Areni variety. DNA profiling has failed to identify Areni’s parents, making it an orphan Armenian variety, but it has shown that at least two distinct varieties share the name Areni: Areni Sev (sev means black), the ‘true’ one that has historically been grown in Vayots Dzor, and Areni Seyrak (seyrak means loose, referring to the bunches), sporadically found among Areni Sev vines in old mixed vineyards. Areni Sev is a late-ripening variety with oblong, sometimes ovate, thick-skinned berries. The bunches are medium-sized and dense. It shows good resistance to frost, which means it can be cultivated at high elevations (up to 1,600 metres in Armenia). It is moderately resistant to powdery mildew and susceptible to downy mildew. Areni is exclusively cultivated in Armenia, where it has traditionally been used to make high-quality, age-worthy wines with complex aromas of violets, wisteria, cherries and blackberries, silky tannins and refreshing acidity. Champions of Areni After my first visit to Areni village in 2003, and despite the rudimentary winemaking at the only local winery (Areni Winery, now Hin Winery), I was convinced that Areni was among the most promising grape varieties in the world. In 2012, I met Zorik Gharibian in Izmir (Turkey) at the European Wine Bloggers’ Conference. I was much impressed by his 2010 Karasi Areni Noir, Zorah Wines’ very first vintage after 10 years of trial and error. We became friends and I selfishly helped him find an importer in Switzerland, in order to secure my own supply of his wines, including the mind-blowing high-end cuvée Yeraz. Since then, Zorik and his wife Yeraz have relentlessly promoted Armenian wines all over the world, and Zorah Wines has become one of Armenia’s most respected flagships. Their wines, sourced from ungrafted vineyards between 1,300 and 1,600 metres altitude are partly made in karas, traditional clay jars partly buried underground, ‘cousins’ of the Georgian qvevri. The sad thing is that Armenian-born Eduardo Eurnekian, one of the wealthiest people in Argentina and owner of several airports, including that of Yerevan in Armenia, has founded a winery named Karas Wines, despite not using any karas in the winemaking process. In 2018, judges granted him the exclusive usage of the name Karas, disregarding 6,000 years of shared tradition. Zorik Gharibian has been determinedly fighting against this unfair judgement and he plans to appeal to the country’s Supreme Court. I strongly support him. And I predict that Armenia may well be the ‘next big thing’ in the wine world. Dr José Vouillamoz
 Kydonitsa: Rebirth of an extremely rare grape variety Berry colour: WHITE Rescued in the nick of time Kydonitsa is a survivor, an almost forgotten variety from Lakonía (Laconia) in the southern Pelopónnisos (Peloponnese) in Greece. According to local belief, it was widely cultivated in the medieval period when Lakonía formed part of the Byzantine Empire. It then flourished under brief periods of Venetian rule, before it was threatened with extinction under Ottoman rule, as a result of the bans on alcohol consumption. It had almost disappeared when it was saved from extinction by Yiannis Vatistas and Yorgos Tsimbidi (Monemvasia Winery) in the late 1990s. DNA profiling has not revealed any match or parentage with any other variety, making it a Greek orphan. The medium-sized bunches are relatively loose and elongated. The berries are small and turn golden yellow when ripe. In Greek, the word kυδωνίτσα (kydonitsa) means ‘little quince’, referring to the aroma of both the berry and the wine. The wine also shows notes of lemon, grapefruit, bergamot and mirabelle plum, as well as aromatic herbs. It is elegant, creamy, with crisp acidity and a slightly bitter, orange-peel finish, with a hint of iodine. Kydonitsa is grown exclusively in Lakonía, on the east coast of the Pelopónnisos, near the island of Monemvasia. Champions of Kydonitsa Yorgos Tsimbidi is a visionary. In 1997, while most wineries in the Pelopónnisos were busy planting so-called international grape varieties, he founded Monemvasia Winery in order to revive the historical Malvasia wine in its birthplace. The name Malvasia has been given to a wide range of genetically distinct white-, pink-, grey- and black-skinned varieties which are all particularly well suited to the production of sweet wines. The name is purported to be a corruption of Monemvasia, which means ‘single entrance’ and is the name of a small port situated on a rocky spur in Lakonía. It has been famous since ancient times for its sweet wine made from sun-dried grapes. The earliest mention of the sweet wines of Monemvasia dates back to 1214 in Éfesos (Ephesus, today in Turkey), and in 1278 the Venetians were already importing vinum de Malvasias. The exact identities of the grape varieties making up this sweet wine are still unknown, but Kydonitsa and the appropriately named Monemvasia were probably part of the blend. This is what drove Yorgos Tsimbidi to put all his time and energy into rescuing them, carrying out countless on-farm trials since 1997. He now produces dry varietal wines, as well as the sweet ‘Monemvasia – Malvasia’, a blend of Monemvasia, Kydonitsa, Assyrtiko and Asproudi grapes, dried for approximately two weeks under the sun, in order to revive the ancient tradition. Today, Yorgos runs the winery with his wife Elli and their daughters Marialena, Anastasia and Artemis. I was able to taste a mini-vertical of Kydonitsa during my visit in 2016, which convinced me of the exceptional quality and ageing potential of this resurrected variety. And the rest of the portfolio convinced me that Monemvasia Winery is one of the best in mainland Greece. Dr José Vouillamoz

 Baga: Northern Portuguese red with a simple name and a complex character Berry colour: black 
The rehabilitation of Baga The meaning of Baga may be simple (berry) but the variety is far from it. When it is good, it is breathtakingly beautiful and capable of long ageing. When it is abused, it is acid, mean and lean, with tough tannins. It requires commitment from growers and wine lovers. While it may have originated in Portugal's Dão region, it has found its home in neighbouring Bairrada, where it is the dominant red variety. In 2017 there were 8,258 hectares (20,406 acres), 4% of Portugal’s vineyard area. It’s found mainly in Bairrada but also in Dão, although there it is not authorised in DOP wines. Baga vines are also planted, though far less numerously, in Lisboa, the Tejo and the Douro. The cool, wet, Atlantic-influenced climate of Bairrada is particularly inconvenient for a late-ripening variety with thin skins and prone to botrytis. If its vigour and productivity are not controlled by careful viticulture or the natural balance achieved by older vines in poor soils, there is increased risk of under-ripeness or rot when the September rains arrive. Despite all this, those whose hearts have been captured by the variety have shown it to be as bewitching as Pinot Noir, and as hauntingly complex and long-lived as Nebbiolo. Champions of Baga The variety allows itself to be made in many styles, influenced strongly by the soil (limestone-clay and granite are both prized), the age of the vines and, not least, by the personalities of the winegrowers and their choices in the winery. The most restlessly experimental and determined is Luís Pato, who was prominent among a small group of quality-minded winegrowers who dragged Baga into the spotlight for fine wine after it had languished for so long as a source of bulk reds churned out by the state-controlled co-ops and négociants for much of the 20th century. While there are today, thankfully, too many good winegrowers to mention by name, the Baga Friends display the variety’s wonderful diversity: from the powerful styles aged in oak that become increasingly complex and perfumed with age that are produced by, for example, Luís Pato, Mário Sérgio Alves Nuno at Quinta das Bageiras, François Chasans at Quinta da Vacariça and Paulo Sousa at Sidónio de Sousa; to the lightly stepping, red-fruited, fresh and scented beauties of Filipa Pato and Douro incomer Dirk Niepoort at Quinta de Baixo. Baga can also make very good sparkling wines. Bussaco Palace Hotel has an astonishing collection of very old vintages, blending Baga from Bairrada with Touriga Nacional from Dão. Julia Harding MW 
Kisi: Recently resurrected and scented Georgian white Berry colour: WHITE The resurrection of Kisi Maybe it’s because thin-skinned Kisi is difficult to grow and sensitive to the climate that it was on the verge of extinction at the end of the 20th century, when David Maisuradze made a wine that put the variety firmly back in the spotlight. The highly respected winemaker, then with Telavi Wine Cellar, managed to find just four tonnes of the variety to make a wine, fermented in a stainless-steel tank, that stunned wine lovers with its pure, floral aromas and deep fruit flavours of citrus and pear, richly fruited but dry. This variety didn’t stand much chance in the Soviet era when only a very limited number of varieties were permitted in the interests of volume rather than quality. Kisi was not among them and it survived in family vineyards in just three villages in its homeland of Kakheti, in the Alazani Valley in eastern Georgia in the shadow of the Caucasus Mountains: mainly in Maghraani but also in Argokhi and Pichkhovani. There are currently about 500 hectares (1,235 acres) of Kisi in Georgia, all still in this region. There is currently no DNA evidence to reveal the variety’s parentage but it is not related to Mtsvane Kakhuri or Rkatsiteli, the latter a Soviet favourite. Champions of Kisi In Georgia, ‘classic’ white wines are made in a way familiar to most 21st-century wine drinkers – fermented without the skins, typically in temperature-controlled tanks, occasionally fermented or aged in oak. By contrast, so-called qvevri white wines, sometimes referred to as amber wines because of their typically deep colour, are those vinified in traditional Georgian qvevri, large clay vessels ranging from 700 to 2,000 litres, buried underground so that just the opening is visible. The lightly crushed whole berries, including the skins and seeds, and sometimes even the stems, are fermented together in a qvevri, thus producing a wine with firm, even chewy, tannic texture and a wonderful panoply of flavours derived both from the variety and the winemaking, often ranging from apricots to chamomile. Soon after the appearance of Maisuradze’s revelatory wine, Gogi Dakishvili, a master of these qvevri wines, was able to buy a small amount of Kisi and make a wine in this second style. The cat was out of the bag and growers, including Dakishvili, started to replant when they saw the potential.  Kisi made under both the Dakishvili Family and the Orgo labels reveal all the textural and aromatic complexity of scented varieties made in this way. They are utterly pure, full-bodied wines with intense aromas and flavours that have sufficient structure to be very versatile with food. Qvevri winemaking was recognised as a UNESCO intangible heritage in 2013. While this is the style I particularly enjoy, for anyone who is not a fan of amber wines, there are fine examples that reveal even more of Kisi’s aromatic potential and deep but fresh fruit intensity. These include those from Winiveria and Khareba, and a particularly good off-dry style from Koncho & Co. One of the finest, in this case with light oak influence, is made by Danieli Winery, from vines near Argokhi, one of the three villages which were key to Kisi’s renaissance. Julia Harding MW
 This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One.  Illustration by Sarah Jane Humphrey.

Wine Grapes co-authors, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz, champion five lesser-known grape varieties from the book – and the winemakers that are using them to notable effect.

Wine Grapes co-authors Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz champion five lesser-known grape varieties – and the winemakers using them to notable effect

FONDATA: Raisins d'être

Raisins d'être

 When the UK entered the first coronavirus lockdown in March 2020, there was a sense that the end of long, thoughtful, funny and serious conversations was dangerously close. Over a Zoom call, sat at our respective kitchen tables, F+R’s Patrick O’Connor, creative director Alan Aboud and myself, a journalist and editor, started to wonder if we could work together in some way to explore topics usually explored at the communal tables that were sadly empty.  The first project we worked on together marked the 90th birthday of iconic Lebanese winemaker Chateau Musar and the simultaneous publishing of a book celebrating the winery by Académie du Vin Library. Working together with music consultant Leo Walton, we conceived a package of content for FINE+RARE’s website to coincide with F+R’s exclusive release of various mixed cases of Chateau Musar vintages going back to the 1960s.  As part of the content package, I wrote three articles for the F+R website, and worked with Leo to create four Spotify playlists featuring Lebanese music from the relevant decades of the Musar vintages being released: the 1960s, 1970s, 2000s and 2010s. Leo and I also suggested the potential to add more cultural context to both the wine and our selection of music by producing a podcast in which we interviewed a Lebanese musician about musical culture and heritage in the region. We explored various ideas before interviewing two members of the Beirut Groove Collective – a group of DJs with a reputation for unearthing records from the 1960s, 70s and 80s and giving them a new audience. We asked the DJs to give us the low down on their legendary all-night vinyl-only parties in Lebanon’s capital, and about Beirut’s surprisingly vibrant music scene throughout the Civil War (1975-1990). We also asked Ernesto about his new reissue project with BBE Records and the first release in the series: Ihsan Al-Munzer’s 1979 synth-led Belly Dance Disco album.  This idea – of creating original editorial content that proactively ventured into topics in and adjacent to the worlds of fine wine and spirits in order to enrich the FINE+RARE experience – immediately appealed to all involved. Between us, we started to flesh out the idea for a new content platform that could explore and commission stories that took advantage of our combined knowledge, skillsets and networks, plus FINE+RARE’s access to the best producers and most interesting personalities driving quality in the worlds of fine wine and exceptional spirits.  While the concept was always for FONDATA to be a multi-media platform whereby we would produce content in whatever medium seemed most relevant to a given subject matter – podcast, video, blog or print – we focused our initial efforts on producing a large-format, print journal. It would provide a brilliant canvas for us to commission the best writers, photographers and illustrators, and it would also be the perfect format to function as a physical mission statement, something we could send to F+R customers. Doing this in 2020, when we were in lockdown, seemed like a great way to maintain connection and morale in an unprecedented moment in living memory. We formed a small ‘bubble’ to sit, appropriately distanced, in Patrick’s back garden in Hackney to brainstorm the idea and start mapping out what stories we could potentially commission for our first FONDATA journal. For the inaugural issue, one story in particular was pivotal to realising our ambition: commissioning American essayist, author and regular contributor to The New Yorker, Adam Gopnik to write a piece for us. In his book, Paris to the Moon (Quercus, 2000), Gopnik likens Jean-Philippe Derenne’s L’Amateur de Cuisine book (Éditions Stock, 1996) to “a medieval almanac, offering a timeless, secure, benevolent universe of food.” In our initial conversations, we’d identified Wine Grapes, A complete guide to 1,368 vine varieties, including their origins and flavours (Allen Lane, 2012) – the weighty 1,240-page tome authored by Jancis Robinson MW, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz – as a book we’d love to celebrate in some way. We wondered if Gopnik would be as enamoured with the book as much as Derenne’s and if he’d write something for us about it and its value to wine lovers and gastronomes alike. We duly sent him a copy of Wine Grapes (clothbound and slipcased) and a note introducing ourselves and outlining FONDATA’s ambition. He loved the book and the idea for the piece, so we contacted Jancis to ask if she would be happy to be interviewed by Adam. It turned out they were both fans of each other’s work. Our first feature was underway. But how would we present the piece? What would FONDATA look like? Alan asked Jancis if she would agree to be our cover star for our first issue. When she agreed, we had to work out how to bring the inaugural cover to life. “Gavin Bond popped into my head,” Alan, recalls, of the task at hand, “as he has become the ‘go-to’ photographer for celebrity portraits, especially in the film and fashion business. I felt Jancis deserved that status and reverence. Of course, the wine world reveres her, but no wine journal seems to be able to look beyond a shoot involving wine bottles and grapes.”   With Gavin Bond on board, the next step was to think about the shoot itself. “We enlisted the help of a wonderful floral design company, Studio Lupine,” Alan explains of his art direction. “We briefed Raggie Furuseth, the designer, to create a wildly original space in which Jancis could be photographed. The resulting portrait is a stunning and sensitive study of one of the world’s most learned and charming wine writers in her prime.” Another crucial part of our first issue planning was around design concepting and setting out our production values. As a kind of guiding light, Alan and I had adopted a mantra: “This isn’t a magazine”, as FONDATA would have none of the concerns of a regular magazine. We didn’t want to print on flimsy paper. We didn’t want to create something predictable or ephemeral, but rather an object that felt it had more permanence, more lasting value. FONDATA, we were all very clear, would strive from the outset to be a joyous, opulent celebration of cerebral, long-form editorial content.  Alan began working with his studio designer, Haley Austin, exploring different oversized formats, experimenting with page layouts and type treatments to realise his vision for how FONDATA would look. At the same time, he commissioned Rick Banks of Foundry 37 to create a bespoke logotype for FONDATA’s masthead based on his F37 Caslon typeface. We also adopted F37 as our core typeface for body copy, and to use at large scale for feature headlines and beautiful, full-page pull quotes.  In terms of our editorial direction, we were keen from the offset to commission editorial that explored evergreen (and ever-fascinating) topics. What does it mean to collect? How has the pandemic affected our lifestyles, and how much of that is positive? How do ideas germinate, and how does genius emerge? How important is history and tradition to innovation and revolution? What are the most significant drivers and the biggest hurdles for excellence? Once the Gopnik feature was in the proverbial bag, we set to work commissioning an issue full of features that we hoped would appeal to a wine-loving audience but not feel like we were trying to sell them something.  We approached Jancis Robinson’s co-authors of Wine Grapes, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz, to call out five relatively obscure grape varieties from around the world to champion them and the producers making remarkable wines with them. We also commissioned botanical artist Sarah Jane Humphrey to illustrate each variety.  We asked the former director of London’s Design Museum, Deyan Sudjic OBE, to contemplate the history of social spaces. To accompany his feature, we asked him to approach a number of highly regarded architects and interior designers to illustrate their visions of social spaces of the near future. As a result, we soon added John Pawson, AB Rogers, Paloma Strelitz, and Jon Marshall to our list of contributors. We tasked journalist and author Dylan Jones OBE with critiquing wine’s critical landscape, connecting him with some of the world’s leading wine writers and critics to discover how the pandemic had reshaped their work lives and lifestyles.  Author and historian (and one of the most elegantly dressed gentlemen about town) Nicholas Foulkes very literally wrote the book on cigars. His son, Max, is a Master of Havana and works at Davidoff in Mayfair. And it was Nicholas’ father-in-law who first introduced him to the pleasures of cigar smoking. Especially for our first issue, Nicholas pondered the joy of his relationship with his sons and the idea of passing cultural knowledge and enthusiasms from one generation to the next. We commissioned Julian Broad to shoot a portrait of Nicholas with his sons.  I spent time talking with restaurateur-turned winegrower Alex Xu and wrote a piece about how he’d come to completely reshape his future by planting three hectares of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay vines in the foothills of the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain in China’s most idyllic province. I also interviewed Waterford distillery owner Mark Reynier to find out how (and why) he’s bringing notions of terroir, traceability and transparency to the fore in the world of single malt whisky.   Meanwhile, British chef and food writer Thom Eagle contemplated the value of spending more, rather than less, time in the kitchen, and artist Stewart Walton illustrated the piece.  We commissioned educator and business guru Germana Di Falco to interview fashion designer Brunello Cucinelli about his philosophy to business and life itself, and we engaged British-born, LA-based writer and critic Geoff Dyer to chart the slow journey towards appreciation of and reverence for well-chosen wine. The issue signs off with a Letter from California penned by winemaker Maya Dalla Valle, who reflects on her 11-year journey to become the winemaker at her family’s celebrated vineyard in Napa. The resulting inaugural issue is everything we hoped it would be. As Patrick says in his publisher’s letter on its very first page, it is a celebration. One that delivers rich, engaging editorial content in a format that feels lavish and collectable in and of itself. “It is also a collective,” he continues. “The best minds brought together to tackle the subjects that captivate, so arresting in their absence – experience, space, people and family. [This issue] became a journey into the sound of the things that matter to the soul of the collector, the reasons things exist, the FONDATA.”

FONDATA Editor Gavin Lucas on the content platform’s journey from ideation to realisation

Exploring how the FINE+RARE Group created FONDATA, a unique wine and spirits content platform

The FONDATA genesis story

FONDATA: The genesis story

The Left Bank The gravel soils of the Left Bank are beautifully free-draining – something that has long been key to the fine wines despite the wet, maritime climate of the Médoc. In 2022, however, producers were desperate to retain what little water fell from the skies – and the berries harvested were tiny, with thick skins and containing surprisingly little juice.  The size of the grapes, combined with localised hail in Saint-Estèphe, resulted in generally low yields in 2022 – often lower than 2021, although it does vary by estate. Any addresses working organically and biodynamically last year had catastrophic yields, and this year therefore seemed generous (and joyous) for them, with its dry conditions meaning minimal disease pressure. What little fruit was harvested, however, was ripe and concentrated – producing rich and structured wines, with the best also having amazing freshness.   Saint-Estèphe This northern commune tends to thrive in hot vintages, with the heavier, clay-rich soils retaining more water and cooler temperatures, limiting the vines’ stress – and it was just so in 2022, a vintage in which it seems to be one of the more consistent appellations. Unfortunately the northern reaches of the region were struck by a corridor of hail on 20th June – it was very localised, but some estates lost significant volumes (with reports of up to 80%). At Ch. Beau-Site, the combined effects of this hail and April frost led to a loss of around half their crop, while Phélan-Ségur lost 30%.   Picking dates here varied – with Montrose (that has produced one of the stars of the year) starting on 2nd September, Calon Ségur on 6th and Cos d’Estournel on 7th – the earliest harvest for the latter since 1989. Even without any hail damage, Cos only managed to crop 33hl/ha, compared to a normal 40hl/ha. It’s also the first release of Cos Labory under Michel Reybier – reuniting the land that was originally owned by Louis Gaspard d’Estournel – and many more changes are set to come here. As they just acquired the estate, they were only responsible for the blending and élevage – but it’s already showing a touch of the classic Cos polish.   At Montrose, they felt there was a need to “civilise” the tannins, with gentle extraction. At Calon Ségur, Vincent Millet chose a longer, cooler fermentation at 24˚C ; for him, it’s the low yields that give the vintage such power, while the freshness remains a mystery. The wines that we tasted showed none of the rusticity that was once the trademark of Saint-Estèphe, with the best combining a depth of dark fruit and charming freshness.  Our highlights: Montrose – and especially La Dame de Montrose, Calon Ségur, Phélan-Ségur Pauillac “None,” Mathieu Bessonet – Technical Director at Pontet-Canet – said firmly when I asked if he could compare 2022 to another year. Pauillac escaped the hail and almost no one reported any significant damage from the frost, however yields were still low here. As Jean-Sébastien Philippe at Ch. Lafite-Rothschild highlighted, although the tonnage of grapes wasn’t too bad, it was the volume of liquid that they released which was notable – with the berries so small and the skin-to-juice ratio so high that yields were reduced by up to a third at most estates.  Some of Lafite’s younger vines started to struggle in the heat towards the end of August and were picked early, but the fruit wasn’t deemed good enough to be used. Neighbouring First Growth Mouton Rothschild picked in earnest from 1st September, finishing on 26th September – with almost no producers still picking by October’s arrival.  At Ch. Latour, the team recorded the lowest annual rainfall in their history – with just 615mm between October 2021 and September 2022. But there were significant storms in June, indeed the lightning in a thunderstorm on 2nd June destroyed Pontet-Canet’s office, with another following on 24th. Almost everyone we spoke to in Pauillac emphasised the higher percentage of press wine used. As vignerons tended to employ gentler extraction, the press wine was more delicate and more could be used to bring depth to the wines.   Technical Director at Ch. Pichon Baron Pierre Montégut compared the purity of Cabernet Sauvignon this year to 2019, with the richness reminding him of 2020. Bessonet feels that 2022 Pontet-Canet is more Pauillac than Pontet-Canet, but in general it seems that the extreme vintage amplified each estate’s character – as Charles Fournier at Mouton Rothschild highlighted. Taking the First Growths, Mouton is flamboyant, Lafite restrained and precise (with everything in this prestigious stable showing particularly well), Latour more stern and serious. Pauillac has produced some stunning wines at the top end this year, but there’s definitely a little more variation that needs to be considered.  This year’s Ch. Batailley – another classic expression of this stalwart estate – bears a commemorative label to the late Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, who served 1947 Ch. Batailley (a year with similar climatic conditions) at her Silver wedding anniversary in 1972.   Our highlights: Lafite-Rothschild, but also Carruades de Lafite-Rothschild, Pichon Comtesse, Batailley, Grand-Puy-Lacoste  Saint-Julien  “You’ve got to be really humble when a plant teaches you that much,” said Claire Ridley at Ch. Léoville Poyferré – referencing the vines’ resilience in the face of 2022’s extreme conditions. Despite the year’s challenges, Saint-Julien seems to have thrived, with some really impressive wines, with the Barton stable a particular standout. Damien Barton-Sartorius noted that some producers were afraid to wait for phenolic ripeness because of the rising sugar levels in the warm September conditions, but sufficiently ripe skins were key to success.   At Léoville Las Cases, the team feel the year’s climatic conditions hark back over 150 years, to 1870 – although we can’t personally vouch for the comparison, they’ve crafted a muscular, firm wine that will need serious time to reveal its full potential. (Indeed, five potential 100-point scores attest to the quality here.) Ducru-Beaucaillou highlighted the influence of oceanic mists in August, while Ridley pointed to the June storms for essential drought relief.  Harvest dates were similar to Pauillac, often starting in the second week of September and running to the end of the month. The acidity levels vary on paper from 3.6 to 3.85, yet the wines have good freshness and alcohols are generally on the more modest side for the year, with most sitting closer to 14, rather than 15. For Barton-Sartorius, the year sits happily alongside 2016 and 2019 – and possibly 1945. The appellation’s best wines are classically built, with both finesse and flesh, as well as the requisite structure for the cellar.  Our highlights: the entire Barton stable – including a stunning Mauvesin Barton (although sadly Langoa and Léoville sold out on release), Beychevelle, Léoville Las Cases, Lagrange  Margaux “They had to find a way to survive,” Aurélien Valance at Ch. Margaux said of the vines. For him 2022 was a year that gives him hope: “2022 was very extreme – but the wines are not. For the future, it’s very promising.” They have a plot of old-vine Petit Verdot that is always used in the Grand Vin, but the wine was already so dense that it didn’t need it. The fruit from this prime site has instead been used for Pavillon Rouge, contributing to a particularly serious, firm and swarthy rendition of this second wine. Valance explained how they used the vintage as an opportunity to trial two alternatives for managing the heat: removing leaves in early June to allow the grapes to adjust to the hot sun early in the season while they had thick skins, and using kaolin – a type of clay that can be used as a sort of “sunscreen”. While they had higher yields on both these trial plots, they have bottled them separately to see how these practices impact quality over time. Their ongoing work re-orienting their vines (from north-south to east-west) will also help long term, but will take half a century or more.   At Marquis d’Alesme and Labegorce, the early April frost reduced yields, especially for the Merlot – meaning they cropped just 22hl/ha. Harvest started in the first two weeks of September, finishing by the end of the month, the earliest on record for estates like Rauzan-Ségla. Yields generally seemed lower in Margaux – dipping to around half the normal volume at several estates, often less than in 2021. At Brane-Cantenac, Henri Lurton pointed to the deep roots of the 60-year-old Cabernet planted by his late father as key to their success this year, with a thicker canopy and cool nights all contributing to the wines’ surprising freshness. While most estates opted for a lighter touch with extraction, Palmer was a notable exception – choosing instead to lean into the year’s bold structure, something that has paid off (with another five potential 100-point scores here to prove it).  As Lurton said, “It wasn’t an easy vintage to make – but in the end it’s a great one.” Indeed, he feels it’s the best wine he’s ever made. That’s certainly the case at some estates, although the appellation was definitely more variable in quality. The best wines, however, fulfil Margaux’s sensual stereotype – combining perfume with the concentration of the year, and voluptuous tannins.  Our highlights: Rauzan-Ségla, Ségla, Marquis d’Alesme, Brane-Cantenac, Pavillon Rouge du Ch. Margaux  Pessac-Léognan  For Daniel Cathiard at Ch. Smith Haut Lafitte, the vintage was “more about dryness than warmth” – indeed, having recently started working in Napa Valley (with the family’s Cathiard Vineyard), he dared to say that the conditions were “a little Californian”.  Picking in this southern commune seems most uniform, with almost everyone starting in the first week of September. Guillaume Pouthier – who has created one of the wines of the vintage at Les Carmes Haut-Brion – managed to reduce the alcohol with his use of whole-bunch and native yeast, reducing it to a modest 13.5%. Although the tannin levels are very high (with an IPT of almost 100), the wine is amazingly accessible now – with a purity and delicacy that made it tempting to steal the sample for dinner. As he said, “What is very important to me is an empty bottle.”  The style of the wines here varies, from the ultra-elegance of Carmes to a bold, ripe offering from Haut-Bailly – but, from our tastings at least, there’s good uniformity in quality, with powerful wines that are set to age well.     Our highlights: La Mission Haut-Brion, Les Carmes Haut-Brion, Domaine de Chevalier  The dry whites Having read about the conditions of the year, you’d be forgiven thinking that the whites might be a write-off – but they’re far from it. It certainly required skill in the vineyard and winery to maintain freshness in the warm, dry year, with some that are on the more tropical side, but there are also some gorgeously taut, vibrant whites that are well worth paying attention to. The best of these are pithy, with impressive tension and an energy that reverberates through the wine. Yields at several addresses were particularly low for the whites, with frost having more of an impact on the Sauvignon Blanc, as well as the hot wind concentrating fruit further.   Although not being released en primeur, 2022 will be the first commercial vintage of a new white wine from Ch. Margaux, a junior sibling to Pavillon Blanc – one that we’re particularly excited to taste. Domaine de Chevalier Blanc is, as Adrien Bernard said, "very special this year” – and we wholeheartedly agree. While the reds often steal the limelight at Lafleur, we were particularly impressed by Champs Libres – another pure Sauvignon Blanc that sings this year.  As Olivier Bernard’s (Adrien’s father’s) 40th vintage, both the Grands Vins bear a special label, with a 1941 illustration by Xu Bei Hong of a galloping horse, one that captures the energy of the year at this address. At Ch. Haut-Brion, the team was particularly impressed by the quality of the Semillon – and it ended up representing a significantly higher portion (51.4%) of the blend, and the result is impressive.   Our highlights: Pavillon Blanc du Ch. Margaux, Domaine de Chevalier Blanc, Lune d’Or, Fieuzal Blanc, Clos Floridène, Les Champs Libres, Cos d’Estournel Blanc  The sweet whites of Sauternes and Barsac Because it was so dry, botrytis took time to develop in 2022, and it was only after the rain in early October that the noble rot took hold. A hot, dry wind over the following week resulted in rapid concentration, Pierre Montégut explained at Suduiraut, which is one reason for the purity of fruit in the wines. With this sudden concentration, the fruit needed to be picked more quickly than normal – indeed Montégut didn’t have enough pickers to bring it in as quickly as he’d have liked. The resulting wines are particularly rich and hedonistic, with notably high sugar levels at some addresses – Lafaurie-Peyraguey has a whopping 260g/l residual sugar (with 130-140g/l the number for a typical year). Yields are tiny in both Sauternes and Barsac – averaging 4hl/ha and 1.5hl/ha, respectively. Montégut explained that he would be using more new oak to help balance the richness of the fruit, which effortlessly absorbs the wood (the sample of Suduiraut we tasted was 100% new oak, but it will likely end up around 70% versus the normal 50%). He compares it to 1959, a vintage that had particularly high sugar levels for the era.   Our highlights: Suduiraut, Guiraud, Coutet The Right Bank There are some stunning wines from the Right Bank this year, with the wines generally more consistent (especially in Saint-Emilion), and the yields (again, mainly in Saint-Emilion) more generous versus the Left Bank.   Unusually, irrigation was permitted in both Saint-Emilion and Pomerol, however few producers have the infrastructure to water vines (beyond doing so manually) – and if they don’t have a water source themselves, it would also add significant costs. As such, few addresses that we visited took advantage of the option – and some argued that the permission to do so arrived too late in the season to be of real use. Although we only dive into the detail of Saint-Emilion and Pomerol on the Right Bank, it’s worth noting that the satellite wines from the Lafleur stable were particularly good this year, with both Les Perrières and Ch. Grand Village really impressing, and Montlandrie was a standout from the Durantous. Although we didn’t taste L’Hêtre, Jacques Thienpont (Le Pin) told us that it was “fabulous” this year – and may well be one to look out for given its pedigree.  Saint-Emilion Saint-Emilion’s pronounced limestone soils were a godsend in 2022 – bringing incredible freshness that balances the generosity of the year beautifully, producing some of the very best wines in the vintage. Of course, the proportion of limestone in soils isn’t universal, and it’s not quite as simple as saying only those on the plateau thrived, but it certainly helped. The general trend towards restraint undoubtedly helps as well, meaning that many producers have contained and tamed the opulence of 2022, rather than exaggerating it.  It was Joséphine Duffau-Lagarrosse’s second vintage at the helm of her family estate, and she’s been working particularly hard on pruning – something she feels is the most important part of any year, looking to balance each vine rather than leave a set number of buds, which also avoids the need for a green harvest. For the Ausone stable, Edouard Vauthier feels it is a Merlot vintage, with the berries “absolutely gorgeous”. The only vines of theirs that struggled in the heat were those at Ch. de Fonbel, where they have gravel soils rather than clay/limestone.  At Ch. Canon, the team even sacrificed certain plots on particularly thin, rocky soils totally – not vinifying the fruit as the vines didn’t have sufficient water reserves to handle the dry conditions. The team at Figeac highlighted how their rootstock (Gravesac) was particularly useful this year. The seeds were already brown in August – showing just how advanced the phenolic development was.   While most estates on the Left Bank and Pomerol sit at 3.6 to 3.9pH, here some wines were as low as 3.3 (bear in mind that whites will often be around 3.2), and most sit under 3.6. There’s a noticeable exception with Cheval Blanc, however the wine has an incredible sense of freshness despite its 3.86pH, and is clearly one of the highlights of the year. As with elsewhere, old vines and deep roots were also a support – and this was particularly true at Clos de Sarpe, Laroque and Angélus. The best wines here offer enticing perfume with aromatic finesse, backed up by concentrated yet crunchy fruit, seamless tannins and mouth-watering acidity, often with a saline finish. They are spellbinding.  Our highlights: Laroque, Carillon d’Angélus, Berliquet, Beauséjour Duffau Lagarrosse, Clos de Sarpe, Cheval Blanc, Bellefont-Belcier  Pomerol Those fortunate to have some of this appellation’s deepest and most prized clay soils produced some stunning wines, but it was definitely trickier on those with more sand and/or gravel. There were proclamations from many producers that this is Merlot’s “comeback” – but Edouard Moueix disagrees, this was just an easy year to farm the variety: “Merlot thrives here, but it is fragile, and you must be more precise – it’s not as tough as Cabernet Sauvignon or Cabernet Franc.”  Diana Berrouet Garcia at Le Pin noted how hot it was early in the season, recalling it was already 30˚C over the Easter weekend, but the rain that arrived after every heatwave allowed the vines to recover before they were challenged once more. Ch. Clinet was one of the few properties to use irrigation when permitted, something that helped avoid the vines shutting down, along with the cool nights and their mature vines (between 35 and 40 years old on average). By contrast, at Evangile – where the team is in the middle of a replanting program and the vines average just 15 years old – Juliette Couderc was worried about them even in June, however the naturally smaller leaves reduced transpiration and allowed them to survive until harvest at the end of August.   Alexandre Thienpont (Vieux Château Certan) chose to leave more bunches than normal on the vines – eight or nine, rather than the normal five or six – eventually harvesting tiny berries that weighed less than 1g. Noëmie Durantou Reilhac (of Ch. l’Eglise-Clinet) explained how important it was to manage the extraction carefully to maintain freshness, extracting early while the musts were cool and taking it off the skins after just two to five days after fermentation was finished (when some producers choose to leave the wine macerating for up to 40 days).   The warm winds in September concentrated the berries, and are the reason that yields are generally lower, often around 20-30% less than in 2021 for those that harvested later in the month. The start of harvest ranges from the very end of August through to 16th September, and almost everyone finished before the 23rd September. Merlot from the vintage is undoubtedly opulent and we found the best wines were often – but not always – those where its exuberant personality was tamed with Cabernet, bringing a firmer, more linear structure.   Our highlights: Belle-Brise, Vieux Château Certan, L’Eglise Clinet, Blason d’Evangile, Bourgneuf, Clinet, La Conseillante, L’If    Read more about Bordeaux 2022 

There are exceptions to almost every rule in 2022 – and, as ever, it’s essential to asses wines individually. Here, however, we break down the region by commune to offer an overview of how each subregion fared in this fascinating vintage

Bordeaux 2022: a breakdown of the vintage by region, with top picks from Saint-Estephe, Pauillac, Margaux, Saint-Julien, Saint-Emilion and Pomerol

Bordeaux 2022 – breaking the year down by commune

Bordeaux 2022: the vintage by commune

Ernest Vineyards

United States

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Gli orari di ritiro sono tra le 8:30 e le 12:00 e tra le 13:30 e le 16:30, dal lunedì al venerdì. I vini al Will Call che non vengono ritirati entro 10 giorni lavorativi saranno trasferiti in deposito e soggetti a una tariffa di stoccaggio di 1,50 $ per bottiglia.

Gli articoli verranno reperiti e spediti al nostro deposito di vini all'avanguardia per la migliore conservazione possibile, dove potrai organizzare il ritiro presso il nostro indirizzo di magazzino a Napa.

Ritiro in sede (Napa)

Hai inserito la password errata troppe volte. Il tuo account è stato temporaneamente bloccato. Attendi cinque minuti prima di riprovare.

Sembra che tu stia visitando da {country}, ti invitiamo a scoprire il nostro sito {nationality}.

Stai navigando da {country}?

Non siamo in grado di elaborare il tuo ordine se contiene sia biglietti per eventi sia un prodotto vinicolo o un distillato nella stessa transazione. Per procedere, rimuovi dal carrello i biglietti dell’evento oppure il prodotto. Potrai quindi completare l’acquisto.

Controlla il tuo carrello

Password dimenticata

Siamo nelle fasi finali dellaggiornamento alla nostra nuova piattaforma di trading. Come parte di questa transizione, stiamo attualmente migrando tutti gli inventari di proprietà dei clienti per garantire unesperienza fluida e senza interruzioni.

La nostra nuova e migliorata piattaforma sarà pronta per te venerdì 4 aprile.

Grazie per la tua pazienza — non vediamo lora di mostrarti cosa arriverà.

Ops, qualcosa è andato storto

Non abbiamo trovato nulla da mostrare qui.

Non abbiamo trovato alcun risultato da mostrare qui.

Si prega di notare: potrebbero essere applicati costi di consegna, dazi e IVA

Il nostro sito è temporaneamente in manutenzione.

Modalità manutenzione

La pre-autorizzazione di un metodo di pagamento consente al tuo Account Manager di effettuare pagamenti per tuo conto, senza verifica del pagamento.

Pre-autorizza

Questa transazione è stata bloccata per un errore di autenticazione.

Errore di autenticazione

La tua carta di pagamento è scaduta. Controlla i dati e riprova.

Carta scaduta

Fondi insufficienti per saldare l'importo. Controlla i dati e riprova.

Fondi insufficienti

Questa transazione è stata bloccata dal fornitore di pagamenti per possibile attività fraudolenta.

Transazione bloccata

Scegli un metodo di pagamento diverso e riprova.

Errore sconosciuto

mostra tutti gli articoli che attualmente conservi con noi. Questi articoli possono essere venduti, consegnati o trasferiti.

Presso {shortName}

La tua allocazione verrà annullata. Sei sicuro di voler continuare?

Il tuo articolo pre-ordinato verrà eliminato. Sei sicuro di voler continuare?

La tua richiesta di consegna verrà annullata. Sei sicuro di voler procedere?

rappresenta tutti i vini che sono in tuo possesso e che sono stati consumati.

Questo è il prezzo che hai pagato per questo articolo.

Prezzo di costo

Dopo aver aggiunto il nuovo indirizzo, verrai reindirizzato a questa pagina.

Crea un nuovo indirizzo

La tua notifica verrà eliminata. Sei sicuro di voler continuare?

Il prezzo minimo al quale sei disposto a vendere. Se il prezzo di listino scende al di sotto di questo valore, la tua inserzione verrà rimossa.

mostra tutti gli articoli che hai pre-ordinato, inclusi i vini en primeur, e tutti gli articoli nella tua watchlist.

Futures

È possibile impostare un prezzo minimo per gli articoli in vendita basato su una percentuale del valore netto unitario attuale.

Puoi impostare un prezzo di mercato per gli articoli che stai vendendo basato su una percentuale del valore netto unitario corrente.

mostra tutte le azioni che hai effettuato sugli articoli nel tuo Portafoglio.

raggruppa ogni azione per tipo - Acquisto, Vendita, Consegna e Trasferimento in entrata - così è chiaro a colpo d'occhio cosa è successo a ciascun articolo.

Storico

mostra tutti gli articoli attualmente in transito da o verso {shortName}.

In transito

La consegna locale è gratuita per ordini superiori a 1.800 HK$ (in un'unica destinazione). Per ordini inferiori a questo importo, la consegna costa 150 HK$ fino a quattro casse e 50 HK$ per ogni cassa aggiuntiva.

Le spedizioni partono da €15 in Italia e da €45 verso la Svizzera e il resto d’Europa per un massimo di 48 bottiglie (75 cl). I costi variano in base alla destinazione. Per spedizioni più grandi è possibile richiedere un preventivo.

La data indicata di seguito è quella in cui il tuo ordine verrà spedito dal nostro magazzino locale. La data di consegna finale, insieme ai dettagli completi di tracciamento, ti verrà fornita una volta che il nostro team avrà elaborato la tua richiesta.

Puoi organizzare il ritiro presso il nostro negozio al 22° piano, 8 Wyndham Street, Central Hong Kong.
Gli orari di ritiro sono dalle 9:30 alle 18:00, da lunedì a venerdì.

Puoi organizzare il ritiro presso il nostro magazzino STI INTERNAZIONALE SPA, in Viale del Lavoro 57, 37051 Bovolone, Verona.
Gli orari di ritiro sono dalle 8:30 alle 12:30 e dalle 13:30 alle 17:30, dal lunedì al venerdì. Siamo chiusi nei giorni festivi.

Questo è il valore di mercato stimato attuale per questo articolo.

I prezzi impostati manualmente verranno sovrascritti. I vini già inseriti non sono interessati.

Aggiorna tutti i vini non inseriti al prezzo di mercato corrente.

Imposta tutto al prezzo di mercato

rappresenta tutti i vini attualmente presenti nel tuo Portafoglio che non sono conservati con noi. Premi l'icona

La mia cantina

Nome

Prezzo netto

Nuovo portafoglio disponibile

Nuovo portafoglio

Non hai alcuna fattura in questo momento.

mostra tutti gli articoli del tuo Portafoglio che sono attualmente sul mercato.

In vendita

mostra tutti gli articoli attualmente presenti nel tuo Portafoglio. Da questa pagina puoi eseguire azioni individuali su di essi.

Panoramica

mostra tutti gli articoli attualmente in attesa di un'azione da parte dell'utente.

In sospeso

Questo è il prezzo di mercato dinamico dell'articolo al netto del margine di negoziazione.

Questo è l'importo del profitto che riceverai se la tua inserzione verrà venduta.

I pagamenti pre-autorizzati consentono transazioni automatiche per tuo conto, garantendo pagamenti fluidi e senza complicazioni. Questo permette di elaborare addebiti ricorrenti, abbonamenti o pagamenti programmati senza approvazione manuale ogni volta.

Il numero di casse che desideri mettere in vendita

Il tuo articolo del catalogo verrà archiviato. Sei sicuro di voler continuare?

I tuoi articoli del catalogo verranno archiviati. Sei sicuro di voler continuare?

Prima di richiedere la consegna, puoi modificare la quantità per ciascun articolo nella tua selezione qui sotto.

*Il prezzo di mercato è dinamico e può variare. Al momento della vendita, dal prezzo finale sarà detratta una commissione di negoziazione del 10%.

Prezzo di mercato totale*

Il prezzo fisso personalizzato al quale desideri vendere ciascun articolo.

Dividi in {caseSize} singole bottiglie da {bottleSize}cl.

Titolo

mostra tutti gli articoli che attualmente conservi con noi. Questi articoli possono essere venduti.

Disponibili per la vendita — gli articoli conservati con {name} sono idonei per essere inseriti nel marketplace.

Profilo

Questo articolo si trova presso FINE+RARE.

Questo articolo si trova presso FINE+RARE HOME Hong Kong, ed è disponibile per la consegna o il ritiro in sede. La maggior parte delle consegne a Hong Kong può essere effettuata entro 3 giorni lavorativi; la data esatta sarà comunicata al momento dell'organizzazione della consegna. Le consegne internazionali richiedono tempi più lunghi, ti preghiamo di contattarci per maggiori dettagli.

I vini venduti en primeur saranno rilasciati dal produttore dopo limbottigliamento, tipicamente 18 mesi dopo la fine della cosiddetta campagna. Il tuo vino sarà poi conservato da FINE+RARE in un deposito doganale fino a quando deciderai di richiederne la consegna.

Ci riforniremo di questo articolo al prezzo garantito dalla nostra rete di fornitori e organizzeremo una spedizione rapida a FINE+RARE.
 I tempi di consegna dipendono da molte variabili, ma in genere per un approvvigionamento rapido sono 2-4 settimane.
 Una volta confermato l'ordine, ti terremo aggiornato sulla data di arrivo prevista.
 Ogni articolo viene controllato all'arrivo dal nostro team di esperti e le fotografie sono disponibili su richiesta (si prega di notare che potrebbero essere applicati dei costi).

Reperiremo questo articolo attraverso la nostra rete di fornitori e ne organizzeremo la spedizione a FINE+RARE.
 I tempi di consegna dipendono da molte variabili, ma una stima media è di 6-12 settimane.
 Una volta confermato lordine, ti terremo aggiornato sulla data di arrivo prevista.
 Ogni articolo viene controllato al momento della ricezione dal nostro team di esperti, con fotografie disponibili su richiesta (si prega di notare che potrebbero essere applicati dei costi).

Ernest Vineyards

Filtro

Attendere prego

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