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  

Quando Alain Hudelot si ritirò nel 2008, fu suo nipote a prendere le redini della tenuta di famiglia, il Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat. Charles van Canneyt – allora appena ventenne e fresco di studi enologici – si ritrovò improvvisamente a gestire 10 ettari di vigneti e un’intera cantina. Ma non era un ventenne qualunque. Gradualmente modernizzando le attrezzature della tenuta e perfezionando la vinificazione (in particolare moderando l’estrazione), trasformò la reputazione del domaine. In breve tempo divenne noto come una delle stelle emergenti della Borgogna, con Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat presto tra i nomi più rispettati della regione. Non incline alla compiacenza, nel 2012 avviò un’etichetta négoce, offrendo un’ulteriore via per gli amanti della Borgogna di accedere al suo talento enologico. Oggi, insieme alla moglie Anne-Sophie, ha intrapreso una nuova sfida, acquistando una nuova proprietà: il Domaine des Chézeaux. Probabilmente non conoscerete il nome di questa tenuta di Gevrey-Chambertin, ma quasi certamente ne conoscerete i vigneti. La storia del Domaine des Chézeaux Il Domaine des Chézeaux fu creato da François Mercier nel 1982, anche se la famiglia possedeva vigneti a Gevrey-Chambertin dal 1928. Il nome della tenuta deriva dal Clos des Chézeaux, il vigneto recintato accanto al domaine. La famiglia era proprietaria terriera più che vinicola, quindi tutti i vigneti erano affittati – en métayage – ad altri produttori. Questa pratica è comune in Borgogna: i vignaioli che affittano i vigneti li gestiscono tutto l’anno e producono il vino, cedendo una parte della produzione (spesso circa un terzo) al proprietario come affitto. La storica tenuta crebbe dai possedimenti originari e, dal 1994, contava circa quattro ettari. I vigneti erano divisi tra tre produttori: Domaine Ponsot (poi Laurent Ponsot), René Leclerc e Domaine Berthaut (poi Domaine Berthaut-Gerbet). Ponsot affittava il lotto originale di 0,89 ettari di Griotte-Chambertin, così come i parcelle di Clos Saint-Denis*, Chambertin e Chambolle-Musigny Premier Cru Les Charmes. Domaine Berthaut affittava due Premier Cru di Gevrey-Chambertin (Les Cazetiers e Lavaux-Saint-Jacques) e i parcelle del villaggio, incluso il Clos des Chézeaux. Pur essendo tecnicamente un monopole, Berthaut non possedendo il terreno non poteva rivendicarne tale status. Prima della vendemmia 1994, la famiglia Mercier acquistò un altro lotto di Griotte-Chambertin, 0,68 ettari appartenuti a Suzanne Thomas di Thomas Bassot, ottenendo il maggior possedimento di questo Grand Cru. La famiglia Esmonin coltivava già le vigne, vendendo parte dei frutti a Jadot; i Mercier affittarono poi il lotto a René Leclerc (pur continuando la vinificazione di alcune bottiglie da parte della famiglia Esmonin fino al 1999). Una parte dei vini finiti era imbottigliata con l’etichetta Domaine des Chézeaux, ma identica a quella dei produttori Ponsot, Leclerc o Berthaut, spesso a un prezzo inferiore. Domaine des Chézeaux oggi Nel 2021 Charles van Canneyt riuscì ad acquistare la tenuta e i suoi prestigiosi vigneti. Con tutti i vigneti sotto contratto en métayage, la sfida successiva fu riottenerli – negoziando con ciascun produttore. Nel 2022 ottenne il monopole Clos des Chézeaux e Premier Cru Les Cazetiers, ma vendette i frutti. Nel 2023, recuperato un lotto di Griotte-Chambertin, realizzò i primi vini dalla proprietà. Nel 2024 riuscì a recuperare tutti i vigneti – aggiungendo Chambertin, Clos Saint-Denis e Chambolle-Musigny Premier Cru Les Charmes. Come parte delle negoziazioni, furono venduti i parcelle Lavaux-Saint-Jacques, alcune vigne di Gevrey-Chambertin village e due piccoli lotti di Griotte-Chambertin. I vigneti sono generalmente vecchi in tutta la tenuta, e coltivazione e vinificazione seguono gli stessi metodi di Hudelot-Noëllat: frutti totalmente diraspati e estrazione molto delicata. Le prime annate furono vinificate a Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat (ma affinano nelle cantine del Domaine des Chézeaux) e è iniziata la costruzione di una nuova cantina, prevista per la fine del 2025. Van Canneyt ha già notato una maturazione diversa delle uve a Chézeaux, con cantine fresche e umide che rallentano l’élevage e richiedono meno rabbocco. Prevede quindi di affinare i vini più a lungo rispetto a Hudelot-Noëllat. La tenuta mantiene il nome storico, ma con nuove etichette – per differenziare le bottiglie precedenti all’arrivo di Van Canneyt. Il nome ha la stessa origine di Echezeaux: chesaux – plurale di chesal (dal latino casellum o casalis) – che significa casa o edificio in pietra. I vigneti del Domaine des Chézeaux Oggi la tenuta conta circa tre ettari di vigneti, di cui oltre la metà Grand Cru, distribuiti su sei appellations: Gevrey-Chambertin Clos des Chézeaux: monopole di 0,5 ettari, alcune vigne quasi centenarie (piantate nel 1929), su pendio medio esposto sud-est, su suoli profondi argillosi e ghiaiosi. Gevrey-Chambertin Premier Cru Les Cazetiers: 0,216 ettari in due parcelle, nord 0,1615 e sud 0,045 ha. Chambolle-Musigny Premier Cru Les Charmes: circa 0,6 ha, con ulteriore parcella a Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat. Clos Saint-Denis Grand Cru: 0,3776 ha, comparirà nel 2024 con un solo barile, ora reimpiantato fino al 2029. Chambertin Grand Cru: 0,143 ha nel cuore del Grand Cru. Griotte-Chambertin Grand Cru: 1,264 ha, il lotto più grande del piccolo Grand Cru, cuore dell’appellation. Focus su Griotte-Chambertin Griotte-Chambertin, o En Griotte, è il più piccolo dei Chambertin Grands Crus (2,69 ha) e tra i più piccoli della Côte d’Or, insieme a La Romanée, La Romanée-Conti e La Grande Rue. Situato sotto Clos de Bèze, con esposizione nord-est, permette maturazioni lente, vini delicati, aromatici e profumati, meno muscolosi rispetto al tipico Gevrey-Chambertin. Suoli ghiaiosi e calcarei con argilla a pendio. Domaine des Chézeaux è il maggiore proprietario (1,246 ha, quasi metà del vigneto). Altri proprietari: Joseph Drouhin, Fourrier, Claude Dugat, Marchand Frères, Joseph Roty, Duroché, Laurent Ponsot e un investitore che affitta il lotto a Cécile Tremblay. L’origine del nome è dibattuta: “griotte” (ciliegia amarena) o “criotte” (piccola pietra calcarea nei suoli). Storia delle etichette Griotte-Chambertin Le bottiglie storiche sono state un segreto per gli insiders, spesso Ponsot o René Leclerc sotto altre etichette. 1982–1993: unico lotto di Griotte-Chambertin, affittato a Ponsot. 1994: prima annata con secondo lotto, affittato a René Leclerc, blendato con il primo. 1995–2001: due imbottigliamenti identici senza indicazione del produttore. Dal 2002: produttore indicato sulle etichette. Fino al 2004 due bottiglie, dal 2005 René Leclerc solo occasionalmente. Il futuro del Domaine des Chézeaux Nonostante la lunga storia per una tenuta moderna, è solo l’inizio. Con un vignaiolo talentuoso come Charles van Canneyt e vigneti così prestigiosi, la qualità è destinata a crescere e i vini diventeranno presto ambiti quanto quelli di Hudelot-Noëllat. Annate 2023 del Domaine des Chézeaux 2023 Gevrey-Chambertin Clos des Chézeaux: 0,5 ha, vigne quasi centenarie, frutto rosso intenso, fiori di iris e violetta, tannini fini e salinità nel finale lungo. 2023 Gevrey-Chambertin Premier Cru Les Cazetiers: vigne vecchie, vino delicato, minerale e floreale, frutti trasparenti e tannini minerali equilibrati. Cinque barili prodotti. 2023 Griotte-Chambertin Grand Cru: lotto più grande del Grand Cru, aromatico ed elegante, frutti rossi succosi, spezie dolci e leggeri toni tostati, struttura che richiede tempo. Debutto superbo. Tenete d’occhio le prime uscite dei vini del nuovo Domaine des Chézeaux; nel frattempo, scoprite di più sulla Borgogna.

Nel 2021 Charles van Canneyt del Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat ha acquistato il poco noto Domaine des Chézeaux. In vista della prima annata, esploriamo la storia di questa proprietà di Gevrey-Chambertin, destinata a diventare uno dei nuovi indirizzi più interessanti della Côte de Nuits.

Everything you need to know about this Gevrey-Chambertin wine estate, now owned by Charles van Canneyt of Domaine Hudelot-Noellat  

The new Domaine des Chezeaux, Gevrey-Chambertin 

Il nuovo Domaine des Chézeaux 

We talk to Europe’s leading glassmakers from the 250-year-old Austrian family-run firm Riedel to the young dynamo behind Grassl, which launched in 2018. We also speak
to Jancis Robinson MW on her recent collaboration with British designer and master craftsman Richard Brendon, who explains that traditional glass types have long been in desperate need of modernisation. Legend has it that Marie Antoinette’s breasts provided the outline for the creation of the
coupe, the shallow-bowled champagne glass that graced the lips of Hollywood’s starlets during the Golden Age, and enjoyed regular appearances in episodes of Mad Men. When it comes to wine glasses, aesthetics has historically taken precedence but functionality has risen to the top of the priority list.  Wine has long suffered an injustice at its final destination whether it’s champagne, sherry or claret. Designer Richard Brendon recalls his first meeting with Master of Wine, Jancis Robinson. “She said she’d never understood why white wine was put in a smaller glass than red wine and described this as discrimination. Champagne producers hate flutes because they don’t allow for any of the aromatics to get out of the wine, likewise Sherry and Port producers don’t like the small glasses that their wine traditionally gets put in.” There are a growing number of glass companies aiming to redress the balance. And, in the
same way as every winemaker in Burgundy has his or her own particular way of producing the perfect Pinot Noir, every glassmaker has a view to crafting the most suitable vessel in which to pour it.  Austrian-based Riedel has gone down the route of a glass particular to a variety from Chardonnay to Zinfandel while Brendon has followed Robinson’s one-size-fits-all advice.  “Jancis was entirely confident that we could create one glass that worked perfectly for every style of wine,” says Brendon” but we also needed two decanters to ensure we have a collection that works for every wine.”  With 40 years of experience tasting wine, Robinson set out the specific parameters for her ideal glass. “The widest part of the glass should be exactly 125ml or one-sixth of a bottle. This would mean when a standard pour is served, the wine will have maximum surface area, allowing for all of the aroma to get out of the wine,” he says.  “Jancis wanted a nice tall bowl to allow for the wine to be swirled in the glass to get more of the aromas out of the wine, and that the opening of the glass should be as small as possible to trap the aromas of the wine, but still big enough for even the largest of noses! The thickness of the rim was of utmost importance, she wanted it to be gossamer-thin so that you hardly notice the glass when taking a sip. “ Gossamer-thin is an apt descriptor for Zalto’s glassware, particularly the elegant, fine stems
that induce a certain nervousness in the holder. It’s a far cry from the heavy cut-crystal glasses that adorned the dining tables of previous generations. Daniel Primack of Zalto’s UK importer WineRackd admits such delicacy can be a concern initially but “with perfect balance in the hand and such fine construction, you may worry that you’re going to break them just by drinking from them but fear not,” he says.  “They are mouth-blown and cooled very slowly making them incomparably tough for something so fine. Zalto’s own recipe of the three main ingredients for creating crystal, silica, soda (sodium carbonate) or potash (potassium carbonate) and lime (calcium oxide) also contribute to the clarity and durability. They are blown differently to other Austrian glasses, with the bowl and stem formed as one piece, then the foot attached. A more usual arrangement is for the stem to be glued to the bowl. Remember the attachment point is a weak point” Staying in Austria, Riedel is perhaps the country’s most famous glassmaker in the wine world, producing an impressive 60 million glasses annually at its three factories. The 250-year-old company now uses machines to make 95% of its glasses. The company’s UK managing director Stephen McGraw says “we can produce machine-made glasses which are almost indistinguishable from handmade glasses.  However handmade glasses are still very important to us, as we preserve a skill which is still recognisable to the techniques used in Roman times. In terms of machine-made versus handmade? The glasses will all perform equally well, from a sensory point of view.” He adds that its unusually shaped decanters are a different matter: master glassmakers, who tend to have around 15 years of experience to be at the top of their game, can only make these intricate objects.  A much more recent addition to the glass scene is Swiss brand Grassl, which launched in
2018.  Founder and wine collector Alexander Mackh, who is just 26 years old, explains its conception. “I launched Grassl Glass because I didn’t enjoy the proportions of the glassware on the market. Finer, deeper, less-extracted, less-oaked wine [styles] require different glassware, so I decided to create my own.”  Prototypes in hand, Mackh tested the glasses on some of Burgundy's top winemakers as well as heading to the finest names in Bordeaux including Châteaux Ausone and Palmer. Tweaks were made accordingly and now the Slovakian-blown artisanal glasses can be found as far afield as South Korea and Australia.  
What is the magic number?  While Brendon and Robinson have created just one wine glass, Grassl’s magic number is four. The designs include Liberté, which is ideal for medium to low acidity white wines, which are oak aged and 1855, a glass for reds high in tannin, richness and alcohol. If push comes to shove, Mackh says “If you wanted just one glass that does the job, it would be the Liberté as an objective tool for tasting." Riedel is known for its varietal-specific glasses and there are myriad options but there has to
be genuine rationale behind a new style. “A glass designed for a specific wine must show that wine better than any other, non-specific glass would,” says McGraw before explaining the ongoing process that shapes its bowls. “We design and test our glasses together with winemakers. Through a series of tasting workshops, we fine-tune and hone the shapes of our glasses until the winemaker tells us that the glass is showing his wine correctly. Further, after a glass is designed and in production, we do continuous testing and tasting workshops to ensure that the glass is as relevant still as the day it was first designed.” However, there’s no need to be rigid in what you pour in the grape-specific glasses. Riedel has a glass, for example, that suits rosé Champagne, Nebbiolo and New World Pinot
Noir. You certainly won’t go to wine hell if you also use it for a glass of Chardonnay. Primack agrees: “The names are simply a guide to identifying the bowl. They were named this way as 15 years ago, it was the convention to use a wine name. Today, Zalto stress it is not a prescription for the contents. For example, many people appreciate certain styles of White Burgundy in the Bordeaux bowl. This has been proven time and time again”.  Function has now won over form in the wine glass arena but that’s not at the expense of beauty. The bedazzling array of aesthetically appealing wine glasses provides a tactile experience for both your hands and lips. Wine is delivered to our senses as the winemaker intended and that means it has never tasted so good. Explore more Editorial 

Fine wine demands the perfect glass to provide the ultimate sensory experience but the resting place of the final pour has long been neglected. But it’s all change.  

Fine wine demands the perfect glass to provide the ultimate sensory experience. We speak to Riedel Europe’s leading glass makers and British craftsmen

Fine wine glasses versus aesthetics

Few names generate as much excitement as Karuizawa in the whisky world. In recent years the lost Japanese distillery – which was only ever in operation for 46 years and was scarcely known outside of its domestic market during that time – has become an icon and collectors’ golden goose.  One of the reasons for Karuizawa’s astonishing collectability is its genuine scarcity. The Japanese distillery will never produce any more whisky. After lying dormant for well over a decade following its closure in 2001, anything that remained was demolished in 2016. This, coupled with the fact Karuizawa was one of Japan’s smallest distilleries, with a miniscule output, means there weren’t huge volumes of stock left when production ceased. But just how did this niche Japanese whisky become so valuable? And which Karuizawa whiskies should be on any serious collectors’ wish list? The history of Karuizawa When the Karuizawa Distillery was built in Miyota in 1955, the owners set out to create a Japanese whisky in the Scottish tradition. In the mid-1950s, that meant Sherry-aged whiskies like The Macallan. As such, the distillery used small stills and Sherry butts that were modified to fit the wine racks that had previously been used on the site when it operated as a winery. Karuizawa also imported 100% Scottish barley (from 1994, exclusively Golden Promise – a richly flavoured spring barley variety). Like Scottish distilleries, Karuizawa initially produced whisky for the sole purpose of blending. It wasn’t until 1976 that Karuizawa produced its first single malt.  The Karuizawa distillery was mothballed in 2001 when its owners Kirin Holdings – who had invested heavily in its wine enterprise – could no longer maintain whisky production. Karuizawa and its sister distillery, Kawaskai, closed for good 10 years later. In 2012, all the Karuizawa distillery equipment, including the stills, were sold, and anything that remained was demolished in 2016.  The distillery is named after the town, Karuizawa, which is just under two hours by train northwest of Tokyo. Until 2022, Karuizawa was the only town to have hosted both the summer and winter Olympic Games events (1964 and 1998 respectively). 

 What is so unique about the Karuizawa distillery location? The location of the Karuizawa Distillery was unique for a number of reasons: firstly, it was on the side of an active volcano, Mount Asama – which meant the water source was incredibly pure. It was also the highest Japanese distillery, so the temperature remained constant at 10˚C and humidity averaged 80%. The misty surroundings encouraged water evaporation before alcohol, resulting in highly concentrated and high-alcohol older whiskies (30- to 40-year-old whiskies at approximately 60% alcohol). Karuizawa distillery character The Karuizawa distillery’s extraordinary location, on the southern slopes of one of Japan’s most active (category A) volcanoes is credited with creating the unique characteristics of the single malt. The cold, snowy winters and summers with up to 80% humidity, created specific atmospheric conditions that were ideal for whisky maturation. The resulting liquid had the enviable ability to age gracefully for many decades, while retaining an abnormally high alcoholic strength and concentrated, complex flavour.  Karuizawa boasted a twin pair of small 4,000-litre stills and wooden washbacks. When the distillery closed in 2001, Shizuoka Distillery owners Gaia Flow bought both the stills and have only been able to successfully bring one back to life. 
 Karuizawa’s rise in popularity It might be easy to forget given Karuizawa’s current notoriety but very few people had heard of the distillery when it closed its doors in 2001. The distillery’s cult-like status is largely thanks to Englishman and former Whisky Magazine Editor Marcin Miller’s foresight. Via his company, Number One Drinks, Miller and his business partner David Croll became the sole distributor of Karuizawa, Chichibu and Hanyu in the early 2000s after purchasing the last 364 barrels.  When Miller and Croll bought the remaining Karuizawa stock after protracted discussions, the world was only just starting to take notice of Japanese whisky. After a smattering of awards for the likes of Nikka in prestigious tasting competitions, all eyes were on Japan by 2015, when Jim Murray named Suntory’s Yamazaki Sherry Cask 2013 the world’s best.  Smack bang in the middle of this, in 2007, the first single-cask bottlings of Karuizawa started to be released in Europe, opening a floodgate of Karuizawa appreciation and secondary market prices that hadn’t previously been seen.  After tiring of seeing Karuizawa bottles flipped and sold for exorbitant amounts, Miller handed over Number One Drinks’ remaining stock to the influential Taiwanese whisky collector Eric Huang in 2011, making him the largest holder of Karuizawa casks in the world. Huang was reportedly in possession of 20 casks in 2018, with other holders owning five casks between them.  One of these owners, renowned collector Mahesh Patel, chose to bottle The Legend of Asama series from his two casks in 2021. Patel’s casks (#4059 and #6183) were both distilled in 1981 and matured at Karuizawa for 20 years before they were moved to Chichibu Distillery and bottled in 2017. Prices for one two-bottle set of The Legend of Asama were in excess of £100,000. There is still some maturing Karuizawa stock that remains unbottled.  Karuizawa lives on: Komoro distillery Karuizawa is one of the whisky world’s truly lost distilleries, with no hopes of resurrection. But, there has been chatter about a new distillery on or around the site for years.  In 2020, it was announced Karuizawa Distillers, spearheaded by Karuizawa locals Koji and Yoshie Shimaoka, would build Komoro Distillery near the original location. The distillery construction has begun and should be completed by December 2022, with spirit flowing in early 2023. When it comes to the liquid, former Kavalan Distiller and Blender Ian Chang will head up production. Chang wishes to employ a number of the late Dr Jim Swan’s techniques at Komoro, including STR – shaved, toasted and re-charred red wine casks. Mizunara casks are also rumoured to be high on the agenda.   There is also keen interest in Shizuoka Distillery, whose owners Gaia Flow salvaged the stills from the original Karuizawa site.  Record-breaking prices In March 2020, a bottle of 52-year-old Karuizawa became the world’s most expensive Japanese whisky sold at auction, fetching £363,000 at Sotheby’s in London. A private collector paid roughly twice the pre-sale estimate for one of only 41 bottles in existence of Karuizawa 52 Year Old Cask #5627 Zodiac Rat 1960. In 2022, a 250ml bottle of Karuizawa 1960 47-year-old whisky sold for more than triple its estimated sale price at almost $160,000. Some of the most collectable Karuizawa bottlings Every Karuizawa whisky is collectable. While the 1980s is heralded as something of a golden age of whisky production at the lost distillery, due to the scarcity of liquid, anything put up for auction is likely to sell for a record-breaking sum.  The early releases from the Japanese distillery were very minimalist. When Karuizawa 42 Year Old (1967) Cask #6426 was first released, it was sold in a glass bottle complete with a white sticker label encased in a thin cardboard box. Initially released for £250, this bottling would later fetch in excess of £20,000 on the secondary market. Today, the most high-profile releases of Karuizawa are collected and displayed like works of art. Bottlings have become more and more beautiful – and elusive. Most are now sold via a ballot. Some of the most notable Karuizawa collections include the Karuizawa Fight Club Collection, Ghost Series, Thousand Arrows and Samurai collection.  The Karuizawa Geisha whiskies Geisha is one of the most recognisable and coveted series of Karuizawa whiskies. Each release of the two-set Geisha series has been met with unfettered excitement. To date, limited sets containing whiskies aged for 29, 30, 31 and 50 years bottled in the 1970s, ’80s and ’90s have been released.  The Geisha bottlings are iconic and collectable for the intricate nuances inside and outside the bottle. The first pair of Geishas (a Bourbon-matured 30-year-old and a Sherry-matured 31-year-old) were released in 2013. This is the only set to feature more than just the Geisha’s face on the bottle. One year later, a 29-year-old and 30-year-old set, named the Aika Geishas, was released. The Geisha’s mirror image graced these bottlings. The Karuizawa Golden Geishas (31- and 33-year-old) were the next in the series, followed by The Emerald Geishas (33- and 35-year-old). In 2018, The Murasaki Geishas, AKA Imperial Purple, were released. Only 60 bottles of each expression were allocated by ballot for £6,000 each. Two years later, another two Karuizawa Geishas known as The Sapphire Geishas were unveiled: a single-cask 31-year-old and 36-year-old. The Pearl (37- and 38-year-old), Sapphire (31- and 36-year-old), and Ruby (34- and 38-year-old) complete the collection.   Karuizawa Noh collection The NOH collection is one of the largest and most popular series of Karuizawa whiskies. Each one of the single cask expressions is incredibly highly sought-after. It is a rare occasion indeed when an entire collection becomes available. The Noh series, which was first introduced in 2008, is named after the traditional Japanese puppet theatre.  Our team is always sourcing the best-priced Karuizawa whiskies on the market. Browse all current Karuizawa listings, or contact us if you are looking for something in particular.

Karuizawa is a phenomenon. Bottlings from the lost Japanese distillery are some of the most collectable in the world – and they’re only becoming more scarce. We chart the small distillery’s mighty history and look at some of Karuizawa’s most highly sought-after whiskies 

We chart the small distillery’s mighty history and look at some of Karuizawa’s most highly sought-after whiskies as they’re only becoming more scarce.

Everything you need to know about Karuizawa

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

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

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

Telmo Rodriguez – the eternal battle

Telmo Rodríguez: the eternal battle

To Kalon. For any Californian winemaker, those two words represent the Holy Grail. This vineyard in Oakville, Napa, is undeniably the region’s most famous. Perched at the foot of the Mayacamas, west of Highway 29, this site has been recognised for producing fine wine since the 19th century. Literally translating as the “highest beauty” or “highest good” from Greek, today To Kalon is home to some of Napa’s oldest vines and best Cabernet Sauvignon. “This is a Grand Cru – a premier property,” Paul Hobbs tells me, a winemaker who has a long history with the site. As a grad student at UC Davis, Hobbs would swipe the second crop from a vineyard on Walnut Drive – what happened to be BV4, Beaulieu Vineyard’s original block of To Kalon. At Mondavi – the largest holder of the hallowed site – he got to walk the rows more legitimately, and used those holdings to build Opus One – the company’s joint venture with Ch. Mouton Rothschild (although the association with the site has generally been played down). Under his own label, he’s been making wine from the Beckstoffer section of the vineyard since 1999 – and his wines, along with those from Schrader, were some of the early bottlings that put the vineyard firmly on the fine wine map, earning high scores – and lots of attention. Indeed, it was a Paul Hobbs wine that made Tor Kenward believe the vineyard was truly special. André Tchelistcheff had spoken to Kenward about BV4, but it was one of Hobbs’s bottlings that made him realise its potential. He started working with Beckstoffer plots from 2005. 
“It’s not visually impressive; it doesn’t have that ‘wow factor’,” Kenward tells me. But start digging below the surface, and you realise that you’re in the “tenderloin of Napa”, with old creek beds that run through the site. It’s an alluvial fan that runs down from the Mayacamas, sitting almost on a bench – with very little elevation. But the soils here are varied, with deep, well-drained gravels that make it perfect for Cabernet Sauvignon.  Andy Erickson – a winemaker whose resume includes Screaming Eagle, Harlan, Dalla Valle, Mayacamas and many more – first worked with the site in 2012, on a single-barrel charity lot for an auction at his children’s school. When Constellation (owners of Mondavi and co-owners of Opus One) called him to give him the chance to work with it again in 2016, he didn’t hesitate. That year, he made the first wine for the To Kalon Vineyard Company – a project that is a revival of the brand created by H.W. Crabb (known variously as Henry Walker, Hiram Walker or Hamilton Walker Crabb) in 1886, the vineyard’s godfather. “Most people know the recent history of the vineyard, and the acclaim of the wines from the past 15-20 years. But the vineyard was known for producing remarkable wines all the way back in the late 19th century. Clearly there is something there,” Erickson says.  But this vineyard is weighed down with controversy – its borders endlessly debated, with producers vying for use of the To Kalon name.  The history of the To Kalon Vineyard It’s impossible to look at To Kalon today without tracing its origins. H.W. Crabb came west from Ohio during the Gold Rush, spending six months digging in the Sierras before settling in Oakville in 1868, buying 240 acres of land at the corner of Highway 29 and Walnut Drive. He planted a wide range of crops, first making wine in 1872 under the name Hermosa Vineyards (“hermosa” meaning “beautiful” in Spanish). In 1881, he acquired another 119 acres from Eliza Yount (whose name lives on in Yountville). On land to the west of his plots, owned by John Davis, he planted additional vines – buying the fruit off Davis to feed his increasing production. In 1886, he gave his company a new name: “To Kalon Vineyard Company” – and the legend was born. Crabb reportedly said, “The name To-Kalon… means the highest beauty, or the highest good, but I try to make it mean the boss vineyard.”
 To Kalon Vineyard Company rapidly became one of the region’s largest – and most well-respected – wine producers. His wines started winning awards at competitions around the world, and he was the first to start selling wine along the East Coast. He had planted a huge range of grapes – around 400 different varieties, including Malvasia, Riesling, Chasselas, Muscat, Refosco and Cabernet Sauvignon, with the latter in particular thriving. In 1889, he bought 168 acres on the hillside to the south, close to where Harlan is now based, although it was never planted with vines during Crabb’s lifetime. In 1891, Crabb bought Davis’s 135 acres (from which he’d already been buying the fruit). In total, Crabb had more than 359 acres.  But his success wasn’t to last – phylloxera arrived in the late 19th century, and recession along with it. In 1898, Crabb sold the 135 acres he’d bought just eight years earlier – and died one year later in 1899. The vines were ripped out, replaced by cherry trees under David Perry Doak in 1911, who in turn purchased another 500 acres of vines from John Benson, south of the border of the original To Kalon (across Oakville Grade Road), which is now all owned by Constellation (used for Mondavi or Opus One). After Crabb’s death, what remained of the To Kalon Vineyard Company was sold to ES Churchill at auction, taken over by his widow Mary Churchill when he died in 1903. Wines continued to be sold under the label until the arrival of Prohibition in 1920. The winery reopened briefly to sell wine in bulk in the 1930s, but the winery building burnt down in 1939. Four years later, Martin Stelling bought most of the property – 337 acres – and replanted. He sold 90 acres to Beaulieu Vineyard (the block that became known as BV4 – and was the plot used by André Tschelistcheff made Georges de Latour Reserve). In 1944, Stelling bought an additional 1,700 acres – the McGill Ranch, which included the parcels owned by Doak (both Crabb’s 1891 parcel and the 500 acres area south of Oakville Grade Road). He named the entire property Tokalon Vineyards, and in 1945 planted Sauvignon Blanc in I Block – the legendary parcel that is today used for Mondavi’s prized, old-vine To Kalon Fumé Blanc.  Tragedy struck again, however, with Stelling killed in a car crash in 1950. The property was once more divided, sold off in pieces by his widow.   
Rosa Mondavi, along with her sons Robert and Peter, purchased 132 hectares in 1962 for the family winery, Charles Krug. After Robert struck out on his own, he bought 12 acres for himself in 1966 (that remained in the Stelling family) – in the northeast corner of the 1968 Crabb parcel, where the Mondavi winery and visitor centre remains today. He bought a further 230 acres in 1968, and then took the Charles Krug section from the rest of his family in 1978. The first time the To Kalon name appeared on a Mondavi label – and the first time since the demise of the To Kalon Vineyard Company – was on the 1986 Fumé Blanc Reserve. The I Block – the Sauvignon Blanc vines planted by Stelling in 1945 – were singled out for the first time in 1995, for the vines’ 50th anniversary. The first red – Mondavi’s To Kalon Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon – appeared with the 1997 vintage. The To Kalon Vineyard’s terroir As already mentioned, To Kalon is largely an alluvial fan that stretches down from the Mayacamas to Highway 29. It is, however, a large piece of land (the exact area depending on where you draw its borders – see below for more on the controversy around this) – and as such the terroir varies considerably. The soils are richer downslope, closer to the Highway; poorer and better-drained higher up (where many – including Hobbs and Kenward – prefer to be). The gravel composition varies with the subtle slope differences and underground water.  “It’s like any cut of meat – there are better parts than others,” Hobbs says. With over 300 original acres (at least), this is a substantial vineyard (for comparison, Clos Vougeot is 125 acres). “It’s great if you have the name To Kalon, but could be pretty average stuff.” The Beckstoffer section is numbered and lettered: A to F, from road to mountain, with A1 south of A2. For Hobbs, he likes the blocks closer to the mountains, and those that aren’t shaded by the huge walnut trees that line Walnut Drive (to the south). Hobbs noted how much warmer Oakville is than Yountville – something he used to notice when driving in the evening home from Oakville to Yountville. The mountains block the sea breezes, meaning that the cooling effect happens, but more slowly. This is partly what makes it such a special place. Tor Kenward similarly prefers some of the middle blocks in B and C, where there are some of the vineyard’s oldest vines, but with lower vigour, as well as the leaner soils closest to the mountains. As for the MacDonald or Horton block: “You could argue it’s every bit as good as Andy’s piece,” Kenward says. It, along with the Detert block, was planted in the 1940s – and in fact those two blocks are now home to some of the valley’s oldest vines. Even closer to the mountains, the gravel content is even higher, and the fruit is picked up to a month earlier than elsewhere in To Kalon. Although until now most of that fruit has been sold to Constellation, there will be opportunity for others to work with it as that contract comes to an end.   
The Beckstoffer plots of To Kalon Andy Beckstoffer bought Beaulieu Vineyard’s block, BV4, in 1993. He’d just lost a prized site – Liparita, on Howell Mountain – when the 89 acres of BV4 came up. He’d worked the site for years and leapt at the opportunity to buy it. “It’s a mystery to me why they sold it,” Paul Hobbs told me, although word on the grapevine was that they needed to liquidate funds – indeed, it was around the same time that Mondavi went public for similar reasons. Phylloxera was once more raging through the region thanks to the widely used, non-resistant AXR rootstock.  The BV4 block was in bad shape when Beckstoffer took it over and he had to replant the entire site. Paul Hobbs was one of the first to use fruit from Beckstoffer’s plots, starting to work with him from 1995/96. “Andy didn’t really realise he had a Grand Cru property,” Hobbs says. Hobbs was given free rein to pick his plots, opting for four or five plots on the western side, furthest from Highway 29. The vineyard produced its first fruit in 1997; 1998 was a difficult year; but in 1999 Hobbs was able to produce his first To Kalon bottling (although it couldn’t say so on the label). “I was loathe to tell people how young it was – but the quality was so good,” Hobbs says, still starry eyed thinking about it. “It was only four years old, but producing stunning wines.” Most fruit is sold on its weight, by the ton, but Andy Beckstoffer created a different model – one that is intricately tied to the vineyard’s name and reputation – and arguably has increased its reputation. Producers who use his fruit pay him 175 times the bottle price per ton, with a ceiling at $50,000/ton; tying the value of the fruit to the value of the final wine. “For producers like me in those days, when I didn’t have the land or ability to buy land, Andy was a saviour of sorts,” Hobbs tells me. “Because I had access to one of the top vineyards in all of Napa. I had to pay – but at least I had access.”
  The To Kalon controversy: how big is it? And is it a brand or a place? Mondavi trademarked the name “To Kalon” in 1988, and “To Kalon Vineyard” in 1994. This gave them the right to use the name on any wine from anywhere – even beyond California – and meant that no one else could use the name, even if they had plots in what was considered the original To Kalon vineyard. The first Beckstoffer bottlings only mentioned the name on the back label; but in 2000, Schrader decided to put it on the front label. The now famous lawsuit commenced. “They shouldn’t have been able to trademark it,” Hobbs tells me. “Anyone from the original To Kalon estate should have the right to the trademark as well.” In 2002, Mondavi sued Schrader for using the name on their Beckstoffer bottling. Countersuing ensued, from both Schrader and Beckstoffer (the latter arguing that Mondavi was misleading clients by using the name for wines made with fruit from beyond the vineyard’s original borders). A settlement – the details of which remain a mystery – was made in 2003, but wines made from the Beckstoffer section can now bear the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon”.  Constellation bought Mondavi in 2004, and then Schrader in 2017. Reportedly attempts were made to trademark “To Kalon Wine Company”, “To Kalon Vineyard Company” and “Rooted in To Kalon” – something, unsurprisingly, that Beckstoffer objected to. The legal battle continues today, with a fight over the naming of To Kalon Creek, and The Vineyard House – owned by Jeremy Nickel, which sits on the 1889 hillside section – arguing for the use of the name as well.  The borders of the vineyard are a constant source of debate – and given the history above, you can see why.  Andy Beckstoffer considers the original To Kalon to be only the parcels bought by Crabb in 1868 and 1881. The 1889 parcel was never planted by Crabb, so most aren’t inclined to include it as “original To Kalon”. The Detert and MacDonald plots, however, aren’t acknowledged by Beckstoffer, but were planted – and, albeit more briefly than other plots, owned by Crabb. Then there’s the “Stelling extension”, the southern section added after Crabb’s death under Martin Stelling, that Mondavi considers part of the original vineyard, but some others do not. Given the sums fruit – and wine – bearing the To Kalon name command, it’s unsurprising that its usage is so disputed.  
To Kalon: what does the wine taste like?  So what makes the wine so special? Why do winemakers fight for the fruit, and consumers for the bottles they produce? Despite the sheer variety of the site, Tor Kenward is adamant that there’s a continuity, with a profile that that site gives Cabernet. He describes it as “wall-to-wall carpeting”, a plushness to the mid-palate, a softness, that means the Cabernet isn’t hard-edged. “There’s something about the ground there,” Andy Erickson agrees. For him, To Kalon has a distinct tannin texture – not as rugged as hillside sites, but richer, with a generosity in the wines. “They are dark, aromatic, but very broad and polished,” he says. “I think the vineyard brings forward many of the complexities of Cabernet Sauvignon, but delivers it in a very approachable and elegant package.” “It’s very identifiable,” Paul Hobbs says. “It’s a structural and textural thing mostly. It’s a freshness to this sort of tannin. It has grip, but it has this uplifting character.” He explains it like a skipping stone – you think you’ve got it, then another wave comes, the wine shifting on the palate. For him, one of the most distinctive things is that Cabernet sings alone here – much better than blended with other varietals. “It didn’t need the help of its brothers,” he says. “It’s a wine that’s at peace with itself… It doesn’t shock you, except in its beauty.”
 Who owns what today in To Kalon? Robert Mondavi: From the original 12 acres, Mondavi now owns 328 acres of To Kalon, including the Stelling extension. Has the rights to use the To Kalon name.  Opus One: The 35-acre Q Block was sold to the joint venture by Mondavi in 1981, with K block acquired in 2008. Although under Constellation’s ownership they could likely use the To Kalon name, Opus One doesn’t trade on this. (To Kalon Vineyard Company uses fruit from Constellation’s holdings, both Opus One and Mondavi plots.) UC Davis: a research block that was key in developing phylloxera-resistant rootstock
Beckstoffer: 89 acres, with fruit sold to a range of producers (currently 23), including Paul Hobbs, Tor Kenward and Schrader. Producers can use the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon” on their labels. MacDonald (sometimes referenced as Horton): Graeme and Alex MacDonald are the current generation, owning 21 acres of the 1891 parcel. When their great-grandparents bought the site in 1954 (along with the Detert plot – see below – from Caroline Stelling, Martin Stelling’s widow) it was planted with cherry trees. Advised by Robert Mondavi, the MacDonalds planted vines. From 1966, they sold grapes to Mondavi – holding some back for personal use from 2004, with the first MacDonald commercial release in 2010 (just 92 cases). Although historically 75% of production here has been sold to Mondavi, I’m led to believe that the contract is coming to a close and won’t be renewed. The MacDonalds can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines currently. Detert: Today owned by Tom Garrett, a cousin of the MacDonalds. This 25-acre plot was bought in 1954, along with the MacDonald parcel – divided between the buyers’ children giving the two plots today. There’s more Cabernet Franc in this section. Most of the fruit is sold to Mondavi (with the contract, as for MacDonald, coming to an end soon), and Detert can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines. The Vineyard House: Many dispute whether or not this is original To Kalon; it’s on the hillside area purchased (but not planted) by Crabb in 1891. This plot is owned by Jeremy Justin Nickel, who is the son of the late Far Niente proprietor Gil Nickel. It’s thought to have first been planted with vines in 1980. They can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines, but have taken court action over the issue.  Wineries with To Kalon bottlings  NB Not all of these will bear the To Kalon name on the label Mondavi Winery, Opus One, To Kalon Vineyard Company, MacDonald, Detert, Alpha Omega, Amici, Alejandro Bulgheroni Estate, AXR, Bacio Divino, B Cellars, Boich Family, Bounty Hunter, Cain Concept, Carter cellars, Ch Boswell, Jacquelynn, Kitchak, Cliff Lede, Morlet, Realm Cellars, Tor Kenward, Paul Hobbs, Schrader Cellars Read more Editorial 

The Napa Valley has many incredible vineyards, but To Kalon undoubtedly sits at the top of the tree. As the To Kalon Vineyard Company releases their latest vintage, Sophie Thorpe delves into the story of this iconic site – from its 19th century origins to the fight to use its hallowed name

Explore the history of To Kalon vineyard – and what makes it such an iconic site today. We spoke to Andy Erickson, Paul Hobbs and Tor Kenward to find out more

The tale of Napa’s iconic To Kalon vineyard

The tale of To Kalon

Deperu Holler

Italy

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