Sitting opposite us, the dark-suited, dark-haired figure waved an elegant hand at the bottle of white Burgundy which he’d just fished out of a carrier bag and planted on the table with the air of a conjuror at a party. “You’ll like this,” he said; it was a statement, not a suggestion, delivered in a faint accent with American overtones and a hint of gutturality. In this totally unremarkable West London pub, a bottle of Meursault looked as out of place as a KGB officer. Which he was. We did like it, of course, who wouldn’t? It made the greasy steak and chips almost bearable, and was one of the best wines I’d ever tasted at that point in my life. I was 33 that year, 1978, and as a newish BBC foreign correspondent I wasn’t particularly well paid. He’d brought the Meursault with him to show us how sophisticated he was, and to counter the blandness of the food. But why had he suggested The Mitre as a place for lunch? It was handy for the Soviet embassy up the road, certainly; but I realised that the real attraction for him was the high-backed seats that enclosed our table and kept our conversation private. Sergei was a major in the KGB, masquerading as a press attaché. The habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in him. The Meursault started to work on my companion, a gossipy, amusing, slightly naïve BBC executive. It worked on me, too, but under the influence of alcohol I tend to go quiet and introverted. Not so Harry. He delivered the brief lecture about Soviet harassment of our Moscow correspondent which he’d been planning. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t make Sergei burst into tears. On the contrary. “Ah, yes, the famous Declan.” Sergei managed to put the accent on the second syllable. “Such good Russian. A pity he wastes his time hanging around those drop-outs and wastrels.” I was particularly impressed by ‘wastrels’. “I suppose you mean dissidents,” I said, pushing my glass across for more Meursault. The label read ‘1968’; the Soviet embassy must have had a superb cellar. Sergei laughed scornfully and poured. “I hear Declan’s marriage isn’t going so good now,” he said. “Ah, no, his wife left him for an airline pilot,” Harry replied, giggling. I kicked him sharply: you didn’t feed personal details about your colleagues to KGB officers. “What?” Harry said, looking at me. We saw the bottle out. Sometimes I think I can still taste that rich, green-gold collection of butter, almond, citrus and, could it have been, or is it just my imagination after more than 40 years, hints of bracken and mayflower. At the end, we stood up and shook hands. “So you’ll go easy on Declan from now on?” Harry said. “Well, Declan must stop creating bad propaganda against the Soviet Union.” He had a good ear: this time the accent was on the first syllable. Sergei turned in the direction of the embassy, and we headed back to Television Centre. “Bloody good wine those Russkies can afford,” Harry said, and gave his high-pitched laugh.For journalists and spies, booze is a famous lubricant, a fuel, even. I came from a teetotal background, yet when I started as a foreign correspondent I soon found myself ordering a glass of single malt as a means of self-protection, while someone I was trying to pump for information opened up and talked in a way he or she never would if I’d ordered a Britvic orange. Yet there were exceptions. In Belfast and Derry, where I started my reporting career, the leaders of the Provisional IRA were mostly ultra-Catholic and never drank a drop; and as I branched out and began reporting on the Middle East, I found that organisations like Hezbollah and the followers of the Ayatollah were as teetotal as I had once been. There were no bars to meet them in, either. Fortunately, though, cities like Cairo and Beirut were more sophisticated. I soon found that anywhere with a sizeable Christian population, Egypt and Lebanon, of course, but also Syria, Iraq and westernised countries like Turkey and Pakistan, made allowances for thirsty westerners and permitted them to drink, even if in cities like Peshawar you had to sign a big leather volume and register yourself as an alcoholic. The bar in the old Commodore Hotel in Beirut was a wonderful centre for professional alcoholics of this kind. I first went there in June 1982, when West Beirut was under hourly attack from Israeli planes and tanks, and there were no shelters to protect us. The presiding spirit of the place was a correspondent called Chris Drake, a hospitable soul who dispensed booze and information even-handedly. When the barrage was going on, it would have been suicidal to leave the Commodore, and the building shuddered to every nearby explosion. Chris Drake had a parrot, and when the bar was packed in the evening with journalists glad to still be alive, it would imitate the sound of a shell in flight with startling accuracy. Most of the people there, not me, thank God, had walked into the bar on their first night, heard the parrot’s hugely convincing whistle, and thrown themselves on the floor shouting “Incoming!”. There would be a roar of laughter, and someone would help them up and offer them a glass of arak, an infusion of grapes and the seeds of the anise plant. I acquired a real taste for arak at that time, and I still think of that slightly oily, metallic, liquorice-tasting liquid hitting the back of my throat and burning its way down. A few years later, during another upsurge of fighting, the Commodore was heavily shelled by the Syrian army. The building was destroyed, and no trace of the parrot was ever found. When peace was restored and there was money around, the Commodore was rebuilt, much bigger and more glitzy, but the architect designed a new bar precisely where the old one had once been. You can still see the space on the floor where many a famous journalist measured his length when the parrot did its party trick. I took my wife and 13-year-old son there a couple of years ago, and one afternoon, when the bar was empty, my son insisted on re-enacting the whole thing. In China, things were different. Meetings with underground figures usually took place at their homes or outdoors, given the fear of surveillance. I often chose Ritan Park in Beijing, where teahouses served pu-erh tea and offered a discreet place to talk. By contrast, official meetings required alcohol, specifically Maotai, a fierce baijiu distilled from sorghum at over 50% ABV. At one banquet, after being insulted by a local Party official, I tried to outdrink him. The plan failed, he had help, but we still ended the night collapsed together, singing in two languages. The next day, I was told this had enhanced British prestige. Countries where alcohol is banned present different challenges. In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I smuggled in a 27-year-old bottle of Laphroaig disguised as Fanta, only to pour it down the toilet when soldiers began searching rooms for alcohol. They never entered mine. After the fall of the Soviet Union, I tried to track Sergei down but never found him. Before that, though, I had taken my revenge by signing him up to every unwanted mailing list I could find, encyclopaedias, dubious magazines, and more inventive subscriptions besides. It made me feel very good.And yet, if I imagine meeting him again, I always picture the same thing: Sergei standing in the doorway, holding a superb bottle of Meursault. For that, at least, I’ve always been grateful. This article was written by John Simpson, who reflects on his experiences reporting across the world, and the role alcohol has played in the art of face-to-face reconnaissance. Illustrations by Natsko Seki. Originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson reflects on reporting from conflict zones, recalling memorable bars, encounters and the role alcohol plays in the subtle art of face-to-face reconnaissance.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson on bars, encounters and how alcohol shapes reporting, trust and intelligence gathering worldwide.

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

Mi sono seduto per la prima volta con l’enologo Chris Phelps quasi due anni fa, immergendomi nel suo straordinario percorso. Avendo lavorato in realtà come Dominus, Caymus e Inglenook, fu il caso – o forse il destino – a portarlo a fondare la sua etichetta, Ad Vivum, nel 2007. 
 Era seduto sopra un tino di frutta appena in fermentazione quando fu colpito da un “coup de foudre” – innamorandosi all’istante di Sleeping Lady Vineyard, un sito coltivato dal suo caro amico Larry Bettinelli. Comprò il mosto a metà fermentazione e da allora lo fa a ogni vendemmia. 
 I blocchi specifici che riempivano quel tino si trovavano contro i Mayacamas, proprio nella parte più alta del vigneto, che è il sito più meridionale di Yountville. Qui le viti sono riparate dall’ardore del sole pomeridiano, preservando acidità e aromi nel frutto, mentre un flusso d’acqua sotterraneo permette al sito di prosperare anche negli anni più siccitosi. Ogni anno, da soli 1,5 acri di Cabernet Sauvignon, Phelps crea un’altra espressione del sito. 
 Le parcelle esatte sono cambiate leggermente nel tempo. Nel 2007, le viti erano tutte Clone 191 – il clone che riteneva migliore per il sito, ma il blocco aveva bisogno di essere reimpiantato, quindi si iniziò a usare frutta da una parcella adiacente, piantata con Clone 7. Dopo un “balletto attentamente ponderato” bilanciando le due parcelle, l’annata 2024 segna il ritorno all’uso esclusivo della frutta dalla parcella originale, ora reimpiantata con Clone 191 (e noto come Clone 34, geneticamente identico al 191). 
 Phelps ha lasciato il suo lavoro quotidiano (lavorando per altre cantine) alla fine del 2023, potendo finalmente concentrarsi esclusivamente su Ad Vivum, oltre a un progetto più recente con il figlio Josh (Coil Wines). Sebbene avessimo già degustato le uscite correnti, all’inizio di questo mese abbiamo potuto assaggiare per la prima volta un trittico di vecchie annate. Hanno confermato quanto sia speciale questo sito, così come il talento di Phelps nel saperlo catturare in bottiglia. 
 Le tre annate che abbiamo assaggiato sono state 2016, 2017 e 2018 – tre anni molto diversi a Napa. Tutte e tre, tuttavia, riescono a combinare grande freschezza con la lucidità di Napa – dando vita a vini sorprendentemente già approcciabili. 
 2016 Ad Vivum 
 Con le parole di Phelps, il 2016 è stata “un’annata classica di Napa”; il clima è stato caldo a fine giugno, permettendo alle viti di concentrarsi sulla maturazione del frutto, mentre l’autunno ha portato temperature più fresche. Phelps ha vendemmiato dal 7 ottobre, fermentando in rovere francese nuovo al 21% (il resto in acciaio inox), con un totale di 19 giorni sulle bucce prima dell’elevage di 18 mesi in rovere francese nuovo al 65%. Ha sempre avuto “un’armoniosità”, ha osservato Phelps, e ciò è certamente vero degustando il vino. 
 Il naso offre frutto scuro dolce, purezza di grafite e accenni di fiori sollevati oltre a una vena erbacea. Il palato è lineare e puro, con acidità salivante e un cuore saporito di frutto maturo, dolce cassis e tannini maturi che forniscono una presa asciugante sul finale. Sebbene sia il più vecchio di questa mini-verticale, sembra quasi il più giovane e beneficerà certamente di ulteriore tempo in bottiglia. Un blend di 56% Clone 7 e 44% Clone 191 di Cabernet Sauvignon. 
 2017 Ad Vivum 
 L’annata 2017 è una di quelle che saranno ricordate per sempre per gli incendi a Napa, sebbene fortunatamente Ad Vivum non ne sia stato colpito. Dopo un germogliamento precoce, la stagione di crescita è stata segnata da tre ondate di calore – a metà giugno, a fine agosto e a metà settembre. Avere un sito più fresco, ombreggiato dal sole pomeridiano e con sufficienti riserve idriche è stato fondamentale per Phelps. Ha vendemmiato dal 5 ottobre, portando in cantina 55% Clone 191 e 45% Clone 7 di Cabernet. È stato fermentato in rovere francese nuovo al 25%, trascorrendo in totale 20 giorni sulle bucce (Phelps ha notato quanto facilmente colore e tannino arrivassero in questa annata calda), prima di essere elevato 17 mesi in rovere nuovo al 70%. 
 Il naso qui è brillante e profumato, combinando frutto scuro dolce – ciliegie nere e ribes nero – con slancio floreale e mina di matita. C’è una splendida purezza del frutto, che prosegue su un palato denso ma fresco, mostrando una succosa eleganza. C’è una masticabilità appagante nei tannini, fermi ma vellutati, che incorniciano le ondate di frutto che scorrono verso il lungo finale salino. Invitante e goloso, è difficile resistergli ora. 
 2018 Ad Vivum 
 Sebbene l’annata 2018 a Napa sia iniziata con un germogliamento relativamente tardivo, temperature più fresche e uniformi hanno dato vita a una stagione di crescita lunga, producendo rese relativamente abbondanti – eppure senza alcuna diluizione, grazie alla stagione prolungata. Phelps ha vendemmiato dal 17 ottobre, con il blend che è tornato verso circa due terzi di Clone 191 di Cabernet dalla parcella originale e un terzo di Clone 7. Fermentato in rovere francese nuovo al 25%, Phelps ha lasciato il 2018 sulle bucce per 23 giorni – leggermente più a lungo rispetto ad altre annate, ritenendo che il frutto strutturato avesse bisogno di più tempo per raggiungere il suo potenziale, cosa rispecchiata da un’elevage di 20 mesi in rovere nuovo al 75%. Phelps osserva quanto generoso sia stato questo vino fin dall’inizio, ma quanto abbia sviluppato ulteriore opulenza e profondità in bottiglia. 
 Questo è un vino splendido: il naso è intenso, esuberante di frutto scuro e con una soddisfacente vena erbacea. Sebbene il ribes nero e la prugna nera siano splendidamente maturi e setosi, c’è un’acidità brillante che porta una freschezza meravigliosa – per un palato agile e vibrante. I tannini sono rotondi e levigati, conferendo struttura senza sforzo, mentre c’è un bordo salino e saporito nel lungo finale. Esplora tutte le offerte attuali di Ad Vivum, inclusa una cassa mista di 2016, 2017 e 2018, o leggi di più sulla California

Dal 2007, Chris Phelps lavora con appena 1,5 acri di Cabernet Sauvignon nel vigneto Sleeping Lady a Yountville. Il vino che ne è nato è Ad Vivum, una splendida espressione di questo luogo speciale. Abbiamo incontrato Phelps per una degustazione in miniatura del progetto.

Exploring Chris Phelps’s Ad Vivum Napa Cabernet Sauvignon wine from Yountville’s Sleeping Lady Vineyard through three vintages, 2016, 2017 and 2018 

Tasting Ad Vivum Napa Cabernet Sauvignon – 2016-2018 

Degustazione Ad Vivum: 2016-2018

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

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

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur: vintage overview      

Bordeaux 2025: vintage overview               

Looking out across the Côte d’Or, the astute might notice a few more gaps amongst the rows of vines than normal. Dig a little deeper, listening to nervous murmurs in cellars around the region, and you’ll hear that there’s trouble below the surface – with a once-favoured rootstock the culprit.  We like to imagine the life of a Burgundian vigneron as one of the happiest in the world; a bucolic existence in the vineyards, or else surrounded by casks, vats and bottles of their gorgeous bottles. We rather enjoy the product ourselves – despite the occasional irritations of a corked or otherwise flawed bottle resulting in a failed experience. Still, the only loss is of that specific bottle. Sometimes there can be clouds in a vigneron’s life, storm clouds. A hailstorm might destroy the crop in one sector of a vineyard: that cuvée disappears off the map for a whole year, the vigneron’s work for the season destroyed in a single half hour. Or, though we have not seen this for many years, an entire vintage may be compromised by torrential rain throughout the harvest. It is hard to imagine what it can be like to lose a whole year’s crop in one go, but how much worse must it be when there is an existential threat to the life of the vine itself. Two recent threats have been the disease esca, known as the black goo in some parts of the world, and flavescence dorée. Both can bring rapid mortality to individual vines, but can be treated. Now there is a new and insidious problem to contend with: one of the key rootstocks widely used in Burgundy seems to be giving up on the job. The 161/49C rootstock has been the favourite for a generation here. The C stands for Couderc, specifically Georges Couderc who bred this rootstock as far back as 1888, shortly after it had become apparent that only vines grafted on to American non-vitis vinifera rootstocks could resist the phylloxera beetle. It is a Berlandieri x Riparia cross, designed to be relatively resistant to active limestone (very important in Burgundy), and is not over-productive: indeed, it has been such an obvious choice for producers looking for quality over quantity that it has been exceptionally widely planted in Burgundy of late. But 161/49C is giving up on its job. The failures were first seen in the south and south-west of France, and are now widespread in Burgundy. The damage was mostly done with more recent plantings: which may have given rise to the theory of the rootstock having intrinsically degenerated. However, another explanation has emerged, that the younger vines do not have deep enough root systems to be able to search out underground water, whereas the old vines with established root systems appear to be able to carry on serenely. The story is still unfolding and I doubt that we have all the answers yet. I learn from Pl@ntGrape that 161/49C is theoretically relatively resistant to drought, a view which may very well be changing. Whereas discussions with vignerons a few years ago were based around the assumption that this rootstock which had been so good was suddenly failing, as if it had run out of energy entirely or else the mother plant had contracted some sort of disease, the view most commonly heard is that this rootstock cannot manage the new hotter, drier conditions. In almost every cellar, a question about 161/49C yields a glum response. Yes, we are suffering. At first vignerons pulled out damaged vines and replaced them individually, but when each following year the losses multiplied further, the bullet of ripping out the whole plot has to be bitten – demoralising, expensive and with repercussions for years to come. You need to leave the plot fallow for at least two years (wise old heads say five to seven years) before replanting. The first mini-crop arrives three years later and the vine does not really reach maturity for 20 years. Antoine Jobard is pulling out a plot of Meursault Genevrières that he only planted in 2017. Cyrielle Rousseau adds an additional nuance: a plot of Clos de la Roche recently replanted with three separate clones, all on 161/49C rootstock is suffering much worse in relation to one of the three clones compared to the others. A further headache is that it is not clear what to plant instead. Among its close siblings – other Berlandieri x Riparia crosses – are 420A, 5BB and Teleki 5C which are all now being widely trialled in place of 161/49C: but the worry persists that these too may develop the same issues. Others are looking at 41B – quite widely used in Chablis – which dislikes drought but does not die of it according to Roger Saumaize (Pouilly-Fuissé), or 3309 which is tricky where there is a high active limestone content. François Lumpp in Givry has switched to 363 Montpellier though he noted pithily (and I have cleaned it up a bit!), “When you buy stuff that’s rubbish, you find out too late: whether it’s the cork, the barrel or the cuttings from the nursery.” Solutions will be found: a rootstock that can cope with drought, doesn’t mind a bit of limestone, is later rather than earlier ripening, and allows the vine to deliver fine quality grapes. Auditions are being held now! One thing is sure – smart producers are going to hedge their bets by settling on a mix of different options, to avoid having all their grapes in one basket. Jasper Morris – the man behind Inside Burgundy – is a Master of Wine and leading Burgundy expert, living, working and writing in the region.

Leading Burgundy expert and Inside Burgundy author Jasper Morris MW investigates a rootstock causing trouble in Burgundy

Jasper Morris MW on rootstock in Burgundy

The root of the matter

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

Making wine under conflict Between 1975 and 1990, Lebanon was a mosaic of wars caused by complex shifting political, geographical, and demographical factors. When 16 years of Civil War were finally over, the foundations for a new republic had been laid, but at a considerable cost. Over 100,000 people were dead, nearly one million had been displaced, and billions of dollars worth of property and infrastructure had been destroyed. Chateau Musar’s vineyards had suffered damage from fighting in the Beka’a Valley, but although the winery in Ghazir had been subject to intermittent shelling, it had escaped significant damage. The fact that Musar only missed one year of winemaking during this period is no mere miracle – but a testament to the family Hochar’s dedication and devotion to their vision in the face of the most horrendous ‘working conditions’ imaginable. For Serge Hochar, protecting the family business his father had established was paramount. “If you ask me on which side I fought during these 15 years,” he once said, “I can only tell you that I was fighting for my wines.” And fight, he did. The effort required to get the Musar grapes from the vineyards to the winery each year during the Civil War was nothing short of Herculean. The pickers, who would often pick under artillery and gunfire as the dug-in militias bombarded each other, emerged as heroes. As did the truck drivers, who risked their lives when running the gauntlet of a journey that in peacetime can be made in two and a half hours, but during the war had sometimes taken several days. The story of Musar’s 1984 vintage in particular highlights the adversity Serge Hochar and family faced during the conflict – and also vindicates the passion at the heart of their decision to keep diligently making wine. In 1984, there was almost no vintage as there were only enough grapes to fill two trucks which proved to be a good thing as there were only two truck drivers brave enough to attempt to get them back to the winery.  Each went a different route. One took five days, the other seven. All the while, the grapes in the trucks were piled up, squashed, heating up in the hot sun each day and starting to ferment. A delivery of warm grapes can result in musty, unappealing wine but – such was
his philosophical outlook – Serge defiantly made wine with them anyway, bottling it and cellaring it to let it “become whatever it decided to be”.  Chateau Musar’s 1984 red should, in theory, have been a terrible wine. But against all odds, given the right conditions and no small amount of time, has become not only a drinkable wine – but a delicious, complex, exciting one, brimming with life and hope. The small amount of the vintage that exists was released to the marketplace in 2014 (exactly 30 years after it was made) and the bottles that occasionally appear on the market are very highly prized. This wine – and all of the vintages made during the Civil War – represent the Musar legacy Serge Hochar left in the capable hands of his sons Gaston and Marc, and his brother Ronald and his son Ralph, along with viticulturalist and winemaker Tarek Sakr. These wines were made during a time when simply driving to check on your crop or to pick up supplies meant dicing with death. “We did our best with what we have, as always. This is the Lebanese way. You give me grapes, and my job is only to help them to be the best wine they can be.” - Serge Hochar Chateau Musar: the Civil War years (1975-1990) 
Miraculously, in the 16 years of Civil War in Lebanon, not a single one of Chateau Musar’s employees was killed – even though many of the Hochar’s friends and neighbours lost their lives in sniper attacks, bombardments or car bombings. The winery escaped serious damage and, in retrospect, seems to have been the safest place in Lebanon. Thousands of bottles stored deep underground in Musar’s cellars carved in the limestone heart of Mount Lebanon slept peacefully during the years of conflict.  The Hochars even converted part of the cellars into a bomb shelter for refugees fleeing Beirut. And they took any opportunities they could to distribute and ship their wines while all the madness of war enveloped them, steadily growing Musar’s reputation around the world. By the end of the Civil War, Chateau Musar was so much more than a maker of exquisite wines. It had established itself as an icon of national endurance and hope. And who wouldn’t drink to that? Read more about life at Chateau Musar during the Civil War years with the timeline below: 1976 30,000 Syrian troops move into Lebanon ostensibly to restore peace, but in reality, this was Syria’s attempt to claim the lands (including the Beka’a Valley) it believes it was owed when Lebanon became independent in 1943. “In 1976 there was total war in Lebanon. We had no electricity. No fuel. No transport. No harvest. No nothing. 1976 was the only year in which we failed to make any wine. For others, the weather is a problem – for us, it is war.” Without the ability to reach the grapes, to pick them and bring them back to the winery, there could be no new wine. Even if there had been, there was nobody to buy it. So Serge saw the opportunity to reach out and find new markets for the wines he had in his cellars. His father-in-law had a travel-agency in London and agreed to start importing his wines in the UK. 1977 From 1977 to 1990 (and during plenty of small dirty wars since) the Hochar family successfully made wine each year – often plucking grapes from the barbed wire zones of the frontline. “During times of war, we have to put all our belief and all our assets in wine!” said Serge. “We have to keep going with the things that are our essence. By now, I was used to war. So I kept on making wine; I was making it for a market I did not yet know existed.”

 1978 The UN steps in with peacekeeping troops and Israel is forced to withdraw from Lebanon. Syria steps in instead, targeting the Christian population in the ‘Hundred Days’ War’, the worst offensive for two years. Serge: “There was very heavy shelling in Beirut. The Syrians shelled Achrafiyeh, where our office is [in central Beirut]. At the time, my wife Tania was running the Godiva chocolatier nearby. She took the kids to the winery cellar in Ghazir in shock. There were many dead in Achrafiyeh. My secretary hid in the strong metal filing cabinet. Many people here were psychologically affected.” 
 1979 Revolution in Iran leads to radicalisation of the Shi'ite movement in Lebanon, and the creation of the Amal party, the ‘movement of the dispossessed’.

 1980 Bashir Gemayal unites Lebanon’s Christian military factions, creating the Lebanese Forces political party.  Serge: “This was one of the worst years of the war for us. I used to write a harvest report, but have mislaid it for this year.”  Chateau Musar UK was officially established this year. 1981 Relations between Syria and Israel deteriorate. Serge: “This was a year of terrible hardship. Tania and the kids left for London. They had to. I could not guarantee their safety. They came back, then left again in 1983. I promised that I would join them the moment the war ended. We did see each other every few months when I could get a flight.” 
 1982 Israel invades Lebanon again intending to dislodge the PLO. Some 18,000 people, mostly civilians, lose their lives as the battle-zone moves towards Beirut. Italian, French and US troops assist in the evacuation of the Palestinians. In the Beka’a, 80 hectares of Musar vineyards become the frontline between the Syrians and Israelis, whose tanks faced each other over the vines. Serge calculates that he will not be able to harvest grapes from them again until 1985. But he does. In the confusion that ensues after the invasion, the loyal Bedouin pickers collect what fruit they can, and the Hochar trucks manage to make their way to the winery. Serge: “The 1982 is a pure wine of war.” 1983 Times darken further as suicide bombing reprisals shock Beirut and its suburbs. In the Chouf mountains, the Mountain War begins. That summer, Serge took his family on holiday to the US. During a stop-over in Paris on their return journey, war broke out again so the family decided to settle in France. Winter is severe in the Beka’a, with metres of snow coating the vineyards; summer is barely warmer, and the Hochars’ harvest was late. A break in fighting, instilled by the American fleet anchored off Beirut, came at just the right time for the vineyard manager to pick a few grape bunches and smuggle them into Beirut for Ronald to check. They were good: there had been no rain, no heatwave, and the grapes had reached perfect condition. Ronald put in a call to Serge, who was visiting the US, and the brothers decided to match the bravery of their vineyard manager and order the harvest in. “It was very dangerous,” admits Ronald: “Serge flew to Cyprus, then took a six-hour hovercraft crossing to Beirut; he arrived at the winery in Ghazir moments after two rockets blasted the coast road he’d just been driving on.”  The truck drivers, with their precious loads of hand-cut grapes, carefully negotiated the capillary-like country roads that would lead them to the winery, relying on a network of local gossip to learn which roads the militias were controlling with checkpoints and which route between the Beka’a and Ghazir would be the least bloody. They were successful. As Ronald said, there were two advantages: “Our usual headache, the traffic jams, were gone. And the harvest, just like that of 1982, was excellent!” 
 1984 The Lebanese Forces, having controlled the capital since 1982, are expelled, and the Amal Party takes control of West Beirut. Peacekeeping forces (from the US, Italy and the UK) leave Lebanon. Serge: “We did our best with what we have, as always. This is the Lebanese way. You give me grapes, and my job is only to help them to be the best wine they can be. In 1984 the sun was very hot, and the fighting was hotter. After waiting and waiting for a break in the shelling, and more than a month after the last day of the harvest should have been, we quickly picked whatever grapes were left on the vines. Most were very ripe and sugary. There were enough grapes for only two truckloads, and only two of our drivers were brave enough to attempt the journey to Ghazir.  The first truck managed to find a way through the cedar forests in the northern Beka’a and get eventually to Tripoli, near the northern border with Syria. In five days it was with us. The second truck drove south over mountain tracks to Jezzine, then crossed the battlefronts on the way down to Sidon. From there, the trucks needed to avoid Beirut, so they waited for a boat. There was a terrible storm, which delayed the ferry to Jounieh.  Eventually, the storm was quiet enough and the ferry sailed slowly up the coast. The trucks arrived at the winery after seven days, on October 20th, 45 days after what should have been the end of the harvest – 45! So, in 1984 the grapes that we received were hot, bruised, sticky and very much fermenting. As an act of defiance, and as an act of faith, as a way of showing that the Lebanese spirit can never be broken, we made those grapes into wine. I made the 1984 to declare war against war.” Fittingly, 1984 was the year that Serge Hochar was named as the first ever Decanter magazine ‘Man of the Year’ - for his unswerving commitment to winemaking. 
 1985 The Israelis continue their withdrawal from the south of Lebanon under armed pressure from Hezbollah. They keep an occupied ‘security zone’ along their border. In the War of the Camps, Palestinian refugee camps are targeted by Shi'ite and Amal militia. Serge: “The Israelis continued to withdraw from Sidon, but it was still difficult to get the grapes from the Beka’a to the winery. After this year, things started to settle down, on our terms.” 1986 Serge: “Military action destroyed some of the vineyards on Mount Lebanon. Our white grape Obaideh was, and is, grown on the slopes of the Anti-Lebanon and was still available – but we only ever used this grape for Arak (Lebanon’s aniseed-flavoured aperitif). Prior to 1986, the Chateau white was only produced from Merwah grapes. From 1986 we began to blend Obaideh with Merwah and the combination worked. We were the first to use these two local varieties in a unique new style of wine.” Close to four decades later, Musar is still the only one. 1987 Anger at the continued presence of Israel in Lebanon is augmented by the first Intifada (Palestinian uprising against Israel’s occupation of the West Bank and Gaza).

 1988 Following Amin Gemayel, Lebanon’s new interim president is announced as Michel Aoun. Serge: “Life in Lebanon was not so hectic in 1988. It was a normal year, politically speaking.” 1989 President Aoun declares war on Syria. After seven months of fighting, with 800 dead, the Arab League negotiates a ceasefire. The Taif Agreement is signed, with the ethos ‘no victor and no vanquished’, in an attempt to end the Lebanese Civil War. Meanwhile, life is beginning to return to normal in the Hochar vineyards. In an impressive vintage, Carignan grapes begin to win Serge’s heart.

 1990 Miraculously, in the 16 years of Civil War in Lebanon, not a single one of Chateau Musar’s employees was killed – even though many of the Hochar’s friends and neighbours lost their lives in sniper attacks, bombardments or car bombings. The winery escaped serious damage and, in retrospect, seems to have been the safest place in Lebanon. Thousands of bottles stored deep underground in Musar’s cellars carved in the limestone heart of Mount Lebanon slept peacefully during the years of conflict.  The Hochars even converted part of the cellars into a bomb shelter for refugees fleeing Beirut. And they took any opportunities they could to distribute and ship their wines while all the madness of war enveloped them, steadily growing Musar’s reputation around the world. By the end of the Civil War, Chateau Musar was so much more than a maker of exquisite wines. It had established itself as an icon of national endurance and hope. And who wouldn’t drink to that?

Explore more Editorial 

The story of Ch. Musar’s 1984 vintage highlights the adversity of Serge Hochar during the conflict and also vindicates the passion to keep diligently making wine. We find out more

The story of Musar’s 1984 vintage highlights the adversity of Serge Hochar during the conflict and also vindicates the passion to keep diligently making wine

Civil War and Chateau Musar's fight for survival

Civil war and Chateau Musar's fight for survival

Di corporatura robusta e con una collana di cuoio, Mike Ratcliffe sembra un uomo che saprebbe gestire una mandria di bovini. Ma a quel lato massiccio fa da contraltare un accento ammorbidito dagli anni di lavoro e studio all’estero (per non parlare del fatto che è sposato con una britannica) e una certa eleganza – anche dopo un volo notturno dal Capo – che parla del mondo degli affari. È chiaro che non sia uno che fa giri di parole – un uomo con ambizione e non uno, sospetto, con cui vorresti metterti contro. Ma è altrettanto evidente che la sua astuta costruzione del brand sia stata fondamentale per il successo di Vilafonté. 
 È un uomo con un piano – un piano da 100 anni, in effetti. Da dicembre dell’anno scorso, quando i cofondatori la dott.ssa Zelma Long e il dott. Phil Freese si sono ritirati, Ratcliffe è l’unico uomo al timone di Vilafonté – un produttore di vino che sta attirando sempre più attenzione. In un recente report per il Wine Advocate, Anthony Mueller ha scritto: “Vilafonté continua ad avvicinarsi a tre cifre con uno spettacolare ventaglio di nuove uscite” – assegnando 99 punti alla sua Series C 2021 (rendendolo il vino sudafricano con il punteggio più alto a pari merito finora, accanto al Palladius 2021 di Sadie e a un Muscat of Alexandria del 1800 di Jaubert). Ma Ratcliffe non si riposa sugli allori: come mi dice, “Se stai per fare qualcosa, fallo al 100%.” La famiglia di Ratcliffe possedeva Warwick Estate – e quando il mondo si è aperto al vino sudafricano all’indomani dell’apartheid – si resero conto di aver bisogno di aiuto per sviluppare i loro vini. Sebbene Warwick fosse uno dei nomi storici della nazione, “Eravamo il pesce grande nello stagno piccolo,” dice Ratcliffe – e per crescere a livello internazionale, avevano bisogno di un contributo esterno. Ingaggiarono Phil Freese – allora Vice President of Winegrowing alla Robert Mondavi e responsabile dell’impianto dei primi vigneti di Opus One – come consulente viticolo (per un compenso “sbalorditivo”, mi racconta Ratcliffe). L’investimento ripagò e dopo due anni avevano fatto progressi straordinari – e Freese suggerì di coinvolgere Zelma Long (in precedenza alla Robert Mondavi, poi Simi) come consulente per la parte enologica. 
 Nel frattempo Freese stava lavorando al suo dottorato, che comprendeva ricerche sui suoli più antichi del mondo – molti dei quali scoprì trovarsi nell’Africa meridionale. Il suolo documentato più antico in Africa è il vilafontes, che si ritiene abbia avuto origine 800 milioni di anni fa – e lui, insieme alla Long (che in seguito sposò), iniziò a interrogarsi sul potenziale di questo suolo per il vino. La coppia – con l’aiuto di un investitore, Sydney Back – acquistò 40 ettari di terra nel 1996, ai piedi del monte Simonsberg a Paarl, piantando le prime viti l’anno successivo. Nacque così Vilafonté. Ratcliffe aveva lavorato all’estero come skipper, prima di partire per Roseworthy per ottenere un MBA in wine nel 1999, ma aveva conosciuto la Long e Freese grazie al loro lavoro a Warwick e teneva d’occhio la loro nuova impresa. Poco dopo il suo rientro a casa, Sydney Back – un uomo che Ratcliffe descrive come “il Robert Mondavi del Sudafrica” – venne a mancare, e così Long e Freese cercavano un nuovo partner. In modo impulsivo, Ratcliffe si offrì – affannandosi per racimolare il denaro in tempo per finalizzare l’accordo nel 2001. 
 Il trio fece vino nel 2000 e 2001 ma solo per prendere confidenza con il sito, pianificando di fare del 2002 la prima annata in commercio. Sfortunatamente, la vendemmia fu difficile e la Long disse loro con fermezza: “È buono – ma non abbastanza.” Una decisione che la banca non apprezzò necessariamente (“Fu un anno duro,” dice Ratcliffe) – ma che permise loro di lanciare con il 2003, “probabilmente la migliore annata del decennio” secondo Ratcliffe (e un vino che mi dice essere ancora “impeccabile”). Nessuno sembra essere certo di come “vilafontes” sia diventato Vilafonté – se sia stata una scelta di marketing per aggiungere un tocco gallico al nome, o solo un errore lungo il percorso – ma è rimasto. In origine avevano pianificato di produrre un unico Grand Vin, ma il sito aveva altre idee – dando vita a due stili distinti, e così crearono Series C (un blend a base Cabernet) e Series M (un blend a base Merlot). Forse non ha perfetto senso dal punto di vista commerciale avere due vini di punta, ma esperimenti ripetuti hanno (finora, almeno) confermato che fu la scelta giusta. Sebbene alcuni appezzamenti appartengano chiaramente a C o a M, i blend cambiano ogni anno – e l’uva di viti più giovani o ciò che non si integra viene declassato a Seriously Old Dirt. Quest’ultimo vino è stato lanciato con l’annata 2012, utilizzando uva acquistata in tutto il Western Cape oltre a parcelle declassate per offrire un punto d’ingresso da bere prima nel marchio Vilafonté. 
 Il segreto dei vini è il suolo – terreni incredibilmente poveri, antichissimi, degradati e carenti di nutrienti – che costringono le viti a lottare davvero. Anche dopo 27 anni, le viti sono ancora piccole e gracili – producono rese minuscole di frutta concentrata. È uno dei motivi per cui il sito – per quanto ne sanno – non era mai stato piantato, e gli agricoltori locali erano perplessi sul perché qualcuno avesse deciso di mettere radici qui. Unisci questo a un approccio “profondamente pragmatico” (parole di Ratcliffe), e a un team di lungo corso dedito a fare “la stessa cosa ancora e ancora e ancora”, e hai la ricetta per qualcosa di speciale. Per Ratcliffe è fondamentale che non stiano cercando di creare qualcosa di nuovo a ogni vendemmia – ma di proseguire nell’inseguimento della perfezione con Series C e M. Lavorano in modo sostenibile ma sensato, con cover crop, irrigazione a goccia sotterranea high-tech e una cantina alimentata esclusivamente a energia solare, ma evitano certificazioni o di puntare su credenziali green: per il team di Vilafonté, conta solo la qualità in bottiglia. Per anni, Ratcliffe ha fatto i salti mortali gestendo sia Warwick sia Vilafonté, ma alla fine ha venduto la sua vecchia azienda di famiglia a un fondo di venture capital californiano, permettendogli di concentrarsi esclusivamente su Vilafonté. La proprietà ha appena rilasciato i suoi 2021, la 18ª annata proveniente dalla tenuta di Paarl – e i suoi vini con i punteggi più alti finora. Eppure Ratcliffe è chiaro che questo è solo l’ultimo passo del suo masterplan. Le viti non hanno ancora compiuto 30 anni, e ci sono ancora alcune piccole parcelle nella tenuta che potrebbero essere piantate, mentre il team conduce costantemente prove – con la libertà di mettere in discussione tutto ciò che pensa di sapere. Proprio lo scorso dicembre (2023), Long e Freese si sono ritirati – dopo un periodo di passaggio di quattro anni, ma resteranno coinvolti in modo informale. Ratcliffe però non guarda indietro: come dice lui, “I nostri vini più grandi sono davanti a noi.” 
 Le uscite 2021 di Vilafonté sono disponibili ora 
 Leggi altri Editorial

The Wine Advocate non ha ancora dato un punteggio perfetto a un vino sudafricano, ma alcuni ci si avvicinano. Di recente, Vilafonté ha ottenuto 99 punti per la Serie C 2021. In occasione dell’uscita, abbiamo parlato con il proprietario Mike Ratcliffe del progetto di Paarl e della sua rapida ascesa.

Wine Advocate recently awarded Vilafonte’s 2021 Series C 99 points – we sat down with owner Mike Ratcliffe to find out more about the Paarl wine estate

Kicking the dirt with Vilafonte’s Mike Ratcliffe

Calci nella polvere con Mike Ratcliffe di Vilafonté

Chris Phelps never really meant to start his own winery. But fate had other plans.  Wine had always been part of life, just in the background. Growing up in Livermore, east of San Francisco, Phelps’s parents would buy a ton of grapes from Napa or Sonoma, and make wine each year for themselves. Phelps even dug out a cellar by hand for them as a teenager. Nevertheless, when he set off for UC Davis, it wasn’t to study wine, but medicine. To pay for university, he took a job as a firefighter in Idaho (“kind of scary but super fun,” he tells me). By chance, he met a wine-geek friend, one who eventually convinced him to switch from pre-med to oenology. At Davis, he happened upon Alain Bertrand – one of the first scientists to use gas chromatography to delineate the different aromatic compounds in wine. The Frenchman didn’t speak much English, and Phelps spoke French – so they ended up becoming friends. Bertrand suggested Phelps attend the University of Bordeaux for a year after graduation. There, Phelps tells me, everything “started to fall into place”. Until then, wine had been intellectually interesting – but, during his time in France, it became much more.   There, another professor pushed him to apply for an internship – just in time for the 1982 harvest, a vintage that would turn out to be legendary. He already had offers from both Ch. Simon (Barsac) and Ch. Beauregard, but then was given the opportunity to interview with JP Moueix (of Pétrus). Unusually Christian Moueix insisted on joining the interview himself, alongside winemaker Jean-Claude Berrouet, and promptly gave him the job. The confident young American, however, said he’d think about it – and set off for a holiday in the south of France with his fiancée. Little did he know that Moueix had just bought a swathe of vineyard in Napa – and was planning for the future.  A few weeks later, Phelps was in Nice and bought three postcards from the Chagall museum – ready to make his decision about the three possible roads that lay ahead of him. He decided to take the position at Moueix, posted his rejections and acceptance, and carried on with his holiday. But, as harvest time approached, Phelps hadn’t heard anything back. He called Berrouet – only to find out that the French postal service had let him down, and the job at Pétrus had been given to someone else. It seemed like his luck had run out, but Berrouet said he might have another idea and would call him back in a few days.   While Berrouet couldn’t offer him anything as prestigious as Pétrus, he found Phelps a job at Ch. des Laurets in Puisseguin-Saint-Emilion – but he wouldn’t just be an intern, he’d be running everything. It was, Phelps said, a “trial by fire”, especially given his only hands-on experience to date had been six months at Louis Martini. He worked non-stop with just one cellar hand to help during the day, and managed to make it through the season.   When the wines were safely in barrel, he went to dinner at Christian Moueix’s house – where, sipping Champagne in the library, Moueix told Phelps about his plans for his Napa project, Dominus – and asked if he’d be the winemaker. “Of course, I said no,” Phelps tells me – recalling how the Frenchman opposite visibly sputtered at the American’s cheek (again). Phelps said he needed more money to live in Napa (and support his bride-to-be) – and more experience. Amazingly, Moueix agreed to let him start from 1984, given the 1983 vintage was set to be just a handful of experimental barrels, and to a pay rise. Off Phelps went, working around California and wintering at Pétrus before returning to lead the team at Dominus.   “We figured it out as we went along,” Phelps says, looking back on the early days of what is now one of Napa’s most prestigious estates. Today they might have the iconic Herzog & De Meuron winery, but things were much more rustic at the beginning – with a small team and little infrastructure. Phelps eventually moved on, joining Caymus in 1996 – but it’s what started happening after-hours, around his day job, that is interesting.  In 1990, Phelps met Larry Bettinelli at a Christian men’s retreat, and hit it off. It was only when they met up for lunch later that they realised they were both in the wine business, with Bettinelli a fifth-generation farmer who was growing grapes. Bettinelli wanted his vineyards to be the best in the valley – but he needed feedback on the fruit so that he could adapt his viticulture. He and Phelps hatched a plan: each year, Bettinelli would give Phelps a ton of fruit, trialling different clones, rootstocks, vine spacing and trellising, harvest methods, and Phelps would make a wine with it. The project was purely intellectual, so the two families drunk the wine themselves, and it also started being used as the altar wine at Phelps’s church (a much higher-grade communion offering than most). For two decades, they kept making tiny batches of their first-class “homebrew”, and Bettinelli became one of the valley’s best growers, working with an increasing number of sites around Napa.  Destiny seemed to abandon all subtlety in 2005. Phelps was hiking through the Sierra Nevada, leading a Scouts expedition, when they were struck by lightning. Two of the group died and Phelps was knocked unconscious. Unsurprisingly, it shook Phelps to the core. “Life is our most precious gift,” he says, “and if we use wine appropriately, it can enhance our lives.”  Two years later, Phelps was on top of a tank that had just been filled with crushed fruit from a relatively new Bettinelli site – and the smell was intoxicating. Following pure impulse, Phelps asked if he could – rather unconventionally – buy the tank’s contents, and Bettinelli said yes. Ad Vivum – inspired by the Latin “vinum” for wine and “vivere” to live, combined with “ad” which translates as “to” or “towards” – was born.  The vineyard was Sleeping Lady (previously Reese), the southernmost vineyard in Yountville, at the foot of the Mayacamas and on the southern end of the valley’s famous bench. There’s a flow of underground water that feeds a creek, with sufficient clay under the gravel and sand to retain water during the dry summer – and has, in Phelps’s words, a “beautiful ability” to self-regulate. Various other producers work with the vineyard, but his two blocks (representing a mere 1.5 acres) are right at the top of the vineyard, below a steep slope that aids the flow of cool air through the site at night. For him there was something special about these plots – producing fruit and wine with what Phelps describes as a “grace note”; it’s a whisper of something that takes the wine to the next level.  In a good year, production for Ad Vivum is 450 cases – but Phelps isn’t looking to grow. He makes one wine, from one site – and that’s the way he wants it to be. The wine is undoubtedly informed by his Franco-American roots, with an elegance, freshness and savoury structure that complements the plush Napa style. As he says, “I try to build wines that speak for themselves.”  Phelps’s – and Ad Vivum’s – story is one of happenstance. Or is it? With a man as devout as Phelps, it seems hard for anyone to believe it’s all an accident – and as Phelps himself says, looking back, it feels perhaps like it’s all part of a master plan.  Explore all current listings of Ad Vivum or read more about California 

Ad Vivum is a boutique Napa project from Chris Phelps. Sophie Thorpe spoke to him about how twists of fate saw him go from aspiring medic to star winemaker at the likes of Dominus, Caymus – and now his own label

Ad Vivum is a boutique Napa wine label from Chris Phelps. We spoke to the ex Dominus and Caymus winemaker about his journey – and its twists of fate

Discover Chris Phelps’s wine Ad Vivum, Napa

Divine intervention: Ad Vivum

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