A prince’s kiss rouses the cursed princess from a century-long slumber in Sleeping Beauty
but the man responsible for Bordeaux’s long-overdue reawakening was not a prince (this being the French Republic after all) but Alain Juppé, France’s former Prime Minister.  Bordeaux had been comatose, earning it the nickname la belle endormie, but the indefatigable politician has given the city the kiss of life. Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2007, it is now the most desirable place to live in France and was voted “European Best Destination 2015’. Bordeaux's renaissance is a real-life fairytale. Bordeaux was a “melancholy, unwelcoming place” just 20 years ago but the arrival of Alan
Juppé as mayor in 1995 has transformed the city’s fortunes, making its centre as elegant as its wines. Blackened buildings and abandoned warehouses are now a thing of the past and, with the arrival of the high-speed rail link, connecting the city to Paris in just two hours, living in Bordeaux is as aspirational as drinking its first growths.” When Juppé was elected as mayor in 1995, Bordeaux was not the modern and vibrant place it is today. Deputy mayor Stephan Delaux, who worked alongside Juppé for more than two decades, admits: “Bordeaux had a reputation as a melancholy, unwelcoming town. The town wasn’t modern – that is to say that in the town centre, cars, trucks, buses, car parks dominated. The building fronts were black, the waterfront was a relic of a once-busy
port; the warehouses [on the waterfront] were empty. The people of the city no longer knew they lived by a river – there was no life there.” He paints a rather depressing picture but throughout its history, Bordeaux’s sons have
portrayed the city in a none-too-flattering light: the novels of Nobel-prize-winning writer François Mauriac (1885-1970) whose bust now stands in the leafy public gardens, depicted Bordeaux and the surrounding areas as a bleak and uptight place to live in the early 20th century. Similarly, one of Alfred Smith’s (1854-1932) best-known works ‘Le Tramway devant les Quinconces par temps de pluie’ depicts a grey, wet day on the banks of the Garonne, umbrellas up and those without hurrying, heads bowed. It’s not a place you would have aspired to live.  Things didn’t get much better during the 20th century: local tour guide Veronique Baggio recalls a ramshackle apartment she lived in in the 1980s. “The building’s bathroom was in the attic so I had to leave my apartment to use it.  At that time the city was trying to push locals to improve the inside of buildings [to improve living conditions].  It wasn’t until the late 1990s that they started to focus on cleaning up the outside of the buildings and the public places.” Today, the buildings are impeccable – a mass sandblasting effort has unveiled the natural caramel and blonde tones of the local limestone, which were long hidden. Here and there, a few reminders of the past can be seen along its narrow streets: a blackened façade, as if smeared with charcoal.  Yet the renaissance of Bordeaux required more than a spit and polish. The length of the city’s riverbank had long been hidden by a line of ugly warehouses designed to cater to the needs of a port city. Since the 19th century, sugar and spices from far-flung places were unloaded to be reloaded by local timber and wine. The commercial port moved away in the 1970s from the city centre but the warehouses remained, as did the businesses that catered for the all-male docking crews.  Charles Sichel, export director of Maison Sichel, a wine merchant in the Chartrons district since 1883, explains:  “20 years ago there were a few seedy bars [on the quais] and where the new bridge is [Pont Chaban-Delmas] there were working girls. It was interesting taking customers out to lunch when there were girls standing in the doorways waiting for business – it was quite something – but I can’t remember them ever saying anything!” How times change. The waterfront is now the playground of the Bordelais, filled with joggers,
cyclists and prams promenading along its length; a place for concerts, festivals and open-air markets.  It is a sunny day and a Viking cruise liner lounges at the edge of the city centre overlooking children skipping in the water mirror, a slick of water that, as its name implies, reflects the classical architecture of the Place de la Bourse (Stock Exchange Square). It has become Bordeaux’s iconic postcard picture (and an unwitting urban water park) and represents the new face of the city – clean, bright and, dare I say it, fun.  The reawakening of the city has been noticed far beyond the city’s ring road; it has become the most desirable place to live in France, according to a survey commissioned by the Observatoire du Bonheur in 2015. Asked in which French city they would most like
to live, nearly one in five respondents answered Bordeaux – ahead of Montpellier, Toulouse and streets ahead of Paris.  Just an hour’s drive from the beaches of the Atlantic and three hours to the ski slopes of the Pyrenees, Bordeaux is now within commuting distance of Paris. A high-speed rail link (TGV) cuts the travel time between the two cities from more than three hours to two hours and five minutes in July 2017.  The spruce-up now continues beyond the city centre. Gliding north along the quai past Sichel’s office in the Chartrons district, the tram has started to deposit an unprecedented number of tourists in the Bacalan district. It’s certainly not the prettiest of suburbs, home to run-down docks, abandoned factories and a huge concrete mass that was once a submarine base, but the Juppé magic dust is now being sprinkled here and the opening of the Cité du Vin in June 2016, a towering sphere of gold and silver in a Frank Gehry meets Zaha Hadid-construction, is a pivotal part of its future. Tourists  - and most locals -  have had no reason to come here but that’s changing with 421,000 visitors walking through its doors in 2018. La belle endormie has woken up but the city continues to dream big. Sichel is rightly proud of his hometown. “Now, every time my customers come here they all comment on how beautiful the area has become. Juppé has turned this city around.” Explore more Editorial

Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2007, it is now the most desirable place to live in France and was voted “European Best Destination 2015’. We explore the renaissance of Bordeaux 

Exploring the renaissance of Bordeaux, from being named a UNESCO World Heritage site to being crowned the most desirable place to live in France 

Bordeaux revival - the city's transformation

Bordeaux revival: A reinvention of the city

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  

It’s no secret that Scotch whisky is dominated by two giants – Diageo and Pernod Ricard, who represent 60% of the market, with three other big players taking the next 20%. That leaves a mere 20% for those who have the wallets and mettle to fight over the rest – but that’s an increasing number of people. There are currently over 30 single malt distilleries at some stage of opening.  “I think it’s a bit of a worry to be honest,” Mark Reynier, Renegade Spirits founder and CEO, says. Reynier has been behind three of the most talked-about distillery projects in the past 20 years – the resurrection of Islay powerhouse Bruichladdich in 2000, the renovation of a former Diageo brewery into Irish single malt distillery Waterford in 2015 and the construction of Renegade rum distillery in Grenada from scratch in 2020. All three have a dogged focus on terroir and have not been without their struggles. “Superficially it does look easy - but it sure as hell isn’t,” he says. “With Bruichladdich we almost went bust twice. With the best will in the world and two-distillery experience I got it wrong with Renegade and almost went bust last September.”  In Reynier’s view, many of those opening distilleries are driven by romantic ideas and the desire to make a quick buck – from landowners looking to monetise estates to “crooks” who “promise fortunes to be made”. Few, however, have the knowledge, business nous or money to back up their ambitions.  Wolfcraig – a new distillery in Stirling – is one of the industry’s most interesting projects, largely thanks to the experience of the team involved. While neither of the founders Jamie Lunn or John Moore had worked in whisky before (coming, respectively, from construction and finance), Jamie Lunn’s father is former Whyte & Mackay chairman and chief executive Michael Lunn – and happened to be eager for a new project. It hasn’t been plain sailing though: the team had a false start with an ill-fated attempt to take a controlling stake of an existing distillery. Downhearted but not defeated, they made the decision to go it alone. Moore and Lunn have assembled a first-rate team with over 200 years’ experience. Master Blender Richard Paterson OBE was the most recent addition to the roster – which Jamie Lunn affectionately refers to as “the Harlem globetrotters of whisky” – including Dr Alan Rutherford OBE (former Production Director at Diageo, Master of the Quaich and previous President of the Malt Distillers Association of Scotland), Ian Macmillan (a Master Distiller, also a Master of the Quaich and a member of the Worshipful Company of Distillers) and Iain Lochhead (former UK Bacardi Operations Director, and another Master of the Quaich). But even with a team of such pedigree, it hasn’t been easy. “It was three and a half years of pain,” Moore says. Every decision has been driven by an unwavering mission to produce a truly special liquid, considerable industry experience and business acumen. Stirling, for example, was chosen not just for its infrastructure, but its accessibility – within an hour’s drive of 70% of the Scottish population. The team ensured they were fully funded and have consciously built a brand – and decided on the style of spirit they’ll be making – before physically breaking ground. “Out of all the new whisky distilleries,” Moore says, “very few of them are designing their own unique spirit and they have not put any thought into why they have a particular shape of still.” Wolfcraig, by contrast, is having their still handmade by Forsyths, with a distinctive double-ball design to produce a more muscular, full-bodied spirit. It’s not just new players and mavericks behind the trend though, with some of whisky’s most historic names being given a new lease of life. Halewood International, for example, is bringing malt whisky distilling back to the heart of the Scottish drinks industry in the Port of Leith, Edinburgh, for the first time in 100 years with the John Crabbie Distillery.  Today, the name John Crabbie might be synonymous with ginger wine, but he was an independent bottler, single malt producer and recognised blender in the 19th century. For the team here, creating something new brings great freedom. “One of the key parts of our distillery is its versatility,” Global Dark Spirits Manager Andy Wallace says. “Because of the type of distillery we have, we can change our new make spirit and we can be very adaptable. That flexibility, put in the hands of somebody who knows what they are doing, like our Master Blender Dr Kirstie McCallum – a chemist with an excellent palate – and we’re going to experiment.”   Experimentation with different casks is high on the agenda. In addition to PX and Oloroso casks, the team is looking at how Manzanilla might work and playing around with other wine cask finishes.   Prior to joining Halewood, Wallace spent six years at William Grant & Sons, the home of Balvenie and Glenfiddich since 1887. “They are beautiful, incredible distilleries in a beautiful part of the world,” Wallace says, “but they come with their own inherent limitations… some people will see them as being a bit aspirational and not for them.” In his view, building something from scratch – even with a history like Crabbie’s – means they don’t have to produce a certain type of product. “What we want to do is bring new people into the category and allow people to drink differently,” he explains. Free from the burden of a legacy, a new distillery can be more agile. This can, however, be a catch-22. In a quest to stand apart, rather than play the old boys at their centuries-perfected game, innovation – if not managed in a considered, well-financed, way – can end in tears. “A lot of people have got rather carried away with the romance and [they] don’t really understand the consequences and the costs, and the durability that you need,” Mark Reynier explains.  “And above all you need a unique proposition. Just to be another distillery isn’t enough. The distilling bit is the easy bit. I think this is what’s going to be the downfall for a lot of people. The maturation and the time and cost is the crunch. And then you have got to bring it to market.” Wallace agrees. “You must have a long-term plan for selling your product because you have got a several-year timeline before you can launch anything in the first place,” he says. “One of the big challenges for whisky companies is predicting demand. If you have to predict how much 12-year-old product you’re going to sell on day one, that is a really difficult challenge.”   This was one of the many reasons Wolfcraig was determined to be fully funded from the get-go. “A lot of new whisky distilleries are just living hand-to-mouth and raising money year-on-year and that is emotionally draining,” Moore says. “But, also more importantly, it takes time away from the business when you are constantly fundraising.” It’s no small amount of money required, either. While you might be able to start a gin distillery with £50,000, whisky is a different beast. “Even the small craft distilleries, you’re talking several million pounds to set up,” Moore explains. “Our overall investment will be close on £20million… So, it’s not something you go into lightly.” “Running a distillery is an expensive business,” Reynier adds. “Just when you most need the revenue to get into the market, that is when you are least likely to have it. You are building in a lag period. You have created this brand over a decade, but you don’t actually have enough stock maturing to satisfy the sales that you have created or are creating. So, you have got to plan forward.” Waterford is a distillation of everything Reynier got wrong at Bruichladdich and everything he felt he wasn’t able to do because of a “lack of resource, lack of desire perhaps, tradition getting in the way, and the lack of logistics”. “We had a war chest because we knew that to do it properly, we had to be able to insulate ourselves financially to be able to buy ourselves the time to do it properly, with proper, premium-quality barley, single-farm distillations for uniqueness and for complexity,” Reynier explains. “Practised at Bruichladdich, perfected here.” Ultimately, once you get past the business and branding, it’s the quality of the liquid that will sort the wheat from the chaff. “We need to achieve the same core things any distillery does,” Wallace says. “We want to make genuinely brilliant drams that people will enjoy in years to come.” Browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial 

As demand for single malt whisky continues to soar, the number of distilleries – big and small – preparing to fling open their doors increases at a bullish rate. Holly Motion talks to a few of the industry’s newest names to see if everything is as rosy as it seems

Investigating the sharp rise in the number of single malt whisky distilleries with Waterford, Wolfcraig and John Crabbie. 

Distilling dreams

“Right, Richard, what do you think of this?” Gus Paterson, a second-generation whisky blender, said to his son, then aged eight, thrusting a glass in front of his nose. The young Richard – destined to become one of the world’s foremost blenders – had just entered a whisky warehouse in Glasgow for the first time.  “I still remember the bustle of the city,” Richard tells me, almost 65 years later. “He unlocked these doors, and we walked into his world. It was dark and dingy. The smell – of maderised wine and whisky – it’s something you never forget.” But as for the glass in front of him, he didn’t know what to say – a response that earnt him a slap round the back of the head from his father. “Pay attention. Swirl it around. Say hello. Is it as heavy as your grandmother? Light as your mother? Sweet as a chocolate bar? Dry as the dust on the floor?” Suddenly, the young Richard Paterson got it – he was hooked. Skip to the current day and the Master Blender – after 50 years at Whyte & Mackay (the company behind the likes of Dalmore, Jura, Fettercairn and Tamnavulin) and 55 in the whisky industry – has just been awarded an OBE in the New Year’s Honours. “I haven’t quite got my head around it yet,” he says. Talking to me via Zoom, Paterson is a character that refuses to be diminished by a screen. Slickly dressed in a suit and scarlet tie, the showman in him leaps across the WiFi connection, with moments of Mrs-Doubtfire-esque comedy in our conversation, his grandiose moustache dancing beneath one of Scotch whisky’s most famous noses (at one point insured for £1.6 million). Whisky was the family’s trade, his grandfather having established a blending, bottling and broking business in Glasgow in 1933. Richard, however, was determined to prove himself when he joined the industry in 1966. After a battle with his MD at the time, he persuaded them to fund his Wine and Spirit Education Trust courses. He travelled the world to visit vineyards and get to grips with wine – an exploration of flavour that laid the foundation for his work pioneering and experimenting with wine-cask finishes. His skill of blending, choosing the perfect barrel and knowing when it is at its best, is unparalleled. When I ask him how he does it, he tells me that it’s key first to know the style of your single malt – to recognise its personality and character, and then be able to see whether a particular cask will enhance its beauty. “You need to make sure you give it the right clothes,” he explains. Each year he checks in on the casks at Dalmore, tasting hundreds in a day, working through six a minute, nosing each one in an almost trance-like state to, in his words, say hello. It’s only, however, after adding a little hot water and leaving the spirit at room temperature and humidity, allowing each spirit to wake up, that, he says, you get to see what it’s really like. “How are you? Ah, yes, you’ve decided to come away… You’re beautiful.. hmm... You’re a bit of a bitch… and you’re a bit of a bum,” Paterson says, miming his way through an imaginary flight of samples on screen. While there are many elements in determining the style of a whisky – the barley, yeast, distillation time, shape of the still, cut-off times, reduction, the warehouse and more – for Paterson, “the cask is king”. The barrels that hold a whisky can represent up to 80% of the final style – and when you get it right, it’s like nothing else. He tells me about one of the most memorable spirits he’s tasted, a 62-year-old Dalmore of his own making. “Dave Broom [the famous whisky writer] was with me,” Paterson says. “We wanted to make sure that the particular aged Sherry Oloroso casks were going to give us the right quality. A bit like when you cut a pork pie – with the meat evenly distributed. When we nosed it… all those flavours came together in perfect harmony. It really, truly reflected an aged icon.”  Whiskies of this ilk fetch enormous sums, with a bottle of the aforementioned dram (one of only 12 released by the distillery in 2002) selling for £91,650 at auction a few years ago. Paterson seems somewhat baffled by the prices, but mostly hopes it doesn’t put people off drinking the bottles. “You mustn’t sit and look at it; it’s for sharing. The memories that you get – you never forget that,” he says. “And – with whisky – you can always put the cork back.” Over five decades at Whyte & Mackay, he established Dalmore as one of the world’s finest and most collectable single malts; but last year announced he’s taking a step back (working 100 days a year, largely dedicated to Dalmore) to focus on a new project, and the reason for our conversation. Wolfcraig is a brand new distillery and, with Paterson joining a team of serious pedigree, it’s one of the most exciting projects the Scotch whisky world has seen.  With demand for fine single malts higher than ever before, there are over 30 new distilleries at some stage of opening – and no shortage of demand for a man with the skill and sheer brand strength of Richard Paterson. So, of the many offers he’s received over the years, why did the master blender decide to take the plunge with Wolfcraig? In short, he explains – he’s never seen a project with the long-term commitment, capital and combined experience. The team includes Dr Alan Rutherford OBE (former Production Director at Diageo, Master of the Quaich and previous President of the Malt Distillers Association of Scotland), Ian Macmillan (a Master Distiller, also a Master of the Quaich and a member of the Worshipful Company of Distillers), Iain Lochhead (former UK Bacardi Operations Director, and another Master of the Quaich) and Michael Lunn – whom Paterson worked under for 17 years at Whyte & Mackay. For Paterson, it’s a unique opportunity to create a new Highland single malt from scratch, and he’s confident they’ll craft “something special”. The plan is to use a double ball still, with the reflux creating a gutsy, muscular profile, while of course remaining true to the Highland style.
Only the finest wood will be used, and Paterson expects to use Sherry casks to add softness to the spirit. Construction of the £15 million distillery is scheduled to start in summer this year, with a restaurant, bar, private tasting room and extensive visitor centre planned. The distillery has the capacity to produce 1.5 million litres, but production will be strictly limited, with the focus firmly on quality over quantity, and no spirit released until it’s absolutely ready. In 25 years, Paterson expects it to be one of the top whiskies in the world. He grins, his excitement about the possibilities uncontainable: “We’re gonna put our money where our mouth is.” Find out more about Wolfcraig, browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial 

Richard “the Nose” Paterson has been crafting The Dalmore for Whyte & Mackay for half a century. But now he’s launching a new project, Wolfcraig – a Highland distillery that has the industry awhirl. We caught up with the larger-than-life character to find out more

The Dalmore Master Blender Richard Paterson on his new project, Wolfcraig, a Highland distillery that has the industry awhirl. 

The Dalmore's Master Blender Richard Paterson

On the nose: Richard Paterson

“The only thing more fun than drinking wine is buying wine,” says Allan Frischman, our new Vice President of Global Client Reserves, arching an eyebrow and laughing. He should know – he’s been working in the wine business since the early 1990s, with the vast majority of that spent sourcing, studying, authenticating and selling fine wine collections for a leading auction house. As of this month, he’ll be working to develop our network of reservists and their portfolios – allowing our clients to both sell and buy even more than before, giving us – and you – access to the world’s finest (and deepest) cellars. Beyond this, he’ll be finessing local pricing for each market we work in and helping manage clients’ wine storage – a job for which he is uniquely qualified. Frischman grew up in New Jersey and never planned to get into wine – but he took a part-time job at college (“to pay for beer”, he confesses) in a wine shop. The shop’s storage system was divided by country and region, with a warren-like basement that he needed to navigate, finding the right bin for new stocks. Reading about the different appellations, and using his staff discount to buy the odd bottle, got him interested – but it was a bottle of 1975 Ch. Talbot, tasted at Mary Ewing-Mulligan MW’s International Wine Center that hooked him: “At that point, I knew that this is what I wanted to do.”  The economics graduate was working at Manhattan’s Morell & Co. when, in 1994, the laws changed. For the first time since Prohibition, wine auctions were permitted to take place in New York State. “I didn’t know anything at all about auctions,” says Frischman – but it didn’t stop him jumping headfirst into something new, organising the state’s first commercial wine auction since 1920. “I didn’t know if we were going to get 10 bidders or 1,000,” he tells me. He shouldn’t have worried, for that auction was met with such enthusiasm that he walked away from the event on cloud nine, confident that he had found his calling.  In the 30 years since, he’s seen the auction business transformed. The 1994 law change created a new hub for wine’s secondary market, with New York rapidly becoming a rival for its traditional heartland in London – and the Big Apple rapidly added its own signature. Until then, auctions were staid affairs, dominated by trade buyers with little action beyond the raising of paddles in muted crowds – in Frischman’s words, “something dreary that dragged on for 10 hours”.  But Zachys – one of the auction houses that popped up in New York – added American flair, a touch of Broadway jazz hands to turn auctions into events, gathering bidders at round tables with great food and wine. Traditionalists said it wouldn’t work – but they were wrong. No longer were auctions purely a way to buy wine, they became fun – they became a place for wine lovers to gather, eat, drink and be seen. Higher attendance meant more bids, higher hammer prices – and more consignments that in turn brought more business, and a shift from trade to individuals.  The late 2000s brought challenges. “The Dow Jones was tumbling and it looked like the world was about to collapse,” Frischman tells me, looking back at the worldwide recession. “It was terrifying and of course people stopped buying wine.” But as Frischman rapidly learnt, people were waiting for the bottom of the market – and then they started buying again. At the same time, Hong Kong abolished import duty on wine (initially halved in 2007 and removed entirely in 2008) – and, like New York in 1994, instantly became a new centre for the wine trade. “The Asian market evolved almost over days,” remarks Frischman. “It became extremely sophisticated very quickly.” American auction houses started opening offices in Hong Kong. “For a few years, Hong Kong was just chewing up all the wine and the big hammer prices were all [there].”  The most recent shift in the world of auctioneering has been the advent of real-time, online bidding – one forced by the Covid-19 pandemic. “There was a perception that it would discourage people to show up in the sale room and would also discourage people from leaving bids in advance,” Frischman says, explaining why the industry was perhaps a little slow to embrace the online sphere. Interestingly, however, he anticipates that before online bidding was introduced, maybe only 10% of lots went to bidders physically in the room. With consumers stranded at home, and the technology already up to scratch, online auctions rocketed – and opened the market to an even broader range of consumers, with bidding wars between wine lovers in Brazil, Singapore, London, New York, Hong Kong and beyond now the norm.  As auction houses realised that online auctions worked, the need for events and associated spend dropped – and the auction style established by Zachys in the 1990s has become significantly less common. You might argue that this also heralds the end of the auctioneer – but even online companies have retained the compère, the familiar patter still something that bidders want.   It isn’t just where and how wine was selling, but which wines were selling that has evolved. In the mid-1990s and early 2000s, Frischman notes how the US market centred on Napa’s cult Cabernets, along with wines from the likes Williams Selyem, Ravenswood and, of course, Bordeaux’s top names. “[There was] across the board demand for Bordeaux,” Frischman tells me, “but you couldn’t give Burgundy away.” Of course, that’s all changed now – and Burgundy, despite its extremely limited supply, has become the darling of the fine wine scene. As prices have soared for the Côte d’Or’s top wines, wine lovers have started looking elsewhere, to Italy (Barolo, Barbaresco and some Brunello), Madeira (especially older vintages) and the Northern Rhône (Côte-Rôtie, Cornas and Saint-Joseph) – but none have the liquidity of Bordeaux. “They [the Bordelais] don’t get enough credit for the sheer, mind-boggling amount of great wine they’re able to put out every year,” says Frischman.  Over the years, Frischman has become an expert authenticator – the sort of knowledge that can only be gained by handling immense volumes of fine wine, working closely with producers and getting up close and personal with the rarest bottles. In 2006, he went to check over some wines that had been sent to the auction house he then worked for by a young Asian collector. The consignment was significant, worth millions of dollars – but even from across the room, Frischman knew that the wines didn’t look right. Closer inspection only confirmed that the wines looked like fakes – and the auction house turned them away, sending them back to the collector, then a new name on the scene, Rudy Kurniawan. A couple of years later, he got a call from the FBI’s Jim Wynn, asking if he would be an expert witness in a wine fraud case against Kurniawan, who had – by that point – become prolific. “I inspected, I don’t know, 40 bankers boxes of stuff that they’d gotten from his home, stamps for corks, fake labels, fake import strips – all kinds of stuff,” he says. In a warehouse in Queens, he studied the evidence – “going through bottle after bottle after bottle and writing a report about why I thought that they were fake”. It was – and still is – the biggest wine forgery case to have ever taken place, and Frischman, along with fellow authentication expert Michael Egan, was essential to proving Kurniawan’s guilt.  Wine authentication has become an essential component of wine collecting, and a key reason to work with trusted merchants. There are people who suggest that as much as 10% of wine on the secondary market is fake, but – in Frischman’s view, having handled fine wine for over 30 years – “That’s a substantial overestimate.” Despite such claims, forgery has only become more sophisticated, and it’s important, he says, to work with someone who knows what they’re looking at. “You want someone who is experienced to look at the bottle and who is empowered to say, ‘I don’t like it – we’re not offering it.’” There’s a big difference, he explains, between being convinced something is fake, and being convinced something is real – and you always want the person checking wines you’re buying to be in the latter camp.  The wine business is a people business – and he’s been lucky to spend three decades getting to know the world’s foremost collectors, spending time rustling through cellars, lugging his fair share of cases in and out of vans, and cradling bottles of elusive vintages and cuvées. Beyond this privilege, he’s often found himself on the receiving end of collectors’ generosity – recognising a fellow enthusiast’s passion. When I ask him if there’s a bottle that stands out, beyond the 1975 Talbot that was his hook into the industry, his eyes mist over. It was, he tells me, on a trip to Tokyo, at a remarkable dinner that included some incredible wines, including the fabled 1947 Cheval Blanc. But it was a bottle of 1978 La Romanée-Conti from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti that stole the show: it was “breathtaking, magical”, he says. “I was practically brought to tears.” Until that moment, he’d never necessarily understood why collectors kept this prized cuvée, and didn’t sell it to fund their La Tâche or Romanée-Saint-Vivant – but this bottle made him realise just why people don’t. “This wine was perfect,” he says.  It’s easy, perhaps, to imagine the auctioneering world is over-run with wine investors, but that’s far from what Frischman has found. “The vast majority, regardless of what they say they’re doing, are buying to drink,” he says. On paper, that may not make sense – after all, who needs 30,000 bottles of wine? But that, as Frischman and any wine obsessive knows, is the collector’s mentality – and, deciding to sell, despite owning more wine than could possibly be consumed in a lifetime, is much harder than buying another case or 10.  When Frischman first started auctioning wine, he recalls talking to his father, who wondered if there was enough fine wine to sustain a career. The beauty, Frischman, now knows, is that there’s a new vintage every year – beyond that, and as he’s seen over the past 30 years, the wine world is constantly shifting, with an ever-expanding range of regions and producers. And he’s evolving with the industry, making a move of his own and bringing his expertise to FINE+RARE. We can’t wait to see what he’ll do. Whether you’re looking to buy, sell or anything else, contact Allan Frischman directly at allan.frischman@frw.co.uk

After two decades at one of the world’s leading auction houses, Allan Frischman has joined our team, as Vice President of Global Client Reserves. We caught up with him to dive into the world of auctioneering, his 30 years in the business and his new role

After two decades at one of the USA’s leading auction houses, auctioneer and wine authentication expert Allan Frischman has joined our team

Introducing Allan Frischman

Hammer time: Allan Frischman

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

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

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

The FONDATA genesis story

FONDATA: The genesis story

The history of Piedmont as a fine wine region and the establishment of Nebbiolo as a single-varietal wine predates the unification of Italy. Yet the region’s rise to international fame as Italy’s finest wine was intrinsically linked to the political role that the Piedmont Kingdom played in the unification of Italy. Nebbiolo as Italy’s first single-varietal wine The decision to move away from the generic field blends more typical of wine production in Italy at the time, to a single varietal Nebbiolo, was the first step towards Barolo gaining prominence. This decision also came about through aristocratic influence by the Piedmont nobility at the height of its power, prior to the unification of Italy in 1861. In the 1830s the Marchesi de Barolo married a French aristocrat who as part of her entourage brought with her a talented French oenologist, who after experimenting with many French varietals in the region quickly identified the potential of the indigenous Nebbiolo as a potential single varietal superstar! This French oenologist started to produce single-varietal Nebbiolo on the Marchesi de Barolo’s vineyards and it wasn’t long before the wines gained a reputation amongst the aristocratic classes. The King of Piedmont contacted the Marchesi requesting to taste this wine made from just Nebbiolo that everyone was talking about. The King became a huge fan of the wines and it wasn’t long before the Marchesi was sending 365 barrels of Nebbiolo
to the King for him and his courts to enjoy throughout the year. From then on Nebbiolo as a single varietal had begun to secure its place in fine wine history. The establishment of Barolo It wasn’t long before the King purchased his own wine estate in Barolo, which now exists under the ownership of Frescabaldi. The Piedmont kingdom was the conquering force in the unification of Italy along with the help of the French army that finally conquered the Spanish rule of Sicily and southern Italy and eventually Rome leaving just the Vatican and the Pope isolated from the rest of the newly
declared unified state of Italy in 1861. Amazingly there was no diplomatic relationship between the Vatican State and the Italian government until Mussolini reached out to them in 1932. The power of the Piedmont kingdom and its role in the unification of Italy meant that Barolo retained its status with the aristocratic elites of Italy and beyond and became known as the premium wine-producing region of the newly declared country. Its prominence and reputation remained ever since. The Barolo region became renowned throughout the country and Nebbiolo took its crown as the king of Italian wine. Barolo following the unification became more and more established with merchants moving in to seize the opportunity of this prestigious and unique Italian wine. At this time, apart from the noble families (Marchesi Di Barolo, Rinaldi, Bourgogno) all the
rest of the Barolo wines were bottled in Alba under merchant’s labels. Alba, much like Bordeaux, became a thriving merchants hub and the wine began to be exported overseas. Barbaresco: the unfortunate struggling sibling to Barolo History is full of cruel twists and the development of Barbaresco for much of the 19th and 20th centuries was a struggle for survival, unlike their more established neighbour Barolo - with its royal seal of approval. Today Barbaresco is being seen very much as Barolo’s equal but its survival is in no doubt down to two central figures of the region Gaja and the Produttori Di Barbaresco. 
The history of Gaja of Barbaresco The history of Gaja is extraordinary and singular in its rise to fame in the region and is a testament to the foresight of Giovanni Gaja and his son and French wife Clothide Rey. The Gaja family were not nobility but farmers, yet they became the first to bottle their own wine in Barbaresco in 1859. This became possible because the family owned a small tavern in the town which catered for the merchants that passed through Barbaresco as it was an active Port, distributing goods. At the tavern, the Gaja family used to make their wine and serve them from jars at the restaurant. At that time all other growers would sell their grapes to merchants in Alba to make wine.  Buoyed by the income of selling their own wines at their tavern Giovanni Gaja in 1859 then decided to bottle his best barrels in bottle (at this time this was often a blend of vintages). But these became the first Barbarescos ever to be bottled as Barbaresco. The family became further governed by quality when Angelo Gaja and his wife Clothide Rey took over from
his father. Their qualitative approach philosophy in a region that at the time was so underdeveloped is extraordinary. The family’s motto – fair, savoir faire, savoir faire faire et faire saviour (Work, knowledge, motivating others to work and passing on knowledge) has not faltered right up until today.  1958 was an important date for the Gaja family because this was recognised in Barolo as a fantastic vintage and it became the first vintage of Barolo to sell for over a 1,000 lira a bottle. The average price at the time for the best producers (such as Renato Ratti) was closer to 300 lira. This 1,000 lira price tag therefore became a big deal and was the beginning of Barolo
becoming recognised internationally as one of the world’s finest and most expensive wines. Yet despite this high price tag of Barolo, Giovanni Gaja was selling his current Barbaresco release at this time for 1,200 lira! This just showed the Barbaresco from Gaja even in those early days was outpricing the best wines of Barolo. The history of the Produttori del Barberesco The history of Barbaresco outside of the extraordinary success of Gaja was a lot less smooth. Through this period the region remained largely unknown for wine production despite successfully growing Nebbiolo like its neighbour Barolo and being home to the region’s best producer Gaja. However, there is another unique and profound development that took place in Barbaresco that also has shaped the region as one of Italy’s finest wine-producing regions for single varietal Nebbiolo that unlike Barolo did not rely on the aristocratic influence for its rise to fame. If anything, Barbaresco’s rise to fame, including Gaja’s development was the success of the
workers of the land rather than nobility. This came in the form of the socialist collective that started to bottle its own wine in Barbaresco under the Produttori Di Barberesco label.  Speaking with Aldo Vacca, today’s chief winemaker at the co-op it was a man called Dominizio Cavazza who was become known as the Father of Barbaresco. He moved to the region when he got a job working as the Director of the Wine School of Alba in 1890.  He immediately saw the potential of Barbaresco as a fine wine region and whilst he had no land, he knew if he could persuade the small landowners to compile their crops, he could make a fine wine that they could bottle and sell themselves rather than selling their crop to
the Alba merchants. By 1894 he had managed to persuade five farmers and two
landowners to contribute the crop and the cooperative was formed. At this time socialism was taking hold in many parts of Europe enabling small landowners to work together to enable them to manage their own produce without relying on the aristocratic landowners. Prior to the Bolshevik revolution in Russia in 1917, these socialist projects in Western Europe were seen as a very positive social development and was transforming the social structure across the region. Initially Cavazza believed that Barbaresco should be incorporated as part of the Barolo District but as Barolo by this time was already well established, thanks to its aristocratic ties, the Barolo producers had no interest in extending their boundaries. This decision in itself was to have a devastating impact on Barbaresco for the next 50 years. Whilst the cooperative became very successful in the early years, the First World War followed by economic hardship and the rise of fascism in Italy which actively shut down cooperatives in Europe, saw the Produttori cease to exist.  It wasn’t until 1954 that the co-operative project was reborn by the local priest – Don Fiorino, who on moving to the region heard about the early success of Cavazza and wanted to rekindle this success. For the priest the cooperative was essential in the survival of the local community that unlike Barolo was decimated by poverty and hardship through the first half of the 20th century. The 1950s saw the industrial boom in Italian cities which saw huge swathes of the countryside deserted as young men and women flocked to the cities for better wages in the automobile and other industries. To encourage people to stay in Barbaresco, Don Fiorino reopened the cooperative promising any landowners who joined him that they would be given fair and
reliable income if they stayed and worked the land. Dom Fiorino’s foresight was to be commended as ever since it opened the co-op has gone from strength to strength. Similar to Gaja, it is due to a strict qualitative approach that has meant this co-op is today producing arguably the world’s finished wines from a cooperative. These days, thanks to Gaja and Produttori, Barbaresco is producing some of Italy’s finest wines. Explore more Editorial 

We look back at the rise of Barolo and its neighbouring sibling Barbaresco's less fortunate, rocky road to fortune.


The historic rise of Nebbiolo

Truffles: small, gnarly things. Equally ugly and alluring. Pungently intoxicating. Deliciously rare – and undeniably expensive. Alexandre Dumas described truffle as “the holy of holies”. Rossini called it “the Mozart of mushrooms”. Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin said just the name “awakens erotic and gastronomic ideas”. There’s something magical about the way these funghi lie just out of sight. The elusive treasures lurk beneath an otherwise unassuming forest floor, found only with the help of a specially trained hound. Once unearthed, however, they become the centrepiece to the world’s most expensive dishes, prized by Michelin-starred chefs and gourmands alike. They aren’t just another ingredient, however, there’s theatre to their presentation: the stage set in the kitchen, then served with a flourish tableside. For Rowan Jacobsen, author of the recently published Truffle Hound, one sniff was enough to keep him on the trail for three years. The Vermont-based writer was in Barolo in 2018 and on his way to the table, when he passed a giant white truffle under a glass cloche. Instinctively he lifted the dome: “I didn’t even make it to the table. Such a crazy smell. I was destroyed at the luncheon – I kept thinking about the truffle,” he tells me. That one flare of the nostrils had him hooked, and he’s been following truffle hunters around Europe ever since. His book follows his adventures – discovering “dreamers, schemers, and some extraordinary dogs” along the way. Piedmont is considered the home of the truffle – with the annual fair in Alba (running from October to December) the epicentre of the trade. White truffles (tuber magnatum), as found in Alba, are the crème de la crème of the truffle world – distinctly seasonal, flourishing in the autumn and winter. This brief window of opportunity is key to their appeal. As Donald Edwards, Head Sommelier at La Trompette, says, “What else can you have where the stopwatch of deliciousness is literally ticking by the table?” Of course, not all truffles are created equal. Black truffles are a third or a quarter of the price of white truffles and offer a very different aroma. Jacobsen describes “more pungent, more overwhelming” and “invigorating” scent of white truffle as “garlic, salami, almost gasoline” versus the “comforting, soothing, round” notes of “cured olives, cocoa and hazelnut” that he associates with black truffles. And while there is only one white truffle, there are two types of black truffle: the black winter truffle (or Périgord, tuber melanosporum, now mostly grown in Spain) and the black summer truffle (tuber aestivum, sometimes known as the Burgundy truffle but found all over northern Europe, including southern England). The latter, more widespread breed is not nearly as intense as its winter sibling, meaning more is needed for the same impact. One reason that white truffles carry such a premium is also that they have – so far – proven impervious to cultivation (although scientists in France have recently claimed to have cracked this). The truffle hunters, or trifulau, in Piedmont are therefore unsurprisingly secretive about where they find their treasure. Often speaking only a local dialect, these foragers roam the woods – often under the cover of darkness in search of “white gold”. Their dog will sniff their way to the right spot, pawing the ground and patiently waiting for their master to dig up their bounty. “It’s a billion-dollar industry totally dependent on dogs’ noses,” Jacobsen says, laughing at the absurdity. While the hunters might avoid the limelight, it’s not the case when it comes to their dogs, Jacobsen tells me. The canine connection is taken to the next level when you also depend on a four-legged friend for your livelihood. While pigs were the original snouts charged with sniffing out truffles, hunters switched to dogs in the 17th and 18th centuries. Lagotto Romagnolo is the “traditional” truffle-hunting breed (and comes with an associated premium, given their potential return), but today almost any dog is used. They simply need to be trained and have the right nose for the job. “Good ones are amazing,” Jacobsen tells me. “They can find a truffle 50 yards away in the forest and they just know it’s there.” Trifulau Luigi Rosso has been – along with his dog Danko (aged seven) – sniffing out the good stuff for 30 years. While it might look easy, he says that it’s incredibly difficult and can be dangerous for both hunters and their dogs, traipsing through forests in the dark. It is, however, all worth it for him. “The tranquillity that is in the air while you go for the truffles. The moon, the silence and only the sound of your footsteps on the damp leaves, then the joy of your dog when it finds one…” he tells me. The unique scent of truffle is what drives connoisseurs to seek them out – bidding on the finest examples for extortionate sums. “I feel like they've evolved to hit some deep pleasure receptors in our brains. When they're good you just want to luxuriate in them,” Edwards says. William Lowe MW – the man behind Cambridge Distillery – set about capturing the elusive flavours of truffle in his quest to create a digestif-style gin. The idea was born when looking at the digestif trolley in a Michelin-starred restaurant – and a sommelier who was scornful at the idea of a gin worthy of joining its ranks of fine Cognac and single malt whisky. “If you look at those rare and mature examples, you’ll see that the oxidative maturation process creates these beautiful earthy aromatic profiles sometimes referred to as ‘forest floor’. We wanted to achieve this profile through distillation rather than maturation, and truffles gave us the perfect route to do so,” Lowe says. “It took me a very, very long time. Because truffles are hard to deal with. They are packed full of volatiles, which is to say that truffles smell more than they taste,” the Master Distiller explains. “If you think it through – every time you open a door to a restaurant that is serving truffles, bang you get it straight away. But if you look at the food they serve truffles on and it’s always almost neutral dishes: creamy pasta, mushroom risotto. It’s never on super flavoursome dishes because if it is, you can’t taste the truffle anymore.” The challenge, however, was capturing something that doesn’t want to be caught, and finding the right level of truffle. “With truffle, chefs will normally do one of two things: either they’ll know you know it’s expensive so they’ll use loads of it so you can’t taste anything else for the rest of the meal – or they’ll do the opposite. They know that you know it’s expensive so they use so little that it’s the Emperor’s new clothes – you sort of have to search for it. It takes a genuinely skilled chef to use truffle well. And using it well is when you get all of that amazing aroma but you can still taste the other things.” This was what Lowe was aiming for – but it wasn’t easy. He spent months refining the distillation technique for truffle, but the flavour was only “ok”. He went back to the drawing board and decided that the problem was the truffle he was using – black wouldn’t cut it. “We went straight to Piemonte – white truffles from Alba. Gram for gram, worth more than gold […] and it came out and tasted a lot better than gold does so that’s an easy trade,” says Lowe. For trifulau Rosso, you need at least 10 grams on a dish (whereas, he says dismissively, restaurants will often only use a measly five) – with homemade tagliarini top of his list, although he also suggests trying it on panna cotta. He considers Pelaverga – a rare red variety that’s native to Piedmont – the classic pairing, but otherwise goes for one of the region’s other reds, Barbera, Barbaresco or Barolo. These are undoubtedly the classic pairings, following the simple rule of what grows together goes together. However, Jacobsen or Edwards don’t agree. “It couldn’t be more wrong. It really requires a white. The tannins clash with the aromatics,” Jacobsen says. The truffle specialist opts for Champagne, white Burgundy or cool-climate Californian Chardonnay – even Beaujolais. As for Edwards, he likes something that plays on the delicacy’s textural quality: “They work so well with buttery, umami-laden cheese sauces that I can't not want really classy Chardonnay. I want bâtonnage, I want really expensive but underplayed oak and I want ripeness with a gimlet-eyed stare of terroir behind. Basically, Burgundy, Mornington or the best of the Santa Rita Hills (I'll accept that other places also make perfect wines for this), plus if I can have a few years in bottle to build that sous bois flavour connection then all the better.” At the time of writing, we’re in the midst of the 2021 truffle season – one that has brought eye-watering prices. The hot, dry summer in Piedmont (unlike the wet conditions experienced in northern Europe) has led to a tiny crop – some say the smallest in history, driving prices up. Bloomberg has declared it “The Great White Truffle Crisis”. The white truffle needs such specific conditions that climate change, and – as Rosso tells me – the warmer autumns in Piedmont, pose a serious threat. While we consider Alba the spiritual home of white truffles, today most come from elsewhere. Both Central Italy and Le Marche, but also Romania, Serbia, Croatia and Hungary are all now hotspots for truffle hunting. Many of these regions are benefiting from the shift in climate, now having the ideal conditions to nurture the rare tuber magnatum. As for black truffles, the summer variety can now be found as far north as Sweden, but drought conditions mean that irrigation is becoming essential for existing orchards. Beyond climate, there are other challenges. In Piedmont, there are fewer forests than there once were, with more profitable vineyards replacing woodland (another reason that hunters are looking elsewhere). Also, the local trifulau are – in general – an ageing group. One truffle hunter, Carlo Marenda, has established a non-profit, Save the Truffle, to try and protect the region’s truffle hunting heritage – both by passing on the tradition to younger people and protecting the forests, nurturing the right environment for truffle growth. “It used to be that these forests were very actively used by farmers, peasants – fallen wood for firewood, leaves for animal bedding etc. So forests didn’t have a lot of undergrowth,” Jacobsen explains. “But then the world changed.” With the forest floor not being cleared, decaying matter acidified the soil – something that truffles hate. Truffles thrive in high pH soils, which is why they’re found on beds of limestone. To ensure the forests provide a welcoming home for the tubers, it’s essential they’re managed correctly. While there are certainly challenges to preserving the truffle’s place in Piedmont, the good news for gastronomes is that these tubers aren’t disappearing – just moving. After three years on the trail, Jacobsen is as enchanted by truffles as when he began. But he’s less keen on the hierarchy that comes with them. There are, he says, plenty more species of truffle beyond those currently on the market – but hunters can’t sell them, so keep them for themselves. He hopes the truffle culture will shift to grassroots foraging, rather than “waiters in tuxedos grating your precious morsel over your pasta”. However it reaches your table, it’s clear that the truffle holds a special allure – and the transience of its elusive scent, fading with the seasons, is what keeps us on the hunt. Truffle Hound is out now. Explore more Editorial 

Love them or loathe them, truffles are undoubtedly some of the most majestic ingredients on the planet. But, with a changing climate and an ageing cohort of specialist truffle hunters, the future of this rare delicacy is uncertain. Sophie Thorpe explores

Truffles are undoubtedly some of the most majestic ingredients on the planet. But the future of this rare delicacy is uncertain. Sophie Thorpe explores

Chasing truffles

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