Passare dal mondo del cashmere di alta gamma alla viticoltura potrebbe non sembrare una mossa ovvia – eppure, per Brunello Cucinelli, il vino è un altro ambito al quale può portare nuova “dignità”. 
 Cucinelli è un uomo di umili origini, nato in un piccolo villaggio umbro nel 1953. La sua famiglia era di mezzadri ma si trasferì in città in cerca di un lavoro migliore, con il padre che trovò impiego in una cementeria. Cucinelli vide suo padre faticare per guadagnarsi da vivere, e farlo con poco rispetto da parte di chi lo circondava – una battaglia che ha definito il suo lavoro e la sua filosofia. 
 Nonostante la formazione come geometra e poi gli studi di ingegneria, Cucinelli finì per lavorare come modello da showroom per Ellesse poco più che ventenne, mentre la sua fidanzata (e futura moglie) gestiva una piccola boutique. Ispirato da questa finestra sul mondo della moda e dai capi dai colori vivaci di Benetton, decise di realizzare una linea di altrettanto vivaci maglioni in cashmere, lanciando nel 1978, a 25 anni. Da allora, l’azienda si è evoluta – con toni tenui e neutri che hanno sostituito i colori vivaci che gli avevano dato la svolta. I suoi abiti sono definiti dalla loro sobrietà, l’epitome del “quiet luxury”. Oggi, l’azienda Brunello Cucinelli vale 6,3 miliardi di euro. C’è però molto più di alta moda in Brunello Cucinelli, con il 20% dei profitti personali destinato alla fondazione benefica di Cucinelli. Opera secondo una filosofia che definisce “capitalismo umanistico”, volendo offrire ai suoi dipendenti il rispetto che suo padre non ricevette e recuperare il valore dei mestieri che un tempo potevano essere considerati “operai”. 
 Una parte enorme di questo è il suo lavoro a Solomeo, il villaggio che chiama casa (e dove è nata sua moglie, Federica). La coppia si è sposata lì nel 1982, facendone il quartier generale dell’azienda nel 1985. Da allora, Cucinelli ha investito significativamente nel piccolo borgo collinare, restaurandolo gradualmente e aggiungendo i suoi tocchi culturali – una Scuola delle Arti e dei Mestieri, un Foro delle Arti, l’Accademia Aurelia Neoumanistica, teatro, anfiteatro, biblioteca e altro. Negli ultimi 30 anni, ha – lavorando con l’architetto Massimo de Vico – trasformato il villaggio. 
 Castello di Solomeo, la cantina e il vigneto, è l’ultima aggiunta – ma una che è stata in lavorazione per oltre un decennio. Michele Baiocco – che guida il team del progetto dal 2010 – conobbe Cucinelli giocando a calcio. Faceva vino a Perugia, e i due uomini si incontrarono per cena. Cucinelli gli chiese se lo avrebbe aiutato a “dare nuova dignità al mondo dell’agricoltura”, e decisero di creare un vino ispirato a Bordeaux. Insieme trovarono il sito giusto per un vigneto a Solomeo e nel 2011 piantarono le prime viti. Cucinelli aveva sempre amato Bordeaux, ma con Montalcino non troppo distante, e il desiderio di fare qualcosa di “tipico” per la regione, il Sangiovese era un’aggiunta ovvia. Sono stati condotti studi approfonditi per creare un vigneto con i suoli e l’esposizione giusti. Ma – date un’occhiata a una foto del vigneto, con le sue file di viti dolcemente curve che scorrono attraverso la proprietà – ed è chiaro che questo non è un vigneto standard. 
 “Il vigneto è come un quadro,” dice la superstar dei consulenti enologici Riccardo Cotarella, che lavora con il team, soprattutto sull’assemblaggio, dal millesimo 2018 (la prima uscita commerciale). È “un modo da artista di piantare le viti”, spiega – uno che non rende il lavoro più facile. L’ispirazione di Cucinelli, però, era un giardino rinascimentale, e il fatto che costringa a fare tutto a mano è fondamentale per il progetto, sottolineando l’artigianalità del fare vino, oltre a creare un luogo bellissimo in cui il team possa lavorare. 
 La filosofia in vigneto è guidata da “ragione e buon senso”, senza pesticidi chimici o fertilizzanti, usando inerbimento e colture di copertura. È un sito complesso – con cinque ettari, distribuiti su quattro diversi tipi di suolo (più ricchi di argilla, più marnosi, più sabbiosi e più calcarei) e divisi tra quattro varietà (Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Merlot e Sangiovese). Ciascuno dei 12 appezzamenti differenti è vinificato separatamente, cosa che ritengono fondamentale per l’espressione del terroir. Fanno un solo vino dal sito e – come dice Cotarella – “Lavorare con Brunello [Cucinelli] significa sempre la massima qualità.” La cura in vigneto è fondamentale, e il team ha ridotto la produzione per pianta, per focalizzare le viti, incoraggiando complessità e concentrazione. Proprio come i vestiti di Cucinelli, questo è un vino pensato per durare. 
 Mentre Cotarella consulta, Pietro Grelloni è l’enologo a tempo pieno dedicato a Castello di Solomeo, che lavora al fianco di Baiocco. Grelloni è nato in zona e ha lavorato con Baiocco, ma aveva girato il mondo facendo vino prima di tornare a Perugia, quando Baiocco gli chiese se volesse unirsi al progetto Cucinelli nel 2017, giusto in tempo per la vendemmia. È chiaramente un progetto speciale a cui partecipare, ma – per Grelloni – è la visione di lungo periodo a distinguerlo. “Ci prendiamo cura dell’anno, ma dobbiamo anche prenderci cura del futuro,” dice – spiegando come non si tratti solo della vendemmia che sarà raccolta quest’anno, ma tra 100 anni. Come dice Cotarella, “È un vino molto speciale, con una filosofia molto speciale.” 
 Castello di Solomeo è disponibile in esclusiva da FINE+RARE. La seconda annata, la 2019, dovrebbe essere rilasciata questa settimana.

Basta leggere qualcosa su Brunello Cucinelli e la parola "dignità" torna sempre a galla, intrecciata nel tessuto stesso dell'impero che ha costruito. Mentre l'icona della moda lancia la seconda annata di Castello di Solomeo, esploriamo la filosofia alla base del progetto.

Exploring the cashmere king Brunello Cucinelli’s Umbrian wine project, Castello di Solomeo, and the philosophy that defines it

Made in Solomeo

Made in Solomeo: il timbro della dignità

Barolo Chinato. Utter these words and you’re likely to receive one of two responses – “I absolutely adore it” or “Come again?” For the unacquainted, Barolo Chinato is an aromatised, fortified wine from the Piedmont region. It is made by infusing up to three dozen herbs and spices, the principal one being quinine, in grape neutral alcohol. The infusion is then used to fortify Barolo DOGC wine made from 100% Nebbiolo grapes. The blend is then matured in oak barrels for up to 12 months. Prior to bottling, a small amount of sugar is added. At around 16% alcohol, it is the same strength as most red vermouths. Its name comes from the Italian “China”, for quinine.   Two men are credited with the invention of Barolo Chinato: Giuseppe Cappellano and Giulio Cocchi. It is thought Italian pharmacist Cappellano created the recipe in Serralunga d’Alba in the 1800s and Cocchi created a new formula in 1891.  “I first tasted Barolo Chinato 10-15 years ago, when I was forging my path in the world of vintage spirits, and still remember being struck by the complexity of the drink,” purveyor of antique and unusual spirits, Edgar Harden, tells me. “The soft, viscous mouthfeel, the fruit flavour compounded with herbs and spices and a bittersweet finish lingered until the next sip,” the Old Spirits Company director adds.   Harden is an expert in rare and vintage cocktail ingredients – for want of a better word – often from defunct or discontinued producers. He says we are “blessed” to live in a time where there is such a range of antique vermouths, amari and Barolo Chinatos available. If you know where to look, he says, there are “hundreds of brands from every little town in Italy” to be found, and interest in these liquids is at an “all-time high”.   Barolo Chinato was originally meant to be consumed any time after bottling. But, because of the additional alcohol and small dose of sugar, it can be left for decades, even a century, if it has been stored correctly – “in its brown glass bottle in proper, dark, humid, subterranean environment,” Harden explains.   “Although Barolo Chinato is only slightly stronger than a Barolo wine, the introduction of a grape-spirit-based liqueur into the blend provides it with significant fuel for longevity,” he continues. “The inevitable oxidisation that occurs in a product on the lower part of the alcohol spectrum, the different rates of decay of the 30-plus herbs and spices and the recombination of those receding and advancing flavours at rates not originally intended provide for magical and harmonious combinations for the palate.”  He says, while traditionally it would be served neat, room temperature, in a small glass after a meal with dark chocolate, it is increasingly being used as a stand-in for many vermouths and Amari in classic and modern cocktail recipes.  Cocchi owner and Managing Director Roberto Bava says this idea to promote Barolo Chinato as the perfect companion to dark chocolate (“Like the French had with Pineau de Charentes,” he explains) saved the drink from extinction in the 1970s.   To many people’s surprise, the idea worked and the number of producers steadily increased. “It was a very simple detail but it was the lifesaver of the whole category,” Bava says, “I am very proud of this”.   Bava acknowledges Barolo Chinato is and will likely remain a “boutique” product, in part because of its price – “of course it is more expensive than amaro – you have to use a DOGC Barolo to make Barolo Chinato”, he says – but he believes its heritage and quality will continue to recruit fans.  With these credentials, and an ever-growing appreciation for rare and intriguing liquids, we think this lesser-known export from the prestigious wine region is going to struggle to remain a secret for much longer. Explore more Editorial

It is fair to say Barolo Chinato is a niche category. While some may know it well, others might have never heard of it. We explore the history of Barolo Chinato and why it’s firmly got a place in our hearts and drinks cabinet

What is Barolo Chinato? Explore this Piedmont fortified wine's herb-and-quinine recipe, history, tasting notes, and traditional after-dinner serving.

What is Barolo Chinato?

Peat in whisky is divisive – both in terms of its intense flavour profile, but also its sustainability. It has long been used in Scotch whisky, adding complexity to the region’s spirits, but has – over the last two decades – been thrust into the limelight.  Essentially, peat is baby coal – decomposed organic matter, in particular sphagnum moss, that takes thousands of years to form. Historically, these peatlands – wetlands such as bogs and fens – were used for fuel, especially where other energy sources weren’t readily available. Slabs of peat, cut out of the ground and left to dry, were burnt, valued for their ability to (like coal) smoulder steadily. Peat would have originally been used to heat pot stills, giving off intensely scented smoke that distillers eventually looked to capture.  Today, energy sources are largely more sustainable, and peat is used in significantly smaller volumes in the kilning process. After the barley has been malted, it is kilned (essentially dried). For peated whiskies, this is done (at least in part) over a peat-fed fire, so that the barley picks up the flavours from the smoke. This barley is then milled, mashed, fermented and distilled to produce the whisky, with the peat smoke lending flavours that range from soot, smoke and asphalt to seaweed and iodine.   Peatlands have been put in the spotlight with climate change, given their incredible capacity to hold carbon – and release it. As a NatureScot report (2023) states, “Although peatlands cover less than 3% of the world’s surface, it is estimated that they store double the amount of carbon held in global forest biomass and more than 30% of the total global soil carbon store (Bonn et al., 2016). Peatlands make up some 9.5% of the UK’s land area with an estimated carbon store of over 3,200 million tonnes, of which 1,600 million tonnes are estimated to be in Scotland (Bonn et al., 2016).” But while they have an impressive ability to lock away carbon, once peatlands are damaged they release some of that carbon – and the same report estimates that degraded peatlands account for circa 13% of Scotland’s carbon emissions. (It’s worth noting that the same institution – then known as Scottish National Heritage – came under fire in 2020 for its agreement with Diageo, allowing for unlimited peat extraction on Islay.)  Peat accumulates at a mere 1mm a year, so it’s easy to see why peat extraction is a hot topic. Protecting and restoring Scotland’s peatlands are firmly on the national agenda, and in 2020, the Scottish government announced £20 million earmarked for restoration, with a commitment to invest more than £250 million by 2030. Unsurprisingly, it’s put Scotch whisky’s use of peat under the magnifying glass. In reality, a fraction (just 1%) of Scotland’s peat goes to the spirits industry – with horticulture the main culprit.  As Bruichladdich’s Head Distiller Adam Hannett says, however, it has provided “a great lens to look at what we’re doing with peatlands”. For him, “It’s about responsible extraction.” Bruichladdich’s production director is also looking at restoration projects with local farmers. In 2021, two giants of the industry announced significant projects – one from Diageo’s Johnnie Walker, partnering with the RSPB to repair wetlands, and a more ambitious pledge from Beam Suntory, with its Peatland Water Sanctuary Initiative. The project aims to restore twice the volume that the company harvests for use in whisky production, with $4 million invested by 2040. Some producers – such as Nc’nean – have sworn off peat totally, while others are moderating usage, or looking for alternatives.   In Sweden – where peatlands represent up to 20% of the entire land area, Mackmyra’s Blender Lii Johnson explains how there is strict regulation around their usage. They are one of a growing number of producers looking to use peat as another way to explore their terroir. As few producers malt and kiln their own barley today, often this is shipped from Scotland (in turn adding to distilleries’ carbon footprints). At Mackmyra, they instead use Karinmossen – local peat, harvested around 40km south of the distillery – seasoned with juniper twigs. She estimates they use a mere 0.1% of the peat bog, bringing in around 30 cubic metres per year.  Johnson feels that it is the juniper in the Karinmossen, along with the small twigs they add (picked from the woods around the distillery), which give a light citrus, almost medicinal note to their peated malts. In Seattle, Westland has pioneered using local peat, and a process with a backhoe to keep the bog intact and limit their carbon footprint. Co-Founder and Managing Director Matthew Hofmann feels the local peat brings Mezcal-like aromas to their peated whisky, Solum.   This quest for sustainability, combined with emphasis on the concept of terroir in whisky, has had interesting results at distilleries around the world. In Minnesota, Brother Justus sources peat from the Boreal Forest and has trademarked a cold-peating process to produce more delicate aromas. Tasmanian distillery Lark looks to Browns Marsh for its peat (around one cubic metre a year) and has had the International Mire Conservation Group confirm that it is having zero impact on the marsh. Others are looking to use alternatives – New Zealand’s Thomson Whisky uses manuka, while Archie Rose has looked to Australian hardwoods and, perhaps most distinctively, Iceland’s Eimverk sources sheep dung from local farms in lieu of peat.  As we’ve touched on, however, it’s not just what is used to peat malt – but how it’s used, that impacts the flavour of the final whisky. “Duration, in my opinion, is the key,” says Mackmyra’s Johnson, emphasising that it is how long the barley spends in contact with the peat smoke that influences the level of peatiness, while it is only the type of peat (or peat alternative) that will effect the nature of the peat flavour. She explains how whether the barley is peated pre- or post-break is also important: it’s most common to do pre-break, as if it is done post-break, when the barley is largely dry on the surface, it doesn’t pick up phenols – the compounds that produce peat’s smoky flavours. For Mackmyra’s peated barley, it is kilned for one day with peat and then for a second day just with hot air.  There are other factors too however – with fermentation times and cuts often a focus. While longer ferments are generally thought to engender complexity, shorter ferments preserve phenols. There are three factions to a still run – the foreshots, heart and feints. The foreshots and feints, the liquid that runs off first and last, are generally discarded, and the cuts between these determine the character of the heart. Phenols generally come late in the distillation process, so later cuts can be preferential when looking for peat character. For Mackmyra’s Extra Rok 2.0 – an extra-peated malt, they do shorter ferments and a later cut, to preserve the phenols.   It's become fashionable to talk about “ppm” in peated whisky – parts per million (perhaps familiar to wine lovers as the same term that is used for sulphur levels), to measure the level of total phenolic compounds. It’s perhaps unsurprising that the compounds are the same as those for smoke taint, including guaiacol and 4-methylguaiacol, for example, but while in the world of wine these are avoided, distillers of peated whiskies have competed to produce the spirit with the highest. This race to make the peatiest whisky possible was arguably inspired by Compass Box’s Peat Monster (first produced in 2003), building to and culminating with Bruichladdich’s Octomore 8.3 (released in 2017) – a whisky with a remarkable 309ppm, the highest level measured to date (compare this to the first Octomore release which had 131ppm). In this frenzied period, Ardbeg’s Dr Bill Lumsden even buried a barrel of peated whisky in a peat bog (which was released as an NFT in 2022, Ardbeg Fon Fhòid). But while one number is an easy way for whisky drinkers to grasp how peaty a spirit is, not everyone believes it’s helpful.  “We don’t like to talk about those numbers,” says Johnson. She explains how ppms are somewhat farcical, in her view. When the reading is taken varies from distillery to distillery, and therefore provides something that is almost impossible to compare. While most are taken at the mashbill stage, if you are later blending, it’s an estimate at best. Not only that, but the make-up of the phenolic compounds will influence how peaty one 100ppm whisky is versus another 100ppm whisky. For Mackmyra, their pure peated malt sits at around 300ppm, but the mashbill for their peated and extra peated whiskies are respectively around 70 and 140ppm, Johnson reluctantly tells me. The level of phenols can also vary significantly between batches of barley – and at Mackmyra they aim to combat this by doing one kilning a year, distilling all their peated whisky at once and blending the batches to create a consistent product.  It's almost for this exact reason that Bruichladdich created Octomore, Head Distiller Adam Hannett explains. The project’s numbered releases have significantly different levels of peatiness, and were a project inspired by their curiosity to see how far they could push the peat level, as well as their partnership with Bairds maltings, who had batches of barley with irregular phenol numbers.   Although peat is intrinsically associated with Islay’s malts, things aren’t as clear-cut today – and as Hannett says, “You can’t categorise flavour by region”. Islay-based Bruichladdich produces both peated and unpeated whiskies. Originally the distillery made heavily peated malts, switching to unpeated styles in the 1960s, and today makes both. Its Port Charlotte brand was first conceived to capture what Bruichladdich would have been like in the old days, as a heavily peated malt. Intriguingly, Bruichladdich briefly tried using Islay peat, however found that they couldn’t get the phenol levels as high. Hannett highlights that another element in phenol levels is the depth the peat is cut from – with lower levels having more vegetation and therefore more phenols.  For Bruichladdich, when they’re looking for an overtly peated spirit, the quality of the underlying spirit is key – working with the right barley and fermentation times, for example. While peated malts might be thought of as heavy, oily and medicinal, they try to avoid this character. He deliberately won’t delay making a cut in the name of phenols, with that decision based on quality – and the result, he feels, is that, “The essence of the peat smoke is light – it’s barbecued.” For him, it’s about the balance between the peat character and everything else.  For blending specialists, House of Hazelwood, peated whisky “is a tool in our arsenal we can use to build a complex blend”, says Eilidh Muir from their Whisky Blending Team. She emphasises that using peat doesn’t necessarily equate to a smoky whisky, but can contribute something to a blend that is much harder to pin down – but something you’d notice if it wasn’t there. “A whisky dominated by a single flavour is often too one-dimensional,” she says – they too are looking for that fine balance.  Peat is just one element that can be used to shape a spirit – and there remains a certain amount of mystery to its influence. The sustainability question isn’t going away, but – as Bruichladdich’s Hannett says, “I don’t know what the solution is at the moment… but we’re looking for one.” As producers look for an answer, they’re pushing boundaries – experimenting with local sources and alternatives – something that will only benefit whisky-lovers, and the environment.  Browse a range of peated whisky or read more about spirits 

Iodine, seaweed, soot and smoke: for some, peat’s trademark tasting notes are off-putting, for others they’re the pinnacle of fine whisky. Sophie Thorpe spoke to Bruichladdich, House of Hazelwood and Mackmyra about peat, ppms, its potential sustainability problem, and how it’s being used today

Bruichladdich, House of Hazelwood and Mackmyra on peat – how it’s used, whether it’s sustainable and the alternatives being employed in whisky today

How whisky distillers are using peat today

The big smoke: peat and whisky

If my wife and I are lolling around on the sofa, sharing a bottle of wine and listening to jazz, I’ll sometimes ask, in tones combining the genial authority of a quizmaster with the tacit menace of a Stasi interrogator, “Who do you think is playing bass?” Or piano. Or drums. If she doesn’t know, I respond with appalled astonishment because it’s so obvious (you only need to hear a couple of notes) that it’s Charlie Haden. Or McCoy Tyner or Max Roach or whoever. When I was studying jazz in the 1980s (by studying I mean getting as stoned as possible with my friends) we’d play records for each other without revealing the identities of the musicians and, in this way, I built up an instinctive database of who sounded like whom. Of course, that’s not all I was doing, back then. I was also swilling gallons of beer and respectable quantities of wine, both of which I consumed with just as much pleasure as I listened to music. The difference is that with wine, I never paid any attention to what I was drinking, where what I was drinking had come from, or what grapes might have gone into it. Still don’t, actually. So, while my wife sometimes doesn’t know who she’s listening to, I rarely know what I’m drinking. Now, if my enjoyment of jazz is enhanced by knowing who I’m hearing, when an album was recorded, how a given version of a tune compares with other versions by different musicians and so on, does it follow that my enjoyment of wine is correspondingly diminished by ignorance and indifference as to its provenance and ingredients? Am I sitting around liking what I like while unable to tell whether what I’m liking is a bottle of Kenny G or vintage Sonny Rollins? To answer this question and address the larger issue, a bit of history is helpful (isn’t it always?). I grew up in a non-drinking household. We knew that other people drank wine with dinner but this was seen as an exotic, middle-class custom, as removed from our own potential experience as the tribal rites featured in National Geographic. No one we knew drank wine except the homemade kind – blackberry, pear, potato etc – that my parents made, stored in the cupboard under the stairs and offered to thirsty relatives who came to visit. Bearing no relation to wine as usually conceived, this beverage was more akin to a potent species of cider. Ah cider! As was the case for all boys of my generation, cider proved such an effective conduit to getting blind drunk that I’ve not been able to face even a sniff of the stuff since a horribly enjoyable first encounter. Same with Cinzano Bianco, but I’ve never turned my back on beer. As part of the general drift into all matters alcoholic, I drank a bit of Liebfraumilch (yum) but didn’t encounter anything like the notion of a ‘good’ wine until I was at Oxford. (The fact that I had to wait till then is a good indicator of the class status of wine in the UK back in the 1970s.) One day a fellow-student at my college offered to sell some bottles of what he pimped as “excellent red wine.” Three of us forked out for six between us. It was great. Sort of peppery tasting. We glugged the lot in one evening and I was violently sick, from my friend’s window, into the lane outside (a reversal of Charles Ryder’s first encounter, in Brideshead Revisited, with Sebastian Flyte who pukes into his room), but I was on my winey way. Most boozing took place in the pub (beer) but, as I gradually got used to drinking wine at dinners and at art openings, an unreliable and poorly projected map of wine awareness began to take shape.  In my early 30s, there was a Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon for which I developed a particular fondness. At three quid a bottle it seemed more appropriate, even then, to cut it down to three syllables: Bulg-Cab-Sauv. Then came the news that the contents of any bottle could be improved by being allowed to breathe. Sometime later, living in Paris, I got wind of a crude truth that you could tell a better wine by how far you could stick your finger in its bottom, in the whatever-it’s-called at the base of the bottle. The further the better was the rule of thumb, so to speak, though why this should be the case I never discovered. These were excellent, easy-to-implement tips but the bigger picture remained blurry. I knew there were regions, different kinds of grape, but I was never sure which was which (Burgundy always sounded like a type of brandy) and I knew enough to know that it wasn’t enough to know that you liked a Merlot, say; you also needed to know what was going on within that species of grape or region, that certain brands and years were better than others. Although a drawing of a château on the label could be a good sign, it was not an infallible one, especially when some high-quality wines began to feature labels that shared an aesthetic with edible marijuana products or t-shirt design. And over all this uncertainty hung a larger cloud of astonishment – a symptom of the world’s fathomless ability to defy logic – generated by the ‘fact’ (I still have trouble accepting it as such) that white wine is not necessarily made from white grapes, nor red from red. Even when we factor in the odd big Tuscan moment in Italy, or Pinot epiphany in New Zealand, my understanding has not advanced significantly in the last 20 years. I know what I like but, as with many things – learning German, for example – I feel I’ve left it too late. Any attempts I make are the equivalent of looking up the occasional word in an online Deutsch-English dictionary. One can often spend one’s way to an enhanced experience, but my natural skinflintery means I prefer my father-in-law’s model, whereby he had knowledged his way to improved enjoyment. He not only serves fantastic wine, without exception, on every occasion; he always serves wine that costs a fraction of how it tastes.  I like this approach but, to borrow the term from London’s taxi drivers, I’ve never done the knowledge. I’m like the new generation of Uber drivers who rely so passively on their phones’ navigation apps that, after years behind the wheel, they still have almost no idea where they’re going. My phone comes in handy too. If I drink a fantastic wine at a friend’s house, I’ll take a picture of the label and, if it’s in stock at a local store, will buy a case. It’s nice being able to repeat a pleasing experience but it’s rarely as nice as I remember it and often not nice in the way that I remembered it. Or, if it’s nice at first, it almost always seems less nice, months later, when I’m down to the last couple of bottles. There are as many moving parts in the world of wine appreciation as there are in and around the mouth.  We have moved, by a combination of association and anatomy, to the potential source of the difficulty, to language. Having failed to acquire home-grown expertise, I am at the mercy of advice from the people who work in wine stores. Overall, I would estimate that this has resulted in a 50% success rate at twice the necessary expenditure. Is this because of shortcomings in their expertise and counsel, or is it due to linguistic failure, to inadequate translations of their knowledge into my preferences? We are told there’s no accounting for taste, which is not true, but it seems there are multiple problems with recounting one’s tastes or satisfying other people’s desires. Compared with sex where you can easily get by with half a dozen verbs and nouns, saying either what you want from a wine – or what it will do for someone else – demands a linguistic dexterity that is almost Joycean. We have all sat entranced as a waiter’s attempts to do justice to the merits of a given wine begin to sound like a libationary remix of Chomsky’s “Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.” But even while allowing for scepticism, incomprehension and constant proximity to parody, I continue to wonder about the extent to which my experience of wine would be enhanced by becoming more articulate in la langue du raisin. ‘Smooth’ is generally considered a good quality (as opposed to ‘rough’) but Kenny G, a purveyor of ‘smooth jazz’, is tacitly at odds with ‘complexity’. I can sort of appreciate complexity in a wine, without any understanding of how that complexity is constituted but – a defining character flaw – am more often conscious of a lack of complexity.  The strange thing is that while wine appreciation is not like a foal’s ability to get up and running straight away, it does find its feet over time. Even if uninformed, un-cultivated and left to fend for itself without any supporting help, it seems one’s tastes in wine not only change; they improve of their own accord. This might be considered a welcome, accidentally ameliorative side-effect of getting older. Or would be were it not for the fact – one I have no trouble accepting – that this improvement manifests itself negatively, as a steadily increasing capacity for dissatisfaction. To put it simply, what might have seemed an excellent wine a few years earlier becomes merely tolerable because of a lack of what may or may not be complexity. The tolerable becomes unacceptable, and the unacceptable becomes vile. My tongue has become more responsive to taste while remaining tied; my discernment is entirely inarticulate. The product, above all else, of laziness, this manifests itself in several unattractive ways. Do women on a date prefer men who take control of the wine menu? (Could this be the civilised residue of what was once a more widespread assumption and acceptance of male domination?) My own dating history leads me to suspect that they might, though the belief that the evening gets off to a bad start – with my saying, “I don’t know anything about wine, you choose” – is more palatable than conceding that it might have more to do with the way it ends (with my saying, “Let’s split the check”) or, come to think of it, with the middle passage (constantly refilling my own glass while droning on, without interruption, about the musical complexity of Ornette Coleman). It’s not just laziness and tightness, there’s also the question of sophistication and refinement. I can eat with chopsticks – I really can! – but have never been able to master the knack of swirling wine round the glass and forensically nosing it. You can do it, I’m sure, but I always feel like I’m engaged in such a blatant affectation that the first flicker of an erotic bond starts to form between my date and the waiter because they can tell that I’m parroting the action without any idea of what I’m attempting to discover, that it’s obvious to anyone watching that my head is entirely filled with a single idea: keep the cost down. In this regard, price, I am pleased to report that limited progress has been made. In my mid-20s, in London, I was sometimes invited to the house of the writer Lisa Appignanesi who was at the centre of London’s intellectual and cultural life. Well-mannered enough not to arrive empty-handed, I’d stop off at the off-licence near her house and pick up the cheapest bottle of discounted plonk on offer. Lisa always accepted this shabby gift graciously (she did everything graciously), while making sure that it never darkened the table. It now seems one of the rudest things one can do, to show up at someone’s house with a crap bottle of wine, though where crapness begins or ends is anyone’s guess. A shitty bottle of wine is always over-priced, is always money wasted. At the opposite end of the scale, my limited experience of drinking very expensive wine has confirmed what I had always expected: that it’s wasted on me. I ooh and ah, naturally and gratefully, but even though I enjoy these $200 bottles I am thinking: well, it’s not 170 bucks better than a 30 dollar bottle. Perhaps from a certain point – $100 upwards? – you have to pay twice that for a tiny percentage improvement in experience. That makes sense. If this were not the case, then a $1,000 bottle would surely bear so little relation to wine that it wouldn’t be wine at all. We now have sufficient linguistic tools available to describe my ideal relationship with wine. When I think of wine, it’s never as a drink or a taste experience but always as part of an occasion, part of a narrative. What I love is going to a dinner at a restaurant with a non-clamorous acoustic (wood and carpet, not metal and concrete) and a limited menu (I hate choosing food), knowing that someone else will take care of ordering the wine which will flow without let or hindrance. The problem at my father-in-law’s is that although the wine is always excellent, there’s never an infinite amount of it. And what I want from wine, above all, is more. That’s the key word in all this. I love talk and the progression of conversation as the wine makes itself felt: the glow of friends’ eyes, the flow of chat. Red wine, reflections of the room and of candlelight in the glasses full of wine. Everything is held together by the wine, even though that wine is less important than the people, the subject, the jokes and laughter. The wonderful remarks become more wonderful as the evening unfolds, until nothing anybody says really makes any sense at all. In the morning I will not remember the details of the wine or the food. What I will remember is the warm glow, the happiness of it all.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine. Photography by Marcus Nilsso.

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine.

FONDATA: The Mirth of More

The Mirth of More

Waterford founder Mark Reynier speaks to Gavin Lucas about his obsession with terroir, traceability and transparency – and how his radical approach is driving unprecedented scientific research into the flavours derived from barley grown on different soil types

Waterford founder, Mark Reynier, discusses his obsession with terroir, traceability and transparency – and how his approach is driving pioneering research 

FONDATA: The Waterford Revolution

The Waterford Revolution

Surveyor Thomson

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