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  

Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

About Académie du Vin Founded in Paris in 1973 by Steven Spurrier, the Académie du Vin grew out of a love of wine and a desire to share it with clarity and intelligence. What began as informal wine appreciation courses in 1970s Paris evolved into a publishing house dedicated to the finest wine writing of the past, present, and future. Today, the Académie du Vin Library maintains a deliberately small and carefully curated list, selecting books for their readability, authority and enduring insight into the world’s great wine regions – guided by the belief that fine wine writing, like wine itself, deepens with time. About this article This article presents the introduction to Côte d’Or: The wines and winemakers of the heart of Burgundy (2nd Edition) by Raymond Blake. In it, Blake sets the scene for Burgundy’s most revered stretch of vineyard, exploring the historical, cultural and human forces that shape the Côte d’Or. The introduction offers essential context on place, tradition and the vignerons themselves—laying the groundwork for a deeper understanding of Burgundy’s wines and the people behind them. Introduction The Côte d’Or, the Golden Slope, enjoys a reputation and exerts an influence in the wine world out of all proportion to its size. It possesses none of the grandeur of the Douro Valley, for instance, nor the picture-postcard beauty of South Africa’s winelands. It is not majestic; its beauty is serene, and what strikes the observer time and again is the tiny scale. From north to south it is about 50 kilometres long, is sometimes less than a kilometre wide, and can be driven in little more than an hour. At a push it could be walked in a day. Yet for a thousand or more years this favoured slope has yielded wines that have entranced and delighted wine lovers, with a fair measure of frustration and disappointment thrown in too. Avoiding hyperbole when writing about the Côte d’Or is a problem, for it has held people in thrall for centuries, frequently prompting poetic flights of prose: ‘The Pathetic Fallacy resounds in all our praise of wine … This Burgundy seemed to me, then, serene and triumphant … it whispered faintly, but in the same lapidary phrase, the same words of hope.’ Thus wrote Evelyn Waugh in Brideshead Revisited eighty years ago. Literary critics might cavil at such prolixity, and Waugh himself tamed it severely in later editions, but it was enough to intrigue me decades ago and engender a love for the region and its wines that has never waned. Greater Burgundy is a bigger, more geographically diverse, region than might first be supposed, stretching from Chablis, south-east of Paris, to Beaujolais, north of Lyon. The subject matter of this book, however, is Burgundy’s heart, the Côte d’Or. There is no more celebrated stretch of agricultural land on earth. It has been pored over and analysed, feted and cosseted, obsessed about and sought after for centuries and today, if anything, it exerts a greater pull on wine lovers than ever before. ‘Astronomical’ does not begin to describe the prices now being paid for prized patches of grand and premier cru vineyard, and for the wines produced from them by the top domaines. Such prices hog the headlines and paint a dazzling, though severely one-dimensional, picture of the Côte d’Or today. In the early years of the twenty-first century they are part of the story but they are not the only part. This book aims to get behind the dazzle and flesh out the story, to add some nuance and extra dimension. The Côte d’Or cannot be captured in a sound bite nor, it must be admitted, in a book of this scope – but my hope is that it may add another chapter to the ever-unfolding tale, setting it in the early years of the twenty-first century, a period that may come to be considered by future historians as a golden age for Burgundy but which has brought its own challenges in the shape of those ludicrous prices, the scandal of premature oxidation in the white wines, and the increasing challenge of dealing with extreme weather events such as hail and spring frost. The Côte d’Or has been the subject of forensic scrutiny for centuries, generating a library of books, so why another one now? For the simple reason that it is ever changing. Every year sees new names added to the producers’ roster and old ones slipping away, and thanks to this ongoing evolution the infant domaine of today can be the superstar of tomorrow. The core of the book comprises about a hundred producer profiles. Many fine domaines and négociants whose wines I am happy to purchase and drink have not found a place here. It is important to stress that they have not been included, rather than excluded, simply for reasons of space. The aim was to feature a representative collection of producers, not a top-down selection of the most celebrated names in descending order of renown. As a consequence this book is not, nor was it ever intended to be, a comprehensive A to Z of producers. I write as an amateur du vin, an enthusiast whose admiration for the wines of Burgundy stretches back over four decades, and who has been visiting the region and writing about the wines for some thirty years. I do not trade in wine. I try to see beyond the wine to get something of the backstory, the story of people and place that makes the Côte d’Or so fascinating. To examine the wines in isolation is to dislocate them from that, and not knowing something of the backstory precludes a full understanding of them. A broad lens must be brought to bear on the côte. Too narrow, and the wood will never be seen for the trees. I have learned much by coming across things serendipitously rather than dashing hither and thither, seeing a lot but noticing little. Without time for assimilation and reflection, subtlety and shade are missed. Finally, no gustatory experience can match the thrill of a great Côte d’Or red drunk at its peak. The colour, crimsoned by age; the heavenly scent, perfumed with notes of sweet decay; a sauvage edge, the palate lively and tingling, managing to be so many things at once, oscillating between fruit and spice and meat and game, a merry-go-round of flavour, spiralling on the palate, refusing to be pinned down by anything so prosaic as a tasting note. All the primary components melded by age and yielding up new ones, unsignalled when the wine was young. Everything cohesive and in harmony, like a great orchestra playing at its best. Above all, vital and living, endlessly enchanting and intriguing, engaging the palate and the spirit like no other wine. Learn more about Raymond Blake's Côte d'Or (2nd edition) Shop all books from the Académie du Vin Library Visit the Académie du Vin website Upcoming Event FINE+RARE & Académie du Vin Present: The Impossible Tasting FINE+RARE and Académie du Vin are delighted to present a rare and intimate exploration of the finest wines ever made. Wines of historical legend. Wines that are rarely seen, much less opened. Wines that should be impossible to bring together at one time. Lunch (April 29): River Restaurant, The Savoy Hotel Dinner (April 30): St James’s Room, 67 Pall Mall Club Learn more about the event here

Explore Burgundy with the introduction from Raymond Blake's book: Côte d'Or: The wines and winemakers of the heart of Burgundy. Blake tells the whole story of this hugely influential region, painting a complete picture of life there: the history, landscape, climate, culture and people.

Discover Raymond Blake's Côte d'Or (2nd Edition): a deep dive into Burgundy's wines, winemakers, history, culture and the people behind this iconic region.

Raymond Blake on the Côte d'Or

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

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

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

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

After the difficult conditions of 2024, Bordeaux has delivered a vintage that has surprised almost everyone. The 2025 growing season was among the hottest and driest of recent decades, with yields collapsing across much of the region. Yet rather than producing another 2022-style vintage of power and opulence, the wines have emerged with freshness, moderate alcohols and remarkable aromatic precision. Almost every major critic references the same paradox: a year that looked destined to produce massive wines instead yielded bottles of energy, balance and finesse. There is less agreement on where 2025 ultimately sits among Bordeaux's recent great vintages. Some critics compare it to 2016, others to 2019, 2020 or even 1961. What they largely agree on, however, is that the best wines are outstanding – and that this is a vintage where terroir, vineyard management and winemaking decisions matter enormously. William Kelley – Wine Advocate William Kelley sees 2025 as a vintage that reveals rather than conceals. He describes it as a "clarifier" rather than an amplifier, arguing that the wines expose differences in terroir, viticulture and winemaking with unusual transparency. Although the growing season was dominated by heat and drought, Kelley believes the resulting wines are fundamentally different from 2022. Cooler nights, lower alcohols and timely late-season rain produced wines that combine concentration, ripeness and freshness in a way that feels distinctive. He repeatedly returns to the notion that the best 2025s are classically proportioned despite their intensity. Unlike some critics, Kelley is reluctant to identify a single winning appellation. Instead, he sees success as highly estate-specific, with the finest wines distinguished by balance, precision and restraint rather than sheer power. Kelley's highlights: Larcis Ducasse, Jean Faure, Sociando-Mallet, Quinault l'Enclos, Le Pin Beausoleil Explore Kelley's full report, notes and scores on Wine Advocate (subscribers only). Jane Anson – Inside Bordeaux For Jane Anson, 2025 is "the paradox vintage". The best wines are immensely impressive, but she cautions strongly against broad-brush conclusions. Anson places the vintage comfortably ahead of 2017, 2021 and 2024, and broadly alongside 2015 and 2019 in terms of potential. Yet she repeatedly notes that this is not a year where collectors can buy indiscriminately. Low pH levels, high acidity and significant tannic structure mean some wines will require patience, while others may never fully resolve. She sees the strongest performances coming from Bordeaux's great water-regulating terroirs, particularly the limestone and clay soils of Saint-Émilion and the best parts of the Left Bank. Pomerol is more variable, with dramatic differences depending on soil type and water retention. Anson's wine of the vintage is Beauséjour Duffau-Lagarrosse, while Canon, Petrus, Cheval Blanc and Château Margaux all feature prominently among her highest-rated wines. Anson's highlights: Ch. Haut Bailly, Mouton Rothschild, Margaux, Smith Haut Lafitte, Leoville Las Cases, Petrus, Beauséjour, Vieux Château Certan, Lafleur,  Tertre Roteboeuf, Haut-Brion Blanc, Les Champs Libres, Doisy-Daëne,  Aile d'Argent Blanc, Pavillon Blanc Read Jane Anson’s report on the Left Bank, Right Bank and white wine on Inside Bordeaux (subscribers only). Antonio Galloni – Vinous Antonio Galloni is one of the most enthusiastic commentators on the vintage, describing the finest wines as "nothing short of thrilling". What impresses him most is the combination of concentration and freshness. The summer heat delivered tiny berries and naturally low yields, yet many wines finished with surprisingly moderate alcohol levels and striking aromatic lift. Galloni believes modern viticulture played a critical role, allowing producers to navigate extreme conditions more successfully than would have been possible a generation ago. He identifies Margaux as the appellation of the vintage and describes Pauillac as "jam-packed with great wines". Saint-Émilion's clay-limestone plateau also impressed him enormously. Pomerol, meanwhile, is the region he found most inconsistent. Galloni also highlights several lesser-known estates that he believes overperformed in 2025, noting that some of the vintage's most exciting discoveries may come outside Bordeaux's traditional elite. Galloni's highlights: Beau-Séjour Bécot, Canon, La Gaffelière, Troplong Mondot, La Mission Haut-Brion, L'If, Margaux, Lafite Rothschild Explore Antonio Galloni's full report, notes and scores on Vinous (subscribers only). Neal Martin – Vinous Neal Martin describes 2025 as a vintage that constantly defies expectations. He argues that the late-August rain fundamentally changed the trajectory of the year, turning what appeared destined to become another 2022 into something altogether more nuanced. Martin calls it "a dialled-down and more precise 2010", a comparison that appears repeatedly throughout his report. He finds concentration and structure, but also freshness, restraint and remarkable aromatic detail. Like Galloni, he is highly enthusiastic about the Left Bank, particularly Pauillac, Saint-Julien and Saint-Estèphe. He also believes several of the greatest successes come from Saint-Émilion's limestone soils, while Pomerol shows more variation than many neighbouring appellations. Perhaps most notably, Martin sees 2025 as one of the strongest recent vintages for Sauternes, praising the purity and freshness of the best sweet wines. Martin's highlights: Montrose, Haut-Brion, Lafite Rothschild, Lafleur, Petrus, Latour Explore Neal Martin's full report, notes and scores on Vinous (subscribers only). James Suckling James Suckling describes 2025 as one of the most exciting Bordeaux vintages he has encountered in more than forty years of tasting barrel samples. He repeatedly returns to the contrast between expectation and reality. On paper, the growing season suggested another powerful, solar vintage. Instead, he found wines with what he calls "unique purity and tension", combining moderate alcohol, vibrant acidity and impressive concentration. For Suckling, 2025 is above all "a great vintage for great terroir". He argues that the region's finest vineyards adapted brilliantly to the challenges of the year, producing wines that are both intensely expressive and remarkably balanced. Although he acknowledges inconsistency across the region, he believes the best wines can stand alongside Bordeaux's leading modern vintages. Suckling's highlights: Château Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, Lafite Rothschild, Petrus, Le Pin, Ausone, Angélus, Les Carmes Haut-Brion Read part one and two of James Suckling’s report, along with his full notes and scores on JamesSuckling.com (subscribers only). Georgie Hindle – Decanter Georgie Hindle describes 2025 as both "paradoxical" and "miraculous", two words that neatly capture the mood of many critics tasting the vintage. She notes that almost everything about the growing season pointed towards a rich, powerful vintage. Yet the wines themselves display freshness, poise and balance rather than opulence. The crucial turning point, in her view, was the late-August rain that arrived after months of drought and completely reshaped the vintage's trajectory. Hindle argues that terroir and winemaking decisions were decisive. Producers who adapted extraction techniques and handled the naturally high tannin levels carefully were rewarded with wines of precision and elegance. Others were less successful. While she believes the best wines are exceptional, she is clear that 2025 lacks the broad consistency of 2022 and should be approached selectively. Hindle's highlights: Beauséjour, Cheval Blanc, Haut-Bailly, Haut-Brion, Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, Petrus, Vieux Château Certan Explore Georgie Hindle's coverage on Decanter (subscribers only). Jeb Dunnuck Jeb Dunnuck compares 2025 to a modern-day version of 1961, citing tiny yields, drought conditions and extraordinary concentration. Yet unlike the blockbuster vintages often associated with hot years, Dunnuck finds the wines surprisingly fresh and elegant. He repeatedly highlights the role of cooler nights and late-season rainfall in preserving balance and preventing overripeness. He sees Saint-Émilion as one of the stars of the vintage, while also praising the best wines of Pauillac, Saint-Julien and Pomerol. Like several critics, he believes value-conscious collectors should look closely at Castillon and Fronsac, where some producers delivered outstanding quality relative to price. Dunnuck's highlights: Margaux, Haut-Brion, Léoville Las Cases, Montrose, Le Pin, Ducru-Beaucaillou, Mouton Rothschild, Petrus, Figeac, Beauséjour Explore Jeb Dunnuck's full report, notes and scores on JebDunnuck.com (subscribers only). James Lawther MW – Jancis Robinson James Lawther sees 2025 as one of Bordeaux's most pleasant surprises. He notes that despite being one of the hottest vintages of the last thirty years, the wines possess freshness, moderate alcohol levels and considerable charm. The defining feature for Lawther is the combination of power and approachability — wines that have both concentration and an almost unexpected amiability. Cabernet Sauvignon particularly impressed him, especially in Pauillac and Saint-Estèphe, while Saint-Émilion's limestone-rich soils again proved highly resilient in drought conditions. Pomerol was less straightforward, producing some brilliant wines alongside more uneven results. Lawther is also highly positive about Sauternes, which he considers one of the vintage's major success stories. Lawther's highlights: Palmer, Pavie, Suduiraut, Mouton Rothschild, Cheval Blanc Explore James Lawther MW's full reports, notes and scores on JancisRobinson.com (subscribers only). Read James Lawther MW’s report on the Left Bank, Right Bank and white wine on Inside Bordeaux (subscribers only). Explore Bordeaux 2025

As the Bordeaux 2025 campaign draws to a close, we review the critics' verdicts on one of the decade's most intriguing vintages and the wines that emerged as their standout performers.

Your essential crib-sheet to what the world’s leading wine critics are saying about Bordeaux 2025 en primeur–including Wine Advocate, Vinous and more

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur – what the critics are saying 

Bordeaux 2025: what the critics are saying

Xiao-Li Meng, professore di Statistica Whipple V. N. Jones a Harvard e fondatore e direttore responsabile di Harvard Data Science Review, si è lasciato ispirare da uno studente per combinare vino e statistica — ottenendo intuizioni ben oltre quanto entrambi si aspettassero.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Semplicità nelle statistiche, complessità nel vino, il resto nei biscotti della fortuna.

Non capita tutti i giorni di poter assaggiare vini prodotti oltre mezzo secolo fa – ma all’inizio di questo mese ho potuto ripercorrere l’Imperial Gran Reserva di punta di CVNE fino all’annata 1947. Victor Urrutia, quinta generazione della sua famiglia alla guida di questo leggendario produttore della Rioja, ha organizzato una degustazione di quella che ha definito “la sporca dozzina” – affiancando 12 annate di Imperial. I vini sono stati scelti per mostrare come il vino si esprima attraverso una gamma di annate – non solo le più celebri, ma le calde, le fredde, le possenti e le mediocri. 
 CVNE produce vino nella Rioja Alta dal 1879, quindi – anche risalendo al 1947 – questa degustazione ha offerto solo un’istantanea della sua storia. Imperial fu creato agli inizi del XX secolo (1917 è l’annata più antica assaggiata dallo stesso Urrutia), concepito come una “super Rioja”, ha spiegato Urrutia. L’idea era di fare il miglior vino possibile, a prescindere dal suo potenziale commerciale, in un’epoca in cui la Rioja non aveva il prestigio di oggi. Si producono circa 50.000 bottiglie, ma – cosa importante – Imperial non viene realizzato in ogni annata, poiché in alcuni anni la qualità dell’uva non soddisfa i rigorosi standard di CVNE (ad esempio non ci sono state le annate 2003, 2006 o 2013, e non ci sarà nemmeno la 2023). 
 Per Urrutia, l’obiettivo con Imperial oggi è riflettere ciascuna annata e mettere a punto il vino piuttosto che cercare rivoluzioni. Le annate più antiche sono il loro punto di riferimento e fonte d’ispirazione. Attraverso le annate, tuttavia, Urrutia indica un naso “da chiesa” – qualcosa che trova distintamente Imperial e che ricorda la cantina. 
 È facile, forse, dimenticare quanto bene invecchi la Rioja – e non solo per un decennio o due, ma per oltre mezzo secolo. L’annata più vecchia di questa degustazione, la 1947, è stata senza dubbio la stella – un vino che ha conservato la sua freschezza, con aromi delicati e un palato magnificamente lungo, puro, risolto. L’intero volo ha impressionato – con la qualità di Imperial a risplendere. Sono comparse alcune delle annate leggendarie della Rioja (la 1970 e la 1959, che siedono accanto a 1982 e 1964 nei libri di storia), ma i miei preferiti personali sono stati la già citata 1947, la 2004 ancora compatta (nominata Wine of the Year da Wine Spectator nel 2013), la cupa 2011 e la graziosa, elegante 2018. I vigneti di Imperial L’uva per l’Imperial Gran Reserva proviene dai migliori vigneti di CVNE, tutti con oltre 40 anni di età e quasi tutti ad alberello, con rese di circa 4.000 kg/ha (equivalenti a circa 25 hl/ha o meno di 1,5 tonnellate/acro). Le parcelle si trovano tutte vicino ai monti Cantabrici, a circa 500–600 metri di altitudine, e su suoli poveri ma freschi (argilla e calcare) – conferendo grande freschezza ai vini, anche negli anni caldi e siccitosi, spiega la storica Direttrice Tecnica María Larrea. 
 Il villaggio di Villalba de Rioja è stato la spina dorsale del vino sin dalla sua concezione. Questo villaggio è il luogo in cui i fratelli Real de Asúa (che fondarono CVNE) acquistarono per primi dei vigneti, quattro chilometri da Haro. I vigneti sono ripidi ed esposti a sud, soggetti ai venti e quindi alcune viti devono essere allevate a cordone speronato (cordón Royat), ma ciò apporta acidità e freschezza al vino – elementi essenziali per il suo potenziale di invecchiamento. Parcelle nei villaggi di Briones e Torremontalbo furono aggiunte in seguito, negli anni ’60. Briones ha suoli più ricchi, pendii dolci e un clima più caldo, conferendo struttura e corpo al vino, mentre Torremontalbo ha pendii ripidi e sassosi con suoli calcarei e una significativa escursione termica, aggiungendo mineralità e finezza al blend. 
 Il blend di Imperial Il blend è cambiato nel corso degli anni, con il vino originariamente attorno al 40% Garnacha e 40% Tempranillo, con il restante 20% Graciano e Mazuelo. I vecchi vigneti erano field blend, con le varietà interfilari e raccolte insieme, implicando livelli di maturazione misti – qualcosa che probabilmente apportava equilibrio e complessità ai vini, anche se parte dell’uva poteva non essere matura. Oggi, ogni varietà è piantata separatamente da CVNE – permettendo maggiore controllo e precisione, vendemmiando ciascuna uva al momento perfetto e componendo il blend in cantina. 
 Negli anni ’70 si è assistito a un allontanamento dalla Garnacha, con sempre più Tempranillo piantato al suo posto. La Garnacha era meno apprezzata, vista come un cavallo da tiro, impressione soltanto rafforzata quando cloni meno pregiati e ad alta resa furono piantati negli anni ’80 e ’90. Come ha anche osservato la Larrea, la Garnacha è molto più soggetta a colatura e acinellatura (scarsa fioritura e allegagione), il che potrebbe essere stato un altro fattore del suo declino. C’è stato anche un periodo, ha spiegato Urrutia, in cui Bordeaux era il punto di riferimento per il vino fine, e si cercava di imitare la regione, privilegiando il Tempranillo per il suo colore più scuro rispetto alla più sottile di buccia e quindi più pallida Grenache. Oggi, il blend è dominato dal Tempranillo (con sia il 2017 sia il 2018 Imperial all’85% Tempranillo), ma la Grenache sta vivendo una rinascita in tutta la Rioja e – a patto di avere il giusto materiale clonale e/o vigneti più vecchi – potrebbe contribuire maggiormente al blend in futuro. 
 La proporzione di Graciano e Mazuelo è stata leggermente ridotta, ma la Larrea sottolinea quanto siano importanti le due uve di fronte al cambiamento climatico. Il Mazuelo (alias Carignan/Cariñena) fornisce struttura e colore, mentre il Graciano apporta acidità e complessità aromatica. La vinificazione Sebbene sia entrata in CVNE nel 1991, María Larrea ha preso in mano la vinificazione di Imperial con l’annata 2005, succedendo a Basilio Izquierdo, che aveva diretto le operazioni per oltre 30 anni (dal 1973). Prima di Izquierdo venne Ezequiel García, noto come “El Brujo” (“Il Mago”), enologo di CVNE per oltre tre decenni (tornò brevemente nel 2014 per ricreare il loro leggendario bianco, Monopole). 
 Attraverso i tre enologi e quasi 70 anni, sorprendentemente è cambiato poco. La vinificazione qui rimane estremamente tradizionale, sebbene la tecnologia abbia permesso al team di monitorare i vini più da vicino e di migliorare l’igiene di cantina, come nella maggior parte delle regioni. La fermentazione rimane indigena, anche se non è più spontanea – i vini vengono inoculati con un ceppo selezionato del loro lievito indigeno dall’inizio degli anni 2010 (con alcuni esperimenti negli anni ’90). Tradizionalmente la fermentazione avveniva in vasche di cemento, ma negli anni ’90 si è passati al rovere, con una sola annata (1994) fermentata in acciaio inox quando le botti non arrivarono in tempo. 
 I vini venivano un tempo conservati in botte e imbottigliati solo al momento della vendita, quindi alcune vecchie annate di Imperial hanno trascorso oltre un decennio in botte, mentre oggi il vino resta normalmente in botte tra due e tre anni. (Le date di imbottigliamento per ciascuna annata sono incluse di seguito – la 1947 non fu imbottigliata fino al 1960!) In origine il rovere era tutto americano, semplicemente perché era quello a cui avevano accesso tramite le loro storiche rotte commerciali, e le botti venivano mantenute per decenni (la Larrea ricorda l’uso di botti di 40 anni quando arrivò negli anni ’90). CVNE ha iniziato gradualmente a introdurre rovere francese negli anni ’80, con circa il 30% di rovere francese negli anni ’90 e circa il 60–70% oggi, con il resto americano. I vini: degustare otto decenni di CVNE Imperial Una nota sulle bottiglie: le annate più vecchie sono in vetro verde, ma si è passati al vetro ambrato circa 10–15 anni fa. 
 2018 Imperial Gran Reserva: Questo è stato un vero highlight della verticale. È ancora molto giovane, fruttato, ma con straordinaria finezza e delicatezza. Il naso è preciso con aggraziati aromi di spezie, grafite e fiori insieme al frutto cristallino. Il palato è succoso e agile, puro, setoso e fresco con tabacco saporito e frutti rossi disidratati che riempiono il finale saporito. Bellissimo e molto aperto, già ora. Fermentato in rovere, 14% alcol e imbottigliato a luglio 2021. 
 2017 Imperial Gran Reserva: Gelate hanno colpito gran parte dell’Europa a fine aprile 2017, sebbene il resto della stagione sia stato relativamente caldo, producendo un raccolto minuscolo di frutta concentrata. È un vino drasticamente diverso dal 2018, ma ancora con grande freschezza e un guizzo floreale accanto a frutta rossa matura e dolce. Il palato è teso, molto meno approcciabile del 2018, con tannini compatti, un morso di acidità croccante e una stretta di tannini fermi, mentre toni affumicati riempiono il finale. Decantare per goderselo ora, ma sarà ancora migliore con un paio d’anni in bottiglia. Fermentato in rovere, 14% alcol e imbottigliato a luglio 2020. 
 2015 Imperial Gran Reserva: Il 2015 Imperial è scuro e intenso, stratificato con ricchi frutti di rovo, cedro, tabacco, spezie e qualcosa di carnoso – forse un accenno di biltong. Il palato riecheggia la concentrazione del naso, con tannini masticabili e una linea di acidità che incide la sua intensità. Potente, quasi severo, con più frutta secca che emerge con l’aria, il finale è lungo e saporito, con un tocco di miso rosso. Fermentato in rovere, 14,5% alcol e imbottigliato a giugno 2018. 
 2011 Imperial Gran Reserva: Un altro spicco della verticale, il 2011 Imperial offre un naso scuro e puro, ancora sorprendentemente primario con frutta di ciliegia nera e cassis, sollevato da un dolce profumo speziato. Il palato è setoso e puro, ancora così giovane, scorre sulla lingua, incorniciato da tannini fermi ma integrati. È concentrato e lungo, con aromi floreali che danzano sul finale succoso. Difficile resistergli, con grande equilibrio. Fermentato in rovere, 13,5% alcol e imbottigliato a luglio 2014. 
 2009 Imperial Gran Reserva: Questo è un Imperial molto serio, ora in una fase di bella maturità – con sottobosco saporito e note speziate accanto al vibrante frutto di bacche scure. Il palato è intenso ma con una morbidezza, nonostante l’impalcatura tannica masticabile. È succoso ed espressivo, con note affumicate, speziate, di tabacco sul finale, e appena un leggerissimo accenno di cuoio che inizia ad apparire. Fermentato in rovere, 13,8% alcol e imbottigliato a gennaio 2013. 
 2004 Imperial Gran Reserva: Da una “annata da manuale”, nelle parole del CEO di CVNE Victor Urrutia, il 2004 brilla. Trucioli di matita e bacon completano frutta matura e scura. Il palato è teso e compatto, ma con una succosità che allunga l’insieme, con un’acidità che guida fino al lungo finale. I tannini sono soffici e morbidi, integrati con il frutto, ma offrono ancora presa sul finale. Luminoso ed equilibrato senza sforzo. Fermentato in rovere, 13,8% alcol e imbottigliato a ottobre 2008. 
 1994 Imperial Gran Reserva: Questa è un’annata intrigante di Imperial, l’unica ad essere stata fermentata in acciaio inox durante il passaggio dal cemento al legno, ma le botti nuove non arrivarono in tempo per l’annata. Fu anche servita al matrimonio del Principe della Corona di Spagna, poi divenuto Re Felipe VI. Dopo il 2004, questo segna uno spostamento verso vini dominati da note terziarie, sebbene qui ci sia ancora molta frutta. Il naso è speziato con fungo e sottobosco accanto a incenso e toni di cuoio. Il palato è carico di umami – con cuoio fresco e frutti di bosco disidratati – oltre a fragole essiccate, tannini morbidi e acidità rinfrescante. Fermentato in acciaio inox, 13,16% alcol e imbottigliato a giugno 1998. 
 1980 Imperial Gran Reserva: Come ha detto il CEO Victor Urrutia, il 1980 è stata “un’annata di merda” – ed è sempre rimasta all’ombra del 1981 e del 1982. Assaggiando il vino oggi, probabilmente è giusto – tuttavia resta un vino impressionante. Il naso ha un accento nettamente erbaceo, mentolato, sulla dolcezza del frutto – fragole macerate, con un accenno balsamico. I tannini offrono ancora mordente, mentre il frutto vira verso toni più scuri e di rovo verso il finale. Fermentato in cemento, 13,4% alcol e imbottigliato a maggio 1985. 
 1970 Imperial Gran Reserva: L’annata 1970 fu calda e produsse vini potenti – guadagnandosi la reputazione di una delle migliori annate della Rioja. Dopo oltre 50 anni, il vino è intensamente saporito – combinando soia, marmite e sentori di stalla con frutto scuro intenso. Con l’aria, il vino offre strati di spezie (quasi reminiscenti della paprika), bacon frazzles e mandorle affumicate, a complemento del concentrato nucleo di frutto. È intenso ma equilibrato, con acidità brillante che mantiene tutto fresco e riempie il lungo finale. Fermentato in cemento, 12,97% alcol e imbottigliato a marzo 1975. 
 1968 Imperial Gran Reserva: Da un’annata più difficile, il 1968 Imperial ha un naso affascinante che combina senza soluzione di continuità il salato e il dolce – con una ricchezza terrosa che siede accanto a frutto di bosco intriso d’incenso e una gradevole nota erbacea. Il palato è elegante e vibrante, con ancora molta frutta che guida attraverso il suo nucleo, mentre note più saporite e affumicate dominano il finale. Fermentato in cemento, 12,7% alcol e imbottigliato ad aprile 1974. 
 1959 Imperial Gran Reserva: L’annata 1959 è un’altra tra le più lodate della Rioja, sebbene sospetto che questa bottiglia non si sia espressa al meglio. C’è una morbidezza e intensità al palato, con una spinta acida affilata, mentre il naso è dominato da cuoio, liquirizia nera e sentori di stalla. Fermentato in cemento, 13% alcol e imbottigliato a febbraio 1968. 
 1947 Imperial Gran Reserva: Un vino straordinario da assaggiare, il 1947 CVNE Imperial ha una reputazione – che questa bottiglia ha più che confermato. Note di caffè e tabacco con frutto brillante – ciliegia rossa matura e lampone, oltre a fiori, incenso, tè nero e salvia, accanto a un profumo affumicato. È lungo e fresco al palato, senza soluzione di continuità e pienamente risolto ma puro e persistente, con un accento di Bovril sul finale che è vibrante e lungo. Splendido ora – bevetelo finché ne avete l’occasione. Fermentato in cemento, 12,4% alcol e imbottigliato ad agosto 1960. 
 Esplora tutte le etichette CVNE, inclusa una gamma di vecchie annate di Imperial Gran Reserva, o leggi altro Editorial

All'inizio di questo mese, CVNE ha ospitato una degustazione irripetibile del suo Imperial Gran Reserva. Sophie Thorpe esplora cosa rende questo vino così speciale e come si è evoluto nel corso di otto decenni.

Exploring CVNE’s flagship Gran Reserva Rioja, Imperial, back to 1947 at a once-in-a-lifetime tasting with CEO Victor Urrutia 

Tasting CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva Rioja 2018-1947 

Un'icona attraverso i secoli: Imperial Gran Reserva di CVNE

Many believe Scotch blends are single malt whisky’s poor relation in price, quality and taste profile. In actuality, this could not be further from the truth. It takes great mastery to produce a blend. Some of the most exquisite single malts – that people pay handsomely for – are blended in perfect harmony by some of the most talented whisky makers in the world to create remarkable blended whiskies. And yet, this lesser label seemingly sticks to blended whisky – as it has for decades. The tide does, however, show signs of turning as more collectable and well-aged blended whiskies are appearing on the market. Few people know more about blended Scotch than Colin Scott and Dr Emma Walker. Scott held the title of Chivas Brothers Master Blender for 31 years and today, after a very short-lived retirement, produces superlative blends for remarkable spirits curators The Last Drop Distillers. Walker has also not long stepped into a new role, succeeding Dr Jim Beveridge as Johnnie Walker Master Blender. Dr Walker (no relation to Johnnie) and her trusty team of 12 highly skilled blenders preside over more than 10 million casks of whisky from 30 distilleries across the length and breath of Scotland to create all the Scotch in Diageo’s extensive portfolio. “Because it’s a blending operation, we just call it all blends,” Walker says – adding, with a chuckle, “just to confuse people.” The same team that looks after Diageo’s single malts looks after all its Scotch whisky, including the blends, new releases and highly collectable Cask of Distinction releases. At last count, there are 138 whisky distilleries in Scotland. Of these, 131 are malt distilleries and seven are grain, and Diageo by far and away owns the most at 30. It is Walker’s job to know these distilleries (28 malt and two grain) inside and out to produce all of Diageo’s Scotch whisky bottlings. “Our single malts are amazing. Our single grains are amazing. But so are the blended Scotch whiskies,” she says with unabashed excitement. Walker is three months into her new role at the helm of one of the world’s most formidable blending operations – and is clearly loving every minute, despite being “slightly terrified”. A chemist by trade, she is acutely aware of Johnnie Walker’s legacy as the world’s most foremost whisky blender and she carries this responsibility, that might weigh heavy on others, with a healthy dose of reverence and buckets of zeal. The ebullient Colin Scott has worked in the Scotch whisky industry for almost 50 years, blending some of the world’s most well-known and coveted whiskies for Chivas Brothers. There’s little he hasn’t seen and you sense he’s just as excited by the goings on today as he was as a young whippersnapper in the blending room half a century ago. “It’s interesting that everybody talks about [single] malts rather than blends,” Scott muses. “For the last 100 years, blends have actually dominated global sales – over 90% is blended Scotch and less than 10% is [single] malts.” Scott thinks the reason for this is simple: “People can understand a single malt because it comes from a single distillery. You can go to it, you can see it, you can touch it, and you can feel it. It’s a little bit more sexy than a blend because a blend has anything between three and a 100-plus whiskies in it.” But, what many fail to realise, according to Scott, is the skill required to create these blended whiskies – at all price points. “There is an art to blending. It’s quite a complicated art,” he says wistfully. And an ever-changing one at that. “A lot of people don’t understand that if you take a premium blend, it might have 50 whiskies in the blend one year, the next year it might have 60, the following year it might have 45, the next year might have 48 – so year on year, because of availability within the inventory, the actual number of whiskies in the blend will change. “And it is the art of the blender who brings and rebalances all of those flavours back so the taste experience remains consistent.” Walker picks up the point: “You take these individual great characters and you just bring them together. You’re not doing something that cheapens it. You’re not doing something where you’re trying to bulk things out, you’re trying to bring those different, individual characters together in the best way possible. You’re amplifying rather than cancelling each other out.” Walker is always trying to reach the golden ratio for the desired mouthfeel, texture, aroma, taste and length. When she achieves this, Walker says: “It’s just really exciting. To find these amazing individual things and bring them together, it’s heaven in a glass.” It takes years of experience and skill – passed down from one generation to the next – to achieve this divine state or you’d have to face the wrath of the loyal drinker who knows what should be in that bottle. “You’re always looking for that consistent quality,” Scott explains spiritedly. “Whether it’s standard, premium, super premium or ultra ultra premium. “Working at Chivas, you would use pretty much the same amount of time on a standard blend as a niche blend,” Scott says with great candour, “because you just don’t compromise on quality – it is not part of the game.” Scott has blended at all the levels during his career. His decision to join the Last Drop in 2021 was somewhat serendipitous. Scott and the late Last Drop co-founder Tom Jago were responsible for one of the most successful blends of all time: Chivas 18. The remarkable spirits curators have championed blended whisky since day dot. Founders Jago and long-time friend James Espey OBE initially set out to bottle single malts – because the demand was there at the higher end – but that all changed when the formidable duo were bewitched by a certain 1960 blended Scotch. This became the Last Drop’s inaugural release in 2008 and is said to have been the best whisky Jago ever tasted during his lifetime. Scott is the first to acknowledge that blended whiskies carrying an age statement are an easier sell than those without – his debut for the Last Drop was a very special 50-year-old signature blend. “If you’ve got an age on a product, people know exactly what they are dealing with,” he says matter-of-factly. While the Master Blender does feel there is a groundswell of appreciation for blended whiskies, helped by older bottlings and ever-increasing auction prices, he understands there is work to be done to remove this legacy inferiority association. “People have been drinking blends forever,” Scott explains. “But because it is usually the standard blend, they don’t really consider it special.” He continues: “Many think blends are inferior and the main reason for that was way back in the day, 30, 40, 50 years ago, people regarded grain whisky as an industrial spirit because a grain distillery, even today, makes 10 times the spirit than a malt whisky distillery makes. “Malt whisky distilleries are maybe now making 10 million or 20 million litres a year – the big ones – and a grain distillery produces over 100 million litres. I wouldn’t consider it a cheaper product, because once you have bought the cask and matured the product you’re pretty much talking the same value as a mature malt. “And this concept, that this ‘industrial’ grain spirit was added to the malt just to give volume in the actual blend is basically nonsense,” he says animatedly. Scott ardently believes grain whiskies have a very important role to play from a blender’s point of view because it has its own flavour and character. He explains: “When you taste the grain and add it with malts, it actually promotes and harmonises and brings those sort of heavier flavours of the malts together. “If you change the percentage of the grain in the blend, it will change the balance of the malts and the grains, and change the taste experience of the final blend. It’s not just a case of you just blend the malts and then add the grain for the sake of it to give you volume. You have to put it all together because if you don’t, you get a different product.” Walker seconds this. “Some of the best, most amazing [grain] whiskies I’ve got to try was when I was looking at making the John Walker 50-year-old Masters' Edition with Jim and Maureen and it was just phenomenal.” Her face lights up as she recalls that time and takes a moment to finish her train of thought. “Amazing, amazing grain whiskies,” she says with a smile. “And at those ages, when you taste them, they make your mouth water, they are so luscious, and fruity and it’s just astounding. But when you mix them together with these great individual casks of single malts, you have that lusciousness and that fruitiness but you also have these other flavours coming and mixing together.” A large part of Walker’s new role is extolling the virtues of all Scotch whiskies – grains, malts, blends, single malts and single casks – to the world. A lack of in-person events, which are slowly starting to pepper the calendar again, have presented an additional challenge but you’d be foolish to think anything can stop the new Johnnie Walker Master Blender from spreading the gospel. For Scott, it’s a case of once tasted, never forgotten. “I always feel like a great blend is the blend that has huge complexity but there is no individual flavour or character that dominates from the nose to taste to finish,” Scott tells me. “You take a sip and you smile and you put it down and it just invites you to have another one. Because you think wow, that is something I must taste it again.” With more remarkable blended whiskies to be found than ever before, you feel it won’t be long before the rest of the world is singing from the same hymn sheet. Browse all Scotch or read more Editorial 

Blended Scotch whisky doesn’t always get the respect it deserves. Part of this reason is legacy, part is misinformation. Holly Motion explores why blended whiskies are just as worthy of a place in your spirits collection as single malts

Johnnie Walker’s Dr Emma Walker and The Last Drop’s Colin Scott on why blended Scotch whiskies are as complex and beguiling as single malts.

Exploring the brilliance of blended whisky

Blended whisky: a marriage made in heaven

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