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

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

I vini Reynaud sono leggendari. Pronuncia "Rayas" a una certa gente e ne svengono. Lo stile unico di questa iconica tenuta di Châteauneuf-du-Pape – pallido, inquietantemente aromatico, dalla consistenza quasi borgognona e incredibilmente longevo – ha un seguito fervente, una cerchia di appassionati di Reynaud desiderosi di scoprire tutto ciò che Emmanuel Reynaud tocca. 
Il fascino rustico della proprietà – ben lontano dai grandiosi edifici di molte tenute famose – unito alla tendenza della famiglia a rifuggire la fama, preferendo dedicarsi alla coltivazione silenziosa delle proprie vigne, ha solo alimentato il fuoco. Nascosti nella parte settentrionale di Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Ch. Rayas e i suoi proprietari sono sfuggenti, il che li rende ancora più ricercati. 
Non mancano gli elogi per questi vini rari e speciali, il cui fascino, dato l'approccio di Reynaud basato sul minimo intervento, sfiora il mondo del vino pregiato e naturale. William Kelley è un fedele sostenitore ed è uno dei tanti a sottolineare l'eccellente performance della proprietà nelle "off-millesimate", dove il profilo distintivo della proprietà traspare, al di là dell'annata e della regione, rivelando il loro "profumo accattivante, le texture sensuali e l'eterna giovinezza". Robert Parker ha descritto il Rayas del 1990 come "uno dei migliori vini rossi giovani che abbia mai assaggiato". Per Nicolas Grainacher (Vinous), "La sostanza, la finezza e l'intensità racchiuse in questi vini rendono difficile non innamorarsene". Neal Martin (Vinous) forse lo ha espresso in modo più conciso: "Dio ha inventato il vino per bere vini come questo". 
La storia dell'impero Reynaud 
Nel 1880, Albert Reynaud, notaio di Avignone, perse l'udito a soli 45 anni. Non più in grado di esercitare la professione di avvocato, acquistò una tenuta a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, in una zona chiamata Rayas, dove trascorse i suoi giorni coltivando viti, albicocche e ulivi. Nel 1910, suo figlio Louis Reynaud assunse la gestione della tenuta. Louis aveva studiato agraria ad Angers ed era particolarmente interessato alla viticoltura. Sradicò alberi per piantare nuovi vigneti e imbottigliò il primo vino della proprietà nel 1920, usando il nome "Rayas", il nome della foresta presente sul loro appezzamento di terreno. Fu l'inizio del Rayas come lo conosciamo oggi. 
Louis aggiunse notoriamente la dicitura "Premier Grand Cru" alle etichette del Rayas, una classificazione autoproclamata del vino, sfidando notoriamente le regole della denominazione (introdotte nel 1936). Conquistando la reputazione e le vendite della proprietà, iniziò a espandere l'attività. Tra il 1935 e il 1938 acquistò Ch. des Tours a Vacqueyras, affidando al figlio Bertrand la proprietà più ampia di 58 ettari a nord-est di Châteauneuf-du-Pape, non lontano dalla città di Orange. Più o meno nello stesso periodo, costruì una nuova cantina e una nuova cantina a Rayas, portando gli edifici entro i confini della denominazione. Dopo la Seconda Guerra Mondiale, nel 1945, Louis acquistò Ch. de Fonsalette, una tenuta più a nord di Orange, a Lagarde-Paréol, e con essa l'intera gamma di proprietà Reynaud era già disponibile. 
Quando Louis morì nel 1978, i vini Reynaud erano tra i più famosi del Rodano. Dopo la sua morte, il figlio minore Jacques rilevò Rayas e Fonsalette, mentre Bertrand continuò a gestire Ch. des Tours. Con il cambio di proprietà a Rayas e Fonsalette, la qualità diminuì leggermente, ma presto Jacques iniziò a produrre vini all'altezza del nome Reynaud. 
Le vecchie vigne di Rayas, piantate su terreni sabbiosi, esposte a nord/nord-est, circondate da una pineta, producono vini di eccezionale eleganza e finezza aromatica, vini dal profumo ammaliante, dal colore pallido e dalla delicatezza quasi da Pinot, ma con una persistenza e una longevità fenomenali. 
Jacques era noto per la sua eccentricità. Recluso, felice tra le vigne e mai incline ad accogliere visitatori, si diceva che a volte si nascondesse in un fosso per evitare giornalisti o altri addetti ai lavori. La sua avversione per la ribalta non fece che accrescere il fascino dei vini. Morì piuttosto improvvisamente nel 1997, mentre faceva shopping di scarpe a Courthézon. Non avendo figli, suo nipote Emmanuel, figlio di Bertrand, che fino a quel momento aveva gestito Ch. des Tours dal 1989, ereditò sia Rayas che Fonsalette, prendendo le redini di tutte e tre le proprietà. 
La transizione tra Jacques ed Emmanuel non fu graduale, poiché Emmanuel ristrutturò la tenuta e ripiantò parti del sito, ma all'inizio degli anni 2000 la qualità era di nuovo all'altezza del nome Reynaud. Lo stile è cambiato tra le generazioni e, mentre i vini di Jacques erano più strutturati e solidi, Emmanuel predilige espressioni più sensuali e profumate. Negli ultimi due decenni, poco è cambiato nelle proprietà Reynaud: lo status mitico dei vini si è confermato solo con ogni nuova uscita. La nuova generazione, i figli di Emmanuel, Louis Damien e Benoît, è già coinvolta, pronta a continuare l'eredità di famiglia. La filosofia Reynaud 
L'approccio di Reynaud è vecchio stile: qui regna la tradizione. La monocoltura moderna non è il metodo – con varie colture in tutto il tenute e biodiversità alimentata da ampie fasce boschive. Le viti – tutte ad alberello, molte con un'età significativa – sono coltivate esattamente come sono sempre state, biologicamente con input minimi, arate a cavallo. 
L'uva è tutta raccolta a mano, i grappoli interi fermentano con lieviti indigeni in vasche di cemento. Da quando Emmanuel ha preso in mano la situazione, le parcelle sono state vinificate separatamente. Le macerazioni sono delicate, generalmente inferiori alle due settimane con un singolo rimontaggio al giorno. L'invecchiamento avviene in grandi botti di rovere vecchio, senza l'utilizzo di legno nuovo in nessuna delle proprietà – anzi, il demi-muid o foudre più giovane della tenuta potrebbe avere ben 30 anni. Le aggiunte di solforosa sono minime, con solo una piccola quantità durante la fermentazione e un'aggiunta finale all'imbottigliamento, con i vini imbottigliati senza chiarifica e senza filtrazione. Il metodo è la massima semplicità, incentrato sull'espressione di ogni sito – e i risultati parlano da soli. Le cantine sono rustici edifici agricoli, che offrono solo i requisiti di base, senza l'impiego di tecnologie moderne e, visti i vini prodotti, non necessarie. 
Il Grenache è il cuore di tutti i vini Reynaud: l'uva che prospera nel loro terroir ed è la magia del Rayas. Oltre al Rayas, il Cinsault viene utilizzato per conferire eleganza e morbidezza, mentre il Syrah è stato a lungo evitato, utilizzato solo a Ch. de Fonsalette. Louis Reynaud credeva che la varietà fosse originaria del Rodano settentrionale e, a parte la piccola porzione che arrivava nelle Côtes du Rhône, il resto del Syrah veniva venduto in grandi quantità sotto il suo regno (spesso ai ristoranti locali, che lo usavano nelle loro salse). La cuvée Côtes du Rhône Syrah fu introdotta solo sotto la guida di Jacques Reynaud, inizialmente venduta ai ristoranti che ne avevano apprezzato la qualità nelle loro salse. Non c'è Mourvèdre in nessuna delle tenute, con Emmanuel Reynaud che ritiene che i loro terreni siano troppo asciutti per l'uva. I vini e le tenute Reynaud 
La famiglia Reynaud comprende tre tenute distinte: Rayas, Fonsalette e Ch. des Tours, sebbene Fonsalette non abbia una propria cantina. 
Ch. Rayas 
Rayas è la tenuta originale dei Reynaud, acquistata nel 1880, e prende il nome dal clima. Nella parte settentrionale di Châteauneuf-du-Pape si trovano i 12 ettari di vigneti, circondati da 11 ettari di foresta. Dimenticate i tipici galets roulés o pudding stones della regione, noti per la loro capacità di trattenere il calore: Rayas sorge su terreni rossi, ricchi di ferro e sabbiosi, su terreni argillosi più ricchi. I terreni sono poveri e le viti ad alberello sono piantate a bassa densità, con appena 2.500 ceppi per ettaro, con una resa di appena 10-20 hl/ha. Negli anni '80 sono stati effettuati significativi reimpianti, il che significa che le viti hanno ora un'età media di 40 anni, sebbene vi siano ancora alcuni esemplari sopravvissuti dagli anni '40. 
L'esposizione a nord del sito si combina con l'influenza delle aree boschive, offrendo ombra e umidità, prolungando la stagione vegetativa e preservando la freschezza dei vini. I Reynaud sono tra gli ultimi a vendemmiare, spesso solo a ottobre/novembre, fino a due mesi dopo i loro vicini. I vini che ne derivano, tuttavia, non sono caratterizzati da una maturazione intensa, ma da eleganza e finezza. 
Mentre Châteauneuf consente 13 varietà rosse, a Rayas troverete solo Grenache Noir, con due ettari dedicati alle uve bianche: Grenache Blanc e Clairette. I vigneti di Grenache possono essere suddivisi in tre sezioni: Le Levant, Le Coeur e Le Couchant, ciascuna delle quali prende il nome dalla sua esposizione al sole, rispettivamente all'alba, al culmine e al tramonto. Scrivendo per The World of Fine Wine, William Kelley descrive così le tre componenti del vigneto: "Le Levant è il più floreale ed etereo, e contribuisce alla spina dorsale del vino; Le Coeur è il più completo, e contribuisce allo scheletro del Rayas; e Le Couchant, con i suoi toni fruttati più ricchi e simili a una composta, apporta la parte grassa". 
Tutta la raccolta avviene a mano. Il Grenache viene mantenuto sui raspi, i grappoli interi vengono pigiati prima di una delicata macerazione per un massimo di due settimane (un rimontaggio al giorno) e della fermentazione con lieviti indigeni. Il vino viene pressato e invecchiato in vecchie botti di rovere per poco meno di due anni.
La delicatezza e la finezza del vino che ne deriva ricordano la Borgogna più pregiata. Di colore pallido, il Rayas è profondamente aromatico, con incantevoli note floreali e una consistenza eterea e setosa che bilancia l'intensità terrosa e sapida del vino. Ogni anno vengono prodotte tra le 1.200 e le 1.500 casse del fiore all'occhiello Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I vini invecchiano magnificamente e lo stesso Emmanuel consiglia di attendere 20-25 anni prima di aprire una bottiglia di Rayas per apprezzarne appieno l'evoluzione. 
Le uve bianche sono piantate in tre parcelle a Le Levant, che comprendono due ettari. Il Grenache Blanc è stato piantato negli anni '40, '50 e '95, mentre il Clairette è stato piantato nel 1986. Fermentato in vecchi foudre (da 80 a 100 anni), acquistati di seconda mano da Louis Reynaud (nonno di Emmanuel), il Rayas Blanc è un blend 50:50 di Grenache Blanc e Clairette, invecchiato in vecchie botti di rovere per circa 11 mesi. Il vino è prodotto in volumi estremamente limitati, con solo circa 400 casse prodotte per ogni annata. Ricco ma equilibrato, questo raro bianco è immensamente profumato con note di mandorla e fiori bianchi, intensamente minerale e strutturato, e può invecchiare per almeno un decennio. 
Il Pignan è talvolta considerato un "secondo vino" a Rayas, ma in realtà proviene da un sito specifico della tenuta, un unico appezzamento di due ettari circondato da pini sul confine settentrionale della proprietà con terreni meno sabbiosi. Anche il Grenache in purezza, prodotto esattamente allo stesso modo a Rayas, offre un'espressione più immediata e accessibile dello stile Rayas, pur mantenendo profumi, purezza e struttura simili, ed è comunque in grado di invecchiare a lungo. Può, a volte, e soprattutto nelle annate più fresche, rivaleggiare con il suo fratello maggiore, Rayas. Ogni anno vengono prodotte circa 650 casse. 
I vini Rayas vengono tutti commercializzati solo al momento del loro ingresso nella finestra di consumo, mentre i rossi spesso escono dalla tenuta solo oltre un decennio dopo la vendemmia. 
Ch. de Fonsalette 
L'"ultima" aggiunta alla galassia Reynaud, Ch. de Fonsalette fu acquistata da Louis Reynaud nel 1945. La proprietà è ampia, con una superficie totale di 120 ettari, ma con 12 ettari di vigneti tra boschi, terreni agricoli e uliveti, a nord di Orange, a Lagarde-Paréol. Oggi rientra in gran parte nella denominazione Côtes du Rhône Villages Massif d'Uchaux (istituita nel 2005), tuttavia i vini sono tutti etichettati come Côtes du Rhône. Più a nord, il microclima è più fresco rispetto a Rayas e, stilisticamente, i vini sono più sobri di quelli di Ch. des Tours, ad esempio, ma non così eterei come quelli di Rayas. 
I terreni qui sono molto diversi da quelli di Rayas, con ghiaia, sabbia e puddinga rossa. I vigneti sono coltivati ​​a Grenache, Cinsault e Syrah per i rossi, e a Grenache Blanc, Clairette e Marsanne per i bianchi. Le viti sono generalmente vecchie, con la più vecchia piantata nel 1929. 
La filosofia in vigna e in cantina è esattamente la stessa di Rayas e, poiché la proprietà non dispone di una cantina propria, anche i vini vengono prodotti a Rayas. I rossi sono fermentati a grappolo intero, con una macerazione massima di due settimane e un rimontaggio al giorno. I vini vengono affinati in una combinazione di vasche smaltate e grandi botti di rovere vecchio, per poi essere imbottigliati circa un anno dopo. 
La gamma di Ch. de Fonsalette comprende tre vini. Il Côtes du Rhône Rouge è un blend di 50% Grenache, 35% Cinsault e 15% Syrah, la cui elevata percentuale di Cinsault conferisce al vino una particolare intensità e finezza aromatica: un vino che sussurra e cattura. Esiste un secondo rosso, un Côtes du Rhône Syrah, 100% Syrah, un vino strutturato, dai profumi fruttati scuri, che offre una potenza contenuta e una profondità discreta. Sotto la direzione di Louis Reynaud, questo vino veniva venduto sfuso, imbottigliato solo per la prima volta sotto la direzione di Jacques Reynaud (a partire dal 1978) e venduto localmente, principalmente ai ristoranti, prima di essere offerto più ampiamente sotto la direzione di Emmanuel. Il Côtes du Rhône Blanc è un blend di 80% Grenache Blanc, 10% Clairette e 10% Marsanne, che produce un bianco strutturato e complesso, con note di frutta a nocciolo ed erbe aromatiche e un retrogusto salino. 
La Pialade 
Questo vino rappresenta una piccola anomalia nella gamma Reynaud. Prodotto solo in alcune annate, La Pialade Côtes du Rhône è vinificato e invecchiato a Rayas, con parcelle declassate provenienti da Rayas o Ch. de Fonsalette. L'assemblaggio è tipicamente composto da 85% Grenache, 15% Cinsault e 5% Syrah. Prodotto in piccole quantità, e ancora più raro dato che non viene prodotto ogni anno, è spesso descritto come un "Rayas quotidiano" – più aperto nello stile, ma può eguagliare il Rayas per sottigliezza e delicatezza, anche se non ha la stessa profondità. 
Ch. des Tours 
Acquistato da Louis Reynaud alla fine degli anni '30, Ch. Château des Tours è la tenuta di origine di Emmanuel Reynaud, che ne ha preso in carico la gestione dal padre Bertrand nel 1989. Affidata a Bertrand fin dall'inizio e mai gestita da Jacques Reynaud, la tenuta si è sempre distinta da Château Rayas e Château de Fonsalette, sebbene tutti e tre siano sotto la guida di Emmanuel dal 1997. Benoît, figlio di Emmanuel, che ha studiato enologia in Svizzera, ha recentemente assunto la guida di Château des Tours, lavorando a stretto contatto con il padre. 
La proprietà prende il nome dalle torri o tour che incorniciano l'edificio del castello. Situata a Vacqueyras, non lontano da Orange e a nord-est di Châteauneuf, si estende su 40 ettari, coltivati ​​a cereali e ulivi, oltre che a uva. Essendo stata a lungo gestita separatamente, la proprietà dispone di una propria cantina. Sebbene la filosofia Reynaud sia comune a tutte e tre le tenute, i vini di Château des Tours sono... des Tours sono stilisticamente distintivi, offrendo più struttura, potenza e intensità rispetto allo stile più sottile, intenso e profumato di Rayas e Fonsalette. La vinificazione è in gran parte simile a quella di Rayas e Fonsalette, con fermentazione in cemento e maturazione in vecchie botti di rovere. Sebbene le uve rosse siano per lo più fermentate a grappolo intero, questa è l'unica proprietà in cui piccole porzioni vengono diraspate. La gamma è più complessa a Ch. des Tours con una selezione di vini imbottigliati con il marchio Ch. des Tours, alcuni con il marchio Domaine des Tours e un rosé prodotto con l'etichetta Parisy. Ci sono cinque vini con l'etichetta Ch. des Tours: Vacqueyras: un blend di 80% Grenache e 20% Syrah, un vino strutturato e potente prodotto esclusivamente dalle viti più vecchie della tenuta. Côtes du Rhône Rouge: un blend di 65% Grenache, 20% Syrah e 15% Cinsault, un rosso morbido e succoso, ricco di frutta e spezie. Côtes du Rhône Rouge Grande Réserve: Prodotto solo in annate specifiche, questo è di fatto il Vacqueyras declassato quando non c'è abbastanza colore - prodotto nel 2002, 2014 e 2015. Côtes du Rhône Blanc: Prodotto in volumi molto limitati, questo bianco è 100% Grenache Blanc - un vino floreale e strutturato che vale la pena provare. Côtes du Rhône Blanc Grande Réserve: Prodotto solo in annate specifiche, questo non è un imbottigliamento declassato (come il suo fratello rosso), ma un imbottigliamento speciale dei migliori Clairette e Grenache Blanc della proprietà. Il vino 50% Grenache Blanc, 50% Clairette è stato prodotto nel 2003, 2014 e 2015. L'etichetta Domaine des Tours proviene interamente da Ch. des Tours, tuttavia, è un progetto leggermente separato, che offre generalmente vini più accessibili, quasi tutti etichettati come IGP o Vin de Pays. Ci sono quattro vini sotto l'etichetta: Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Rouge: Si tratta di un blend profondamente espressivo di Grenache, Counoise, Syrah, Cinsault, Merlot e una miriade di altre varietà. Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot: Questo 100% Merlot proviene dai terreni argillosi più ricchi della proprietà, producendo un vino più opulento ed esuberante. Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot-Syrah: Un blend di Merlot e Syrah, che varia a seconda dell'annata, è un vino concentrato che unisce la generosità del Merlot con la speziatura del Syrah. Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Clairette: Questo 100% Clairette è puro e fresco, guidato dalla mineralità. Con la sua etichetta propria c'è Les Tours Grenache Blanc, un 100% Grenache Blanc ricco, maturo e generoso, ricco di frutta a nocciolo, imbottigliato sotto la denominazione Vaucluse. L'ultimo vino di Ch. des Tours è il Parisy rosé, un Grenache/Cinsault Vin de Table secco e delicato, pensato per il consumo quotidiano. Le etichette stesse non specificano l'annata, con queste informazioni visibili solo sulla cassa di cartone. Quali vini Reynaud sono prodotti e dove? Ch. Rayas, Pignan, Ch. de Fonsalette e Pialade sono tutti prodotti a Rayas Ch. des Tours, Domaine des Tours, Les Tours Grenache Blanc e Parisy sono tutti prodotti a Ch. des Tours.

Pochi vini possono vantare lo status di culto del Rayas, un vino che si distingue a Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Qui, offriamo una guida essenziale ai vini prodotti dalla famiglia Reynaud nel Rodano: Rayas, naturalmente, ma anche quelli di Château de Fonsalette e Château des Tours.

Everything you need to know about the wines made by Emmanuel Reynaud – Rayas, Pignan, Chateau de Fonsalette, Chateau and Domaine des Tours, and Parisy  

Guide to Rayas, Fonsalette and Des Tours – the Reynaud wines

Tutto quello che devi sapere su Rayas

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  

Wine, though the most intimate of pleasures, lends itself to the most expansive of texts. We drink wine most often – tastings aside – in pairings of two, or in lonesome but agreeable solitude, and, its narcotic pleasure being felt internally, we feel its effects as we feel a fever: almost secretly, in shivers. Though wine is like sex in its intimacy, unlike sex, the form in which we fetishise wine – our vine erotica – is not hushed and illicit but encyclopedic. On the shelves of any wine drinker, there are likely to be catalogues, dictionaries organised by region, old Parker buying guides some 600 pages long that somehow, though dated, can’t be discarded.  Wine seems singular among human pleasures in this. We don’t, as a rule, rush from reading a poem to great anthologies of poetry, or add to the savour of seeing a play by reading a big atlas of dramatic literature – not, at least, after we graduate from school. Sports fans, it’s true, like big books of statistics, but then sports-watching is a social act in the first instance – the more people in the stands, the merrier the occasion. With wine, we like the macro with our micro: with a solitary glass in hand, we look, in print, over the next hill, or the current vintage, at the vineyard across the way, or the vintage yet to come. It’s part of the pleasure the glass provides. The reasons for this micro and macro turn are, on reflection, commercial and artisanal as much as aesthetic. The business of wine needs a big picture of its domain, its resources, and its potential market – scale sets the stage for commerce. The makers of wine like to place themselves on a broader map of where wine is and what it’s made with. The great Bordeaux classification of 1855 is not just the noblest public monument to a beverage ever attempted, but a model of market-making and even market price-fixing. Once a hierarchy of growths has been established, it is easy to slot in the price tags. But there is a truth of taste beneath the ordering of value. With wine, we know that what we are experiencing is, however singular, still an intersection of opposed forces – as the peerless wine writer Jancis Robinson MW says of her first glass of Chambolle-Musigny 1959; “I knew at once that there was something in the glass that was sensually delicious but that it was also made, produced, and therefore suggested a history of intellect and discernment.” The pleasure of wine is the crossing of a place, a grape and a people; and so, we turn to the big books to frame the small pleasures.  What distinguishes wine from even a good glass of ale or a local brew is the specificity of the pleasure set against the scale of the system that made it – one that historically embraces the planet. It’s a First Growth, or a domaine Burgundy, or a Ridge Zinfandel or a New Zealand Pinot Noir made to a Burgundy model by American wine makers … the more we know, the more we’re free to feel. Most sensory pleasures are specific to the point of being illicit – aside from the bemused fetishist, romance is a spontaneous pleasure, often aided, to be sure, by a systematic wine. Wine is premeditated; we choose a bottle, let it ripen, and break it open. Even casual table drinking has a tale to tell, a journey to trace on a map. These thoughts are brought to mind in contemplation of Wine Grapes, the monosyllabically titled but unprecedentedly expansive dictionary of grape varieties grown to be crushed and fermented on this green planet. Authored by Robinson, along with Julia Harding MW and the geneticist Dr José Vouillamoz, it marks an epoch – several epochs – in our understanding of wine, from both a professional planet-straddling and an amateur glass-in-hand perspective. A book of its time (published in 2012), it was made possible, in part, by a revolution in the DNA analysis of wine grapes to help discover their origins and histories.  The DNA profiling of wine grapes only began in 1993, and the first ‘paternity test’ successfully concluded in 1997 – a mere few days ago by historical perspective – with specialists, Dr Vouillamoz among them, drawing astonishing Darwinian lines among seemingly unrelated grapes. Zinfandel, it has been discovered in the last 40 years, is not only the Siamese twin of Primitivo, but its Croatian Siamese twin. In proper Darwinian fashion, the book tells us, “It looks increasingly as though an enormous proportion of the grapes we know today are members of a few key families.”  The leading families of wine, Pinot and Nebbiolo and the rest, like the leading houses of Westeros, jostle and engage in incestuous inter-breeding as they move towards dominance. As Jancis Robinson admits, the quest for the origins of grapes can become surprisingly emotional. “The Zin quest is so … heated. There was a Zinfandel conference in Croatia, with all the great Zin makers, even Joel ‘King of Zin’ Peterson from Ravenswood, and we all had to present our various things about Zinfandel. There was a small cohort of people from Montenegro who reckoned that their variety – whose name is unpronounceable – was the true progenitor of modern Zinfandel, not the Croatian one. It became so … Balkan! And you know what? They may be right!” Wine Grapes is of its time in another sense as well, marking the moment when we have started to think of wine not solely in terms of region, but much more in terms of variety, with the semi-mystical term ‘terroir’ acting as a kind of Holy Spirit between them. Thinking ‘grape’ more than ‘place’ releases our imaginations. The wholesome instructive pleasures of the book, to which we’ll come, shrink beside the unwholesome, guilty pleasures of turning the pages to meet the failures among grapes – the near-misses, the long-forgotten and forlorn lost toys – which please more than the patterns of primacy. The pleasure of reading about the grapes whose juice we do drink is nothing compared to reading about those we don’t. In dictionaries, oddities and parentheses fascinate us more than the major entries. No one turns to the dictionary to study ‘and’; we go to study ‘antediluvian’. So, turning these pages, flipping through the P’s on our way to encounter the great Pinot families, we come upon the lesser gods, even the little misshapen gnomes and dwarves of the wine world, and we delight in meeting them. (A fascination added to by the forthright sub-heads the editors provide.) On our way to Burgundy and Pinot Noir, we also meet Pinotin, a ‘recent obscure Swiss hybrid’ which edges into Pionnier, ‘a minor but complex, cold-hardy American hybrid used in blends in Québec’, and, of course, Pinotage ‘South Africa’s very own cross, both loved and despised’, which leads us on to Pugnitello and even Pukhliakovsky (a Russian variety ‘with erratic yields producing light wines’) and even unto Pules – ‘a minor Albanian white’. Radiating out from five pages on the major Merlot, we bump into Merseguera, ‘an uninspiring variety’ from Spain, and Merzifon Karasi, and Merzling, dismissed as a ‘very minor disease-resistant German hybrid’. Why these lost or obscure kinds of grapes bring so much delight with them is a fascinating question. It has in part to do with our general appetite for oddities and obscurities, which once produced ‘freak shows’ and still makes us fascinated with archaic musical instruments: we are curious to hear the sackbut because we want to know what led to the trombone. It is also the virtuous case that variety is the safeguard of continuity. In an age of ever-decreasing biodiversity with just a few varieties taking the place of many possibilities, one Quixotic California winemaker, driving through the fields of Cabernet and Chardonnay, dismissed them all – with a wave of the hand – as “chocolate and vanilla, chocolate and vanilla”.  The health of the planet is safeguarded by the persistence of so many kinds. It is also because the existence of these minor yet still thriving varieties gives us a satisfying picture of adaptation, the central biological act. Each of these grapes has found a home in the world. It may not be much of a home, but then neither, face the facts, is ours. We identify with the unknown grape. We are all more like a very minor disease-resistant German, or a cold-hardy Québec hybrid, than we are something noble and complicated. Few of us are bottles of Burgundy; we can all identify as minor Albanian whites. In conversation, Jancis Robinson, sheltering at home near Kings Cross in London, a home with a view of a graveyard (though a cheerful one she assures an interviewer) – talks of the wine almanac with the blunt enthusiasm that marks her writing. Robinson, in addition to her obvious honours and credentials, is a rare thing in the wine world, or any world: a writer who writes with equal parts brio and expertise. She explains the origins of Wine Grapes. “What happened was that one of the co-authors, Dr José Vouillamoz, who had been at University of California, Davis, felt that he needed to earn more of a living, and came back to Switzerland and got a job working on Alpine botanicals. But he didn’t want to lose his relationship with wine, and he came to me and said that he’d like to collaborate on a book about grape varieties. I’d already written one in 1986, based on our very fractional knowledge then.  Over lunch, I took along Julia Harding, a wine writer who works on my website. She’s extremely punctilious.” (Robinson, punctilious herself, says this with such emphasis that the listener feels that, with Harding, we must be talking about new frontiers, not to say dimensions, in punctiliousness.) “She had exactly the right sort of brain for a project like this. José suggested that we focus on the 10 or 12 most planted grape varieties to help simplify it. I thought that that book didn’t sound interesting enough. I waited until we were quite far down a bottle of Valpolicella and said, ‘I think our book should be about every single grape variety we can find.’ He gulped and said, ‘Then that’s what we shall do!’” The idea of creating a ‘perfect map’ of a subject is one of the itches that govern modern life. John James Audubon set out to describe not the major but every bird and beast in North America, and that’s what he did. Similar ‘almanacs of everything’ fill our botanical and anthropological shelves. It is an ambition so tied to modernity that in the mid-19th century, Lewis Carroll perfectly satirised it in his novel, Sylvie & Bruno, where two mad professors talk about their dream of making a map that would be on a one-to-one relation to the actual world – utterly perfect, if impossible to unroll. “I loved the scale of the thing,” Robinson says of her perfect map. “So, we carved things up: José did all the DNA stuff and history because he had good access to it, Julia, bless her, did the footwork – how much of each grape is planted where – while trying to taste as many as possible, too! And I wrote the entries on the best-known varieties, and the introduction and read every single word.  As with any dictionary, we used what came before: we went through appellation lists, with all of the varieties allowed, some of them almost extinct. A nice little detail of the book is that we persuaded the publisher that it should have some colour plates, and we were particularly keen to include the plates from the world’s first oenological book, L’Ampélographie: Traité Général de Viticulture, of 1901 … just out of copyright!” She pauses. “Of course,” she adds reflectively, “it was José, naturally, who discovered that Pinot and Syrah are related.” The offhand nature of her mention can’t conceal the significance of the remark. Of all the discoveries offered in the book, this is perhaps, for the amateur wine drinker, the most exemplary and astonishing. Painstakingly tracing the DNA heritage of the varieties, these two noble houses, Syrah and Pinot – the grapes of the Rhône Valley and those of Burgundy, the heart of Côte-Rôtie and the soul of Chambertin – are unified as cousins. This happened not through willed cultivation but in the natural evolutionary way: through variation and adaptation. Initially, the elegance of Pinot Noir was transformed through the usual evolutionary pressures of place and mutations, into the earthy pleasures of Syrah.  Chance mutation and lucky planting turned one grape into its near opposite. (‘Cross-fertilisation’, we’re told, ‘was common until the early 20th century because several grape varieties were often intermixed in the vineyards, facilitating natural crossings between distinct grape varieties’.) The phylloxera epidemic in France from the 1860s on – though it did not destroy as much as is sometimes thought – acted as a kind of sieve or filter of grape varieties, a sort of extinction event in large-scale natural history, forcing hard choices and making obscure varieties less desirable to save by root grafting with New World vines.   One virtue of the book is to propose, in effect, a new order of wines by celebrating ‘secondary’ grape varieties. “For me, among the obscure wines, something about as well-known as Cinsault stands out – it can make such lovely wines,” Robinson says. “There’s been such a sea change as the century turned. Everybody once wanted to make fruit bombs to one of three standard recipes. Then in this century, higher acidity, lighter wines are finally revaluing, and so Cinsault comes into its own. “Sometimes I come across a grape that isn’t well known but that’s so obviously superior. There’s Aglianico – the name suggests it’s Greek, though no Greek variety has ever been found and you only get it in Southern Italy. Perfect for late ripeness, and not for cool climates – and now it has travelled to Australia, where they’re desperate for hot weather varieties.  The whole array of Portuguese and Greek grape varieties are so fantastic! And so individual. And I love that after a dalliance with international varieties, both countries are now celebrating their own. There’s another white grape, an Iberian variety that’s stunning, and, again, I’m not sure it’s yet been planted much: Godello! It’s a bit crass to say it makes wines that taste like Montrachet, if a little more terroir-y and mineral … but it does. I could drink Cinsault for red and Godello for white into the next century. “There’s such a gap nowadays,” Robinson goes on, “between the Napa Cab thing, and these young people who are buying unknown grape varieties that sell for a fraction of the price, that are really good. Such a lot has happened in the field of recuperating old vines, some so obscure that they don’t even have a name. Miguel Torres, the scion of that great company in northeast Spain became very interested in grapes.  At first, he said, ‘Hey Dad, we need the posh varieties, Cabernet and Chardonnay’ – and made all these wines which did well in the Judgement of Paris. But, with time, he realised that it made more sense to concentrate on the indigenous varieties. He’s been engaged for 30 years, putting classified ads in the local press – ‘If you know of a wine grape that you can’t identify, let us know of it, and – if we think we can propagate out – we’ll do micro-vinification.’ He’s actually rescued Catalan varieties that were on the brink of disappearing; I think he found 30 varieties, and recuperated eight for micro-vinification with sufficient character to give them a new lease of life. And much the same thing has been happening all over Italy. If we published the book today, we’d be up to at least 1,500 kinds of grapes.” The great sorting question of our time, of course, is the question of climate change and its effects on wine cultivation. Robinson is cautiously hopeful about Burgundy. “I was lucky enough to go there and spend some time. The 2020 harvest is the earliest ever, at least since the 14th century. But, whereas the 2003 vintage, that legendary hot summer in France, produced wines that were pretty bizarre, the 2019s seem as fresh as a daisy, with pure fruit. I’m no plant biologist, but the vines seem to be getting used to the conditions … or the winemakers are. They’re not extracting as heavily, but, given that, there’s no sign of added acidity (it’s routinely added in the southern hemisphere), the acidity is coming from the grapes as well. Even some real old Burgundy hands, when you ask why the wines are so fresh, say, ‘I really don’t know.’” About the Southern Rhône, though, she is more pessimistic. “They’re not helping themselves in the Southern Rhône: too many are trying to make concentrated, high alcohol, 16% wines. And maybe consultants are too powerful down there – one consultant can be responsible for 20 or 30 labels, and so you’re going to have 20 or 30 wines that reflect that.” It’s here, though, that the knowledge of grapes, and our possession of this specialist dictionary, seems particularly valuable. If wine is to save itself from the vagaries of climate change, it will probably be through the introduction and new use of ‘marginal’ or forgotten ‘heirloom’ grapes. Only recently, France’s Institut National de l’Origine et de la Qualité (INAO) officially approved six new varieties: four red grapes – Arinarnoa, Castes, Marselan, and Touriga Nacional; and two whites – Alvarinho and Liliorila – all described as ‘well-adapted to alleviate hydric stress associated with temperature increases and shorter growing cycles’, potential saviours of the region against the villain of global warming. All of them, of course, are charted and explicated in Wine Grapes.

In the end, the great strange truth of wine is the truth of life: a thousand vectors press down on us at once – place, history, time, temperature, luck and breeding – and somehow in the intersection we find, or make, our pleasures. The question of type and variation was very different before Darwin who wrote, oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) almost simultaneously with the great classification of Bordeaux, publishing On the Origin of Species in 1859.  (Oddly because his theory would have been true in any other time; not so oddly because the urge to map the world, for the ‘almanac of everything’, was typical of mid-19th century confidence, as Carroll’s satire suggests.) Before Darwin, who loved wine, the fundamental view of the world was that the superintending categories, species and varieties, were the fixed things in the world. Everyone took it for granted that the ‘kind’ the ‘essence’, was the real thing and all the little variants merely particular shades away from it. A grape was a better or worse instance of its variety. Grapes, like apes, were of one fixed sort. Darwin’s great overriding insight was that only particulars exist, and that species and superintending categories are the labile and ever-changing kinds. Every kind of living thing came from somewhere weird and is on its way to somewhere weirder, with a brief stopover at being the thing it is now. The elegance of Pinot Noir is a close cousin of the earthiness of Syrah, one state is simply a moment in the life of the other, and each are moments in the life of the surging, unfixable whole. Wine, braiding through the planet and only coming to rest on a name for a moment in one place, is a bit of scientific epistemology in your glass, the truth of the particular made potable. It’s a fine destiny for a simple pleasure. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One Photography by Gavin Bond; floral set design by Studio Lupine

Essayist and author Adam Gopnik takes a look at the world of wine through the lens of seminal wine-lover’s bible, Wine Grapes, and talks to one of its three co-authors, Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

Adam Gopnik talks to Wine Grapes co-author Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

FONDATA: Pleasure in the detail

Pleasure in the detail

The beauty of Bordeaux wines is that each vintage follows the next, yet no two are ever alike. Reading back over my notes on the 2025 vintage, one thing becomes clear: one could almost write the exact opposite of 2024. In 2024, excessive rainfall during ripening forced some châteaux to delay their harvests with great care. In 2025, the situation was reversed: in the vineyards, one could almost imagine rain dances, pleading with Mother Nature to water the parched soils. Drought defines the vintage. Opposite in their development, the two vintages nevertheless converge on one point: volume. 2025 stands as the smallest vintage since 1991 – a statement that already applied to 2024. In Bordeaux, a pressing question now arises: can great, even very great vintages – as 2025 appears to be – still coexist with generous yields, as in 2016? Let us remain optimistic. 2025 is a beautiful vintage, which comes as a relief for the entire industry. Yet a deeper question lingers: does “normal” still exist in viticulture in an era of climate disruption? What was the biggest challenge for winegrowers in 2025? Eric Boissenot: Overall, the year was fairly easy from a vineyard perspective: no major disease pressure, low mildew risk, and the vines coped well with the drought—likely even better than in 2022. Thomas Duclos: Most likely, the biggest challenge was staying calm and level-headed towards the end of the growing cycle, which saw a heatwave around mid-August followed by rainfall in early September. Julien Viaud: With hindsight, this vintage was much easier than others. Spring and summer conditions were generally favourable. The greater challenge came in the cellar, where it was essential to manage the richness of the material. The fruit was abundant and concentrated, and the winemaker’s role was to be precise, measured, and restrained in order to express the very best the grapes had to offer. Could you share a few thoughts on the 2025 yields? Eric Boissenot: Yields were low, even very low. This was due, on the one hand, to limited floral initiation (resulting in fewer bunches), and on the other hand to small berry size at harvest (across all grape varieties), caused by the low rainfall throughout the vintage. Thomas Duclos: The 2025 vintage was affected by a low number of bunches—a direct consequence of the 2024 conditions (poor floral induction) combined with a dry growing season. The result is therefore low yields. Julien Viaud: Yields in 2025 were not high, mainly for physiological reasons. The issue is that both the size and number of bunches—determined the previous year within the buds—were limited from the outset. The potential was therefore already constrained. How would you describe the style of the 2025 vintage? Eric Boissenot: First of all, it is a very early vintage, shaped by a warm and dry climate. It then benefited from rainfall in late August and early September, which helped the vines manage water stress. As a result, alcohol levels remain moderate (around 13–13.5% vol) for a warm year. While it shows a warm and very ripe character, it also retains a classic, distinctly Bordeaux style that is both balanced and highly drinkable. Thomas Duclos: 2025 is a Bordeaux vintage shaped by climate change. Julien Viaud: It is a sunny vintage, but not “solar” in the sense that it allowed for ripe grapes full of fruit expression, without excessive sugar (and therefore alcohol), and without a loss of acidity (and thus freshness). It is an approachable, generous, and charming vintage, with wines bursting with aromas and delivering real pleasure. If you had to sum up 2025 in one word or a short phrase, what would you choose? Eric Boissenot: High density Thomas Duclos: Futuristic Julien Viaud: Intense and fast-paced Conclusions Reds: Well-balanced wines, showing fine concentration and the freshness so characteristic of Bordeaux—perhaps, as Julien Viaud suggests, a style the world might envy. They retain a solid yet never heavy tannic structure, resulting in wines that are both vibrant and structured. A beautiful vintage, even exceptional in certain cases. Whites: The first grapes arrived at the cellar as early as August 11. The wines are highly expressive, with good mid-palate weight and a certain creaminess. They also stand out for their freshness, which brings energy and lift. Sweet wines: When the rains came in late August / early September, the grapes were in excellent health, allowing Botrytis cinerea to develop evenly. The style is rather opulent, with lovely complexity. Bordeaux 2025 overview: A historically low-yield vintage, the smallest since 1991. A prolonged heatwave period, exceeding those of 2003 and 2022. Marked drought throughout the summer, enhancing grape concentration. Decisive rainfall at the end of August / beginning of September, helping to balance ripeness. Exceptionally early harvest, among the earliest ever recorded. Moderate alcohol levels, thanks to day/night temperature variation and late August / early September rainfall. Low pH levels, bringing freshness and tension to the wines. An extreme vintage in climate, yet precise and balanced in the glass. Rarity, freshness, and control: 2025 ticks all the boxes of a great modern Bordeaux. About Inside La Place Inside La Place is a specialist newsletter published by Roland Coiffe & Associés, offering expert commentary, vintage analysis and insider perspectives from across the Place de Bordeaux. Bordeaux 2025 Each spring, the Bordeaux En Primeur campaign gives collectors the opportunity to secure the new vintage before bottling – follow Bordeaux 2025 with FINE+RARE as our team travels to Bordeaux next week, sharing insights, producer highlights and release alerts. Explore now.

Written by Gerda Beziade of négociant Roland Coiffe & Associés, this Inside La Place piece explores the Bordeaux 2025 vintage – one of the smallest in decades – combining her analysis with insights from leading oenologists Eric Boissenot, Thomas Duclos and Julien Viaud.

Gerda Beziade explores Bordeaux 2025, with insights from leading oenologists on style, yields and quality.

Inside La Place: Bordeaux 2025 Vintage Insights 

Inside La Place: Bordeaux 2025

Wine writer Tamlyn Currin is well known for her love of off-the-beaten track wines, in particular wines from Germany. FONDATA asked her to consider why it is that Riesling fans (of which she is most certainly one) are so much more zealous than fans of other grape varieties.

Examine Riesling's authenticity as a terroir ambassador and its varied styles. Dive into its global celebration and why it's cherished by enthusiasts. 


FONDATA: Exploring Riesling's popularity

Riesling, it’s a tribal thing

A vintage earned the hard way The growing season: Pressure without pause The wines: Classical, transparent, terroir-driven Producers who rose to the challenge Positioning Burgundy 2024 A vintage to buy thoughtfully and early A vintage earned the hard way Burgundy 2024 will be remembered as one of the most testing growing seasons of the last decade. Relentless spring rain, unyielding mildew pressure, episodes of localised hail and deeply uneven flowering pushed growers to their limits. Yields collapsed across large parts of the Côte, often by 50–80%, with some domaines barely reaching 10 hl/ha. In villages such as Vosne-Romanée, Nuits-Saint-Georges, Chambolle-Musigny, Gevrey-Chambertin and Savigny-lès-Beaune, the losses were devastating. And yet, against all expectations, the wines themselves tell a different story. 2024 is not a vintage of excess or easy charm. It is a classical year, one defined by purity, freshness and an almost stubborn transparency of terroir. Many vignerons, reflecting on the wines in barrel, have drawn comparisons to 2010, 2012, 2014 and even 2016, not because the conditions were similar, but because the results are finely structured, saline, precise wines, shaped by restraint and experience rather than power. This is Burgundy at its most honest. The growing season: Pressure without pause The difficulties began early. From April through June, rainfall was almost continuous, creating ideal conditions for mildew. Even the most diligent growers were pushed to extremes. Treatment schedules doubled or even tripled: 17 passes at Georges Lignier, 22 at Charles Audoin (against a norm of 12), 17 at Pavelot, 17 again at Faiveley. Organic viticulture, in particular, was placed under immense strain. Some domaines made the painful decision to abandon organic certification mid-season in order to preserve what fruit remained. Others refused. Audoin persisted with organic practices despite catastrophic losses, sacrificing yield in favour of principle. At Domaine Lamarche, Nicole Lamarche chose to stop treatments altogether once the damage was done, preferring to let the vines recover naturally rather than force a compromised crop – a decision that may yet prove prescient for future vintages. Flowering was irregular and prolonged, leading to widespread coulure and millerandage. Localised hail compounded the damage: Audoin’s Clos du Roy in Marsannay was effectively wiped out. By early summer, it was clear that 2024 would be a year of scarcity. Then, finally, the season turned. From August onwards, conditions stabilised. Nights remained cool, days were warm but not excessive, and crucially the weather stayed dry. Harvests began between the 14th and 21st of September, slightly later for whites and Aligoté. Thanks to rigorous sorting, sanitary conditions were generally good, and what little fruit remained ripened cleanly. Alcohols settled modestly, typically between 12% and 13%. Many domaines opted for small chaptalisations to bring balance rather than richness. Acidity remained healthy, pH levels often between 3.2 and 3.6, though some, like Lignier, intervened gently to avoid excessively high pH. It was, in every sense, a vintage that had to be earned. The wines: Classical, transparent, terroir-driven Reds: Precision over power Across both the Côte de Nuits and Côte de Beaune, the reds of 2024 speak quietly but clearly. Red fruit dominates: cherry, raspberry, wild strawberry, framed by saline notes and fine, linear tannins. There is freshness rather than weight, definition rather than density. Alcohol levels rarely exceed 13%, and the balance between fruit, acidity and structure is striking. Several producers have likened the vintage to 2012 for its texture, to 2010 for its precision, or to 2016 for its harmony, though with a distinctly modern clarity. Despite the concentration imposed by low yields, these are not massive wines. Many will drink earlier than expected, yet the underlying structure suggests graceful ageing, particularly from well-sited Premier and Grand Cru vineyards. Whites: One of the vintage’s great successes If there is a consensus emerging, it is this: white Burgundy lovers should pay close attention to 2024. With pH levels often between 3.2 and 3.35 and alcohols in the 12–13% range, the whites are taut, mineral and saline, with a cut reminiscent of 2014. There is energy here, wines that feel built for the cellar rather than the tasting bench. For collectors who prize tension, definition and longevity over richness, 2024 will be a compelling proposition. Producers who rose to the challenge The defining characteristic of 2024 is not uniformity, but differentiation. This is a vintage that rewards decisiveness, experience and clarity of philosophy. At Georges Lignier in Morey-St-Denis, repeated rainfall washed away organic treatments, forcing the domaine into laborious hand-spraying. A decisive early intervention ultimately preserved yields of 24 hl/ha, dramatically higher than neighbouring vineyards at 8 hl/ha. The Clos de la Roche stands out for its generosity and classical breadth. Charles Audoin endured one of the hardest seasons in Marsannay, remaining organic through 22 treatments and losing Clos du Roy entirely to hail. The wines evoke 2010 in their purity and structure, with Les Favières emerging as a highlight. Louis Jadot, facing heavy losses and a demanding season, spoke of “fighting to keep Burgundy affordable” yet produced precise, harmonious wines – including St Aubin En Remilly, one of our favourite plots and a FINE+RARE exclusive which we are proud to secure each year, bottled only in magnum. At Hudelot-Noëllat and Fourrier, volumes are heartbreakingly small but the wines are clear, fragrant and unmistakably from their place. Paul Pernot’s whites show vibrant freshness and deep acidity, with Puligny-Montrachet Les Folatières standing out for its tension and grace.  The 2024s from Alvina Pernot combine the freshness of 2017 with the accessibility of 2021, yet offer greater depth and poise.  At A-F Gros, frost proved more damaging than mildew, reducing yields by 70%. The increasing use of Clayver amphora (now close to 50%) has brought a vivid, electric quality to the wines, particularly the Richebourg. Olivier Bernstein produced just two to four barrels per cuvée, yet the wines combine the charm of 2016 with the lift of 2017. Bonnes-Mares is especially compelling, and the domaine remains focused on deepening consumer understanding through tastings and back-vintage context. In the Côte de Beaune, Guillaume Lafon marks his first vintage fully at the helm. With almost no new oak and a preference for demi-muids, the wines prioritise purity and line. The Bourgogne Blanc is a standout, carrying a clear Lafon signature. At Domaine des Lambrays, Jacques Devauges described 2024 as “a difficult vintage with a happy end.” Yields fell sharply (16 hl/ha for Clos des Lambrays) yet the wines, made with 80% whole bunch, possess remarkable poise. His claim that “2024 Lambrays will age 100 years” may sound bold, but the structure supports the ambition. Meanwhile, Nicole Lamarche endured losses of up to 90%, producing just one barrel of Vosne Village and four of Échézeaux. As ever, the wines are spiritual and precise, and her decision to step back in the vineyard may well strengthen future vintages. Across Marsannay, Savigny and Gevrey, domaines such as Bouvier, Pavelot, Chézeaux and Hérestzyn-Mazzini all delivered wines of striking purity, often from minuscule quantities, proof that old vines, careful sorting and restraint paid dividends. Positioning Burgundy 2024 This is not a vintage built for hype. It does not trade on power or immediate seduction. Instead, its strength lies in substance. Scarcity is real, many domaines report their smallest crops in decades, but speculation misses the point. The true narrative of 2024 is integrity: who stayed the course, who adapted intelligently, and who resisted the temptation to force a result. Collectors will recognise this instinctively. The wines speak a language that Burgundy lovers understand: freshness, salinity, site expression and balance. Whites, in particular, will attract those who cherish the great classical years. Above all, 2024 stands out as a perfectly transitional vintage. While waiting for more structured years such as 2020, 2022 and 2023 to open, 2024, like 2021, offers wines that are approachable in their youth. Following the generosity of 2017, the now fully open 2019 and the fruit-forward 2021, it takes its place among vintages defined by immediate pleasure, allowing richer years the time to settle in the cellar. A vintage to buy thoughtfully and early Burgundy 2024 is a year where experience mattered more than weather, and philosophy mattered more than yield. Production is painfully low, but quality is consistent among serious growers. For collectors, the focus should be clear: Domaines with rigorous viticulture and judgement under pressure Producers refining and clarifying their stylistic identity Grand Crus from houses that embraced restraint High-performing villages such as Marsannay, Savigny and Santenay, where value remains This is a vintage whose story deserves to be told with clarity and conviction, an instructive vintage for newcomers and new buyers fortunate enough to secure a bottle, but also one that offers immediate pleasure for collectors. Read more or browse all available Burgundy 2024 en primeur. 

There are vintages that arrive fully formed, almost generously so. And then there are vintages like 2024 – years that must be wrestled from the elements, where judgement, discipline and philosophy matter as much as sunshine.

There are vintages that arrive fully formed, almost generously so. And then there are vintages like 2024. 

Burgundy 2024: vintage overview

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mostra tutti gli articoli che attualmente conservi con noi. Questi articoli possono essere venduti.

Disponibili per la vendita — gli articoli conservati con {name} sono idonei per essere inseriti nel marketplace.

Profilo

Questo articolo si trova presso FINE+RARE.

Questo articolo si trova presso FINE+RARE HOME Hong Kong, ed è disponibile per la consegna o il ritiro in sede. La maggior parte delle consegne a Hong Kong può essere effettuata entro 3 giorni lavorativi; la data esatta sarà comunicata al momento dell'organizzazione della consegna. Le consegne internazionali richiedono tempi più lunghi, ti preghiamo di contattarci per maggiori dettagli.

I vini venduti en primeur saranno rilasciati dal produttore dopo limbottigliamento, tipicamente 18 mesi dopo la fine della cosiddetta campagna. Il tuo vino sarà poi conservato da FINE+RARE in un deposito doganale fino a quando deciderai di richiederne la consegna.

Ci riforniremo di questo articolo al prezzo garantito dalla nostra rete di fornitori e organizzeremo una spedizione rapida a FINE+RARE.
 I tempi di consegna dipendono da molte variabili, ma in genere per un approvvigionamento rapido sono 2-4 settimane.
 Una volta confermato l'ordine, ti terremo aggiornato sulla data di arrivo prevista.
 Ogni articolo viene controllato all'arrivo dal nostro team di esperti e le fotografie sono disponibili su richiesta (si prega di notare che potrebbero essere applicati dei costi).

Reperiremo questo articolo attraverso la nostra rete di fornitori e ne organizzeremo la spedizione a FINE+RARE.
 I tempi di consegna dipendono da molte variabili, ma una stima media è di 6-12 settimane.
 Una volta confermato lordine, ti terremo aggiornato sulla data di arrivo prevista.
 Ogni articolo viene controllato al momento della ricezione dal nostro team di esperti, con fotografie disponibili su richiesta (si prega di notare che potrebbero essere applicati dei costi).

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