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  

Per Marelise Niemann, il richiamo del vino risiede proprio in ciò che potrebbe frustrare i viticoltori meno intuitivi. “Non sei mai in controllo: sei sempre messo al tuo posto,” dice – dal meteo, dai babbuini che mangiano l’uva, dalla natura. Per quanto possa essere umiliante, Niemann ha fatto del Grenache la sua missione – creando le espressioni più fini ed eleganti di quest’uva in Sudafrica, sotto la sua etichetta Momento. 
 Non sorprende, dato lo stile dei suoi vini, che sia stata un’annata in Borgogna a rappresentare per lei l’illuminazione. All’epoca, alla fine degli anni 2000, il Sudafrica era ancora concentrato sulla produzione di vini potenti: i rossi corposi, estratti e molto legnosi erano considerati i migliori. L’influenza di Parker era ancora palpabile, e il Paese stava ancora riprendendosi dall’apartheid e dal soffocante monopolio della KWV. Ma un periodo trascorso a lavorare con il Pinot Noir fece comprendere a Niemann il potere sorprendente e talvolta incongruo della delicatezza – in breve, che più grande non significa sempre migliore. 
 E non era la sola a percorrere quella strada. Il movimento della New Wave sudafricana stava prendendo slancio. Guidati da figure come Eben Sadie, Adi Badenhorst e Chris e Andrea Mullineux, questi produttori stavano creando vini freschi e raffinati, reinventando l’identità vinicola del Paese. Quello che era iniziato nello Swartland si diffuse presto in tutta la nazione, e Niemann faceva parte di questa ondata di rinnovamento. Fu l’agricoltura a spingerla verso il vino, dopo aver trascorso l’infanzia nella fattoria dei nonni a Stanford, un piccolo villaggio nell’Overberg, svegliandosi all’alba per mungere le mucche o fare qualsiasi altra cosa fosse necessaria. Anche se i suoi genitori avevano abbandonato l’agricoltura, lei desiderava lavorare la terra. Crescendo a Elgin, una zona dominata dalle mele ma con un’industria vinicola nascente, decise di studiare viticoltura. Le lunghe nottate universitarie a Stellenbosch, accompagnate da molte bottiglie, la convinsero che coltivare l’uva non fosse abbastanza, e così ampliò il suo percorso di studi includendo l’enologia. 
 Dopo aver viaggiato per il mondo e fatto vendemmie nel Rodano e in California, ottenne un lavoro accanto a Sebastian Beaumont – che aveva appena preso in mano la tenuta di famiglia, Beaumont Family Wines. Fu lì, spiega, che poté “disimparare” tutto ciò che aveva letto nei libri. Durante quel periodo, continuò a viaggiare e a lavorare alle vendemmie nell’emisfero nord – inclusa la già citata esperienza in Borgogna. 
 Sebbene il Pinot Noir fosse la sua ispirazione, ciò che cercava davvero era la freschezza e la vivacità, più che il vitigno stesso – ben consapevole che gran parte del Sudafrica è semplicemente troppo calda e secca per il Pinot. Un viaggio a Terroir al Limit (il progetto nel Priorat fondato da Dominik Huber ed Eben Sadie nel 2001) nel 2010 fu determinante. Si innamorò all’istante delle splendide vecchie viti di Garnacha della regione e degli stili più leggeri che Huber e Sadie stavano producendo. 
 Tornò subito e cercò una parcella di Grenache nel Capo Occidentale. Comprò due tonnellate d’uva da un vigneto di 50 anni nello Swartland insieme a Donovan Rall (di Rall Wines); lui raccolse i grappoli e li trasportò a Stellenbosch, dove li nascosero clandestinamente in una cella frigorifera universitaria grazie a un amico, e poi lei li portò a Beaumont. La vinificazione fu minimale, in parte perché era impegnata con i vini di Beaumont e non aveva attrezzature, ma anche perché volle seguire ciò che il vigneto offriva naturalmente, puntando su uno stile più leggero e profumato. Nacque così la prima annata di Momento Grenache. Era il 2011, e prima ancora che avesse deciso un nome o pensato all’etichetta per le bottiglie, il vino venne scelto per la famosa degustazione Young Guns. (Suo marito – artista – disegnò la vite che si vede oggi sull’etichetta, con volti nel tronco, perché per Niemann il vino non è solo un fatto tecnico, ma riguarda le persone – sia quelle che lo producono sia quelle che lo bevono.)
  Un decennio dopo, Momento si è guadagnato una notevole reputazione. Niemann è stata nominata Young Winemaker of the Year da Tim Atkin MW nel suo South Africa Report 2023, e i critici lodano i suoi vini, definendola una “sussurratrice di Grenache” (come l’ha chiamata Malu Lambert su Decanter). Sebbene Niemann produca anche un blend di Chenin Blanc/Verdelho e un Tinta Barocca, il cuore della gamma Momento è il Grenache – con versioni di Grenache Gris e Blanc, oltre a diverse etichette di Grenache Noir. Non sorprende, dato lo stile fine, fragrante e fresco dei suoi vini, che le sue ispirazioni siano Rayas (ovviamente), ma anche i vini della Sierra de Gredos (come Comando G) e le versioni più fini e moderne provenienti dall’Australia – come Yangarra o S.C. Pannell. Con l’annata 2022, ha introdotto tre nuove espressioni single-site di Grenache Noir, aggiungendo un’imbottigliatura da scisti di Botrivier, una da arenarie di Piekenierskloof e una da scisti di Riebeekberg, accanto al suo vino del Paardeberg (in precedenza etichettato come Swartland o Western Cape, su granito). L’idea è mostrare cosa può fare il Grenache in Sudafrica, raccontando i diversi suoli ma mantenendo sempre la sua firma: vivacità e delicatezza. 
 Per Niemann, il Grenache e le altre varietà con cui lavora non sono scelte casuali, ma vitigni sostenibili per il clima sudafricano. Quasi tutti i vigneti con cui collabora sono dry-farmed (ce n’è solo uno che sta gradualmente disabituando all’irrigazione). Ricorda la siccità del 2015-2018, con la minaccia del “Day Zero”, quando nessuno poteva irrigare le viti: rammenta come il Cabernet e il Merlot dei vigneti vicini si arresero, offrendo pochissimo raccolto, ma non fu così per il suo Grenache, che “continuò semplicemente a vivere”. Come dice lei, “Ci sarà un altro Day Zero in Sudafrica. Diventerà più caldo e più secco. Dobbiamo coltivare varietà che non abbiano bisogno di irrigazione.” Uve come Grenache, Chenin e Verdelho, insieme a Cinsault e Carignan, sono – per lei – la risposta. “È ciò che il nostro clima vuole che piantiamo,” afferma. 
 Una cosa è certa: se questo è il futuro del vino sudafricano, è incredibilmente entusiasmante. Dimenticate il Grenache ad alta gradazione e dolciastro; i vini di Niemann sono fini, freschi, strutturati, profumati e puri – vini che parlano del loro luogo d’origine. Le allocazioni delle sue cuvée single-site sono scomparse quasi istantaneamente al rilascio – e non c’è dubbio che la sua stella continuerà a brillare. Accaparratevi queste bottiglie finché potete. 
 Esplora la gamma Momento o leggi di più sul Sudafrica.

Nominata Giovane Enologa dell’Anno da Tim Atkin MW nel 2023, Marelise Niemann crea alcuni dei vini più entusiasmanti del Sudafrica. Con l’enologa di Momento abbiamo parlato del suo percorso, dell’amore per la Borgogna e del futuro del Grenache nel Capo Occidentale.

Sitting down with Marlise Niemann, the winemaker behind Momento wines in Bot River, South Africa – Tim Atkin’s Young Winemaker of the Year 2023

Redefining Grenache: Marelise Niemann’s Momento wines

Ridefinire il Grenache: Momento

What is Port? Port is a fortified wine made in the Douro Valley in Portugal. Traditionally the wines were shipped along the river to Oporto (also known as Porto), from which the wine takes its name. A huge number of grapes are permitted for Port production, however, there are five main varieties used: Touriga Nacional (widely thought to be the best grape for Port, giving its name to Quinta do Noval’s top wine, Nacional), Tinta Barroca, Touriga Franca (or Touriga Francesa), Tinta Roriz (aka Tempranillo) and Tinto Cão. The vineyards sit on steep, terraced slopes alongside the Douro river. Thanks to these vertiginous slopes, much of the vineyard work has to be done by hand, with little mechanization possible. The further inland you go – moving east from Oporto – the hotter and drier the climate becomes. The vineyard area is divided into three key regions: Baixo Corgo: The coolest and wettest region which produces the lightest wines. Cima Corgo: With lower rainfall and higher temperatures, this is the traditional area for the best Port wines. Douro Superior: Particularly dry and hot, this lesser-planted region nevertheless can produce very high-quality wines. For red wines, the grapes are trodden – traditionally by foot, but also now by machine – and fermentation is cut short by the addition of neutral alcohol (called aguardente), thereby leaving residual sugar in the wine. Styles of Port 
There are two main types of Port – those aged in bottle and those aged in cask. Those
aged in cask are designed to be consumed upon release, while those aged in bottle need time to mature.  Ruby: The most basic, entry-level Port is Ruby. The wine tends to be aged in cask or tank for two to three years. Bottled while youthful, it’s bold and full of primary fruit, with a fiery kick from the spirit. No need to decant. Reserve: A step up from ruby, this wine is normally aged a little longer (again in bulk rather than bottle), perhaps being made with higher-quality fruit, so that it has more complexity than a ruby Port. No decanting necessary. LBV: Late Bottled Vintage Port comes from a single year, but spends more time maturing in cask (rather than bottle). Bottled between four and six years after its harvest, the wines are designed to be consumed long before vintage Port, but offer some of the complexity of the
style. Some wines are filtered and others aren’t, so it may or may not need decanting. Crusted: This style takes its name from the crust, or sediment, it throws while in bottle. A blend of several years, the wine is – like LBVs – aged a little longer in cask before bottling,
and likewise is designed to offer some of the complexity of vintage Port. Decanting is essential Vintage: The finest Ports come from a single vintage. This style accounts for a mere 1% of production, with the wines only made in certain years from the very best fruit. Traditionally vintages are either “declared” by producers (and therefore it is a year where they make a vintage Port) or not (with the official declaration classically announced on St George’s Day, a year and a half or so after the harvest). There are, however, a few years with “split declarations” where some producers chose one year, and others chose another for their vintage wines. While once there were only three or so declarations each decade, climate change has seen an increasing number of years producing fruit worthy of vintage wines, and therefore an increasing number of declarations. The wines tend to spend two or three years in wood, but are aged mostly in bottle. These
wines are built to last – having lots of tannin, flavour and alcohol. Spending decades in bottle, they develop extraordinary complexity. Because of the high tannin level, these wines throw a lot of sediment and it is essential to decant them. Single Quinta: These are vintage wines from single “quinta” or estate (while Vintage Ports are often a blend of estates), often produced in years that are not officially declared.  Tawny: Tawny Ports are aged oxidatively in cask, and thereby gradually losing colour to develop a “tawny” colour, while also developing nutty, dried fruit and caramel aromas. The longer it is aged, the more complexity it has. (The most basic examples are a blend of ruby and white Port to create the appearance of a Tawny, but none of the same flavour complexity.) Tawny Reserves have seen minimum seven years in cask, while many come with an age statement – 10, 20, 30 or Over 40 years old – indicating the average age of the blend.  Colheita is a Tawny from a single vintage, spending minimum seven years in cask prior to release (although it is often longer). They are designed to be consumed soon after bottling (a long time in bottle can in fact negatively impact the wine’s quality) and no decanting is
necessary, although you may want to chill the wine lightly. Given their oxidative nature, Tawnies can often last longer once open than their red counterparts.  White: White Port is mainly made with the Gouveio, Malvasia Fina and Viosinho grapes. Youthful examples can make for an excellent aperitif, sometimes served with tonic and lemon as a cocktail, but you can also find rare aged white Ports, carrying an age statement that – as with Tawny Port – is the average age of the blend. Best Port vintages of the last 50 years: 1970, 1977, 1983, 1985, 1992, 1994, 1997, 2000, 2003, 2007, 2009, 2011, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018 Browse Port or read more Editorial 

Rich, complex and deeply rewarding, at its best Port is one of the most age-worthy styles of wine produced today. Here’s a quick guide to the fortified wine – from the various styles made to the best vintages to buy

Port is one of the most age-worthy styles of wine. Here’s a quick guide to the fortified wine from the various styles made to the best vintages to buy

Everything you need to know about Port wine

Everything you need to know about Port

Vega Sicilia is undoubtedly Spain’s most famous winery; a true icon in fine wine with a history dating back to 1864. Its success in retaining such a reputation, and in almost complete isolation in the Ribera del Duero region of Spain, is testament to the quality and consistency of its production, although its history has not been without its challenges. Vega Sicilia claims to be one of the longest-aged and longest-lived red wines in the world, with its flagship Unico capable of maturing in bottle for well over sixty years under the right cellar conditions. Developing its style in such solitary conditions has created a wine distinct from any other and whilst the Ribera region has flourished with the establishment of wineries such as La Pesquera in the 1970s and more recently the cult wine of Pingus, Vega Sicilia today remains at the apex of the appellation.  We explore the history of Vega Sicilia, the secrets behind its success and the changes afoot as it attempts to retain the traditional methods it has become famous for whilst modernising the winery and updating its processes. We also explore the contrasting range of wines it produces from the Valbuena to the Unico Reserva Especial: Vega Sicilia’s nod to the traditional Spanish practice of producing multi-vintage premium blends. The history of the estate The estate that would become known as Vega Sicilia was founded in 1864 by Don Eloy Lecanda Y Chaves, a Spanish vigneron who inherited the property in 1859. After visiting Bordeaux he brought cuttings of the Bordeaux varietals of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Malbec and Carmenere, as well as Pinot Noir, and planted 18,000 vines at the estate in Ribera del Duero alongside the native varietal of Tinto Fino (Tempranillo). By 1882 he had planted 500,000 vines on the estate, at the time known as Bodegas Lecanda.  The introduction of Bordeaux varieties was perhaps not that unusual at the time, since the Bordelais were becoming more and more influential in Spain (most notably in Rioja) having disbanded their operations in Bordeaux following the phylloxera outbreak and were actively looking for alternative regions to grow their grapes.  However, in Rioja, the Bordeaux varieties were soon replaced by the native Tempranillo which proved a much more reliable and profitable choice. Whilst Don Eloy Lecanda Y Chaves initiated a winery that was to change the history of fine wine, he was initially using the grapes to make brandy rather than still wine. Although the brandy was well received amongst the aristocratic families (no doubt piquing the interest of the Herrero brothers), the estate struggled financially to make ends meet and he died in 1894 never to witness the success of his venture.  The property was bought by the Herrero brothers in the early 1900s who renamed it Vega Sicilia. As phylloxera eventually reached Rioja, the négociant Cosme Palacio was looking further afield to maintain supply for his customers. On discovering Vega Sicilia, he immediately rented the property from the Herrero brothers.  He brought with him winemaker Domingo Garramiola Txomin who introduced the Bordeaux techniques of ageing wine in barrique as well as extending the élevage. He also initiated bottling the wine on the estate (Cosme Palacio was previously shipping the wines in bulk to Rioja).  The Herrero Brothers were a well-connected upper-class family who were galvanised to produce a wine of exceptional quality no matter the cost, to sell to their aristocratic friends. This quest for quality combined with the skills of Domingo Garramiola Txomin, as well as the unique combination of Bordeaux varieties and Tinto Fino (thanks to Don Eloy Lacanda Y Chaves), was the perfect recipe for producing Spain’s first iconic wine – Vega Sicilia Unico. The first vintage of Unico was produced in 1915.  Thanks to the connections of the Herrero brothers, within two decades Vega Sicilia had become the most revered winery in Spain. Even at this time the wine had built up a reputation for its extraordinary ageing capacity. At Vega Sicilia the Bordeaux varieties became a key component to their flagship wine of Unico and have remained in the blend right through to the present day. Throughout this time, the property became almost a self-contained village, with a school and chapel on site and many of the families working at the winery and living on the estate. Despite the winery changing hands a number of times over the last century, Garramiola’s legacy has lived on through the winemakers that followed in his footsteps; figures like Martiniano Renedo, who was initially Garramiolo’s assistant, and especially Jesús Anadón, who was instrumental in maintaining the quality and reputation of the wine through the middle of the 20th century.  Amazingly there are workers on the estate today whose families have worked at the winery for generations. Today the master cooper at Vega Sicilia, along with his brother Jesus Yanez, is the fourth generation of his family to work at the property. The winemaker between 1968 and 1998, Mariano Garcia, was the son of one of the farm workers on the property.  Despite its global reputation, its exclusive allocation list and long history, the winery and vineyards went through bouts of dilapidation during the 1950s, through to the late '70s, whilst at the same time producing some of the most legendary vintages. On purchasing the property in 1982 the Álvarez family began to make huge investments into the estate, renovating the winery and carrying out an extensive replanting program in the vineyards. 1982 was also the year Ribera del Duero was awarded its DO appellation status and no doubt helped further promote Vega Sicilia as the historical icon of the region. The winery and the appellation has never looked back since.  In the vineyard Vega Sicilia is situated on what is known as the “golden mile”, a stretch of road between Pañafiel and Tudela de Duero, where the prestigious wineries of Vega Sicilia, Pingus and Pesquera are all situated. Driving through, it is a somewhat underwhelming sight as far as vineyard vistas go, so much so you could almost pass through it without noticing.  Being an altiplano there are no sweeping mountainous views, you only feel the altitude from the freshness of the air. In the higher vineyards of Soria at the edge of the Ribera appellation you are rewarded with more vistas, as well as a sense of history with evidence of prehistoric cave-like dwellings where farmers sheltered from the extreme climatic conditions of this largely desolate region.
 Whilst there are pre-phylloxera ungrafted vines dating back over 100 years dotted around the region, the vines at Vega Sicilia - with vineyards at 700 meters - average around 35 years of age. Vega Sicilia have an extensive replanting scheme in their vineyards preferring the quality of their fruit in their mid-life as opposed to old age, with typical vine age in Unico around 60-65 years old, with the younger vines going into the Valbuena cuvée. The high altitude and continental climate mean extreme conditions are at work in the vineyards. Winters can be very cold whereas the summers can be fierce. Most notably in regards to grape growing, due to the altitude, there is a huge diurnal shift in temperatures from day to night helping to retain the acidity and freshness in the grapes whilst reaching high levels of ripeness. The main grape in all Vega Sicila wines remains the Tinto Fino (the particular clone of Tempranillo) distinct to the region. The Tinto Fino is said to produce smaller berries with higher concentration of tannins compared with the Tempranillo grown in Rioja. The Unico also has a proportion of Cabernet Sauvignon in the blend (anything from 6-20% in more recent releases) with a higher proportion in older vintages. In the Valbuena, the majority of the blend is Tinta Fino with a small amount of Merlot (typically 5%) . The property is huge in scale with 200 hectares of estate-owned vines producing anything from 40,000 to 100,000 bottles of Unico each year depending on the vintage.  
In the winery
 Unico  The style of the flagship cuvée of the winery has remained virtually unchanged since its inception in terms of production, although assemblage has modernised. Élevage times have reduced and the influence and proportion of Bordeaux varieties has become less in more recent releases.  In the past, Unico was only made using huge 40,000-litre fermentation tanks (this was all that was available at the winery) therefore in a difficult vintage, if this sort of volume was not possible at the quality level they expected, then no Unico would be released that year. Since 2010 the winery has introduced smaller 8,000-litre tanks, enabling smaller micro-vinification of their wines and suggesting a release of Unico every year (in varying quantities) is more likely. The winery today operates at a spec similar to the top estates in Bordeaux. They have introduced 81 separate fermentation tanks allowing them to carry out intra-plot fermentation. They have introduced highly sophisticated sorting tables, there is more temperature control of the wine and the winery is now completely gravity fed enabling greater precision when it comes to winemaking.   Following fermentation, the wines destined for Unico are blended in small oak barriques (50% French oak / 50% American oak) for 12-24 months depending on the vintage. The French oak is 100% new whilst the American oak, coopered on site, tends to be one to four years old. Following barrique ageing, the wine is then transferred to large old oak casks where it typically matures for five years before being bottled and aged further prior to release. Unico is typically released at 10 years old. Valbuena 5° The Valbuena typically comes from the younger vines of the estate and is aged in oak in barriques for 12-18 months before being transferred to larger old oak casks for a further 18 months prior to bottling. It is then aged for two years in bottle. Valbuena is typically released at five years old. Unico “Reserva Especial” The Reserva Especial is the mythical bottling that initiated the Vega Sicilia legend. It is made up of choice parcels from a blend of vintages (in recent releases it tends to be select parcels from three vintages). Prior to the 2001 release, details of the blends of older bottlings are not very easy to come by. With only 15,000 bottles produced this is the rarest cuvée from Vega
Sicilia and a nod to the traditional multi-blend wines that were typical prior to vintage specific bottlings becoming more popular in the mid to late 1800s. Explore more Editorial

We explore the history of Vega Sicilia, the secrets behind its success and the changes afoot as it attempts to retain the traditional methods it has become famous for whilst modernising the winery and updating its processes. 

The history of Spain's Vega Sicilia iconic wine estate, the secrets behind its success, the contrasting styles from the Valbuena to the Unico Reserva Especial

Vega Sicilia, a Spanish wine icon

Vega Sicilia: a Spanish wine icon

There are myriad fascinating twists and turns in Scotch whisky’s long and storied past. From dizzying boom times to disastrous downturns, the distilling landscape – and the major players within it – has been redrawn countless times. 
There's one era, however, that is legendary – whisky's "golden age". Between the 1950s and '80s, some of the industry's most nuanced single malts were crafted. These are now widely regarded as the greatest ever released, which is reflected in the eyewatering secondary market prices – should they ever appear on the auction block. 
These perfectly imperfect, characterful and wonderfully unique liquids, produced at distilleries that no longer exist, or exist in a very different way today, will never be bottled again – making them real unicorns for whisky collectors. 
To understand what makes them so special, it is important to first appreciate just how little liquid exists from this time. The single malt whisky market was unfathomably small before and during this period and entirely dwarfed by blends. A mere fraction of a distiller’s finest liquid would be bottled as a single malt. These minuscule quantities were also made via practices that are now lost in the annals of history, making them more desirable for collectors. 
For context, Scotch whisky was largely made as it always had been until the 1950s, drawing on traditional methods that had been passed down for centuries. Distillers would use their sight, smell and taste to determine when a liquid was ready to cask, and later, bottle. Whisky-making took mastery and patience – something producers could ill afford when demands on the industry intensified and there was a concerted push to produce more for less during the 1970s. While many producers made these changes around the same time, they didn’t all happen at once, creating a wonderfully varied time capsule of whiskies. 
The 1960s – when some of these great bottlings were produced – was sandwiched in between two vastly different decades. Production in the ‘50s was steady but small. By the 1970s, however, distillers – both large and small – were forced to increase their output by almost double, and names that had fallen silent were reawakened once more as global demand for Scotch whisky grew. 
Sadly, by the mid-1970s, the tide started to turn. The bountiful supply of whisky was not met by demand, resulting in a devastating whisky loch in the 1980s and some of the most difficult years the Scotch whisky industry has ever endured. Swathes of distilleries were forced to close, including the now-legendary Port Ellen and Brora – both of which shut their doors in 1983. This depression continued well into the 1990s with a further 20 casualties (of these, only three ever reopened), before the pendulum finally swung back in the early 2000s when the seemingly unquenchable thirst for single malt whiskies, that is still in full force today, began. 
From the 1950s onwards, holders of the increasingly frayed purse strings sought to reduce inefficiencies in the traditional, labour-intensive practice of whisky-making – which defined the golden age. With the introduction of modern, more mechanised, safer processes, it was a new dawn for Scotch whisky.  During this period in history, every single stage of whisky production was “streamlined”. The money men closed floor maltings, introduced distillers’ yeast, reduced fermentation times, installed semi-lauter tuns, made the switch to indirect-fired stills, replaced worm tubs with shell-and-tube condensers, and introduced ex-Bourbon barrels. By the end of the 1970s, you could almost count on one hand the number of distillers who retained traditional methods. 
It’s important to remember that tweaking one of these processes can alter the entire flavour profile of a whisky – just ask Glenfarclas who reverted back to direct-firing their stills after their new-make spirit lost its characteristically heavy and oily profile during their ill-fated flirtation with steam in 1981. And yet, in many instances, producers permanently changed many of these processes. Traditional practices and know-how that varied slightly at every distillery began to be outsourced as they turned to professional maltsters and installed modern, industrial-scale equipment that increased efficiencies and consistency but in some cases compromised the craft and character of the final spirit profile. 
“Every distillery has its own story and evolution of style,” whisky authority Serge Valentin explains, “their own ups and its downs.” 
Valentin was ahead of his time when he started collecting single malt Scotch, almost exclusively from Old Clynelish and Brora. He couldn’t possibly have predicted what his passion project of buying as many different bottlings as he could “simply because they were [his] favourites”  would become. 
Both Clynelish and Brora – as it would be known – produced heavily peated malt during the late 1960s and early ’70s. Bottlings from this time until 1983, when Brora became a victim of the whisky loch and fell silent, have become highly collectable in recent years. Old Clynelish bottlings, (Valentin’s favourites), which are robustly distinctive with aromas of scented wax and heather, are astonishingly rare and modern collectors clamber over one another to get their hands on these golden-age gems for many times the price Valentin would have paid. 
Stephen Rankin has been fortunate to sample whiskies from one of the most remarkable single malt libraries in the world at Gordon & MacPhail. His team is able to pull out liquids from what he calls “pre-evolutions within distilleries” thanks to his family’s foresight to buy barrels from cash-strapped producers who were selling their stocks for survival. The Elgin-based independent bottler had the luxury and fortitude to bide their time and store casks that would otherwise have been bottled young or blended. He has a particular affection for single malts from what was Milton Distillery, known since 1951 as Strathisla, which he describes as a “great example of a whisky that has the flavours of this past era.” 
Independent bottlers like Gordon & MacPhail played a vital role in bringing many of these now-legendary whiskies into the world. One man in particular, Silvano Samaroli, was responsible for bottling single malts that are now widely regarded as some of the greatest ever released.  
Rome-based Samaroli released his first Scotch whisky series in 1968 in the form of the now-iconic, dumpy Cadenhead bottlings – making him the first independent Scotch whisky bottler outside the United Kingdom. Today, Samaroli’s Bowmore, Glen Garioch, and  Springbank releases are held in especially high regard and his  Laphroaig single malts from 1967 and 1970 are in a league of their own. 
“The late 1960s to the ’80s is definitely one of the most remarkable periods,” Samaroli’s Daniele Liberati says, “largely due to the appearance of certain expressions for the first time.”  
“We started to propose different bottlings, moving away from the classic blends and official distillery releases,” Liberati adds. These included single-cask expressions, numbered bottlings and cask-strength releases, all of which are commonplace today but were revolutionary at the time.
 
In recent years, a handful of new distillers have turned to old whisky-making practices in an attempt to recapture some of its magic. Fledgling Speyside distiller Dunphail, for instance, has faithfully – and at great cost – installed traditional floor maltings, direct-fired stills and wooden, open washbacks where fermentation times are considerably longer than the industry average, to produce a fruit-forward, oily, medium-bodied Speyside whisky. Today, however, these traditional methods are always adopted in conjunction with modern practices in order to achieve all the desirable characteristics of yore in a more efficient way.   While there is the temptation to look back on this era with a rose-tinted view, as there are undeniably some exceptional bottlings from this time, it is wrong to believe that all whisky produced in the golden age was of the same standard. Whisky-making 40 to 50 years ago was imperfect, there was very little consistency in quality and for one good cask, a distiller would likely have 10 or 20 bad ones that never saw the light of day.  It’s also important to appreciate that many of these modernisations were vital to guarantee the safety of distillery workers as several stages in production were unstable. These advancements have also resulted in unprecedented consistency. While nuance and singularity might have been sacrificed, it’s now incredibly hard to find a bad dram.   As times evolve – as they inevitably do – it’s highly unlikely whisky from Scotland’s golden age will ever not be considered precious.    Browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial

Some of the most exceptional single malts ever released were produced in an era affectionately known as “the golden age”. Bottlings from this time are painfully scarce and have gained near-mythic status among whisky enthusiasts. Holly Motion explores why whiskies from this age are so precious

Exploring the golden age of malt whisky and its most coveted bottlings that are widely considered some of the greatest single malts ever released.

The golden age of malt whisky

The golden age of whisky

“Meet my girlfriends,” calls Telmo Rodríguez down the phone, laughing as he flips his camera to show two enormous shaggy-haired mutts. The skies are crisp and blue on the other side of the screen, the sun beating down on Remelluri, his family estate in Rioja Alavesa. The camera swings across the horizon as he introduces me to one of his team before rushing indoors to sit down for our call. There’s an almost frenetic energy to Rodríguez – and that energy is what in many ways defines the maverick winemaker, who has been one of the transformational forces in Spanish wine.  His parents purchased La Granja Nuestra Señora de Remelluri – a farm that has been home to vines since at least the 14th century – in 1967. Growing up on this special property, young Rodríguez went off to study winemaking in Bordeaux, then trained at properties including Cos d’Estournel, Domaine de Trévallon, Chave and more. He returned home inspired and excited to use his new-found knowledge on the family property in the early 1990s. But his father didn’t welcome Telmo’s ambition: the market didn’t want great or even good Rioja, he told his son – the market wanted cheap Rioja. Although he wasn’t allowed to make changes to the red, Rodríguez was given free rein to create the property’s first white wine. And that wine rocketed him to fame. White Rioja has always been niche (today just 9% of the vineyard area is planted to white grapes), but in the 1990s its future was looking uncertain – with the traditional, oxidised style of wines such as López de Heredia’s Tondonia Blanco fallen from grace, and many producers had given up on making these wines (as with CVNE’s Monopole Clásico, which has since been revived). Rodríguez wanted to create a wine of place, rather than a wine of style, and used complex field blends planted at higher altitudes to do so. Fermented and aged in a combination of tank and oak, Remelluri Blanco was unlike any other wine in the region. Robert Parker wrote of the 1996 vintage that it was “the finest white wine [he had] ever tasted from Spain”. The multi-variety blend doesn’t include the region’s trademark white, Viura, and is technically illegal – a fact that perhaps has only increased its appeal.  But Rodríguez was frustrated by his father, by the limitations put on him and his wines. Restless and with a rift in the family forming, he flew the coop to focus on his own project. In Bordeaux he had become friends with a fellow Spaniard, Pablo Eguzkiza, who had been working at Pétrus, and together they had already started making wine – beginning with an old-vine Garnacha from Navarra in 1994. With that wine, Compañía de Vinos Telmo Rodríguez was born.  Their vision was to make real Spanish wine – the wines that had been made before, as they saw it, France started to sway the industry. When the deadly louse phylloxera had swept through France in the late 19th century, killing its vineyards, the nation looked south, across the Pyrenees to Spain. Producers travelled there to make wine and feed demand, and Rioja in particular saw an influx of business and money – but this uplift also came with French influence. In Rodríguez’s view, this was the ruining of the trade – Rioja, which had once been a wine of site, became a wine of oak. And soon, across Spain, the variety that once defined its many regions was being over-written with international varieties. Spain became known for cheap wine – and producers were racing to the bottom.  “The worst are the British,” says Rodríguez. “They say they know Rioja and they know Sherry, but, in a certain way, the British market killed Sherry and killed Rioja because they are very happy to have a cheap Reserva for a few pounds.” The dominance of what he describes as “industrial brands”, the larger houses that buy in fruit from across the region, aged in American oak for “traditional” styles, and French for “modern”, is abhorrent to him.  “I’m sorry, you don’t know anything about Rioja. Tell me one village. Tell me one taste. Tell me one landscape. Tell me one mountain. Nobody knew anything,” he says. He explains how Labastida – a village neighbouring Remelluri – was once the Vosne-Romanée of Rioja, home to 330 different wine producers in 1680. But over the years, that history has been blended away.  Together, Rodríguez and Eguzkiza set out to uncover and reveal the Spain of yesteryear, working with old vines, native varieties and traditional methods to champion what they saw as the true Spanish wines. From their beginnings in Navarra, they looked to Arribes del Duero, to Rueda, to Málaga, to Aragon and back to Rioja, then Ribera, Toro and Sierra de Gredos.   “Now we are showing what is real,” Rodríguez tells me, with a sense of satisfaction. In Rioja, for example, they created Bodegas Lanzaga in 1998, looking to focus on the terroir around the town of Lanziego. The Consejo (regulatory body), however, didn’t allow them to use the name of a village on the label until 2017. For almost two decades they protested this rule, featuring the name on the label, but redacted (inspired in part by the art of Jenny Holzer). Today, there is a clear, and growing, movement of producers looking to focus on single-site expressions of Rioja’s best vineyards, shifting away from cross-regional blends and the dominance of oak. This echoes what is happening elsewhere in Spain, as producers focus on indigenous grapes and identifying what makes each of its varied regions unique. It’s a revolution – one that Rodríguez has been at the forefront of. It's easy to think of this rockstar duo as flying winemakers – having so many projects scattered around the country, only touching down briefly to sign off on blends before they’re off to their next event. While inevitably their schedule is intense, their focus is firmly in the vineyard and on reflecting each individual place and site – rather than crafting a range that speaks of their influence. “It’s a very honest approach to a place,” Rodríguez says. The references throughout our conversation only emphasise this: Burgundy, the ultimate “terroir” wine, is where he finds his inspiration; while the Super Tuscans are repeatedly scorned for their internationality.  Matallana is quite possibly Telmo Rodríguez’s most ambitious project to date. He and Eguzkiza first made wine in Ribera del Duero in 1998, and have slowly built up 21.5 hectares of vines around the region.  “My dream was to do a very good Vega Sicilia. I wanted to do the Vega Sicilia that I used to drink in the past,” explains Rodríguez, talking about bottles from the 1940s, ’50s or ’60s. Back then, he says, it wasn’t an estate wine but fruit was sourced from around the region. For him, Vega Sicilia is now too “Bordeaux-style”. He argues that while in Rioja the soils are quite consistent, Ribera del Duero is incredibly varied. They have chosen to work with a range of vineyards across five villages – Sotillo de la Ribera, Roa, Fuentecén, Fuentemolinos and Pardilla – ranging from quartz-rich or pebbly soils reminiscent of Châteauneuf-du-Pape to chalky albariza and clay-heavy sites. This diversity is what helps bring complexity to the wine, with each one producing a different expression of Tinto Fino.   The work involved in each of the Compañía de Vinos Telmo Rodríguez projects is painstaking, tracking down special parcels, reviving soils and replanting or grafting where necessary, working organically and biodynamically, to achieve the quality they’re looking for. For Bodegas Lanzaga, for example, it was over a decade before they produced the first vintage of their top wine, Las Beatas, from a 1.9-hectare plot of the same name (first made in 2011).  For Matallana, they wanted to track down the region’s very best, historic vineyards in each of the five villages. But it’s not been easy. All too often they’d been abandoned, some needed re-planting entirely, or otherwise re-grafting with massal selections, and serious work to bring the soils back to life. They wanted to work with unirrigated bush-vines and field blends – vineyards farmed as they might have been in the 19th century. And then there’s the complex ownership: to buy just six of their 21.5 hectares took seven years, purchasing tiny plots from 40 different families.  Although they’ve been making wine here since the 1999 vintage, it wasn’t ready until relatively recently – and Rodríguez considers the 2014 the first “real” vintage of the project. Before that point they had made three wines, a selection of fruit from the oldest vines that went into the “Grand Vin” Matallana, a second wine M2 and the unoaked Gazur from younger plots. “They were prototypes, we were learning,” explains Rodríguez. From 2014, there is only one wine, with a change in the label to reflect the shift.  As with the older vintages from Bodegas Lanzaga, the label shows a list of redacted vineyard names – which are still not permitted to feature on the labels in Ribera del Duero. “All those vineyards are the guarantee of the purity of our wines,” says Rodríguez. In fact, the label is embossed, so beneath the censored text, you can feel the names of these terroirs. He’s moved to reduce the oak, using some foudres and tinajas (amphorae), while also acknowledging that the wine needs movement and oxygen to polymerise the tannins. The result, however, is a more delicate wine. At the end of the day, he says, “We don’t care about the winery… our wine is the landscape, is the soils.” The difference between the “new” and “old” Matallana is striking. The 2020 is pure, vibrant – a mineral wine with crystalline fruit that speaks of place.  “I don’t want to be pretentious, but we want to create another iconic wine from Ribera del Duero,” says Rodríguez. There’s no shortage of ambition here – and they’re looking to increase production to around 40,000 bottles a year (up from around 25,000 currently). “It took us 25 years… but we knew we were doing something rare, different.” The latest move has been to partner with Jean-Guillaume Prats (currently of Ch. Léoville Las Cases, previously of Ch. Lafite Rothschild and Cos d’Estournel), and start distributing the wine via La Place de Bordeaux, to bring the wine to an even bigger audience.  Rodríguez is now 61 – but there’s no sign of him slowing down. “People say that I’m too old to plant vineyards,” he says, clearly finding such a thought absurd. He’s just planting three hectares he tells me – vineyards that will be amazing, he feels, maybe in 15 years’ time. On the day we talk, he had five local youths coming to meet his team, the children of local viticulturalists in Labastida; they’d be making wines together with the best 2,000 kilos from each of their family’s plots – a project that has been going four years. There’s no looking back from this vigneron, whose eyes are firmly on the horizon, as he continues to push boundaries and forge a future for those that will follow him.  Explore all wines from Telmo Rodríguez and Matallana or read more Editorial 

Telmo Rodríguez is one of Spain’s most famous names. Since the 1990s, he has been a controversial figure, fighting for the nation’s vinous heritage. We caught up with the relentless revolutionary to talk about his journey, the real Rioja and his most challenging project to date

Telmo Rodríguez is one of Spain’s most famous winemakers. We caught up with him to talk his journey and his most challenging project to date, Matallana

Telmo Rodriguez – the eternal battle

Telmo Rodríguez: the eternal battle

The sheer number of distinctive styles of wine that emanate from France never fails to amaze. From the full-bodied, sumptuous Cabernets and Merlots of Bordeaux to the ethereal Pinot Noirs of Burgundy; from the mineral whites of the Loire to the aromatic spectrum of Alsace – everywhere you look there is variety. The Jura, situated in the remote central-eastern frontiers of France (bordering Switzerland) is another completely unique and distinctive French winemaking region – one which, perhaps because of its limited size and isolation, is not quite so universally known. But in recent years the region has grown in prominence and is now a real point of interest for collectors today – most notably for the quality of its white wines. Chardonnay and the native late-ripening white grape Savagnin produce wines that rival top Burgundy and, in many cases, offer better value. But it hasn’t been an easy road to recognition for the region. Following the phylloxera outbreak in the late 19th century, the Jura was on the brink of being wiped out altogether. Historically, it was a significant wine-producing region – 10 times bigger than it is today. But, in terms of size, it never recovered. Many of the vineyards were grubbed up, becoming farmland pastures; what remained amounts to just 2,000 hectares (a mere 10% of its original size). The leftfield oxidative style of the region’s wines also meant that as France’s wine exports grew, the Jura remained largely unnoticed. Traditionally, the region’s uniqueness came from the oxidative style of its white wines – the most famous, distinct and extreme of which is vin jaune. This white wine is made from Savagnin that is aged in barrels for over six years. During this time, the wine evaporates, allowing for oxygen ingress and a yeast film to form on top of the wine – protecting it from oxidation and at the same time strongly influencing the flavour. The process and effect is not dissimilar to Fino or Manzanilla Sherry, but the ageing is typically longer and the wine is neither fortified or blended – remaining single vintage. This style is distinct and, at its best, produces wines of outstanding complexity and fantastic ageing potential, but its intense flavours were never going to create mass appeal. Over the last 25 years or so, the younger generation of winemakers in the Jura have started to move away from only producing this oxidative style, influenced by their neighbours in Burgundy – whose vineyards are not dissimilar. The Jura – just 100km directly east of the Côte d’Or – shares similar soils of clay and Jurassic limestone and has the same continental climate, as well as growing both Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. In fact, many of the Jura’s younger vignerons cut their teeth making wine in Burgundy. Returning to their family domaines, they were more interested in producing wines styled on those of the Côte d’Or, focused on expressing site, rather than the region’s traditional style, dominated by oxidative characters and the influence of yeast. Young producers such as Jean-François Ganevat and Stéphane Tissot started to top their barrels, producing less oxidative, “ouillé” cuvées. This switch in style is arguably the most important recent development in the Jura. As these modern styles grew in popularity, the region started to attract a wider audience of fine wine drinkers.  Despite the similarities to Burgundy, the Chardonnay (sometimes blended with Savagnin) produced in the Jura brings its own elevated tautness and mouth-watering salinity and has acid-loving Chardonnay fans drooling. Burgundy producers themselves have even started to buy up land in the Jura; most famously Domaine Marquis d’Angerville set up Domaine du Pélican in 2012. Supposedly Guillaume d’Angerville was served a Chardonnay blind at Paris’s Taillevent restaurant and was convinced it was a top bottling of Burgundy. When he discovered it was from the Jura, he soon started exploring the region and before long had bought vineyards there. Fatter and richer in texture than Chablis, but more laser-like than the Côte d’Or – Jura whites have found a niche. What’s more, the vignerons’ knowledge of producing oxidative wines has given them the freedom to experiment with both reductive and oxidative characters (without going to the extremes of vin jaune), producing truly original wines. It is another distinct trait of the region that brings a lot of freedom to the winemaking and a lot of variety – even from just one producer. The Jura’s rise to prominence is also due to its association with low-intervention or natural wine – most notably the influence of Domaine Pierre Overnoy, based in the Jura hamlet of Pupillin. Overnoy is seen by many as the godfather of the natural wine movement – and his wines are today some of the most fiercely collected. The fanfare around this remarkable producer has been hugely influential on other producers in the region, at the same time raising the reputation of the region to an ever-widening audience. Other in-demand stars of Jura, who to one degree or another are classed as low-intervention producers and who make ouillé wines (though not exclusively) include Jean-François Ganevat and Stéphane Tissot. The difficulty today, at a time when Jura wines have never been more popular, is volume. Of all the regions in Europe, few have been hit as hard by spring frosts than the Jura. Successive vintages back to 2015 have seen production slashed. With rising demand, perhaps it’s time for the Jura appellation to expand once again and seek out sites that are less susceptible to frost. Domaine Pierre Overnoy aside, the top wines of Jura, for now, remain brilliant value – another reason fans of Burgundy are looking further afield. The white wine styles of the Jura Ouillé: Also described as modern or floral. In any other region, this is typically the “normal” style of any dry wine – in that the wine has no overt oxidative character. While traditionally barrels in the Jura might not have been topped up, allowing oxygen to influence the wine, for ouillé wines they are topped up to protect them from this. Sous voile: Also described as traditional or oxidative, these are the more traditional style of white wines from the region. Literally meaning “under the veil”, the wines are biologically aged with a film of yeast – like Manzanilla or Fino Sherry. Following fermentation, the wines are extensively aged in oak barrels that are not fully topped up. This encourages a film of yeast to form on the top of the wines, protecting them from oxidation and introducing yeast-influenced flavours. Depending on the winemaker, wines can be aged for one to 10 or more years using this method. The longer the wines are aged in barrel, the more oxidative flavours dominate the wine. Vin jaune is the most famous wine made in this style (see below). Vin jaune: A specific style of sous voile, with an official classification and made only with Savagnin. The wines have to spend over six years under flor before being bottled. Rich and complex, the most famous vin jaune is Château-Chalon. Vin jaune is also always bottled in a distinctive, squat 62cl clavelin bottle.

Macvin: This fortified Vin Doux Naturel is produced only in the Jura. It is made from the must of Savagnin which is then boiled – concentrating the must. It is then fortified with brandy to around 16% alcohol. Strictly this is not a wine since there is no fermentation process. Once fortified it is then aged for six years in oak. Vin de Paille: While not a style unique to Jura, it remains an important style of the region and with quite distinct rules under the appellation. Grapes (usually Chardonnay and Savagnin, and sometimes the red grape Poulsard and Trousseau) are typically picked early to retain acidity and then dried, concentrating the sugars. The wine is then fermented and must reach 14% alcohol. Depending on the grapes’ concentration, the residual sugar of the wine can vary from 60-130g/litre. The wine must be aged for a minimum three years (which includes 18 months in oak). The wines can be made in a fresh or oxidative style depending on the producer’s preference. The wines are always sold in half-bottles. Recommended wine producers in the Jura Domaine Pierre Overnoy: Since he was a boy, Pierre Overnoy was taught how to make wine by his father using traditional methods and without sulphur dioxide. Despite studying modern winemaking in Burgundy during the mid-1970s, he was disappointed by the results. Returning back to the Jura, he adapted his father’s traditional approach to produce wines to his liking – as well as making wines in a fresher non-oxidative style. In 1984, Overnoy stopped using sulphur during fermentation but continued to use a little at bottling. By 1986, he had stopped using SO2 at all. He has been hugely influential in the natural wine movement. In 2001, Pierre Overnoy retired at the age of 63, handing it over to his protégé Emmanuel Houillon, who worked alongside Overnoy from the age of 14. Overnoy’s almost evangelical following, along with miniscule levels of production, have made the wines highly sought-after. The release dates of the wines are not set, only released when Houillon deems them ready to drink, making it sometimes challenging for collectors. Houillon even bottles the same vintage of a wine at different dates – and only began to note bottling dates on the wine labels from 2018. Domaine Jean-François Ganevat: Ganevat is the 14th generation of his family to make wine in the Jura, with the family estate founded in 1650. Before joining the family estate in 1998, he worked with Jean-Marc Morey in Chassagne-Montrachet. Although the estate has just 8.5 hectares under vine, the domaine grows 45 different varieties – many of which are ancient, native varieties to the Jura, including two distinct red varieties Poulsard and Trousseau which are the most planted in the region along with Pinot Noir. His best wines however are his ouillé Savagnin and Chardonnay that can be outstanding. Benedicte & Stéphane Tissot: This is one of the largest and most important estates in the Jura today. Although the domaine name is officially still Domaine André & Mireille Tissot (named after Stéphane’s parents) the bottlings are labelled Benedicte & Stéphane Tissot. The domaine has 50 hectares under vine in both the Arbois appellation (where the winery is based) as well as the Côtes du Jura and Château-Chalon appellations. There is plenty of experimentation going on with the estate producing a wide array of cuvées from the traditional flor-aged Savagnin bottlings of place-designated vin jaunes of Château Chalon, La Vasée and Bruyères to their more modern ouillé single-vineyard Chardonnays. Tissot also produces a rosé made from a rare Chardonnay clone that has a natural pink tinge. Of the top cuvées, their single-vineyard Chardonnays from the Clos de la Tour de Curon, La Mailloche, Les Graviers and Les Bruyères vineyards are the most sought out. 
 Other top Jura producers to look out for: Domaine Rijckaert, Domaine Dugois, Domaine Pignier, Domaine Montbourgeau, Domaine de la Tournelle, Domaine Labet, Domaine des Miroirs, Domaine du Pélican, Domaine de la Touraize Browse all Jura listings or read more Editorial

With names like Overnoy, Ganevat and Tissot making it a must for collectors, the Jura's cool slopes are producing Chardonnay and Savagnin to rival Burgundy. Here’s everything you need to know about the region's whites – from the styles made to the producers to watch out for

Everything you need to know about the Jura wine region, its signature grapes Savagnin, Chardonnay and their styles Vin de Paille, Vin Jaune and Ouillé

A guide to the white wines of Jura

Your guide to the white wines of the Jura

The 2022 vintage broke records in France for its hot, dry conditions – but the wines it produced are far from solar. Fresh from a week spent digging into the vintage with producers and tasting the wines, Sophie Thorpe reports on the remarkable year and the wines it produced

On the back of our deep-dive into Bordeaux’s 2022 vintage, tasting and talking, here’s everything you need to know about the year’s remarkable wines

Bordeaux 2022 vintage overview

Bordeaux 2022: vintage overview

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