What springs to mind when you think of Bordeaux? Probably châteaux the size of medieval palaces, formal dinners, and rows and rows of pristine vines, neatly manicured rose bushes the only other signs of plant life. What you’re unlikely to be imagining are cow horns stuffed with manure buried in the ground, or horse-drawn ploughs churning through earthworm-rich soil. ‘In the past, in Bordeaux, you were scared to say you were growing biodynamically,’ says Corinne Comme, who manages 10ha of biodynamic vines at Château du Champ des Treilles in Entre-Deux-Mers with her husband Jean-Michel. ‘Now it’s trendy.’ An engineer and geologist, Jean-Michel Comme was behind the first transition of a grand cru classé estate on Bordeaux’s Left Bank to biodynamics. Although he and Corinne first came across the concept in the mid-1990s, he didn’t begin to advocate for the approach at Château Pontet-Canet in Pauillac until the early 2000s. ‘Corinne was scared,’ he recalls. ‘She thought they would fire me.’ "Behind the more esoteric elements is a series of principles that have been shown to improve soil health and vine strength" Originally laid out in a series of lectures by Austrian philosopher, scientist and social reformer Rudolf Steiner in 1924, biodynamic farming emerged as a holistic approach to agriculture before quickly evolving into formal certification movements. At its core, biodynamic farming centres on soil health and biodiversity; most distinctively, it operates according to the lunar calendar, with practitioners timing agricultural activities around specific ‘fruit days’, ‘root days’, ‘leaf days’ and ‘flower days’ to align with cosmic rhythms believed to influence plant growth and agricultural processes. For many in Bordeaux – Jean-Michel Comme included – this all sounded a bit wacky. ‘I was young, full of expectations about chemistry; the way biodynamics was presented was so remote that I felt it was crazy,’ Comme says. ‘But with experience, we did change our minds.’ Why? Because behind the more esoteric elements is a series of principles that have been shown to improve soil health and vine strength. In vineyards, biodynamic farming means specific practices such as hand-harvesting, using natural composts made with specific herbal and mineral preparations, avoiding chemical fertilisers and pesticides, and treating the entire vineyard as a self-sustaining ecosystem. In the cellar, there’s an emphasis on minimal intervention, using native yeasts, avoiding commercial additives, keeping sulphur use to under 70ppm, and employing gentle pressing and ageing techniques that respect the wine’s natural development. While biodynamics took root in regions like the Loire and Burgundy in the 1990s, biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux largely began in the new millennium, with just two early St-Emilion exceptions: Château Meylet, which has been practising it since 1987, and Château Fonroque, experimenting since 1995 with direction from Loire legend Nicolas Joly. This delay largely stemmed from two factors. First, Bordeaux’s humid maritime climate means that vines are especially vulnerable to both downy and powdery mildew, making the avoidance of synthetic fungicides a risky business. Second, large châteaux with multimillioneuro operations were reluctant to abandon the technological viticulture and winemaking that had built their global reputations in the first place. Comme, however, was convinced of the virtues of biodynamics. He began by seeking the assistance of François Bouchet. The Loire Valley winemaker was one of the first in France to pioneer biodynamics, also consulting for Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Domaine Leroy and Domaine Leflaive in Burgundy. Bouchet guided the transition to biodynamics at Comme’s Château du Champ des Treilles; then, he persuaded Château Pontet-Canet owner Alfred Tesseron of its merits. In 2004, it was trialled on 15ha (about 20% of the estate’s total growing area) of the fifth growth at which Comme was also technical director. A severe mildew outbreak in 2007 led to the use of pesticides, undoing three years of progress, but it then became a crucial lesson that strengthened their long-term commitment to biodynamics. ‘They believed the fruit had more expression, more brightness,’ says the current technical director at Pontet-Canet, Mathieu Bessonnet, who reveals that they converted the whole of the growing area soon after. ‘It’s obviously much more difficult, time-consuming and expensive, so it was very risky,’ he adds. Since then, biodynamic farming has become a significant and growing practice across different classed growths in the region, with some of the most prestigious estates – such as Château Latour and Château Palmer – adopting biodynamic methods (the latter certified). ‘The link between the wines and the place where the fruit came from had become less and less obvious,’ says Château Palmer’s technical director Thomas Duroux, commenting on the region’s turn to the trend. He notes that, since the noughties, many have adopted organic practices in a bid to reverse this perceived drop in terroir definition. ‘Biodynamics is, in a way, the same story as organic farming, but with a larger vision,’ he adds. This shared perspective has led to more cooperation between practitioners. Every spring, the Médoc branch of the Biodynamic Agriculture Movement gathers at Château Ferrière. After unearthing a thousand manure-filled cow horns and replacing them with silica-filled ones (a process reversed in autumn to produce preparations 500 and 501, required for Demeter certification), participants share wines and gardengrown salads. The humus removed from the cow horns is stored in a cold, damp facility and made available to members. ‘We do that for free,’ says Claire Lurton, owner of Château Ferrière. ‘It’s a community.’ Though ‘community’ might be too strong a word for some, these gatherings symbolise a deepening professional exchange that has emerged among estates of all sizes through the practice of biodynamic winemaking. In fact, the shift among the classed growths has happened at the same time as these practices have been adopted by smaller growers arriving in the region. Christophe Landry of Château des Graviers, for example, returned to Arsac in the 1990s and began practising biodynamics around the same time as Comme at Pontet-Canet. He’s consulted for the Lurton estates and other properties. Originally from Minervois in Languedoc, Michel Théron established Clos du Jaugueyron nearby and has been certified biodynamic since 2008, while Laurence Alias and Pascale Choime – who are both from southwest France – established Closerie des Moussis, a patchwork of sites across 2ha, including a 170-year-old pre-phylloxera plot leased from Théron. On the Right Bank, other producers began switching lanes even earlier. Le Puy, owned by the Amoreau family, began practising in 1998, with certification since 2013, and Château Gombaude-Guillot in Pomerol has been certified biodynamic since 2006. While larger estates like Latour and Palmer collaborate on issues like mildew, smaller producers tend to engage more with one another. Shared biodynamic practices, however, are definitely helping to break down barriers. For example, Château Haut-Bages Libéral maintains regular communication with its neighbours at Château Latour, and the son of Théron at Clos du Jaugueyron interned at Château Palmer for two months. Can we speak of a unity of praxis? Not exactly. There is considerable variation in which aspects of biodynamics winemakers emphasise, regardless of estate size. The primary aim across the board is achieving living soil with rich biodiversity to promote deep-rooted vines. In pursuit of this, some winemakers emphasise tree growing or cover cropping (like Haut-Bages Libéral, which also recently planted a variety of local and fruit trees). Others, such as Le Puy, let nature take its course, allowing a diverse array of plants and flowers to sprout from the earth. Whether certified or not, biodynamic practitioners throughout Bordeaux use homeopathic treatments like nettle teas for the vines – they are believed to stimulate soil health, enhance plant immunity and improve nutrient uptake. More important than any of this, however, is the concept of energy. How can the energy of the plant be retained as its raw material transforms into wine? Every winemaker I visited was at least intrigued by the concept – and most were captivated. After a few days in the sometimes eerily flat Médoc, I drive through the verdant hills of St-Emilion to Le Puy, arriving with a raised spirit. Standing before a 5,000-year-old Celtic cromlech, Harold Langlais, the estate’s director, tells me, ‘Le Puy is a place of energy and life,’ pointing to its deep history as an intersection of water springs. At modern-day Le Puy, this philosophy extends from the vines to the cellar. Indeed, many others I speak to express that, since adopting biodynamics, the most striking change in their wines has been an increase in ‘energy’. It’s a term without a precise definition, but according to Château Palmer’s makers, something shifted with the 2015 vintage, the second year after full conversion. ‘You cannot measure it,’ Thomas Duroux says. ‘You can just feel it.’ At Château Durfort-Vivens, where the vineyard was operating under biodynamic principles by 2013 (with full conversion by 2016), owner Gonzague Lurton recalls the 2014 vintage as ‘the first where you really feel the energy of biodynamics’. It’s tactile and warming, with a sophisticated grip and charm. ‘It’s what I love – the linearity of tannins, never weak from start to finish. With many of the estates I visited, their wines showed an immediate appeal, vibrant even in their youth. Is energy just another way of describing freshness? Laurence Alias at Closerie des Moussis trained as an agricultural engineer; for her, energy and vitality are tied to the physical properties of grapes grown biodynamically. ‘We have more acidity, that’s an analytic fact,’ she tells me, standing in front of a newly acquired plot of vines bordered by forest. It might be romantic to think of energy as something ineffable, but it’s also rooted in what remains within the grapes. ‘Our idea of energy is based more on Einstein than Steiner,’ Langlais later qualifies. ‘Energy is matter.’ Biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux: five to follow Château Pontet-Canet At the 55ha Pontet-Canet estate in Pauillac, an immensely smooth operation is palpable. Winemakers here have spent almost two decades honing their biodynamic craft, continually moving towards a goal of self-sufficiency for the estate. Sturdy Comtois horses, introduced in 2008, now work half the vineyard, preventing soil compaction. Vineyards are sprayed over a single day using compost and herbal teas produced from plants grown in and around the property and processed in the state-of-the-art infusion room. Biodiversity-boosting fruit trees and hedges have been planted. The estate even employs a carpenter who repurposes wood from vats used on the property. Ageing involves custom-made wooden eggs and qvevri-style amphorae, with no fining and minimal filtration. The result? A Pauillac with untypical levels of energy and minerality, and a plush, velvety texture. But it’s more than that – according to Bessonnet, thanks to a low-intervention approach across the board, ‘you can really feel the soil.’ Château Palmer Thomas Duroux’s conviction in biodynamics is based in what he calls a ‘holistic vision’. ‘We started to see the entire place as a living organism,’ he says of Château Palmer, one of the most storied and historically significant third-growth estates in Bordeaux. When converting (a process that started in 2009), the Margaux estate was initially guided by François Bouchet’s son Matthieu, but now it follows its own evolving philosophy, integrating cover crops, animals for fertilisation and estate-grown vegetables and meat. ‘It’s just going back to agricultural common sense,’ Duroux says. ‘That was the way to grow anything before World War II.’ This respect for nature results in wines that are deeply tied to their terroir. ‘If I had to describe the wines how they are today, compared to how they were before, I’ll just say that it’s not a revolution, but we have the feeling that the wines have a better identity,’ says Duroux. He likens biodynamics to restoring an old painting: ‘Suddenly, you see small details that you were not able to see because of the dust.’ The estate uses stainless-steel vats for fermentation and temperature-controlled rooms for barrel-ageing, combined with nativeyeast and low-sulphur winemaking, to produce its esteemed Alter Ego and Château Palmer cuvées; both have been increasingly celebrated among critics and drinkers since the turn to biodynamics. ‘We just think it does help to go a little bit further in the interpretation of the place,’ says Duroux. Château Durfort-Vivens Standing over a rustic sorting table explaining how it used to work, Gonzague Lurton is visibly passionate about the savoir-faire of the past. This sensibility is reflected in the current winemaking practices, too, and in the second-growth Margaux estate’s reputation (and critics’ scores) increasing year on year. The thing to emphasise is that what began with a biodynamic approach in the vineyards led to a series of domino effects that changed the character of the wines. In search of what Lurton calls greater ‘singularity’, the proportion of Cabernet Sauvignon had already risen to over 90% by 2014 (from around 75%); and with the use of indigenous yeasts during fermentation and the reduction of sulphur levels over time (initially sparked by Demeter’s upper limits of 70mg/l), the wines have become more aromatically complex and expressive. The introduction of amphorae by Italian producer Tava has allowed for microoxidation without overextraction, contributing to a more delicate balance of flavours, with the 2019 estate wine a blend aged one third in amphorae and the rest in barrel. ‘It’s not a big wine,’ says Lurton. ‘And it’s what I was looking for with biodynamics, in terms of style.’ Château des Graviers Christophe Landry’s pioneering status in Margaux stems from an instinct refined over decades at his own estate. He grows medicinal plants — horsetail, absinthe, calendula, chamomile — for vineyard treatments, as well as using the manure from his own cows. ‘What we need to remember is that biodynamics isn’t just a practice,’ he tells me. ‘It’s about finding your own path to self-sufficiency.’ His precision extends to the cellar, where he uses concrete tanks, amphorae and oak barrels (produced according to the biodynamic calendar) tailored to each of the five cépages’ oxygenation needs, then ages the wines for different lengths of time. Timing is everything, with harvest choices also following the biodynamic calendar. Obsessive care for the vines’ life cycles goes hand in hand with the level of precision in the cellar. The outcome is two phenomenal wines that are, as Landry puts it, ‘thirstquenching’. Château des Graviers and Quintessence — which contains a higher proportion of Petit Verdot and is aged longer in barrel and amphorae — are aromatically expressive, velvety and strikingly lively, with the latter offering more depth and an enveloping finish. Expanding to 18ha, Landry has also turned his focus to Clos Dufourg, cultivating vines on previously wild land nearby and hand-building a striking new cellar with cement tanks painted with clay from the surrounding earth. Le Puy For technical director Harold Langlais, the Le Puy estate’s significance lies in how it challenges Bordeaux’s conventional identity. Outside of the region’s traditional focus on appellations and classifications, Le Puy sits on a plateau near St-Emilion. The estate’s land is unusual, with no topsoil but a deep limestone bedrock beneath red-brown clay, which forces the vines to develop deep roots to access the earth’s natural water and nutrients. This is further supported by horse-ploughing and biodynamic sprays made from horsetail, buckthorn and nettles, which grow on the property. ‘Our approach focuses on rooting the vine deep,’ Langlais explains, ‘encouraging it to search out hidden nutrients.’ A vigorous wind circulates around the vines, and Langlais explains the effects of the elements. ‘The beauty of Le Puy is that it’s an acid factory. The whole place creates acidity in the berries.’ The biodynamic philosophy extends to the winemaking, with two different processes applied to their 100% Merlot cuvées. Cuvée Emilien uses a ‘decantation method’, or ‘fermentation by infusion’, while Barthélemy is produced with zero sulphites and a process of lees-stirring called ‘dynamisation’, which is done on fruit days and involves a specific motion to create a vortex in the old barrels it ages in. ‘Barthélemy is much more intense,’ Langlais says. ‘All the matter taken by the plant is in there.’

Written for Club Oenologique in 2025, Joel Hart visits Bordeaux to track the region’s belated embrace of biodynamic winemaking. While other French regions ploughed ahead, Bordeaux had its reasons for delayed adoption. Yet now the practice is booming, and Hart gauges its employment across estates.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Joel Hart visits Bordeaux to track the region’s belated embrace of biodynamic winemaking. 

Taking root: the rise of biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux

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  

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

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

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

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

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

The most famous vineyard in Argentina is named after Dr Adrianna Catena, who is the youngest daughter of pioneering vigneron Nicolás Catena Zapata. As well as her viticultural endeavours at Catena Zapata and her partnership with Alejandro Vigil as co-founder of the cult Argentine winery El Enemigo, she is a practicing historian.  Her area of interest is the 15th and 16th century Americas – a time when wine (and the vine) were first introduced to the continent following the Spanish conquest. The pivotal role of wine in Catholic ritual, and the dangers associated with drinking fresh water, she believes, would shape the development of wine production in the Americas. For Catena, the intimate relationship between wine and water continues to play a central role in shaping Mendoza’s social landscape.  The history of water and wine in South America is a fascinating topic for Catena. Although her PhD thesis focused on the trade in indigo dye from the Americas to Europe, her attachment to wine – as well as the very real concerns of water scarcity in Mendoza – are subjects important to her as a historian and as a vigneron. Through the Catena Institute of Wine (CIW), the Catena Zapata winery has pioneered research in viticulture across a broad rand of topics. It includes ground-breaking work on terroir, ageability, and soil biodiversity, as well as in depth studies on extreme elevation vine growing in a context of changing climatic conditions – but some of their most pressing work centres around water preservation.  “Water preservation is one of our most important areas of research today,” says Catena. “Organic farming is easier in the very dry climate of Mendoza, than in Bordeaux, where higher rainfall and relative humidity mean vineyards will be more susceptible to fungal diseases – for us, when it comes to a sustainable future and regenerative farming, water preservation is key.” Catena Zapata’s head viticulturalist Luis Reginato is nicknamed “the water guy” at Catena – such is his obsession.  “He’s always trialing new, experimental ways to save water.” But she notes, the region has a long successful history of water management for Reginato to tap into. “The irrigation systems developed by the native Huarpe people before the arrival of Europeans were key to successful agriculture in the region, and these systems are still in use today,” says Catena.  For centuries, irrigation channels and aqueducts have diverted water from the Andes mountains to terrace lower Andes farmlands, bringing fresh drinking water to the cities. The Incas, Catena says, whose power extended briefly to this region, were quite unique among early modern empires in the quality of their nutrition and a notable absence of famine – made possible by terraced agriculture on the Andean slopes and complex irrigation systems.  While advanced water networks had been essential to pre-Hispanic and later colonial agriculture, Europeans treated drinking water with caution. “Up until the last century, it was a common belief that water, especially in exotic or tropical regions, could be bad for your health,” says Catena. “Contaminated water could (and can still) kill you and was considered extremely dangerous.” Wine in many parts of Europe (and the Americas, following the Spanish conquest) along with ales and beer, was often considered a safer option. Where they felt there was no access to clean water, wine became an essential part of the diet.  Wine was a key European import in the early days of the Spanish conquest, notes Catena. And for the Spaniards, it was not without its health benefits. “During this period, medicine was humoral, people believed everything you ingested would affect your mood, health, and disposition,” she explains. “In one claim from the time, ‘vino‘ (wine) came from the word ’vena‘ (vein) – it was considered nourishing, and closely resembles blood and was associated with this. Some believed it fortified the veins.”  But, as Catena explains, wine was more than a health benefit for the conquistador. “Wine was also an essential symbol of Christianity and Christianity was a moving force in the Spanish conquest.” The conquest of Mexico would roughly coincide with the start of Luther’s Reformation.  The Spanish, for their part, wanted to secure a triumph for Catholicism, and in the inhabitants of the new world, saw millions of souls to fill their ranks against the Protestants. “It was the conquistador’s mission,” she says. “Behind the conquest was a big effort to convert the native population.” Catena explains how wine – as with wheat – was a highly symbolic food for Christianity, representing the blood of Christ.  “If you are trying to convert an entire native population to Catholicism, rituals will be fundamental,” she says. Wine had always held a central role in religious ritual and was key to the religious side of the Conquest. Conquistadors, she explains, had to build a church on their land after being awarded territory by the Crown for their service – and they were also made responsible for converting the indigenous population. “In this quest, as one historian put it, to advance the religious and territorial conquest – the two basic foods the Spanish needed were wheat and wine.” Initially, all wine was imported from Europe, but vines were swiftly introduced and acclimated. By the 1570s vineyards had been planted all over South America, albeit under strict regulations. Priests, for example, were allowed to plant vineyards – but there was a lot of legislation over who could and couldn’t grow grapes. By the 1570s vineyards had been planted all over the Americas.  For health, religious and cultural reasons, everyone drank wine in 16th and 17th century South America – it was part of the diet, explains Catena. But as the influence of humoral medicine waned following the Enlightenment – and better sanitation practices were discovered – the perceived symbolic benefits of wine declined. As the population grew exponentially in the 19th century, so did wine production in Argentina. Italian and Spanish immigrants arrived on the continent, leaving behind their famine-stricken homelands. “Wine consumption reached extraordinary levels,” says Catena, “particularly with the development of the railways.” This new technology enabled the speedy, efficient transportation of wine from producing regions to the Argentine capital of Buenos Aires. Nicola Catena was one such immigrant, who arrived in Mendoza in 1898 at the age of 17, planting his first vineyard in 1902. A native of Le Marche, from a family of vinegrowers, it was not so surprising that Catena went into wine production.  While Mendoza is much like a desert with very little rainfall (between 200 and 400 mm per year), the irrigation channels developed by the indigenous Huarpe people (a nation periodically under Inca rule), were used to divert snow melt from the Andes, enabling farmers to flood farmland when required, making viticulture possible. By the time Nicola’s son Domingo Catena took over, the family had become renowned winemakers in Mendoza. In more modern times, wine and water’s relationship has changed considerably. Wine in many instances has become a luxury and no longer an essential part of the diet – although Catena says that culturally wine remains a common sight at every meal in Argentina.  Under the guardianship of Nicolás Catena and now his daughter Laura, Catena Zapata has become among a growing number of quality-led producers in Mendoza whose wines compete with the finest in the world. Their top wines – Mundus Bacillus Terrae and Nicolás Catena – led the charge in putting Mendoza on the fine wine map. Water too is no longer viewed with as much caution, but nor is it taken for granted. It barely rains at all in Mendoza – with the region effectively a high-altitude desert. Without snowmelt from the mountains, agriculture here would be impossible, but glacial reserves in Argentina are decreasing. With climate change, water in these parts will no longer be simply available at the turn of a tap. “The preservation of water has become an important concern of winemaking in Mendoza. This is one of the most urgent questions for our region today,” says Catena. Ongoing research at Catena includes many water-saving experiments. “More than a decade ago we transitioned all our vineyards from the traditional, but wasteful system of flood irrigation, to drip irrigation. Since then, we’ve created reservoirs to capture rainwater, and set up water stations to measure and restrict irrigation to the bare minimum in our family vineyards.” For Catena, “these small changes can have a large and lasting impact.” The goal at Catena is to manage a regenerative and sustainable agricultural cycle. Catena notes how the Incas were able to transform their environment without causing irreparable damage to it. “We can inhabit this earth without being parasitical,” she says. As members of a larger viticultural community, Catena hopes to share the lessons it has learned from its research, to enable this region that has been shaped by water and wine to continue making high-quality wine centuries from now. Optimistically she says, “We believe we are at a tipping point, and the mindset is gathering momentum here more than ever before.” Since wine was introduced to the continent in the 16th century, there have been huge cultural changes. But the irrigation systems that allowed those first vines to grow remain in use, feeding the countless vineyards, often centuries old. Without water, there will be no wine. With Argentinian wine so popular around the world today, a lot rides on Catena Zapata’s research. The hope is that they can lead the charge, shaping a bright future for this region. Browse all listings from Catena Zapata and El Enemigo or read more Editorial 

Dr Adrianna Catena – of Catena Zapata and El Enemigo – is not just a winemaker, but a practicing historian. We sat down with her to talk about how wine shaped South America’s social landscape and how water conservation and sustainable irrigation practices will secure its future.

Dr Adrianna Catena from Catena Zapata and El Enemigo on the historical importance of water and wine in the Americas.

Talking to historian and vigneron Adrianna Catena

How water and wine shaped a civilisation: Adrianna Catena

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

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


The historic rise of Nebbiolo

Rome’s Baths of Caracalla fell into ruin in the 6th century. This illustrated reconstruction appeared in Hutchinson’s History of the Nations, published in 1915. Credit: Classic Images (Alamy Stock Photo). It took a shock to the system on the scale of the Covid-19 pandemic to demonstrate how much our lives can be reshaped by the humblest of objects. When restaurants, hotels, cafés and night clubs have all been closed for months on end – and when we are excluded even from each other’s homes – then park benches and patio heaters become stand-ins for the more elaborate architecture of everyday life that usually enable the interactions we depend on to function as social beings. For much of 2020, only the most rudimentary tools for conviviality were left to us. This works better at some times, than others. On a warm sunny day, all it takes to create an instant convivial space is a bench. This simple structure is the means for people to meet, share a view, a conversation, and perhaps a picnic. Add a back, arms, and a USB charger plus a Wi-Fi connection to the bench, and the proposition grows layers of complexity. It has become a people-attractor and a conversation starter too. This last year has helped us to understand better how to appreciate, through their absence, the things that make us the most human: being together, sharing food, drink and conversation, and marking the key moments in life. While we were forced into isolation, our attempts to replicate some of these experiences, with the use of a screen and a fitful broadband connection, showed us how inadequate they inevitably are. The experience suggests that social change, when it comes, is about an acceleration of what already exists – more than it is about a complete reinvention. Buying more online than we ever did in department stores is going to be a permanent shift. Some of us are less likely to fly to Australia for 24 hours for a business meeting than we were in 2019. But there are other things that will not change. We will still want to celebrate birthdays and weddings in the company of others. We will always want to meet our friends and look for chances to make new ones. And we enjoy doing all those things in the kind of spaces and places that make the most of the moment, which can make the seemingly routine into an occasion. Even at the basic level of the park bench, there are nuances to deal with. Chatting side by side is not the same experience as a face-to-face conversation. However, for some people, direct eye contact is as aggressive as an all-caps text message. It is why a walk in the park can be the best way to share a secret, and why Sigmund Freud conducted his consultations from behind the back of his couch. What we sit on is as significant as how we sit. In the average western living room in the 1960s, the armchair was the seat of power, occupied by family patriarchs. The matriarch, if she was lucky, got a slightly smaller version to herself. The sofa was designed in the same style, just large enough for two, and was for the use of supplicant sons-in-law. As the domestic world has expanded, so the sofa has taken on the dominant role over every other piece of domestic furniture. Sofas have been getting bigger for some time and are now reaching the size of lifeboats. They’re expected to cope with everything from conversation to work, assuming multiple roles as stand-in dining table, desk and bed. Social spaces, from the most intimate scale to the grandest, form an essential part of both our personal domestic worlds – in which we share our privacy with a selected group of friends and family – and the public one that we all share. It is a scaled sequence that runs all the way from a candlelit interior with a couple of chairs, a plain wooden table with two wine glasses, to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan, which, with its heroic iron-roofed arcade, has a strong claim to be regarded as the mother of all shopping malls. When it opened in 1877, the newly empowered bourgeoisie (in their straw boaters and stiff detachable collars) took to it as the setting for their daily promenades on the way to and from the Duomo, Milan’s cathedral, where they celebrated Mass, or en route to a performance of a Verdi opera at La Scala. Stopping to take coffee and pastries, they would meet each other for an aperitif at Biffi or dinner at Savini, and explore the exotic wares that the shops in the Galleria had to offer. As futurist artist Umberto Boccioni demonstrated in his painting from 1910, Riot in the Galleria, there was a darker side to such spaces. He portrayed the agitated response of a turbulent crowd of well-dressed spectators to the sudden violence of a fight between two women – sex workers perhaps. The disturbing scene, depicted in pointilliste style (and based on an incident that actually took place), is bathed in lurid electric light, evoking the frenzied atmosphere of this giant outdoor room and its extraordinary impact on the behaviour of a mass society. An unintended consequence of the lockdown has been the enforcement of the monogamy-based model of the nuclear family. It made the year particularly difficult for all those who don’t subscribe to it. We will need places we can dress up for again, places we can show off in, even places in which we can behave badly. The painting is, in some senses, a reminder that urban life is essentially about tolerance. Complex spaces have always been a vital part of urban life. Almost 2,000 years ago, the Romans built the Baths of Caracalla on a lavish scale, with three separate pools, libraries and gymnasia – and gardens large enough to accommodate 1,600 people at a time in comfort. Its mosaic and marble floors, its frescoes and sculptures made it one of Rome’s essential landmarks, not only as a monument to the glory of the emperor who built it – though it certainly was that – but also as a place to be used by people, day and night. Its magnificence, and the sense of the joy of a great shared civic space, inspired the American architect Charles McKim when he designed New York’s Pennsylvania Station, one the most sublime railway stations ever built. The central waiting room, barbarously destroyed 50 years after it opened, was a convincing recreation of the baths of Caracalla that lifted the spirits of anyone who passed through it. The months of isolation have taught us how important shared spaces of all kinds are to the way that we live. They are the places in which we meet each other to celebrate the important rituals of life, as well as to pursue the seemingly trivial (actually essential) compulsion to gossip about one another. As an essentially self-conscious species, we need alibis to give ourselves permission to be convivial. We construct reasons to meet each other, like the 19th century clubs of Pall Mall, or their democratic paraphrase – with its provision of gender segregation, and games room, and its mix of intimacy and ceremony – the Victorian pub full of mirrors and cut glass. Or in today’s context, a bowling alley configured to allow players and their friends to sit at a table, order food and drinks, and watch each other play, and to hear each other converse. Some public spaces do better at conviviality than others. The Las Vegas casino, for example, is designed to be the opposite of convivial. Slot machines on an industrial scale obviate the need for any form of human interaction. With its glass dome, and 25 miles of bookshelves, the old round reading room at the British Museum is certainly a very special space, although it has now lost its intellectual raison d’être and has become a dead monument. In its day, a reader’s ticket conferred membership of an exclusive club that included Oscar Wilde, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and George Orwell. But as the museum’s insistence on silence suggests – beyond unspoken flirtation over the book stacks – it was not a place that was fundamentally about conviviality. The Berghain Club, the raw, concrete world capital of techno music based in a redundant power station in Friedrichshain, in what was once East Berlin, is another very different kind of public space, and – in its own way – an equally spectacular social space. It has a pickier door policy than the British Museum but a similarly committed membership. In this case, the limit on conviviality is not silence, but the sheer volume of sound that makes the 18-metre-high main spaces vibrate, and which makes conversation inconceivable. A truly convivial space needs to work on multiple levels, to offer a variety of zones, some of which can encourage concentration, and others that can be distracting. Some may be more intimate than others. It’s a drive that is leading to an interesting range of cross-fertilisation. Cinemas that serve food more ambitious than popcorn and hot dogs are being equipped with sofas instead of tip-up seats. Health spas come with restaurants. However, not all convivial spaces encourage multiple uses. Orchestration and control are part of the experience at those English clubs that frown on members showing any signs of working, to the extent of asking them to put away notebook and pencil – never mind laptops – over lunch. Some aspects of what we have learned from the last year will colour life well into the future. The private dining room is a long-standing restaurant tradition, which has been given a new lease of life. We can also expect to see signs of change in the workplace. The Silicon Valley model has aspired to look as domestic as possible, furnished with sofas and kitchen tables, surrounded by vintage and deliberately non-matching chairs. A year of working at home is likely to encourage a more formal environment. But while we continually try to find new tools to make conviviality possible, the objectives remain the same. In a year in which all our assumptions about how we live together have been turned upside down, the world’s designers and architects have had to face the challenge of how to deal with the impact of the pandemic on our homes and our cities. As city centres empty out, and people avoid crowds, how can we find ways to socialise? 
Deyan Sudjic asked four leading designers and architects to explore the future directions that conviviality can take for FONDATA. John Pawson Architect John Pawson has always focused on the idea of designing the architecture of conviviality. In his recently released Home Farm Cooking book, produced with his wife Catherine and published by Phaidon, we see what matters most. Every Pawson interior is designed with how it will feel to use it in mind – is it to be enjoyed by somebody on their own, or with others? He takes away the distractions and lets us focus on how we use and feel in a room. He makes some spaces in which to read and to concentrate, others in which to share the preparation of a meal, and yet another to enjoy the result in company. Intrinsic in his philosophy is the importance of creating a setting where one can appreciate light at different times of the day – whether it is the shades of white as revealed by degrees of sunlight or the warming effect of firelight by night. johnpawson.com AB Rogers Ab Rogers was inspired by the spontaneous street life of the neighbourhood in 
East London in which he lives and works to come up with a range of furniturelike structures to give social spontaneity a helping hand. “Whether it’s planned 
or serendipitous, we wanted to design a set of colourful pieces that could help 
to turn a momentary catch-up on the street into an impromptu drinks party, 
anchored by a tuned-up bollard. Or make a surprise anniversary dinner possible 
under a street lamp … or make a breath of fresh air turn into a long lunch with 
new friends at a long table under the trees.”  abrogers.com Paloma Strelitz Paloma Strelitz, an architect, and co-founder of the Turner Prize winning 
collective Assemble, took an overview of how shopping streets might recover 
from lockdown, to generate new life: “convivial, accessible, sustainable and 
enjoyable for all”. The experience of negotiating streets in which precautions 
against the pandemic had caused restaurants and food shops to migrate to 
the pavement, made her think about ways to make this a permanent quality.
“It’s an opportunity to empower local business. Shops could open their 
facades to the street, creating an expanded space of public interaction, and 
daily theatre.” She would keep the car in its place, with priority for pedestrians and bikes, 
and banned altogether at weekends. What were once parking places would 
become green borders, combining play space, raised planters, flower beds 
and trees, allowing the street to become a promenade. Meanwhile the street 
would be animated not just by cafés, but studios and workshops putting the 
making process on show. Oh, and a mobile bar too.  assemblestudio.co.uk Jon Marshall  Jon Marshall, an industrial design partner at Pentagram in London, found himself 
thinking about ways to bring together two very different kinds of object: a hamper, 
designed to carry utensils food and drink securely, and a shooting stick. “They 
aren’t really about shooting,” he explains. “The shooting stick is actually a very 
convenient way of carrying the means to sit anywhere with you.”  The hamper allows for the sense of anticipation that comes from preparing for 
a pleasurable occasion. The two objects have very different aesthetics – one is 
vaguely mechanical, the other has a kind and rustic quality. For Marshall, the idea 
of the shared walk – with the chance of stopping for a picnic – is the very essence 
of conviviality. pentagram.com/about/jon-marshall This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

The past year has seen a huge change in our ability to interact, and opportunities to be social. Deyan Sudjic considers the importance of conviviality for human beings – and the public spaces we design.

Deyan Sudjic considers the importance of conviviality for human beings – and the public spaces we design.

FONDATA: The Importance of Being Convivial

The Importance of Being Convivial  

Come abbiamo commentato nel nostro rapporto del 2022, le annate a Napa sembrano essere sempre più definite da condizioni estreme. La vendemmia 2023, tuttavia, è stata – come l’ha descritta Neil Bernardi MW, COO di Colgin – “notevolmente non notevole”.
 “È stata un’annata calma e controllata”, ha detto la produttrice Cathy Corison, che vinifica con la sua etichetta eponima dal 1987. “Non c’è stato nulla che ti costringesse a intervenire. Non faceva né troppo freddo, né troppo caldo, né pioveva. Abbiamo avuto il lusso del tempo.” Per la Corison, è stata un’annata esemplare, facilmente una delle sue preferite – anche se non è ancora pronta a dichiararla la migliore della sua carriera (almeno per ora). E non è la sola: in tutta la valle, si sono moltiplicate le voci entusiaste, con molti che considerano la 2023 una delle migliori annate della storia recente. Il clima dell’anno è stato insolitamente fresco a tratti, ma nel complesso senza eventi significativi. Guardando ai mesi precedenti la stagione vegetativa, tuttavia, la California settentrionale ha ricevuto livelli di pioggia storici. Con un clima mediterraneo classico, le regioni vinicole della California vivono estati calde e secche, e la maggior parte delle piogge cade tra ottobre e aprile. Negli anni di siccità del 2020 e 2021, Napa ha ricevuto appena 8 e 10 pollici di pioggia rispettivamente. L’annata 2022 ha portato un sollievo tanto atteso, con 26 pollici di pioggia misurati a Oakville – praticamente nella media rispetto agli ultimi 10 anni. I record sono stati però infranti nel 2023, con un incredibile totale di 58 pollici di pioggia registrati tra la fine del 2022 e l’inizio della vendemmia 2023. I bacini locali si sono riempiti fino a traboccare e molti vigneti nelle aree più basse sono rimasti sott’acqua durante l’inverno. Le piogge sono proseguite fino a maggio, intervallate da fitte nebbie e, con i suoli saturi e cieli coperti, il germogliamento è stato ritardato di circa due settimane. Sebbene la maggior parte dei produttori sul fondovalle abbia riportato un’ottima allegagione e carichi d’uva superiori alla media, non è stato così ovunque. Sulla Spring Mountain, presso la Philip Togni Vineyard, la vinificatrice Lisa Togni ha spiegato che le tempeste arrivano prima in questa zona, dove le nubi si soffermano più a lungo. Umidità e vento possono ostacolare l’impollinazione, riducendo il numero di acini per grappolo. Le rese, pur non essendo storicamente basse, sono state comunque inferiori alla media nel 2023. Al contrario, Sam Kaplan, enologo di Arkenstone e Memento Mori, ha riferito di aver dovuto diradare “in modo aggressivo” durante la stagione di crescita, a causa di rese potenziali più alte del normale e grappoli grandi e perfettamente formati. Le temperature primaverili sono state più fresche della media, una tendenza che è proseguita per tutta l’estate. A giugno e luglio, le temperature non hanno mai superato i 32°C – fatto altamente insolito rispetto a ogni annata dell’ultimo decennio. Ad agosto le temperature sono salite leggermente, ma senza eventi di caldo estremo. “Le cose peggiori possono accadere nella prima settimana di settembre”, ha osservato l’enologo e viticoltore Steve Matthiasson. La maggior parte dei produttori di Napa trattiene il respiro durante il weekend del Labor Day, ormai tristemente noto per ondate di calore e incendi. Nel 2023, però, il maltempo non si è manifestato. Temperature moderate, leggermente inferiori alla media, sono persistite per tutto settembre, e le uve sono rimaste a lungo sulla vite, accumulando lentamente zuccheri e aromi. Per molti produttori, la sfida più grande del 2023 è stata la pazienza. Dopo gli improvvisi picchi di calore degli ultimi anni, la Togni era pronta per la vendemmia già il 15 agosto. Due volte ha fissato le date di raccolta, solo per annullarle all’ultimo momento, quando nuove analisi mostravano che la maturazione non era ancora ideale. La vendemmia è infine iniziata alla Philip Togni Vineyard il 2 ottobre – una grande differenza rispetto al 2022, quando era cominciata il 23 agosto. Con il progredire della stagione di raccolta e le temperature ancora stabili, la possibilità di pioggia diventava una preoccupazione, dato che l’uva sarebbe rimasta a maturare fino a metà ottobre o oltre, a seconda del sito. Anche questa volta, però, la pioggia non è arrivata. “È stato tutto perfetto”, ha dichiarato Mike Smith, enologo di Myriad, notando che, sebbene le condizioni del 2023 fossero insolite rispetto alla storia recente, in molti modi rappresentavano un ritorno a una normalità più antica. “Nessuno sotto i quarant’anni ha probabilmente mai visto un’annata così,” ha detto. “Sono più abituati a caldo e siccità.” Smith ha iniziato la raccolta per Myriad il 5 ottobre, circa tre settimane più tardi rispetto alle annate recenti. Si chiede, tuttavia, se altri produttori non abbiano iniziato troppo presto – un dubbio condiviso da Kaplan, che ha notato una mancanza di densità al centro del palato in alcuni vini, forse frutto di decisioni prese seguendo troppo il calendario, viste le tendenze recenti. In alcune tenute la raccolta era ancora in corso ai primi di novembre. Da Colgin, Bernardi ha dichiarato che la loro pazienza è stata premiata: “Quando abbiamo vendemmiato, sentivamo che ogni vite era al massimo di ciò che poteva dare. L’allineamento tra zuccheri e composti fenolici era fenomenale.” Ha aggiunto che, dopo la raccolta, le foglie sono subito ingiallite, segno che la vite aveva completato il ciclo vegetativo. Non ci sono state preoccupazioni per le rese – l’abbondante acqua e la stagione fresca non le hanno ridotte, e la maggior parte dei produttori ha riportato quantità superiori alla media, soprattutto sul fondovalle. La qualità dell’uva è stata uniformemente eccellente, con acidità naturali e tannini abbondanti. Smith ha elogiato il colore e la densità dei 2023, sottolineando che l’estrazione è stata rapida e la fermentazione regolare. Kaplan ha invece dovuto prestare attenzione a mantenere corpo e struttura nei vini, gestendo le fermentazioni per bilanciare frutto e tannino. Molti produttori hanno anche lodato il profilo aromatico dei 2023. In annate più calde, come la 2022, molte note delicate tendono a svanire, ha spiegato Tony Biagi, enologo di Patria e Hourglass. Nel 2023, la combinazione di frutti rossi e neri, insieme a note floreali, ha dato vita a vini altamente profumati. Secondo Biagi, i 2023 offrono “potenza e finezza spettacolari”, con tutto ciò che serve per essere “un’annata superlativa” – vini capaci di invecchiare per almeno 30 anni. Ciò che potrebbe distinguere i vini del 2023 è l’alto livello di “finesse ed eleganza”, come ha descritto Andy Erickson di Favia. Pur ritenendo che il 2023 non sia la più “californiana” delle annate – almeno secondo gli standard moderni – i vini mostrano una qualità snella e aggraziata al palato, bilanciando potenza e grazia. Bernardi ha elogiato la “sensazione di leggerezza” dei vini di Colgin, qualcosa che, secondo lui, solo le annate più grandi riescono a esprimere. Confrontare il 2023 con altre annate risulta difficile. Più di uno, tra cui Matthiasson, ha detto che la stagione di crescita ricordava quella del 2011 – ma senza le piogge di ottobre che complicarono la raccolta di quell’anno. Lisa Togni ritiene che il 2023 sia un’annata classica di Napa, con condizioni moderate, che sembrano fresche solo in confronto alle annate torride più recenti. Kaplan paragona la purezza del frutto del 2023 a quella del 2018, ma ancora più evidente. “I vini saltano fuori dal bicchiere,” ha detto, “sono così profumati e aromatici.” Per Corison, l’altissimo livello qualitativo del 2023 ricorda il 2001, un’altra annata elegante che continua a evolversi con grazia. Ma il 2023 è davvero “l’annata del secolo”, come si mormora? Nel complesso, la qualità è molto alta. Dopo aver degustato decine di campioni da botte, è chiaro che nel 2023 era probabilmente più difficile fare un vino cattivo che uno buono.
 Anche se l’attenzione è già rivolta al 2023, diversi produttori hanno espresso dispiacere per la rapida svalutazione di altre annate, spesso trascurate per eccesso di semplificazione. La Wineburg di Quintessa ritiene che il 2023 sia senza dubbio un’ottima annata, ma che anche il 2022 lo fosse – ciascun anno ha la propria personalità e potrà attrarre palati diversi. Per Erickson, i vini nascenti del 2024 (un’annata che lo entusiasma particolarmente) saranno più tipicamente californiani, densi e potenti, mentre il 2023 sarà ricordato per la sua finezza e compostezza. Il 2023 è un’annata eccezionale – e i vini conquisteranno soprattutto chi ama uno stile classico. Grazie alla stagione lunga e fresca, molti – se non la maggior parte – dei vini mostrano una qualità bordolese, unendo il frutto puro californiano a freschezza, acidità e un corpo elegante e agile, con “una sensazione di leggerezza” come ha detto Bernardi. I tannini sembrano destinati a integrarsi perfettamente, e c’è una certa sobrietà nei vini che ricorda la Napa di un tempo. La qualità è molto più omogenea – in senso positivo – rispetto alle annate recenti più difficili, dove le differenze di terroir e di decisioni tempestive accentuavano il divario tra chi falliva e chi eccelleva. “Abbiamo visto così tante difficoltà,” ha detto Togni, riferendosi alle sfide del 2020 e 2022, “ma questa è stata una bella conferma che non tutti gli anni saranno difficili: il 2023 è stato un’annata classica, magnifica – un’annata da libro di fiabe.” Napa 2023: l’annata in sintesi Forti piogge invernali e primaverili hanno rifornito le riserve idriche, con una lunga stagione di crescita e una vendemmia tardiva Rese generalmente superiori alla media, soprattutto sul fondovalle Qualità ampiamente coerente in tutta la regione Stagione fresca con maturazione prolungata, che ha prodotto vini eleganti e raffinati Vini dal profilo aromatico intenso, acidità fresca e tannini fini, in uno stile classico che richiama la Napa di un tempo Un’annata eccezionale – una delle migliori, se non la migliore, della storia recente Tenete d’occhio le prime uscite dell’annata 2023 di Napa. Nel frattempo, leggete di più sulla California o esplorate tutte le attuali offerte di Napa.

Da quando l'uva è arrivata in cantina, i viticoltori di Napa hanno nutrito una certa fiducia per l'annata 2023, con voci di grandezza. Ora, con l'uscita dei primi vini dell'anno, scopriamo se l'annata è davvero buona come suggeriscono le voci.

Is 2023 the vintage of the century in Napa? We talk to Corison, Colgin, Arkenstone, Tony Biagi, Steve Matthiasson and more about the year and its wines 

Discover the wines of the 2023 vintage in Napa, California 

Napa 2023: resoconto dell'annata  

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