I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

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

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

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

Albiera Antinori è la prima donna a prendere il timone dell'impero Antinori. E "impero" non è un'esagerazione per una dinastia che raggiunse la fama alla fine del XIII secolo, facendo fortuna nel commercio della seta e in seguito nel settore bancario. La famiglia produce vino almeno dal 1385, quando Giovanni di Pietro Antinori si iscrisse all'arte dei viticoltori di Firenze. Per fare un paragone, questo avvenne prima della stampa della Bibbia di Gutenberg, prima della caduta di Costantinopoli, prima che Cristoforo Colombo salpasse per le Americhe. 
Oggi, oltre sei secoli dopo, i Marchesi Antinori possiedono quasi 3.000 ettari di vigneti in 21 tenute (oltre a terreni dedicati a boschi, uliveti ecc.) sparse in tutto il mondo, ed è tra le aziende familiari più antiche al mondo (al decimo posto a livello mondiale). Un tempo parte dell'élite aristocratica italiana, la famiglia Medici potrebbe essersi estinta, ma gli Antinori – come i Ricasoli – esercitano ancora un'influenza significativa. 
Guardando Albiera Antinori sullo schermo, tuttavia, è difficile collegare questo pedigree alla donna di fronte a me. Ora 58enne, lei – insieme alle sue due sorelle – rappresenta la 26a generazione della famiglia. Pelle olivastra, rilassata e con un sorriso gentile, si rimette gli occhiali in testa una volta risolti gli inevitabili problemi tecnici, accomodandosi sulla sedia per la nostra videochiamata Zoom. Potrebbe essere una delle figure più influenti del vino italiano, ma non si direbbe. La vendemmia è appena iniziata mentre ci sediamo a parlare della sua famiglia e della sua eredità – un periodo che ricorda con affetto da bambina. È cresciuta a Firenze, ma ha trascorso weekend e vacanze a Bolgheri o alla Tenuta Tignanello nel Chianti, e il vino era semplicemente parte della vita. Alcuni dei suoi primi ricordi sono della vendemmia e del sorseggiare vino (diluito con un goccio d'acqua) durante la cena a Tignanello, riunita attorno al tavolo con il nonno, Niccolò Antinori, e il resto della famiglia. 
Fu quando Albiera finì la scuola che il vino passò in primo piano. Non sapeva ancora cosa volesse fare e – con la vendemmia al Castello della Sala che sarebbe iniziata di lì a poche settimane – suo padre, Piero Antinori, le suggerì di lavorare lì, in modo da guadagnare almeno un po' di soldi mentre cercava di capire come funzionasse la situazione. "Da quel momento in poi, è stata una specie di valanga", dice sorridendo. Una volta che l'uva era matura, i vini dovevano essere prodotti, c'erano vigneti da curare e piantare, e presto si ritrovò a viaggiare, raccontando al mondo i vini prodotti dalla sua famiglia. Era caduta nella tana del Bianconiglio. 
Si è mai interrogata sulla strada non intrapresa? No, è la risposta breve, mi dice, e ha potuto conciliare le sue altre passioni con il lavoro per Antinori. Prendiamo l'architettura: ha supervisionato la costruzione di 12 cantine durante il suo mandato, lavorando a stretto contatto con il team per sviluppare l'edificio perfetto per ciascuna. Ha preso ufficialmente le redini dell'azienda nel 2017, ma, essendo la primogenita, è quasi caduta nel ruolo di CEO. Potrà anche essere al vertice dell'albero genealogico, ma è un'azienda di famiglia in tutto e per tutto. Lavora a stretto contatto con le sue sorelle, entrambe vicepresidenti (Alessia supervisiona la vinificazione e Allegra gestisce i vari ristoranti dell'azienda). Anche il padre Piero, che ora si avvicina ai 90 anni, è ancora in ufficio tutti i giorni. 
Il nome Antinori è da tempo associato all'innovazione. Il nonno di Albiera, Niccolò, è stato uno dei primi a rivoluzionare il Chianti. Nel 1924, introdusse varietà bordolesi nel Chianti Villa Antinori di famiglia, un atto scandaloso all'epoca. Il cognato di Niccolò era Mario Incisa della Rocchetta, che piantò Cabernet Sauvignon nella Tenuta San Guido di sua moglie nel 1944. Inizialmente il vino veniva prodotto per la famiglia e gli amici, ma quando Piero Antinori (figlio di Niccolò e padre di Albiera) assunse la gestione dell'azienda di famiglia nel 1966, ne intuì il potenziale. Giacomo Tachis, l'enologo Antinori, iniziò a vinificare il vino e ad affinarlo in rovere francese nuovo. Nel 1971, Piero convinse lo zio a commercializzare l'annata 1968: nacque il Sassicaia, e il movimento dei Super Tuscan. Non passò molto tempo prima che Piero proponesse la sua proposta, lanciando la prima annata (1971) di Tignanello – un blend di Sangiovese e Cabernet della loro omonima tenuta nel Chianti Classico – nel 1978. A breve seguì Solaia (prodotto per la prima volta nel 1978). "L'equilibrio tra innovazione e tradizione è sempre qualcosa di molto delicato", afferma Albiera. Lo spirito rivoluzionario della famiglia sopravvive, ma è consapevole che la loro storia, la loro eredità e la loro tradizione rappresentano "una vera risorsa", da non trascurare nell'attuale mercato vinicolo globale. Mentre un tempo dovevano imporre al mondo il riconoscimento della qualità del vino italiano, ora la loro attenzione si concentra sulla celebrazione coltivare varietà locali e creare vini fedeli al loro terroir. Questo vale per tutte le loro tenute, non più solo in Toscana, ma dalla Puglia al Piemonte, e anche oltre, con proprietà in Cile e California (tra cui Stag's Leap Wine Cellars). In sostanza, tuttavia, la loro filosofia può essere riassunta in una parola, dice: qualità. 
La generazione successiva è già a bordo, con i figli di Albiera, Vittorio e Verdiana, che lavorano al suo fianco. Il loro percorso è stato completamente diverso: università, master e esperienza in cantine di tutto il mondo, un passo più consapevole nell'azienda di famiglia. Non c'era, tuttavia, modo di negare il loro destino. 
Essere un Antinori, dice Albiera, "significa una responsabilità verso le persone che lavorano con noi, verso la storia che abbiamo e verso la terra che coltiviamo... un impegno solido e costante nel fare le cose bene, nel fare le cose con intelligenza, nel fare cose che durino nel tempo". Dopo sei secoli di attività e un portfolio di tenute in tutto il mondo, questa responsabilità continua a crescere, ma è un dovere che gli Antinori sembrano particolarmente adatti a gestire. 
La nuova annata di Solaia (2022) è ora disponibile 
Esplora tutti gli attuali prodotti Antinori o leggi di più. Editoriale

Gli Antinori sono una delle famiglie più famose d'Italia. In occasione dell'uscita della nuova annata di Solaia, abbiamo incontrato Albiera Antinori, CEO e Presidente dell'azienda di famiglia, rappresentante di 26a generazione.

Sitting down with Albiera Antinori – CEO of Marchesi Antinori, company that created Super Tuscan Tignanello to find out more about their wine dynasty 

Talking to Albiera Antinori about the family’s wine empire 

L'impero Antinori

Bordeaux è incredibilmente variegata, con stili di vino estremamente diversi nelle sue denominazioni. Qui, vi sveleremo tutto ciò che c'è da sapere su ciascuna delle principali sottoregioni e sulle migliori tenute di ciascuna.

Explore Bordeaux, subregions, their wines and top estates – in Saint-Estephe, Pauillac, Saint-Julien, Margaux, Graves, Pessac-Leognan, Pomerol, Saint-Emilion 

Your guide to Bordeaux’s subregions, wines and top producers

La tua guida alle sottoregioni di Bordeaux

For a long time, Tuscany was known merely for its squat jugs of rustic Chianti, almost inevitably in quaint straw baskets; thin, insipid wines that are a shadow of what the region has proven it can produce today.  While Chianti had once been known for making fine wine – having been the first region to have geographical limits defined for wine production back in the 18th century – its reputation had, by the mid-1900s, been ruined. The area for production had been expanded in the 1930s, far beyond the historic heart of the region, encompassing lesser vineyards. The appellation rules encouraged producers to favour quantity over quality, with yields as high as 85hl/ha allowed, and specifying that red blends had to include a minimum 10% (and up to 30%) white grapes, with as little as 50% Sangiovese. Winemakers took advantage of high-yielding Trebbiano to bulk out the once-famous wines.  But one man changed all that. Enter Mario Incisa della Rochetta, a man who had been brought up tasting Claret with his grandfather. In 1944 – missing the taste of Bordeaux and inspired by the good wines his friend Duke Francesco Salviati was making near Pisa – he decided to plant a vineyard on his wife’s Tenuta San Guido estate in Bolgheri, on Tuscany’s coast, two hours west of Siena.   Identifying a stony site that sat at over 1,000 feet above sea-level, he took Cabernet cuttings from Salviati, and planted his first vines. The resulting wine was consumed only by family and friends, seen as overly green by the locals. But Incisa della Rochetta was encouraged by the results, and decided to plant more vines lower down the slope, and closer to the sea, in 1965.  His nephew Piero Antinori – who had recently taken over the family business – realised the potential of the wine, and the Antinori winemaker Giacomo Tachis started making the wine. Influenced by time in Bordeaux, Giacomo filled the cellar with new French barriques – small barrels that were a radical move away from Italy’s traditional large, old casks made with Slavonian oak. In 1971, Piero convinced Mario to release the 1968 vintage commercially and a star was born: Sassicaia.  Being 100% Cabernet Sauvignon, aged in new French oak and from Bolgheri – a region that at the time didn’t have a DOC – Sassicaia was labelled with the lowest official classification for Italian wine, “vino da tavola” or table wine. It rapidly won praise from critics and consumers, commanding a serious price that was at odds with its lowly classification. Where Sassicaia led, others followed. In 1978 Piero Antinori released the first vintage (1971) of Tigananello – a blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet grown in the heart of Chianti Classico. Bordeaux authority Emile Peynaud advised on the project, suggesting that the appellation’s stipulated white grapes were abandoned and that it be aged in new French oak. Falling outside Chianti’s rules, it too was sold as a vino da tavola.  Piermario Meletti Cavallari founded Grattamacco in 1977, and was the first to feature Bolgheri on the label, featuring this then little-known region in larger font than even the wine’s name itself. Piero Antinori’s brother Lodovico established Tenuta dell’ Ornellaia in 1981, planting Cabernet and Merlot. A flight of Chianti producers followed suit – ripping up the appellation’s rulebook to make cuvées with international grapes like Cabernet, using 100% Sangiovese, and/or French oak: Le Pergole Torte, Flaccianello, Cepparello, Percarlo, Fontalloro and more all pushed the boundaries of what was possible in Tuscany – but didn’t (and couldn’t) bear the region’s name on their labels. These wines – the “Super Tuscans”, as they became known – were soon being recognised the world over. In 1978 Hugh Johnson organised a blind tasting of the world’s best Cabernets for Decanter. Pitted alongside the First Growths, it was Sassicaia that came out on top. The 1985 vintage of Sassicaia became legendary when Robert Parker – who had just risen to fame – gave it 100 points. In 2001, 1998 Ornellaia was named Wine Spectator’s Wine of the Year. These wines were putting two fingers up to Italy’s appellation system as they sold for the same price as Grands Crus Classés, despite their vino da tavola status.  In a bid to stem the tide of these ultra-premium table wines, the Italian authorities started to make changes. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, Chianti amended its appellation rules to try and reclaim the wines, allowing more variation in the winemaking, with no white grapes required and allowing 100% Sangiovese wines. But the damage was done, with the Super Tuscans already established as their own brand. Few returned to the fold to use the Chianti name on their label – a region that producers felt didn’t, then or now, have a reputation that aligned with the quality of these world-class wines.   The likes of Sassicaia, Tignanello and Ornellaia drew the international wine market’s eye to Italy. Bold, big, rich wines that won critics points, the Super Tuscans arguably turned the tide for the nation, garnering praise – and proving that Italy’s wines could compete on the world stage. Today, critics and consumers are looking beyond these iconic names to explore Italy’s extraordinary viticultural heritage, with the terroir-driven styles of Barolo, Barbaresco, Montalcino, Etna and more starting to find the spotlight. But Tuscany’s rebellious streak continues, with a new wave of producers – such as Bibi Graetz – producing wines that are bottled defiantly as IGT Toscana. While there’s plenty more competition, the Super Tuscans remain some of the country’s finest and most collectable wines. The Super Tuscans you need to know While there’s no set definition for a Super Tuscan, and there are many that could take the title, here’s our pick of the most famous wines. Sassicaia: The first Super Tuscan, made by Tenuta San Guido, in Bolgheri; it’s a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon (85%) and Cabernet Franc (15%), and is the only single estate in the whole of Italy to have its own DOC, Bolgheri-Sassicaia. Tignanello: A rival to Sassicaia in terms of fame, and also put under the sporlight by Piero Antinori, Tignanello comes from Chianti. It was the first to blend Sangiovese with Cabernet. Solaia: Tignanello’s sibling, Solaia is the reverse in blend – with Cabernet taking the lead, complemented by a smaller proportion of Sangiovese. Ornellaia: Created by Piero Antinori’s brother Lodovico, with advice from André Tchelistcheff, it’s a Cabernet-led Bordeaux blend. The property has changed hands over the years and is now owned by the Frescobaldi family. Masseto: The other wine created by Lodovico Antinori: although planning originally to work just with Cabernet, Tchelistcheff identified the hill of Masseto as ideal for Merlot. The fruit from this site was bottled separately as a pure Merlot for the first time in 1986 (although the 1987 was the first vintage released), and today Masseto operates separately from the Ornellaia estate, having its own winery and identity. Grattamacco: Another of the earliest Super Tuscans, this is Cabernet blended with Sangiovese. Piermario Meletti Cavallari purchased an abandoned vineyard in 1977 which was all Sangiovese, but he later grafted over with Cabernet. He was one of the first producers to feature Bolgheri on the label of his wine. Montevertine Le Pergole Torte: This was one of the earliest expressions of pure Sangiovese from Chianti, aged in French and Slavonian oak. The first vintage of this was 1977, a blend of fruit from the estate’s best vineyards. Fontodi Flaccianello della Pieve: The first vintage of Flaccianello was 1981. Originally a single-vineyard expression, since 2001 it’s been a blend of the best grapes from the estate, but remains 100% Sangiovese, classified as Colli Toscana Centrale. The proportion of new oak has been toned down, and a portion of the wine goes into amphora. Isole e Olena Cepparello: This pure Sangiovese was first made in 1980, and today only sees around a third new oak, with a small proportion of American oak. It’s notable that it is bottled both under screwcap and cork, with Paolo di Marchi a strong believer in the benefits of screwcap. San Giusto a Rentennano Percarlo: First made in 1983, this 100% Sangiovese comes from the estate’s best vineyards. Fèlsina Fontalloro: Made with vines falling in Chianti Classico and Chianti Colli Senesi, this pure Sangiovese was first made in 1983. Castello di Ama L’Apparita: Narrowly beating Masseto to be the first 100% Merlot made in Tuscany (with the first vintage 1985), the 1987 vintage of L’Apparita famously beat Pétrus, Le Pin and several other Merlots in a blind tasting which was judged by a panel including Michel Rolland in 1992. Querciabella Camartina: First made in 1981, this was originally a blend of mainly Sangiovese with Cabernet in support, but the blend has reversed over time. Bibi Graetz Testamatta & Colore: Bibi’s top wines are elegant expressions of Tuscany’s indigenous grapes, sourced from old vines at high altitudes. Testamatta is pure Sangiovese, while the flagship Colore is Sangiovese with a touch of Colorino. Explore all Tuscan wines or discover more Editorial

Sassicaia, Tignanello, Ornellaia: these fabled Super Tuscans are some of the world’s most desirable wines – kickstarting Italy’s fine wine renaissance, re-defining its reputation and proving what was possible. But how did these lowly table wines rise to the top of the fine wine ranks?

Exploring how the fabled Super Tuscans Sassicaia, Tignanello and Ornellaia have re-defined Italian wine's reputation.

Learn more about Super Tuscan wines

The Super Tuscans: everything you need to know

Bordeaux has several different classification systems. While the Right Bank has only Saint-Emilion’s system (one that is a source of controversy), the Left Bank has a more complex web of rankings.   
The 1855 classification is the gold standard. The most famous and influential of them all, it lists the Left Bank’s very top estates. But beyond this crème de la crème, there are several other systems ranking properties – namely the Graves classification, the Crus Bourgeois and Crus Artisans.  
The Graves classification  
Almost 100 years after the famous 1855 classification, producers in the Graves decided to create their own equivalent. Other than Ch. Haut-Brion, the region’s properties had not been included in the 1855 classification. A draft of the classification was drawn up in 1953, then the official list ratified in 1958, with some changes in 1959.  
The Graves classification is much simpler than the 1855 classification. There is only one tier, with estates declared “Grand Cru Classé de Graves” for white wine, red wine, or both. Sixteen estates in total were defined as the region’s best. Couhins, Couhins-Lurton and Laville Haut-Brion were classified for only their white wines, while Fieuzal, Haut-Bailly, Haut-Brion, La Mission Haut-Brion, Pape-Clément, Smith Haut Lafitte and La Tour Haut-Brion were classified only for their reds.  
Interestingly,. Ch. Haut-Brion is only classified for red, however this is not because its white was not deemed worthy, but because it did not apply for classification, given production of the illustrious wine is so small. It remains one of the region’s highest-rated and most expensive whites. 
Although there have been no changes since 1959, some of the wines are no longer made under the same name. Both part of the Clarence Dillon family, Ch. Laville Haut-Brion is now bottled as Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion Blanc, while fruit from La Tour Haut-Brion is now used for the second wine of La Mission, La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion (read more about the genealogy of the Haut-Brion estates here).  
The Pessac-Léognan appellation was only introduced in 1987, so some of the wines are bottled under this today.  1959 Graves classification  Ch. Bouscaut (red and white)  Ch. Carbonnieux (red and white)  Domaine de Chevalier (red and white)  Ch. Couhins (white only)  Ch. Couhins-Lurton (white only)  Ch. de Fieuzal (red only)  Ch. Haut-Bailly (red only)  Ch. Haut-Brion (red only, also part of the 1855 classification)  Ch. Latour-Martillac (red and white)  Ch. Laville-Haut-Brion (white only, now the white of La Mission Haut-Brion)  Ch. Malartic-Lagravière (red and white)  Ch. La Mission Haut-Brion (red only)  Ch. Olivier (red and white)  Ch. Pape-Clément (red only)  Ch. Smith Haut Lafitte (red only)  Ch. la Tour-Haut-Brion (red only)  The Crus Bourgeois  The term “Cru Bourgeois” has long been used casually, but it was introduced as a formal classification in 1932. There have been many changes to the classification over the years. There were 444 properties in the original group, many of whom used the term on their labels even though the classification was never officially ratified. In 2003, after three years of debate, the classification was updated and split into three tiers (with Cru Bourgeois Supérieur and Exceptionnel added), only to be annulled in 2007, with the term then banned from labels. In 2010, the Cru Bourgeois classification was re-introduced and assigned to wines rather than estates, with their status re-assessed each year, but this too was soon replaced.  
In 2020, a new version of the classification was unveiled, going back to the three tiers of Cru Bourgeois, Cru Bourgeois Supérieur and Cru Bourgeois Exceptionnel. The top rank of “Exceptionnel” includes just 14 estates, with 56 Crus Bourgeois Supérieurs and 179 Crus Bourgeois (adding up to a total 249 properties). The classification is only being assessed every five years, with the next iteration set to be announced in 2025.   
The classification is decided based on the quality and consistency of the wine (assessed via rigorous blind tasting), traceability and authentication, with sustainability encouraged and rewarded. While these wines are not as highly regarded or sought after as those in the 1855 classification, the wines generally offer good value, and all come from the Médoc, Haut-Médoc, Listrac, Moulis, Margaux, Saint-Julien, Pauillac and Saint-Estèphe. Find the full, current classification on the Crus Bourgeois website. 
The Crus Artisans  
The Left Bank also has the Cru Artisan classification, designed to highlight smaller operations where the manager/owner is involved in every stage of production. The term has been used for over 150 years, however its official meaning was introduced in 1989. The classification was launched in its current guise in 2006, open to estates in the Médoc, Haut-Médoc, Listrac, Moulis, Margaux, Saint-Julien, Pauillac and Saint-Estèphe. Generally family-owned, properties must grow their own grapes, then make and sell the wines.  
There were 44 Cru Artisan estates in 2006, but the latest classification (unveiled in 2018) included only 36 – with many addresses sold/absorbed by other producers, some retiring, as well as a handful of new names added. The classification is based on a visit to the estate and blind tasting of its wines. On average, Crus Artisans have just 10 hectares of vines. Find the full current classification on the Crus Artisans website. 
Read more about Bordeaux or browse all Bordeaux listings


While the 1855 classification is the most famous and influential classification on the Left Bank, there are several other classifications in operation today. Here’s everything you need to know about Bordeaux’s Graves classification, the Crus Bourgeois and Crus Artisans 

Looking beyond the 1855 classification in Bordeaux: discover everything you need to know about the 1959 Graves, Cru Bourgeois and Cru Artisan classifications

Graves, Cru Bourgeois and Cru Artisan in Bordeaux

Your guide to Bordeaux’s other classifications: Graves, Cru Bourgeois and Cru Artisan

If you haven’t already heard about Baettig, we urge you to read some of our previous coverage of this rising-star producer. Conceived by Francisco Baettig (the winemaker behind Errázuriz, Seña and Chadwick) and Carlos de Carlos (previously Commercial Director at Errázuriz, he now works for Paul Hobbs) over dinner in London in 2010, Baettig is one of Chile’s most exciting projects – crafting site-driven wines from Malleco and the Maule.  The duo spent years seeking out the right site – realising that to find vineyards that met their standards, they’d have to plant them themselves. In 2013 they put their first vines in the ground, planting Burgundy clones of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir in Traiguén, in the Malleco province. Both Francisco and Carlos had family ties to the region – making it seem like fate.  The site, however, wasn’t chosen purely for their emotional connection to the area, but with an eye on sustainability and quality. This is one of Chile’s southernmost wine regions, with red clay, clay loam and volcanic soils, cool conditions, 25% less sunshine than the Central Valley and – most importantly – plentiful rainfall, allowing them to dry-farm the vines and produce restrained, Burgundy-inspired Pinot Noir and Chardonnay with moderate alcohol levels, bright acidity and vibrant fruit. Francisco is clear that the quality of their vine material has been key to their success – as it is only relatively recently that Chile had access to high-quality, clean Burgundy clones.  While Baettig started with Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, the producer has since added Cabernet Sauvignon from old vines in the Maule to the range, unsurprising given Francisco made his name making Chile’s icon wines.  Fourteen years after they first imagined their joint project, we welcomed Francisco to London to look back at the Baettig journey so far – tasting through a vertical and exploring how the project has developed and evolved.  About the Baettig range  There are currently two tiers to the Baettig range, with the idea that a top tier, single-vineyard offering that will be their “Grand Cru” of sorts, is likely to be added in the future. The current range comprises:  Vino de Viñedo: these wines are a vineyard selection designed for earlier drinking, effectively a “village” equivalent. The Chardonnay and Pinot Noir at this level go by the name of Los Parientes (“the relatives”, a reference to the closeness of the different parcels), while the Cabernet Sauvignon is called Los Compadres (“close friends” – a tribute to the growers with whom they’re working). Los Compadres is sourced from various dry-farmed, cool plots in the more coastal areas of the Maule, with the vines all over 30 years in age and some up to 150 years old, creating lively, juicy and intense expressions of Cabernet Sauvignon. The first vintage of the Los Parientes Pinot Noir and Chardonnay was 2019, while the first vintage of the Los Compadres was 2021. These may be the entry point to the Baettig range, and they are made to drink on release, but they also – like good village Burgundy – have capacity to evolve and will only benefit from an extra year or two in bottle.  Selección de Parcelas: their “Premier Cru” equivalent range, made in smaller volumes from specific parcels and built for longer ageing. These wines see a higher proportion of new oak and longer ageing prior to release. The Chardonnay and Pinot Noir are labelled under the Los Primos name (“the cousins”), while the Cabernet Sauvignon is named Los Padrinos (“the godparents”). The Pinot Noir comes from their El Primo, Chuir, and La Cuñada parcels, chosen for their elegance, structure and ageing potential; while the Chardonnay comes from the Triángulo and Llaima parcels, creating mineral, vertical wines that are all about tension. The first Los Primos Chardonnay and Pinot Noir were made in 2016, with the first wide release from 2017, and Los Padrinos was first made in 2022. Volumes of these wines are tiny, with just 300 to 350 cases made of each of the Selección de Parcelas.  About the winemaking The emphasis with Baettig is firmly on expressing site – and as such the winemaking is very “light touch”, allowing the sense of place to shine through in the wines. The style has evolved, with the use of oak reduced a little from the earliest vintages, generally shifting toward less time in barrel, larger casks and smaller portions of new wood. The fruit is all hand-picked and fermented with indigenous yeasts. The cooler sites, combined with the way Baettig farms and when they harvest, produces fruit with naturally low pH, allowing them to use minimal amounts of sulphur (although with sufficient doses to allow the wines to age and be shipped around the world).  For the Chardonnay, it is all whole-cluster pressed and cold-settled, prior to native ferment in old French barriques. Malolactic fermentation on the Chardonnay is left to happen or not, according to the vintage conditions (with often around a third going through). The élevage for all the wines varies according to the vintage, but the Los Parientes Chardonnay normally spends eight to 10 months in cask, with up to 15% new oak, while the Los Primos spends between 10-15 months in barrel with up to 35% new oak. The new oak for the Chardonnay is all larger 300- and 400-litre casks. A portion of the Pinot Noir is whole-bunch fermented (typically 10-20%), with the rest de-stemmed – with fermentation all in used oak. The Los Parientes stays in barrel for around eight to 10 months, with up to 15% new oak; for the Los Primos, it is 15-16 months, with up to 40% new wood – with the new oak all 300-litre barrels.  For the Cabernet Sauvignon, the fruit is all de-stemmed. Fermentation temperatures are low at around 24-28˚C, with maceration for a maximum 20 days, given the natural concentration and structure of the fruit. The Los Compadres is aged for 10 months in French oak (20% new), while the Los Padrinos spends 15 months in 65% new oak (including around a third in larger 300-litre barrels).  Tasting through the range, there is a clear stamp of style – a flinty restraint, with the emphasis on crunchy fruit and minerality, vibrant acidity, moderate alcohols. While some of the earlier vintages might have offered more overt oak in their youth, this has integrated with time in bottle – and the wines offer at most a subtle spicy complexity. They are beautifully judged, pure expressions of Traiguén.   About the vintages 2022: Generally speaking, 2022 was an outstanding vintage. In Malleco, the year was cooler than average. Winter was relatively dry, with little rain in spring and cool conditions including frost in September and October, leading to particularly low yields. Weather warmed up in February before cooling again in March and April, which also saw quite a lot of rain. This resulted in a late harvest of a small crop of fruit, with great intensity, concentration and excellent tension – with high acidity levels retained thanks to the cooler conditions. In the Maule, the season was moderately warm, producing a more generous yield than further south but similarly high quality. The weather here was warmer in December and temperatures close to average from January through to March. Moderate rainfall in March and April refreshed the season and eased the final stage of ripening, with the fruit offering good acidity, colour and aromatic intensity. The 2022s offer an up-front richness of fruit, with good backbone of acidity – in some ways a combination of 2020 and 2021.  2021: The 2021 vintage was a cooler year – producing wines where the emphasis was on elegance, finesse and tension, perfect for the Baettig style. The winter in Malleco was rainy, with 650mm of water over June and July, laying the groundwork for a good budbreak. Spring was dry and reasonably warm, although a late frost in September reduced yields. Summer was cool, with some rain over December and January (90 mm in total across the two months), allowing the fruit to ripen slowly ahead of a late harvest, developing great aromatic complexity and preserving the acidity levels. These should age particularly well.  2020: This was a warmer year versus 2021, producing richer-styled wines. There was plenty of rain in June and July, however this dried up in August, with little rain for the rest of the growing season. Temperatures rose and the hot, dry conditions allowed the grapes to ripen easily, although an early harvest was key to preserve freshness and tension to complement their natural intensity and generosity. Offering a little more flesh, particularly at this more youthful stage, versus the 2021s, the 2020s are juicy and open, yet with everything in balance. The one we’d pick for drinking now, although there is certainly no rush here.  2016: A rainy winter led on to a cool and rainy spring, with later-than-normal flowering and fruit set and a small crop. Summer was dry and largely warm, and the fruit was harvested early, producing wines that combine refreshing acidity and good density of fruit. The 2016 Los Primos Pinot Noir and Chardonnay were never released, the tiny volumes of Baettig’s first crop, so it was a real treat to taste these special bottles, offering a glimpse of the wines’ ageing potential – with both drinking beautifully.  The vertical: tasting Baettig Chardonnay 2022 Vino de Viñedo Los Parientes Chardonnay: This was really showing well, even though it has only just been released. It’s tight, full of energy, with a punch of minerality, bright taut citrus and crisp green apple. It’s lean and sleek, but with a fleshy, juiciness that makes it hard to resist now. A wine that’s singing. Aged for eight months in 15% new oak. Production: 7,254 bottles  2021 Vino de Viñedo Los Parientes Chardonnay: There’s a lick of lime curd on the nose here, with tightly wound greengage emerging with air. It’s pure and linear, driven with its intense, stony purity, but there’s a pleasing fatness to the fruit behind, with a mouth-wateringly juicy finish and long, saline tang to the finish. Aged for 10 months in only used oak. Production: 16,909 bottles  2020 Vino de Viñedo Los Parientes Chardonnay: The warmth of the 2020 vintage, combined with the cool climate of Traiguén and Baettig’s trademark flinty, lean style, has created a gorgeous Los Parientes in 2020. Now with a few years in bottle, it’s drinking beautifully. The wine remains taut – dominated by vibrant citrus that drives through its core, and the bright acidity brings incredible tension. Yet, there’s also a softness to the wine, with a suppleness to the palate and its ample riper stone fruit that flawlessly complements the mouthwatering zest of the long finish. Punches well above its weight. Aged for 10 months in 10% new oak. Production: 15,240 bottles  2021 Selección de Parcelas Los Primos Chardonnay: The 2021 Los Primos is incredibly impressive – and the step up from Los Parientes clear. There’s a creamy, lactic note on the nose, working alongside lemon curd, honeysuckle and bright citrus and green fruit. There’s a lushness to the fruit, with gorgeous length and energy, outstanding tension and an everlasting finish, with stony, saline minerality that lingers long after the wine is gone. You can drink this now, but it will be even better if you can give it a couple of years in bottle. Aged for 15 months in 35% new oak. Production: 3,480 bottles  2020 Selección de Parcelas Los Primos Chardonnay: Much more open now than the 2021, the 2020 Los Primos is rich and concentrated, with riper white peach fruit and honeyed complexity. There’s a softness to the wine, reminiscent of the suppleness of the 2020 Los Parientes, but additional depth here. It’s round and enticing, still with a backbone of taut acidity, and a long finish with just a touch of oak spice. Hard to resist now, drink this over the next five years. Aged for 15 months in 38% new oak. Production: 4,069 bottles  2016 Selección de Parcelas Los Primos Chardonnay: The first vintage of Selección de Parcelas, with the very first fruit from the Baettig vines, and never released. The 2016 is showing some beautiful development, with honey, sweeter plump peach and nutty complexity. Cooked apple and dried mango sit alongside a zing of limey citrus, with a line of bright acidity that runs through the palate and brings lovely energy. Gorgeous. Aged for 16 months in only used oak. Production: 2,160 bottles  Pinot Noir  2022 Vino de Viñedo Los Parientes Pinot Noir: There is 10% whole-bunch in this vintage, and combined with the youth of the wine, it is shining on the nose – with overt pepper spice, floral perfume and stemmy complexity that makes it aromatically enticing. The palate is pure and bright, with juicy but concentrated mulberry and black cherry, with a saline edge and fresh, chalky purity. Incredibly moreish. Aged for eight months in 14% new oak. Production: 13,205 bottles 2021 Vino de Viñedo Los Parientes Pinot Noir: For this cooler vintage, Francisco opted to reduce the portion of whole-bunch fermentation a little. The wine is bright, crunchy and pure, with a lovely restraint from the extended growing season. Floral tones (rose, violet) sit alongside crunchy red fruit, leading to a palate of effortless purity and length. Vibrant, mouth-wateringly fresh with an earthy, saline finish and very fine tannins. Aged for 10 months in 10% new oak. Production: 13,400 bottles  2020 Vino de Viñedo Los Parientes Pinot Noir: This is in a lovely spot right now – sharing the supple texture of its Chardonnay sibling. It is beautifully elegant, with tealeaf aromatics, gentle spice and crunchy berry fruit. Structurally, it is fine-boned – the fine, chalky tannins adding a graceful outline to the mouth-watering fruit. Gloriously fresh, the finish is saline with the slightest hint of smoke. Dangerously drinkable and incredible value. Aged for 10 months in 10% new oak. Production: 15,180 bottles  2021 Selección de Parcelas Los Primos Pinot Noir: This is such a baby at the moment – and clearly needs time to reveal its full potential. It’s much more savoury than the 2020. There’s some gunflint reduction, but beneath that smoky intensity and an earthiness, alongside the subtle florals, bright redcurrant and raspberry. There’s more grip to the tannin, a tightness to the fruit, but the structure and length offer great promise. A wine of tension. Made with 20% whole-bunch fermentation, aged for 16 months in 34% new oak. Production: 3,409 bottles 2020 Selección de Parcelas Los Primos Pinot Noir: It’s immediately evident that this is Baettig’s Premier Cru – with notably more concentration and complexity. The warmer 2020 vintage produced a vibrant and intense wine, with vivid, juicy red cherry and raspberry fruit, complemented by more delicate floral notes. Alongside the impressive weight of fruit, there’s a pomegranate freshness and mineral line, with the slightest hint of smoke and spice, and a framework of superfine, supple tannins. Made with 20% whole-bunch fermentation, aged for 15 months in 38% new oak. Production: 4,102 bottles 2016 Selección de Parcelas Los Primos Pinot Noir: This was, for me, the star of the tasting. The nose was effortlessly complex, shifting between soft florals, spice, violets and crunchy red fruit, with a dried-earth note too. There was a glorious suppleness here, silken and flowing across the palate, with a fine, chalky texture to the tannin, juicy cherry and a subtle, savoury finish. Beautiful. Everything was destemmed in this vintage and the wine aged exclusively in used oak. Production: 1,440 bottles  Cabernet Sauvignon  2022 Vino de Viñedo Los Compadres Cabernet Sauvignon: This is a glorious expression of bright, modern Cabernet – pure and pristine with crunchy red and black fruit, vivid pencil shavings and an herbaceous green-pepper edge. There’s such intensity to the palate, with its tart red berry fruit, mouth-wateringly fresh and juicy. The abundant fruit is framed by graphite tannins, leading on to a spicy finish. Aged in 20% new French oak for 10 months. Production: 17,000 bottles  2022 Selección de Parcelas Los Padrinos Cabernet Sauvignon: The first vintage of Los Padrinos is only offering more since we first tasted it in February. It’s strikingly different to Los Compadres – a much darker, spicier and smokier expression. The two wines share their tension, with firm acidity that forms the backbone of this wine and drives the long finish, as well as gloriously crunchy and fresh fruit. The nose is savoury and brooding at first, but sweeter plum and cassis fruit lurks behind, while there’s a tart, bright bite to the palate. It still feels compact at this youthful stage, the power and gum-drying tannins needing time to unfurl. Aged for 15 months in 65% new French oak. Production: 1,800 bottles  Explore all current listings of Baettig or read more Editorial

Last month, we welcomed Francisco Baettig to London, guiding us through a vertical of his stunning Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and new Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile’s south. Here, we unpack the Baettig story, style and how each vintage of this exciting project is drinking right now

Tasting through a vertical of Baettig’s Chilean wines: Chardonnay and Pinot Noir from Traiguen, Malleco, and Cabernet Sauvignon from the Maule

Baettig vertical, tasting these top Chilean wines

The story so far: Baettig vertical

As we’ve already discussed in our pieces on Chablis and the whites of the Côte de Beaune, 2019 in Burgundy is a remarkable vintage – shaped by an unusual growing season. After a week of tasting the length and breadth of the region, low yields and high quality are the headlines: frost and bad weather at flowering led to coulure and millerandage, essentially fewer and smaller berries per bunch. This in itself leads to more concentrated fruit, but it’s the warm, dry conditions that were really key. As water evaporated from the berries in these conditions, everything was concentrated – acidity, sugar and flavour.  The resulting reds are both intense and fresh – the fruit pristine and perfectly ripe, without straying into jammy. The tannins are supple, soft and seamless – so much so that, even at this youthful stage, the wines are a joy to taste; a tannic structure that Frédéric Barnier (Louis Jadot) said is almost more reminiscent of Gamay or Oregon Pinot, and rather atypical for red Burgundy. But don’t let this approachability fool you – the structure is there, just stylishly disguised, and there’s everything the wines need for a long life in the cellar. Thanks to the “solaire” growing season, the grapes had high natural sugar levels, meaning correspondingly high alcohols – tending to sit between 13.5 and 14.5%, increasing as you move up the quality ladder. But, despite this, the alcohol didn’t stand out anywhere; it’s balanced effortlessly by the wines’ equally high concentration and acidity. Each village shows  slightly sunnier profile, the tannins shaking off any rusticity, the fruit tending to be a little more generous – but without losing a sense of place. The wonderful acidity that runs through the wines makes them deliciously moreish – a sappy salinity filling the finish and making your mouth water; they are classically “digeste” or “gourmand”. It’s almost impossible to compare as a vintage. For us, the wines truly taste unique – unlike any other vintage we’ve tasted en primeur, with the balance of freshness and ripe fruit really separating it from its peers. Most producers were unwilling or unable to draw comparisons – as Frédéric Barnier explained, it’s hard to find a vintage with the same colour, richness and balance. He briefly considered the 2015s, but feels the 2019s are much more approachable. Marion Raphet modestly described the vintage as more “agréable” than 2018. Olivier Bernstein feels the 2019s are the best wines he has ever made, while at Domaine Joblot, Mickaël Haratyk described the 2019s as “absolutely gorgeous”, but couldn’t find a comparable year. The consensus is that they’re a step up from 2018 – much more classically styled and terroir-expressive. There’s a rare balance at play, offering more freshness than 2018 and more balance than 2015.  Everyone agreed however, as Frédéric Weber of Bouchard Père & Fils said, 2019 is “a huge vintage for the future”. For him, it is a little bit like a cross between 2015 and 2017 – with the concentration, roundness and “sucrosité” of 2015, and the delicate aromatics of 2017; but it also reminds him more and more of 1947 – a superb vintage, he told us, that had similarly high alcohols but amazing purity of aroma (and, as an indication of the wines’ ageability, it’s still drinking beautifully now). For Philippe Jouan, the vintage’s hallmark is the amazing consistency found along the Côte, as well the purity of fruit found in the wines. From our tastings, we couldn’t agree more when it comes to consistency: while yields vary, the high quality is a thread that runs through the entire region. Sadly there simply isn’t much of the wines – with producers down by as much as 50%. In general, it’s the Bourgogne and village wines that were hit the hardest in terms of volumes, and mostly yields seemed to be lower the further south we tasted. The result? It’ll be harder than normal to get your hands on these fantastic wines.  Read our full report on Burgundy 2019 or browse more Editorial 

As 2019 white Burgundy revealed, the vintage is rapidly proving to be one of the most exciting in recent memory. Here Sophie Thorpe reports on the reds – wines of outstanding balance that have a long future ahead of them

Exploring the Burgundy 2019 red wines that are ripe yet balanced and have a long future ahead of them

Burgundy 2019 red wine vintage assessment

Burgundy 2019: the reds

Piers Saffran

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