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

There are times when you put a question to a winemaker and he puffs out his cheeks and rubs his chin and you know he’s thinking, ‘Journalists.’ When I ask Promontory’s David Cilli what exactly is meant by ‘interpretation of terroir’, he courteously describes the process of trying to get the wine to reflect the character of the land. But he gives the impression my question was like quizzing Monet on how he got his effects. If you don’t get it, you probably won’t. The character of Promontory, on the day I visit, is quite something. It’s early May and the rain, which has been falling steadily all night, has turned to a lashing downpour that has raindrops bouncing six inches off the windscreen. We’re in a jeep piloted by winegrowing director Cory Empting and since turning off the main road we’ve been climbing steadily through dripping stands of oak with pocket-handkerchief vineyards between them. ‘Shall we stay in the car?’ asks Empting. ‘If we could,’ Will Harlan suggests from the back seat. I’m here with Empting, Cilli and Harlan. Bill Harlan has appeared briefly but I don’t see him again until we sit down to taste. He formally handed over control of Harlan Estate, Promontory, Bond and The Mascot in 2021, appointing 37-year-old Will managing director. Cilli (44) arrived in 2012 and is in charge of vineyard and winemaking at Promontory. Promontory is an 840-acre fastness, a deep valley folded into the foothills of Mount Veeder, on the west side of the Napa Valley. From the highway, you think the looming ridge you’re looking at is the edge of Sonoma. But there’s another ridge beyond and between them this interesting domain. It’s remote, even by Napa standards (contrary to opinion, there are plenty of wild spaces in the county). The ultra-refined French Laundry is a couple of miles away but it might be in Wisconsin for all the relevance it has up here. Bill Harlan had come upon it hiking in the 1980s. ‘I used the Carmelite monastery [we’d passed it on the way up] as a base and just started climbing’. There were no vines but he was intrigued by its seclusion. It might be possible vineland for the Napa project he had in mind. In the end, Harlan Estate was founded less than a mile to the north but for 25 years Harlan kept the idea of that parcel tucked under his hat (he never mentioned it, Will says) before it came on the market in 2007 and he snapped it up. "Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir" The owner – the Harlans don’t reveal who that is – had planted 80-odd acres of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was neglected, the vines overgrown. Trees had been felled and never collected. ‘It was a mess,’ Will says. ‘It looked like a logging operation.’ But it is magnificent. Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir. The whole estate is thickly forested, the vines often shaded on three sides. An old drovers’ road, running through the woods, will suddenly open out on a wide vista of vineyard and scree. Everything is deeply, lushly green in the steadily falling spring rain. The geology of the land is unusual, in that it rests on two distinct fault lines and consists of all three soil types that are found in Napa: volcanic, sedimentary and metamorphic. ‘You get all three in the same soil pit,’ Cilli notes. This, combined with the wild variation in aspect and the microclimate of the valley-within-a-valley, gives credence to Harlan’s claims that this part of Napa is like nowhere else in California. When the celebrated soil scientists Claude and Lydia Bourguignon came, they found the experience ‘novel’. Cilli said he fell in love with Promontory at first sight. It reminded him, in part, of his native Tuscany, but it was the wildness that captivated him, ‘I love that character that you can see in the wines.’ He said it was probably ‘the only project that could keep me in the valley.’ You get the impression none of them can quite believe their luck. ‘It somehow redefined what looks beautiful,’ Will says. It also redefined their ideas of winemaking. He goes on: ‘We were used to control. Harlan in the 1990s was obsessed with organisation and uniformity but Promontory was wild.’ The theme of wildness recurs. Harvest times are key to ‘find a way for it to come through,’ Will says. Empting: ‘Pick too late and you lose the ruggedness.’ Ageing, in the magnificent Howard Backen-designed chai, is all in Stockinger Austrian oak barrels ranging in size from 10,000 to 46,000 litres, for up to 36 months. ‘The fine-yet-tight tannins required longer barrel-ageing but [we] didn’t want the wine to be overpowered by new oak’. It’s a constant process of refinement and improvement – ‘we learn something new each season’. Empting: ‘It has blown every expectation out of the water. We were excited and we were scared. We didn’t know what this beast would be. Our learning curve has been very steep, it remains very steep. At least now we’re starting to get our arms around it but at the beginning, it was like: God, we cannot figure this thing out.” "I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness" You have to remember we’re talking about winemaking here, not Wittgenstein. But ‘interpretation of terroir’, if it’s to mean anything at all, should be taken seriously. I’ve seen vineland all over the world – rock-strewn fields in the Andean foothills, rainless Spanish deserts – but I’ve never seen anything like Promontory. Were I to be tasked with bottling the soul of that vineyard, I’d reach for metaphor as well. And so we come to the missing shade of blue. This is the concept propounded by the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, that an idea can be formulated without a previous sensory impression to give rise to it. He asked, Could a shade of blue missing from a spectrum be imagined by an observer? Harlan says (with a smile – he does have a degree in philosophy) that Promontory is the missing shade of red. ‘Until you’ve seen and experienced it, you don’t know that it’s missing. And so for us this was that final piece. The piece that wasn’t there that we had the opportunity to understand and try to translate into the wine.’ The next morning, in gorgeous May sunshine, we gather to taste. It’s almost the same group, though smaller, that did the mighty vertical of Harlan estate from magnum in 2020. Bill Harlan is there (he sweetly thanks the team for allowing him to taste, saying it’s the first full vertical of Promontory he’s ever done), Will, Empting, Cilli and the journalist Elaine Brown. We wonder, at the end, if there is thread that runs through the wines. In my notes the words ‘deceptively light’ recur, as do ‘structure’ and ‘stone’. Reaching for metaphor again, Will Harlan compares the structure of the 2016 to cathedral stone, which has ‘both weight and lightness. It’s intricately carved and light filters through the windows.’ I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness. Will Harlan calls this vintage an ‘inflection point’ and notes how the tannins are the ‘main differentiators’. Yes, agrees Cilli, ‘and because of the character of levity and lift, we have to be precise with the tannins.’ The younger vintages have an astonishing latent energy, tannins under tight rein, aromas bursting, the fruit compacted. Brown and I were struck not by the sophistication of these wines but by their honesty. Brown WhatsApped me later. ‘Promontory is the most transparent to place. The wines are impressively well crafted and elegant while still offering an almost wild or primal complex of flavours.’ "The wines are unmistakeably Californian but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa" ‘How do we take wine from a wilderness and have sophistication?’ Will asked. It’s a great question – with their resources, the Harlans could do anything they liked with Promontory. After all, they have to make a wine that will please their audience. But this was so unexpected. The tasting revealed a keen focus on the land and the vintage. The difference between the years was often marked – the challenge of 2015 for example showed in the wine – yet we could see that common thread running through, even as the wines increased in elegance. And what of Will’s quest for the missing shade of red? The wines are unmistakeably Californian – that splendid 2017 could come from nowhere else – but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa, which is quite a claim, in the world’s most cultivated wine region. Perhaps the last word should go to Bill Harlan, who started the whole thing. He speaks hardly at all during the tasting, his Old Testament face giving little away. At the end of the morning, he talks of his fascination with the ‘ongoing discovery’ of the project. The wines have character, layers and depth, he says, and – by way of praising their authenticity – he notes, ‘You never know what’s coming next.’

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites, with a vertical tasting of 14 vintages revealing the wild beauty, elegance and remarkable evolution of its wines.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites.

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

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

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

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

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Bordeaux 2024 wines en primeur – vintage overview

Bordeaux 2024: panoramica dell'annata

The 2020 vintage was challenging for most vignerons. But for the Durantou family, it was a year that demanded everything of them. Denis Durantou – patriarch and leading light of Pomerol – passed away on 12th May. For many people, their day-job would be the last thing on their minds. But for the Durantous, they threw themselves into work, into the vines.  “Dad passed away right in the middle of the pouring rain in spring," Noëmie Durantou 
Reilhac, Denis’s daughter – who has taken over running the estate – explains. “… Working is our way to deal with things.” With the rain, there was immense mildew pressure and risk to their crop – they had to go on, getting into the vineyard to spray and protect their fruit. Her voice unsurprisingly thick with emotion, she tells me how it was a way to be close to her father – in amongst the vines that he so loved.   Denis Durantou was first and foremost a vigneron – an increasingly rare breed in the polished world of Bordeaux. While Ch. l’Eglise-Clinet had been in the Durantou family for generations, it was leased out to Pierre Lasserre of neighbouring Clos René for over 40 years. Denis arrived in 1982, fully taking over the property a year later, and transforming the then rustic estate into one of the region’s most respected.   The 1998 vintage was pivotal – putting the property, and the talents of Denis Durantou, firmly on the map. While the wines earned high scores (and even higher prices), Denis remained grounded. He continued to run the show, staying just as involved in the day-to-day work; walking the vines and making the wine, getting dirt under his fingernails.  As the reputation of l’Eglise-Clinet soared, he became committed to producing more affordable, “everyday” wines. He acquired Ch. les Cruzelles (in Lalande-de-Pomerol in 2000) and Montlandrie (in the Côtes de Castillon in 2009), while also leasing vines in Saint-Emilion at Saintayme (from 2012). These “lesser” wines might not have been the reason for his fame, but they have long been an insider choice – offering stunning value. Each of his wines was made with precision, finesse and elegance – but he constantly questioned his decisions and sought to do better.  While Denis himself may have passed away, his passion and philosophy lives on. There was something very salt-of-the-earth about the way that Noëmie tells me: “When you have no choice, you have to take action.” The family – Denis’s widow and artist Marie Reilhac, and his three daughters, Alix, Constance and Noëmie – pulled together, dedicating themselves to crafting wines worthy of Denis’s legacy. Not – of course – that they’d take any of the credit.  “We can thank the vines,” Noëmie tells me. “They are living beings and we ask them to go through a lot.” Explaining the unusually extreme conditions of 2020, she says: “If you were drinking a gallon of water every hour for a month, and then no water for two months…”  The vintage kept them on their toes, but for Noëmie it was a fascinating and exciting year, one she saw as an opportunity to learn more than ever. While the property’s style is always elegant, with careful extraction and cool fermentations (never over 25 or 26˚C), this year that was particularly crucial because of the thick skins and ripeness of the fruit. “I like this idea that the vines had gone through so much, [we] had to treat [them] with delicacy,” Noëmie explains.  As for the wines, she’s pleased – and thinks they’ll be even better in six months’ time when they’ve finished élevage. She describes them as very fruity and juicy, but like “a flower garden in the rain”. For her, élevage was of particular importance this year – a risk that it could have been “very charming, very seductive, but not as deep as it could be”. Time in barrel, however, has brought depth to the year’s “flashy fruit”.   The emphasis chez Durantou is on purity of fruit, and expressing each property’s respective site. The barrels used are key: they have always been very loyal to Darnajou. Denis conducted many trials over the years, and the aim is to bring texture – rather than flavour – to the wine with oak. “We want the pure flavour of the bunches of the vines,” Noëmie says. This is why their barrels are double-toasted, to avoid a vanillin character. They find Darnajou lends “sucrosity” – but it’s not wooden or too smoky, something they want to avoid. They use a tiny percentage of Taransaud as well – barrels that are “much more exotic and vanilla-like” – but only want a touch, as this intensity can easily overpower the wine.   Our conversation drifts into white Bordeaux – prompting a twinkle in her eye. “I’m a huge admirer of white winemakers – it’s so technical, you have basically 48 hours. With red wine, you have this little margin to adjust…” So can we look forward to white wines joining the Durantou portfolio? “I would love to – but I have a lot on my plate right now,” she says, laughing. “It might not be for another decade, definitely. First, I want to make sure things go well here.”  Heading up the team, working with Olivier Gautrat (who worked with Denis for 20 years), there’s certainly a lot for Noëmie to tackle – including the current replanting of plots used for La Petite Eglise, l’Eglise-Clinet’s second wine. But she’s not doing it alone – along with her mother, sisters and the rest of the team (“I have an amazing team – I loved working with them,” Noëmie gushes to me).   If the 2020s are any indication, there are no concerns about Denis’s legacy. These are stunning wines, with an aromatic finesse that belies the warmth of the year. Delicate florals are complemented by a glorious weight of fruit, fine but structured tannins, and yet also great freshness.   Only in her 20s, Noëmie is clearly talented – and her love of the vine shines through. Talking to her is energising, her joy infectious – but what is apparent is how she empathises with her vines. She might look fashionable in a tan leather jacket on our call, but you can feel that she’d sooner throw it off to get her hands dirty. She’s not just a winemaker, but a sensitive farmer. While I never had the privilege of meeting her father, I can only imagine he’d be incredibly proud.  Find out more about Ch. l’Eglise-Clinet or read more Editorial

Having taken over from her late father, Denis Durantou, Noëmie Durantou Reilhac of Ch. l’Eglise-Clinet tells Sophie Thorpe how the vines were a constant in an emotionally wrought year – and what lies ahead for the vigneron family 

Noëmie Durantou Reilhac of Ch. l’Eglise-Clinet on how the vines were a constant in an emotionally wrought year – and what lies ahead for the vigneron family 

Ch.’Eglise Clinet's constant farmer

The constant farmer: Noëmie Durantou Reilhac

Di corporatura robusta e con una collana di cuoio, Mike Ratcliffe sembra un uomo che saprebbe gestire una mandria di bovini. Ma a quel lato massiccio fa da contraltare un accento ammorbidito dagli anni di lavoro e studio all’estero (per non parlare del fatto che è sposato con una britannica) e una certa eleganza – anche dopo un volo notturno dal Capo – che parla del mondo degli affari. È chiaro che non sia uno che fa giri di parole – un uomo con ambizione e non uno, sospetto, con cui vorresti metterti contro. Ma è altrettanto evidente che la sua astuta costruzione del brand sia stata fondamentale per il successo di Vilafonté. 
 È un uomo con un piano – un piano da 100 anni, in effetti. Da dicembre dell’anno scorso, quando i cofondatori la dott.ssa Zelma Long e il dott. Phil Freese si sono ritirati, Ratcliffe è l’unico uomo al timone di Vilafonté – un produttore di vino che sta attirando sempre più attenzione. In un recente report per il Wine Advocate, Anthony Mueller ha scritto: “Vilafonté continua ad avvicinarsi a tre cifre con uno spettacolare ventaglio di nuove uscite” – assegnando 99 punti alla sua Series C 2021 (rendendolo il vino sudafricano con il punteggio più alto a pari merito finora, accanto al Palladius 2021 di Sadie e a un Muscat of Alexandria del 1800 di Jaubert). Ma Ratcliffe non si riposa sugli allori: come mi dice, “Se stai per fare qualcosa, fallo al 100%.” La famiglia di Ratcliffe possedeva Warwick Estate – e quando il mondo si è aperto al vino sudafricano all’indomani dell’apartheid – si resero conto di aver bisogno di aiuto per sviluppare i loro vini. Sebbene Warwick fosse uno dei nomi storici della nazione, “Eravamo il pesce grande nello stagno piccolo,” dice Ratcliffe – e per crescere a livello internazionale, avevano bisogno di un contributo esterno. Ingaggiarono Phil Freese – allora Vice President of Winegrowing alla Robert Mondavi e responsabile dell’impianto dei primi vigneti di Opus One – come consulente viticolo (per un compenso “sbalorditivo”, mi racconta Ratcliffe). L’investimento ripagò e dopo due anni avevano fatto progressi straordinari – e Freese suggerì di coinvolgere Zelma Long (in precedenza alla Robert Mondavi, poi Simi) come consulente per la parte enologica. 
 Nel frattempo Freese stava lavorando al suo dottorato, che comprendeva ricerche sui suoli più antichi del mondo – molti dei quali scoprì trovarsi nell’Africa meridionale. Il suolo documentato più antico in Africa è il vilafontes, che si ritiene abbia avuto origine 800 milioni di anni fa – e lui, insieme alla Long (che in seguito sposò), iniziò a interrogarsi sul potenziale di questo suolo per il vino. La coppia – con l’aiuto di un investitore, Sydney Back – acquistò 40 ettari di terra nel 1996, ai piedi del monte Simonsberg a Paarl, piantando le prime viti l’anno successivo. Nacque così Vilafonté. Ratcliffe aveva lavorato all’estero come skipper, prima di partire per Roseworthy per ottenere un MBA in wine nel 1999, ma aveva conosciuto la Long e Freese grazie al loro lavoro a Warwick e teneva d’occhio la loro nuova impresa. Poco dopo il suo rientro a casa, Sydney Back – un uomo che Ratcliffe descrive come “il Robert Mondavi del Sudafrica” – venne a mancare, e così Long e Freese cercavano un nuovo partner. In modo impulsivo, Ratcliffe si offrì – affannandosi per racimolare il denaro in tempo per finalizzare l’accordo nel 2001. 
 Il trio fece vino nel 2000 e 2001 ma solo per prendere confidenza con il sito, pianificando di fare del 2002 la prima annata in commercio. Sfortunatamente, la vendemmia fu difficile e la Long disse loro con fermezza: “È buono – ma non abbastanza.” Una decisione che la banca non apprezzò necessariamente (“Fu un anno duro,” dice Ratcliffe) – ma che permise loro di lanciare con il 2003, “probabilmente la migliore annata del decennio” secondo Ratcliffe (e un vino che mi dice essere ancora “impeccabile”). Nessuno sembra essere certo di come “vilafontes” sia diventato Vilafonté – se sia stata una scelta di marketing per aggiungere un tocco gallico al nome, o solo un errore lungo il percorso – ma è rimasto. In origine avevano pianificato di produrre un unico Grand Vin, ma il sito aveva altre idee – dando vita a due stili distinti, e così crearono Series C (un blend a base Cabernet) e Series M (un blend a base Merlot). Forse non ha perfetto senso dal punto di vista commerciale avere due vini di punta, ma esperimenti ripetuti hanno (finora, almeno) confermato che fu la scelta giusta. Sebbene alcuni appezzamenti appartengano chiaramente a C o a M, i blend cambiano ogni anno – e l’uva di viti più giovani o ciò che non si integra viene declassato a Seriously Old Dirt. Quest’ultimo vino è stato lanciato con l’annata 2012, utilizzando uva acquistata in tutto il Western Cape oltre a parcelle declassate per offrire un punto d’ingresso da bere prima nel marchio Vilafonté. 
 Il segreto dei vini è il suolo – terreni incredibilmente poveri, antichissimi, degradati e carenti di nutrienti – che costringono le viti a lottare davvero. Anche dopo 27 anni, le viti sono ancora piccole e gracili – producono rese minuscole di frutta concentrata. È uno dei motivi per cui il sito – per quanto ne sanno – non era mai stato piantato, e gli agricoltori locali erano perplessi sul perché qualcuno avesse deciso di mettere radici qui. Unisci questo a un approccio “profondamente pragmatico” (parole di Ratcliffe), e a un team di lungo corso dedito a fare “la stessa cosa ancora e ancora e ancora”, e hai la ricetta per qualcosa di speciale. Per Ratcliffe è fondamentale che non stiano cercando di creare qualcosa di nuovo a ogni vendemmia – ma di proseguire nell’inseguimento della perfezione con Series C e M. Lavorano in modo sostenibile ma sensato, con cover crop, irrigazione a goccia sotterranea high-tech e una cantina alimentata esclusivamente a energia solare, ma evitano certificazioni o di puntare su credenziali green: per il team di Vilafonté, conta solo la qualità in bottiglia. Per anni, Ratcliffe ha fatto i salti mortali gestendo sia Warwick sia Vilafonté, ma alla fine ha venduto la sua vecchia azienda di famiglia a un fondo di venture capital californiano, permettendogli di concentrarsi esclusivamente su Vilafonté. La proprietà ha appena rilasciato i suoi 2021, la 18ª annata proveniente dalla tenuta di Paarl – e i suoi vini con i punteggi più alti finora. Eppure Ratcliffe è chiaro che questo è solo l’ultimo passo del suo masterplan. Le viti non hanno ancora compiuto 30 anni, e ci sono ancora alcune piccole parcelle nella tenuta che potrebbero essere piantate, mentre il team conduce costantemente prove – con la libertà di mettere in discussione tutto ciò che pensa di sapere. Proprio lo scorso dicembre (2023), Long e Freese si sono ritirati – dopo un periodo di passaggio di quattro anni, ma resteranno coinvolti in modo informale. Ratcliffe però non guarda indietro: come dice lui, “I nostri vini più grandi sono davanti a noi.” 
 Le uscite 2021 di Vilafonté sono disponibili ora 
 Leggi altri Editorial

The Wine Advocate non ha ancora dato un punteggio perfetto a un vino sudafricano, ma alcuni ci si avvicinano. Di recente, Vilafonté ha ottenuto 99 punti per la Serie C 2021. In occasione dell’uscita, abbiamo parlato con il proprietario Mike Ratcliffe del progetto di Paarl e della sua rapida ascesa.

Wine Advocate recently awarded Vilafonte’s 2021 Series C 99 points – we sat down with owner Mike Ratcliffe to find out more about the Paarl wine estate

Kicking the dirt with Vilafonte’s Mike Ratcliffe

Calci nella polvere con Mike Ratcliffe di Vilafonté

Dirty Laundry

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 Ogni articolo viene controllato al momento della ricezione dal nostro team di esperti, con fotografie disponibili su richiesta (si prega di notare che potrebbero essere applicati dei costi).

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