The Langhe is unspeakably beautiful. You may have seen Allessandro Masnaghetti’s 3D maps – a painstaking project by this now-iconic cartographer to translate these terroirs to paper. Their textured surfaces speak of Barolo and Barbaresco’s complex geology – and yet they don’t fully convey its endless curves and corners, winding roads and intricate jigsaw of villages and vineyards, nestled in amongst each other. This is a landscape carved and sculpted by nature over 15 million years; the vines cling to precipitous slopes, sweeping down toward the valleys. Like the effortless lines of Michaelangelo’s marble, it’s a masterpiece.  We’ve just returned from a trip to Piedmont’s most prestigious vineyards, dipping a toe in the waters of this fascinating area over three days. With the layers of region, village (11 in Barolo, three in Barbaresco), its Crus (officially known as MGAs, Menzione Geografica Aggiuntiva) and individual vigne or vineyards, Barolo and Barbaresco are often compared to Burgundy. These layers of complexity and nuance are what wine-lovers thrive on, the detail that allows us to indulge new levels of geekery. Add to this the finesse and aromatic perfume of Nebbiolo, and it’s easy to see why Pinot Noir lovers fall for the region.   While wine has long been made in the Langhe (for at least 2,000 years), the first dry Barolo is thought to have been bottled in 1844, with wines before that often sweet or lightly sparkling. It’s only really in the 1960s that the region’s reputation started to be built. Wines were – as in Burgundy – mainly made by négociants until this point, when individual estates started making their own wine. Traditionally wines from across the region were blended to create an expression of Barolo as a whole, but this too started to change. Prunotto and Vietti were the first to identify and vinify individual plots in Barolo, following a trip to Burgundy in the 1950s and ’60s (read more about the birth of Barolo’s Crus here); while in Barbaresco, it was Angelo Gaja who started to make wine exclusively from vineyards the family owned (from 1961) and then bottled the single vineyard Sorì San Lorenzo separately for the first time in 1967.  Traditionally the wines were made with long maceration times (leaving the wine in contact with the skins for 50 or more days) and several years in large oak casks, to extract colour, tannin and flavour from the thin-skinned Nebbiolo. These wines were immensely age-worthy, but their rasping tannins often needed time to become approachable – in some cases the fruit would fade while waiting for the tannins to come round. Winemaking – as elsewhere – was rudimentary, and the late 20th century brought with it modern technology and better hygiene. But the 1980s also saw Barolo divided.  This was the period of Parker and Parkerization, with rich, voluptuous wines with sweet fruit and vanilla tones from new French oak all the rage. Barolo couldn’t be further from this style – and its winemakers were humble farmers, with little recognition (financial or otherwise) for their work. But then a group of producers, led by Elio Altare, embraced the barrique (the traditional 225-litre French oak barrel), looking to put Barolo and its wines on the world map. These modernists, sometimes known as the “Barolo boys”, used new oak, and shorter, more vigorous extractions to craft wines that were fruitier, darker and more immediate – and received instant acclaim. The traditionalists of the region, however, fiercely defended the Langhe’s historical ways, the use of long macerations and large, old botte casks. Bartolo Mascarello famously released a label stating “No Barrique, No Berlusconi” (adorning the 1998 and 1999 vintage), decrying the use of new oak and Berlusconi’s right-wing politics.   Modernisation was essential – and better hygiene, with the arrival of stainless steel, was revolutionary. Today, as more and more producers around the world turn to large oak casks, it’s unsurprising that many in Barolo and Barbaresco are returning to their botti, and new oak has generally fallen from favour (at least in high proportions), yet the barrel certainly lives on, even if still controversial.  “Barrique… it’s an ugly word here in the Langhe,” says Dave Fletcher, the Australian producer who left the Yarra to make wine in Piedmont over a decade ago (under Fletcher Wines and Cantina della Stazione). He avoids new wood, but prefers barrels for the ability to vinify plots separately – something he feels is important for quality. There are also  those who feel that the minimum ageing requirements (18 months in oak for Barbaresco and 24 months in oak for Barolo) are old-fashioned, forcing the production of wood-heavy wines that are removed from current tastes – even suggesting that there’s a movement for these minimum times in oak to be adjusted.  As in Burgundy, whole-bunch has become a divisive topic. Some wines have traditionally been made with whole-bunch fermentation (as with Burlotto’s Monvigliero), but now some producers feel a small percentage can help bring freshness in warmer vintages, while others feel it distracts from the terroir, and doesn’t suit Nebbiolo.  Climate change is seeing a shift in the most prized plots, with some producers now feeling south/southwest-facing sites (historically the most desirable) too warm, and north/northeasterly exposure better for the long term, or finding other ways to manage global warming. Land prices have been rising, and there’s an increasing amount of outside investment, as well an increasing number of producers arriving from beyond Piedmont – although there are still those, such as Vietti’s Eugenio Palumbo, Burlotto’s Alessandria or Gaja’s Gaia Gaja, who were born and bred here, and have been embedded in the industry, and often their family business, their entire lives. We dove into recent vintages, especially the very different yet both excellent 2020 and 2021s, the former open and approachable, the latter closed and needing time. We talked about clones and rootstocks, the persistence and suitability of Chardonnay in the Langhe, the pressure on the region’s biodiversity – and much, much more.  We’ll be publishing more in the coming weeks and months, as well as shining a light on the wines of the region – one that should be part of any collector’s cellar. But, as with the wines here, there is so much to consider. As Nicola Oberto of Trediberri told us, “It doesn’t need to be obvious – it needs to be interesting.” And that, the endless nuance and complexity, is what makes the region’s great Nebbiolo so enchanting.  Keep an eye out for more on Piedmont over the coming months or browse all current listings from the region 

Just returned from a whistlestop tour of Barolo and Barbaresco, Sophie Thorpe mulls the complexity that defines the Langhe, and makes it so endlessly appealing

Just returned from a tour of Barolo and Barbaresco, Sophie Thorpe mulls the complexity that defines the Langhe, and makes it so endlessly appealing

The allure of the Langhe’s Barolo and Barbaresco

The allure of the Langhe

Sono seduto di fronte a Rino Fontana, un collezionista di vini italiano che Antonio Galloni ha nominato Personalità del Vino dell’Anno nel 2023. Fontana ha un aspetto dimesso – come qualsiasi altro settantenne che potresti trovare, sigaretta in mano, mentre sorseggia un espresso in una piazza soleggiata. Gli occhiali da sole pendono da un cordino intorno al collo e, di tanto in tanto, fruga tra foglietti di carta che sembrano fungere da calendario e/o diario. Non so bene cosa mi aspettassi, ma forse qualcuno un po’ più, beh, sofisticato. 
 Fontana colleziona vini dagli anni ’80 ed è rinomato per la sua cantina, un vero tesoro di annate straordinarie dei migliori produttori piemontesi. Galloni lo ha persino soprannominato “Il Professore” per la sua profonda conoscenza del vino italiano – nonostante non abbia mai lavorato nel settore. Mentre Fontana scorre le foto sul telefono, ricordando cene recenti, snocciola nomi e annate che lascerebbero senza parole qualsiasi amante del vino. 
 È cresciuto nell’Oltrepò Pavese, dove il padre era scalpellino, ma comprava uva e faceva un po’ di vino per la famiglia. Fontana fu mandato a scuola a Valenza, una città nota per l’industria dell’oro – e iniziò a lavorare in una fabbrica orafa verso la fine dell’adolescenza. A 24 anni, lui e il suo migliore amico aprirono il proprio laboratorio di gioielleria. Fu il proprietario di un ristorante locale a Mortara a introdurlo ai veri piaceri del vino, e una bottiglia di Monfortino di Conterno lo fece innamorare perdutamente del Nebbiolo – l’annata 1958, per la precisione. Da quel primo assaggio, ha stappato oltre 150 bottiglie (sì, davvero) di Monfortino 1958. Fu proprio quel vino a spingere Fontana a iniziare a visitare i produttori – un’avventura di autoformazione. All’epoca, la gente non comprava vino e i produttori italiani erano lontani dall’essere di moda. Diventò amico di personaggi come Giuseppe Rinaldi, Bruno Giacosa e Gianfranco Soldera, assicurandosi rapidamente allocazioni importanti dei loro vini, quando pochi altri mostravano interesse. I produttori, a loro volta, sostenevano che avesse un dono – una capacità unica di comprendere i vini in botte e predirne l’evoluzione futura. 
 Oggi percorre circa 80.000 km all’anno visitando i produttori – ma la grande maggioranza di questi chilometri è in Piemonte, poiché Fontana beve – e colleziona – quasi esclusivamente Nebbiolo. Questa sola uva rappresenta circa il 95% del suo consumo, dice, con Barolo e/o Barbaresco nel bicchiere ogni giorno. Tiene sempre le ultime uscite in frigo – anche qualche semplice Langhe Nebbiolo – ma almeno due volte a settimana stappa qualcosa di speciale dagli anni ’60 o ’80 con amici o produttori amanti del vino. 
 Sebbene il Nebbiolo sia solo uno dei tanti vitigni proclamati “il re dei vini”, per Fontana regna davvero sovrano. Quando gli chiedo perché, stupito di come possa bere così tanto di un’unica varietà, alza le spalle: “Il Nebbiolo è Nebbiolo.” Quando lo incalzo, dice di amarlo per la sua capacità d’invecchiamento, la struttura e l’eleganza – qualcosa che ritiene non si possa trovare nel Pinot Nero. Ricorda una recente cena con Galloni al ristorante Il Centro di Priocca, dove condivisero una bottiglia di La Tâche 2004 di Domaine de la Romanée-Conti insieme a un Barolo Borgogno 1947 e a un Vigna Rionda 1989 di Giacosa. Entrambi i Barolo, racconta, crebbero durante la cena – mentre la La Tâche svaniva lentamente. Per lui, la Borgogna (anche nelle bottiglie più ricercate al mondo) non è all’altezza del Nebbiolo. È un’opinione controversa – ma Fontana non è certo un uomo privo di opinioni. Dismette i vini di Cappellano e Accomasso, mentre ha idee ben precise su come dovrebbe essere fatto il Nebbiolo, preferendo la vinificazione tradizionale con botti vecchie – non vuole sentire il legno nel vino. Sostiene che troppi giovani produttori vadano in Borgogna e cerchino di emularne lo stile nei propri vini, perdendo così la loro identità piemontese. I vini risultanti, a suo parere, sono troppo tecnici, troppo puliti. “Un grande vino non può essere perfetto,” dice – suggerendo che proprio le imperfezioni contribuiscono a far sentire il vino vivo. 
 Sebbene i produttori più affermati e famosi dominino la sua collezione, apprezza anche vini di nomi più giovani come Trediberri, Crissante e Cascina Baricchi. Oltre al Nebbiolo, si concede qualche etichetta di Sangiovese – Soldera, per esempio, è all’altezza, così come SanCarlo (un produttore che ritiene rivaleggi con il primo). Le Pergole Torte di Montevertine un tempo sarebbero state una scelta ideale, ma ora preferisce Le Trame di Le Boncie. Gli piacciono Valentini ed Emidio Pepe, e acquistava Gravner, ma ritiene che lo stile sia cambiato nel 2004, quindi smise. 
 Vendette la sua attività di gioielleria nel 2000 – dedicandosi interamente al vino – visitando produttori, costruendo la sua collezione e vendendo a clienti selezionati (tra cui FINE+RARE ha la fortuna di figurare). Oggi Fontana possiede circa 9.000 bottiglie nella sua collezione. Ci mostra un video della sua cantina – sorprendentemente, con molti vini conservati in posizione verticale. Tutto ciò che è post 1990 è tenuto coricato, ma i vini più vecchi sono in piedi – una pratica che, sostiene, è migliore una volta raggiunta una certa età, con il sughero e l’umidità della cantina più importanti per la loro conservazione. È una collezione straordinaria, con incredibili verticali di molti vini. Il suo accesso sembra impareggiabile – ricevendo allocazioni più grandi di molti importatori, grazie ai suoi legami storici. È l’unico individuo, per esempio, a ricevere un’allocazione del Cru Brunate di Rinaldi – un vino altrimenti riservato esclusivamente alla famiglia. Alcune delle sue bottiglie più preziose sono il Santo Stefano 1964 di Giacosa e le magnum di Monfortino 1970 (“straordinario” – dice), mentre nutre un affetto particolare per il giovane Soldera 2015. 
 Ora, a 73 anni, Fontana sembra affascinato dal vino tanto quanto quando assaggiò per la prima volta quel Monfortino 1958. Gli chiedo se ci sia un vino che desidera ancora disperatamente assaggiare, un unicorno che sta ancora cercando: la risposta è no. Ha potuto provare ogni annata dei produttori che ama. È una risposta rara per un appassionato di vino – ma “Il Professore” non è certo un collezionista come gli altri. 
 – Fotografia di Rino Fontana a Il Centro di Dan Deibel 
 Esplora una selezione delle migliori verticali dalla cantina di Fontana, tutte le offerte italiane o leggi altri Editoriali

Amico del fondatore e critico di Vinous, Antonio Galloni, e con una cantina che fa invidia a chiunque, Rino Fontana è il collezionista di vini più famoso d’Italia. Lo abbiamo incontrato per scoprire il suo percorso, la sua collezione e la sua ossessione per un vitigno.

Antonio Galloni’s Wine Personality of the Year 2023, Rino Fontana is Italy’s most famous wine collector – we met the man to talk about his cellar

Rino Fontana – the wine collector like no other

Rino Fontana: un collezionista come nessun altro

In a report published in 2014 by the UN’s Food and Agriculture Organisation, under current rates of degradation, all the world’s topsoil could disappear within 60 years. With 95% of all food produced relying on these living soils, this pronouncement was a stark and terrifying warning of what lies ahead. Industrial farming and deforestation are the leading causes behind the degradation of soil. Grape growing and large parts of the wine industry remain very much part of that problem. France’s vineyards, as an example, are the country’s biggest consumers of chemical fungicides, insecticides and herbicides. These products can devastate the life in the soil and completely disrupt the biodiversity of a region. Although viticulture represents just 3% of France’s agricultural land, the sector spreads 20% of the country’s fungicides. Many vignerons have tried to reduce chemical inputs, either using them as a last resort or not at all. Some believe non-chemical additions of copper and sulphur typically used to treat fungal diseases (the biggest threat to yields) are more damaging to the environment than systemic chemical interventions. It is a complex picture. But there are vignerons committed to non-chemical approaches – growers who believe they can offer alternative methods that are both sustainable for the future and remain commercially viable. While there are various approaches, they all share the belief that protecting the health of the soil is fundamental to their vineyard’s long-term future, as well producing a farming system that is not only sustainable but regenerative, in that it sequesters more carbon dioxide in the soil than it takes out. Exactly how this is practised remains a contentious debate. Many of these growers are certified organic, many are not – certification itself is another controversial issue. Biodynamic farming is organic farming with a more holistic approach, trying to recreate a natural balancing ecosystem that allows nature to restore and rejuvenate itself, in rhythm with the lunar cycle. Others have gone even further and have allowed their vineyards to grow wild, believing that an undisturbed vineyard is the most sustainable and ecologically healthy. Organic and biodynamic farming practices are essentially a return to conventional farming methods carried out prior to the introduction of chemical farming 70 years ago. The more non-interventionist approach goes one step further, attempting to recreate an environment that pre-dates all commercial farming. It is an approach in which crops and other plant life coexist together, allowing the environment to dictate what grows where. Under the teachings of Masanobu Fukuoka, it was coined “natural farming”. Masanobu Fukuoka was a Japanese microbiologist and agricultural scientist who studied plant pathology. After nearly dying during a bout of pneumonia, he experienced what he described as a profound spiritual experience – leading him to begin to doubt modern agricultural science. He gave up his scientific post and returned to his family’s farm on the southern Japanese island of Shikoku. It was here that he developed his own non-intervention farming techniques, which involved no tilling or ploughing, and no fertilisation of the land. This was to protect the vital microorganic life in the soil, that he believed was essential to creating an ecologically balanced environment. The publication of his seminal book, The One-Straw Revolution, in 1975, went on to influence the permaculture movement (no till, no ploughing) in the west, and even more radical concepts. Alsace-based viticulturist Bruno Schloegel (of Domaine Lissner) is one such radical. He has a nine-hectare estate that, over the last 20 years, he has adapted to what he calls the “savage” approach to viticulture. For him, “savage” is a more accurate translation of Fukuoka’s methods. “I asked my Japanese friends to translate Fukuoka’s Japanese term,” says Schloegel, “and it translates as something between being free and alive. But not just the vines, the whole system of animals, insects, fungus. The key is not to disturb, as this will weaken the system.” For Schloegel it is a better translation than “natural” which today, he believes, no longer means anything. Despite adopting Fukuoka’s ideas, Schloegel was in fact practising the same approach before he was even aware of the Japanese farmer’s book. “I never knew about Fukuoka until a few years ago. I was given his book and it was amazing. Almost every page, we were totally linked.” Both former scientists, Schloegel too became frustrated by the scientific data available. “It is more complex than the techniques we have been taught,” he says. “Even when I was a student, I thought this. I am a scientist as he was. I studied in the ’70s. He studied in the ’60s. But our conclusions are the same. The answer is to not disturb.” Prior to Fukuoka, Schloegel was taken by the work of the eminent English scientist Dennis Noble, a pioneer of systems biology whose publication The Music of Life became a huge influence. Noble uses the analogy of life as many orchestras playing different scales, very small and very big. “Molecules, atoms, landscape, living beings as well as the vine – all are playing together and that is what we call life. We can listen to each scale of this living system, and you will find almost the same music, because it is totally coherent. Each scale is in harmony. It was very inspiring to me,” Schloegel explains. Like Fukuoka, Schloegel has a strong respect for spirituality as well as science and talks about how the human brain deciphers experiences differently. He uses music as an example, describing how listening to music creates an emotional reaction which the scientific part of your brain can’t explain. “Knowing you only have a small knowledge of this complexity, this complexity of nature, makes you humble. But spiritually you get pleasure from living with this complexity and not trying to control it. It’s just like a wave you are surfing on. This is the pleasure side.” As well as adopting a no-plough, no-till approach, unlike biodynamic farming, Schloegel does not sow seeds for cover crops, nor use any organic fertiliser, preparations or other inputs. He believes his vines’ roots not only root deeper, but are more resistant to disease and suffer less from stress. He also saves on the costs of such additions. So what does he do? He prunes the vines each year – very late in March/April just prior to the new buds forming – and he mows between the rows just prior to harvest. He does also use copper and sulphur, when necessary, to tackle disease but believes he can phase this out. Beyond that, the vineyard is left to its own devices. It is hard to keep up with Schloegel sometimes – his concepts are unconventional, but this holistic approach is highly considered. It is completely at odds with the commercial farming approaches and understandably has caused controversy. But he, along with a growing number of viticulturists around the world, is totally committed to the concept that permaculture is essential to the future long-term health of arable land. He believes he can not only produce an economically viable crop (up to 40hl/ha), but he can produce wines with greater complexity and terroir expression. He believes it takes between seven to 12 years of not disturbing the vineyards for them to find their balance. “At this point you are on the crest of the wave – it is very calm,” he says. But this is a long process and requires a lot of faith to commit to. Even Schloegel admits it gets worse before it gets better, as the vineyard adapts. “When you stop the herbicides, the mowing and the ploughing, you get the bad weeds. But these weeds prepare the soil for the next generation of plants,” he says. Poppies, lilies, thistles, wild orchids then start to appear and then fruit and vegetables and a huge variety of plant life and wild flowers begin to grow. His vineyards today have a huge variety of plant and wildlife species coexisting, with cherry, apricot, fig, almond trees and wild vegetables, flowers, fruits, and aromatic herbs all growing between the vines. What then happens seems incredible. Schloegel explains, once in equilibrium you see distinct plants continue to grow in the same place each year, depending on the terroir of that part of the vineyard. There is one part of his vineyard where 30 metres of wild strawberries appear every year, growing alongside the vines. In other parts there are leeks, other parts a particular herb. Schloegel outlines that even within a single vineyard, very little is exactly the same. The composition, altitude, slope, geological make-up are all different and, when left to adapt, one vineyard grows multitudes of plant species at different levels of concentration in different parts of the vineyard, depending on what adapts best to that particular spot. This is what Schloegel believes is real terroir in action: “A terroir is a full, complex living system – and a wine of this terroir is a response. In this totally free, rich, complex place. I know it is possible for natural systems to rebuild from themselves. But it cannot be fostered.” Fukuoka’s farm on the island of Shikoku in southern Japan was a rice and citrus fruit farm and, while he managed to produce commercial yields of both rice and fruits, the transference of his techniques to the vineyard is not quite as straightforward. The concepts are radical and while a few like Schloegel are convinced it’s possible – with his own yields varying from 10-40hl/ha, others remain sceptical. Schloegel’s Alsatian neighbour Olivier Humbrecht MW (of Domaine Zind-Humbrecht) does not believe a non-interventionist approach is a good idea – nor that it is necessary for making wine a sustainable crop for the future. While Humbrecht accepts there may be many good ideas in terms of regenerative methods that heighten biodiversity and increase the health of the soils, he is sceptical of its long-term future. Humbrecht’s fundamental criticism is that Schloegel’s approach is not as undisturbed as he claims.“A vine is a cultivated plant,” says Humbrecht. “You are cultivating something, disrupting something natural and making it not natural. It is not natural to plant vines one metre apart on a slope, in poor rocky soil, in a place where it doesn’t rain much. It’s not natural to force it to produce grapes every year. So you have to compensate this with something.” For him, permanent cover leads to soil compaction – with the shallow roots of these plants and the topsoil damaged when working in the vineyard – which has graver long-term effects than tilling or ploughing. These stresses on the vine, Humbrecht explains, are exactly why we have flavour in our wines. Each of these stresses, whether it be the nutrient stress from poor soils, the water stress from growing on a slope or well-drained soils, or nutrient stress from high density planting – these are all deliberate decisions made by vignerons who, over the last 2,000 years, have discovered the best places to cultivate and stress the plant in order to produce delicious fruit. This fruit is the vine’s attempt to escape, through tempting wildlife to eat it and disperse their seeds somewhere less inhospitable. “France would be a forest if untouched and I’m not sure you would not find one wild vine where we have the top vineyards today,” he says. Humbrecht remembers discovering the vines on his own Grand Cru vineyard Rangen de Thann. These vines had been abandoned since World War One. When he arrived 60 years later, most of them had disappeared. The vines that did survive and adapted were producing tiny, small clusters of grapes. Humbrecht believes non-intervention farming would have similar results. “If you don’t prune a vine for 10 years you will end of with tiny clusters, producing maybe 2-4hl/ha – a typical commercial yield in the region is closer to 80hl/ha. Humbrecht’s biggest concern centres around this approach’s commercial viability. And that is important if these methods are to be adopted more globally. If these vineyards’ crops are too small, the vineyard will fail and more likely be bought up by someone else who could return the vineyard to conventional, chemical farming. While there may be disagreements between Humbrecht’s biodynamic approach and Schloegel’s “savage” approach, the permaculture concept has led others to adapt their practices. Michel Chapoutier has been farming biodynamically for the last 30 years but has more recently adopted permaculture. “How I am managing my soil today is completely the opposite to how I managed them biodynamically 20 years ago,” he tells me. Chapoutier now believes the disturbance of the soil is more damaging than the removal of weeds and therefore has stopped ploughing his vineyards. For Humbrecht, light ploughing and resowing cover crops is a better solution. “There is no technique that is 100% good,” he explains. “You have to weigh up the options. What is better? Let the vine die from the competition of the plants growing in May, or disrupting the microorganisms in the soil by ploughing four inches into the soil (between May and June) – you have to choose. It is always a question of balance.” Another producer who has gone beyond organics and placed the development of biodiversity and regenerative practices at the heart of their operation is Gaja. The early success of Piedmont as a fine wine region in Italy saw areas such as Barbaresco and Barolo become dominated by vineyards. Forests were felled and biodiversity dropped. Gaja has since incorporated more trees, adopted permaculture methods in the vineyard and today produce their own organic fertiliser in their historic vineyards. The team has also recently purchased new land in Alta-Langhe where they are not just planting vines, but trees too, incorporating the trees and the vines together. “There is a growing sensibility towards the importance of biodiversity,” says Gaia Gaja, “therefore we are fine with sacrificing space suited for vineyards in favour of trees, we believe in the long run this decision will benefit the health of the vineyards.” Industrial farming is in ecological and financial crisis. More sustainable approaches have to be adopted if we are to survive the next generation, but, so far, those choices come at a cost. For many farmers struggling to make a living, the conventional, chemical farming approach has become the only way to financially survive, taking each year as it comes. These growers can ill afford to think much beyond that, despite the system’s long-term unsustainability. Many feel trapped and find more sustainable approaches economically unviable without better directed government subsidies that promote regenerative farming practices. Wine is hardly an essential food product, but it is the economic engine for entire communities that rely on it for subsistence. In certain wine regions where there is a reliance on water reserves and chemical inputs, it will have to adapt or die. Minimal intervention viticulture is no doubt a radical option, but truly regenerative viticultural approaches will be necessary in a future where food shortages become more widespread. Chapoutier and Zind-Humbrecht, even Schloegel, albeit blessed with great terroir, are paving the way, proving it is possible to produce wine at good volume, at all price points, with a regenerative approach. It is these pioneers that we must learn from, if we are to have a wine industry at all in 50 years‘ time. Browse the wines of Domaine Zind-Humbrecht or Michel Chapoutier or read more Editorial

Agriculture is in crisis. Wine producers are at the forefront of the challenges facing farmers around the world – but what can they do? We talk to Olivier Humbrecht MW, Bruno Schloegel, Michel Chapoutier and Gaia Gaja about rewilding, regenerative farming and the vine’s long-term viability

Olivier Humbrecht, Michel Chapoutier and more on rewilding, regenerative farming and the vine’s long-term viability in an agricultural crisis.

How viticulture can help the climate crisis

A return to the wild: beyond organics

If my wife and I are lolling around on the sofa, sharing a bottle of wine and listening to jazz, I’ll sometimes ask, in tones combining the genial authority of a quizmaster with the tacit menace of a Stasi interrogator, “Who do you think is playing bass?” Or piano. Or drums. If she doesn’t know, I respond with appalled astonishment because it’s so obvious (you only need to hear a couple of notes) that it’s Charlie Haden. Or McCoy Tyner or Max Roach or whoever. When I was studying jazz in the 1980s (by studying I mean getting as stoned as possible with my friends) we’d play records for each other without revealing the identities of the musicians and, in this way, I built up an instinctive database of who sounded like whom. Of course, that’s not all I was doing, back then. I was also swilling gallons of beer and respectable quantities of wine, both of which I consumed with just as much pleasure as I listened to music. The difference is that with wine, I never paid any attention to what I was drinking, where what I was drinking had come from, or what grapes might have gone into it. Still don’t, actually. So, while my wife sometimes doesn’t know who she’s listening to, I rarely know what I’m drinking. Now, if my enjoyment of jazz is enhanced by knowing who I’m hearing, when an album was recorded, how a given version of a tune compares with other versions by different musicians and so on, does it follow that my enjoyment of wine is correspondingly diminished by ignorance and indifference as to its provenance and ingredients? Am I sitting around liking what I like while unable to tell whether what I’m liking is a bottle of Kenny G or vintage Sonny Rollins? To answer this question and address the larger issue, a bit of history is helpful (isn’t it always?). I grew up in a non-drinking household. We knew that other people drank wine with dinner but this was seen as an exotic, middle-class custom, as removed from our own potential experience as the tribal rites featured in National Geographic. No one we knew drank wine except the homemade kind – blackberry, pear, potato etc – that my parents made, stored in the cupboard under the stairs and offered to thirsty relatives who came to visit. Bearing no relation to wine as usually conceived, this beverage was more akin to a potent species of cider. Ah cider! As was the case for all boys of my generation, cider proved such an effective conduit to getting blind drunk that I’ve not been able to face even a sniff of the stuff since a horribly enjoyable first encounter. Same with Cinzano Bianco, but I’ve never turned my back on beer. As part of the general drift into all matters alcoholic, I drank a bit of Liebfraumilch (yum) but didn’t encounter anything like the notion of a ‘good’ wine until I was at Oxford. (The fact that I had to wait till then is a good indicator of the class status of wine in the UK back in the 1970s.) One day a fellow-student at my college offered to sell some bottles of what he pimped as “excellent red wine.” Three of us forked out for six between us. It was great. Sort of peppery tasting. We glugged the lot in one evening and I was violently sick, from my friend’s window, into the lane outside (a reversal of Charles Ryder’s first encounter, in Brideshead Revisited, with Sebastian Flyte who pukes into his room), but I was on my winey way. Most boozing took place in the pub (beer) but, as I gradually got used to drinking wine at dinners and at art openings, an unreliable and poorly projected map of wine awareness began to take shape.  In my early 30s, there was a Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon for which I developed a particular fondness. At three quid a bottle it seemed more appropriate, even then, to cut it down to three syllables: Bulg-Cab-Sauv. Then came the news that the contents of any bottle could be improved by being allowed to breathe. Sometime later, living in Paris, I got wind of a crude truth that you could tell a better wine by how far you could stick your finger in its bottom, in the whatever-it’s-called at the base of the bottle. The further the better was the rule of thumb, so to speak, though why this should be the case I never discovered. These were excellent, easy-to-implement tips but the bigger picture remained blurry. I knew there were regions, different kinds of grape, but I was never sure which was which (Burgundy always sounded like a type of brandy) and I knew enough to know that it wasn’t enough to know that you liked a Merlot, say; you also needed to know what was going on within that species of grape or region, that certain brands and years were better than others. Although a drawing of a château on the label could be a good sign, it was not an infallible one, especially when some high-quality wines began to feature labels that shared an aesthetic with edible marijuana products or t-shirt design. And over all this uncertainty hung a larger cloud of astonishment – a symptom of the world’s fathomless ability to defy logic – generated by the ‘fact’ (I still have trouble accepting it as such) that white wine is not necessarily made from white grapes, nor red from red. Even when we factor in the odd big Tuscan moment in Italy, or Pinot epiphany in New Zealand, my understanding has not advanced significantly in the last 20 years. I know what I like but, as with many things – learning German, for example – I feel I’ve left it too late. Any attempts I make are the equivalent of looking up the occasional word in an online Deutsch-English dictionary. One can often spend one’s way to an enhanced experience, but my natural skinflintery means I prefer my father-in-law’s model, whereby he had knowledged his way to improved enjoyment. He not only serves fantastic wine, without exception, on every occasion; he always serves wine that costs a fraction of how it tastes.  I like this approach but, to borrow the term from London’s taxi drivers, I’ve never done the knowledge. I’m like the new generation of Uber drivers who rely so passively on their phones’ navigation apps that, after years behind the wheel, they still have almost no idea where they’re going. My phone comes in handy too. If I drink a fantastic wine at a friend’s house, I’ll take a picture of the label and, if it’s in stock at a local store, will buy a case. It’s nice being able to repeat a pleasing experience but it’s rarely as nice as I remember it and often not nice in the way that I remembered it. Or, if it’s nice at first, it almost always seems less nice, months later, when I’m down to the last couple of bottles. There are as many moving parts in the world of wine appreciation as there are in and around the mouth.  We have moved, by a combination of association and anatomy, to the potential source of the difficulty, to language. Having failed to acquire home-grown expertise, I am at the mercy of advice from the people who work in wine stores. Overall, I would estimate that this has resulted in a 50% success rate at twice the necessary expenditure. Is this because of shortcomings in their expertise and counsel, or is it due to linguistic failure, to inadequate translations of their knowledge into my preferences? We are told there’s no accounting for taste, which is not true, but it seems there are multiple problems with recounting one’s tastes or satisfying other people’s desires. Compared with sex where you can easily get by with half a dozen verbs and nouns, saying either what you want from a wine – or what it will do for someone else – demands a linguistic dexterity that is almost Joycean. We have all sat entranced as a waiter’s attempts to do justice to the merits of a given wine begin to sound like a libationary remix of Chomsky’s “Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.” But even while allowing for scepticism, incomprehension and constant proximity to parody, I continue to wonder about the extent to which my experience of wine would be enhanced by becoming more articulate in la langue du raisin. ‘Smooth’ is generally considered a good quality (as opposed to ‘rough’) but Kenny G, a purveyor of ‘smooth jazz’, is tacitly at odds with ‘complexity’. I can sort of appreciate complexity in a wine, without any understanding of how that complexity is constituted but – a defining character flaw – am more often conscious of a lack of complexity.  The strange thing is that while wine appreciation is not like a foal’s ability to get up and running straight away, it does find its feet over time. Even if uninformed, un-cultivated and left to fend for itself without any supporting help, it seems one’s tastes in wine not only change; they improve of their own accord. This might be considered a welcome, accidentally ameliorative side-effect of getting older. Or would be were it not for the fact – one I have no trouble accepting – that this improvement manifests itself negatively, as a steadily increasing capacity for dissatisfaction. To put it simply, what might have seemed an excellent wine a few years earlier becomes merely tolerable because of a lack of what may or may not be complexity. The tolerable becomes unacceptable, and the unacceptable becomes vile. My tongue has become more responsive to taste while remaining tied; my discernment is entirely inarticulate. The product, above all else, of laziness, this manifests itself in several unattractive ways. Do women on a date prefer men who take control of the wine menu? (Could this be the civilised residue of what was once a more widespread assumption and acceptance of male domination?) My own dating history leads me to suspect that they might, though the belief that the evening gets off to a bad start – with my saying, “I don’t know anything about wine, you choose” – is more palatable than conceding that it might have more to do with the way it ends (with my saying, “Let’s split the check”) or, come to think of it, with the middle passage (constantly refilling my own glass while droning on, without interruption, about the musical complexity of Ornette Coleman). It’s not just laziness and tightness, there’s also the question of sophistication and refinement. I can eat with chopsticks – I really can! – but have never been able to master the knack of swirling wine round the glass and forensically nosing it. You can do it, I’m sure, but I always feel like I’m engaged in such a blatant affectation that the first flicker of an erotic bond starts to form between my date and the waiter because they can tell that I’m parroting the action without any idea of what I’m attempting to discover, that it’s obvious to anyone watching that my head is entirely filled with a single idea: keep the cost down. In this regard, price, I am pleased to report that limited progress has been made. In my mid-20s, in London, I was sometimes invited to the house of the writer Lisa Appignanesi who was at the centre of London’s intellectual and cultural life. Well-mannered enough not to arrive empty-handed, I’d stop off at the off-licence near her house and pick up the cheapest bottle of discounted plonk on offer. Lisa always accepted this shabby gift graciously (she did everything graciously), while making sure that it never darkened the table. It now seems one of the rudest things one can do, to show up at someone’s house with a crap bottle of wine, though where crapness begins or ends is anyone’s guess. A shitty bottle of wine is always over-priced, is always money wasted. At the opposite end of the scale, my limited experience of drinking very expensive wine has confirmed what I had always expected: that it’s wasted on me. I ooh and ah, naturally and gratefully, but even though I enjoy these $200 bottles I am thinking: well, it’s not 170 bucks better than a 30 dollar bottle. Perhaps from a certain point – $100 upwards? – you have to pay twice that for a tiny percentage improvement in experience. That makes sense. If this were not the case, then a $1,000 bottle would surely bear so little relation to wine that it wouldn’t be wine at all. We now have sufficient linguistic tools available to describe my ideal relationship with wine. When I think of wine, it’s never as a drink or a taste experience but always as part of an occasion, part of a narrative. What I love is going to a dinner at a restaurant with a non-clamorous acoustic (wood and carpet, not metal and concrete) and a limited menu (I hate choosing food), knowing that someone else will take care of ordering the wine which will flow without let or hindrance. The problem at my father-in-law’s is that although the wine is always excellent, there’s never an infinite amount of it. And what I want from wine, above all, is more. That’s the key word in all this. I love talk and the progression of conversation as the wine makes itself felt: the glow of friends’ eyes, the flow of chat. Red wine, reflections of the room and of candlelight in the glasses full of wine. Everything is held together by the wine, even though that wine is less important than the people, the subject, the jokes and laughter. The wonderful remarks become more wonderful as the evening unfolds, until nothing anybody says really makes any sense at all. In the morning I will not remember the details of the wine or the food. What I will remember is the warm glow, the happiness of it all.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine. Photography by Marcus Nilsso.

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine.

FONDATA: The Mirth of More

The Mirth of More

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