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  

After the difficult conditions of 2024, Bordeaux has delivered a vintage that has surprised almost everyone. The 2025 growing season was among the hottest and driest of recent decades, with yields collapsing across much of the region. Yet rather than producing another 2022-style vintage of power and opulence, the wines have emerged with freshness, moderate alcohols and remarkable aromatic precision. Almost every major critic references the same paradox: a year that looked destined to produce massive wines instead yielded bottles of energy, balance and finesse. There is less agreement on where 2025 ultimately sits among Bordeaux's recent great vintages. Some critics compare it to 2016, others to 2019, 2020 or even 1961. What they largely agree on, however, is that the best wines are outstanding – and that this is a vintage where terroir, vineyard management and winemaking decisions matter enormously. William Kelley – Wine Advocate William Kelley sees 2025 as a vintage that reveals rather than conceals. He describes it as a "clarifier" rather than an amplifier, arguing that the wines expose differences in terroir, viticulture and winemaking with unusual transparency. Although the growing season was dominated by heat and drought, Kelley believes the resulting wines are fundamentally different from 2022. Cooler nights, lower alcohols and timely late-season rain produced wines that combine concentration, ripeness and freshness in a way that feels distinctive. He repeatedly returns to the notion that the best 2025s are classically proportioned despite their intensity. Unlike some critics, Kelley is reluctant to identify a single winning appellation. Instead, he sees success as highly estate-specific, with the finest wines distinguished by balance, precision and restraint rather than sheer power. Kelley's highlights: Larcis Ducasse, Jean Faure, Sociando-Mallet, Quinault l'Enclos, Le Pin Beausoleil Explore Kelley's full report, notes and scores on Wine Advocate (subscribers only). Jane Anson – Inside Bordeaux For Jane Anson, 2025 is "the paradox vintage". The best wines are immensely impressive, but she cautions strongly against broad-brush conclusions. Anson places the vintage comfortably ahead of 2017, 2021 and 2024, and broadly alongside 2015 and 2019 in terms of potential. Yet she repeatedly notes that this is not a year where collectors can buy indiscriminately. Low pH levels, high acidity and significant tannic structure mean some wines will require patience, while others may never fully resolve. She sees the strongest performances coming from Bordeaux's great water-regulating terroirs, particularly the limestone and clay soils of Saint-Émilion and the best parts of the Left Bank. Pomerol is more variable, with dramatic differences depending on soil type and water retention. Anson's wine of the vintage is Beauséjour Duffau-Lagarrosse, while Canon, Petrus, Cheval Blanc and Château Margaux all feature prominently among her highest-rated wines. Anson's highlights: Ch. Haut Bailly, Mouton Rothschild, Margaux, Smith Haut Lafitte, Leoville Las Cases, Petrus, Beauséjour, Vieux Château Certan, Lafleur,  Tertre Roteboeuf, Haut-Brion Blanc, Les Champs Libres, Doisy-Daëne,  Aile d'Argent Blanc, Pavillon Blanc Read Jane Anson’s report on the Left Bank, Right Bank and white wine on Inside Bordeaux (subscribers only). Antonio Galloni – Vinous Antonio Galloni is one of the most enthusiastic commentators on the vintage, describing the finest wines as "nothing short of thrilling". What impresses him most is the combination of concentration and freshness. The summer heat delivered tiny berries and naturally low yields, yet many wines finished with surprisingly moderate alcohol levels and striking aromatic lift. Galloni believes modern viticulture played a critical role, allowing producers to navigate extreme conditions more successfully than would have been possible a generation ago. He identifies Margaux as the appellation of the vintage and describes Pauillac as "jam-packed with great wines". Saint-Émilion's clay-limestone plateau also impressed him enormously. Pomerol, meanwhile, is the region he found most inconsistent. Galloni also highlights several lesser-known estates that he believes overperformed in 2025, noting that some of the vintage's most exciting discoveries may come outside Bordeaux's traditional elite. Galloni's highlights: Beau-Séjour Bécot, Canon, La Gaffelière, Troplong Mondot, La Mission Haut-Brion, L'If, Margaux, Lafite Rothschild Explore Antonio Galloni's full report, notes and scores on Vinous (subscribers only). Neal Martin – Vinous Neal Martin describes 2025 as a vintage that constantly defies expectations. He argues that the late-August rain fundamentally changed the trajectory of the year, turning what appeared destined to become another 2022 into something altogether more nuanced. Martin calls it "a dialled-down and more precise 2010", a comparison that appears repeatedly throughout his report. He finds concentration and structure, but also freshness, restraint and remarkable aromatic detail. Like Galloni, he is highly enthusiastic about the Left Bank, particularly Pauillac, Saint-Julien and Saint-Estèphe. He also believes several of the greatest successes come from Saint-Émilion's limestone soils, while Pomerol shows more variation than many neighbouring appellations. Perhaps most notably, Martin sees 2025 as one of the strongest recent vintages for Sauternes, praising the purity and freshness of the best sweet wines. Martin's highlights: Montrose, Haut-Brion, Lafite Rothschild, Lafleur, Petrus, Latour Explore Neal Martin's full report, notes and scores on Vinous (subscribers only). James Suckling James Suckling describes 2025 as one of the most exciting Bordeaux vintages he has encountered in more than forty years of tasting barrel samples. He repeatedly returns to the contrast between expectation and reality. On paper, the growing season suggested another powerful, solar vintage. Instead, he found wines with what he calls "unique purity and tension", combining moderate alcohol, vibrant acidity and impressive concentration. For Suckling, 2025 is above all "a great vintage for great terroir". He argues that the region's finest vineyards adapted brilliantly to the challenges of the year, producing wines that are both intensely expressive and remarkably balanced. Although he acknowledges inconsistency across the region, he believes the best wines can stand alongside Bordeaux's leading modern vintages. Suckling's highlights: Château Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, Lafite Rothschild, Petrus, Le Pin, Ausone, Angélus, Les Carmes Haut-Brion Read part one and two of James Suckling’s report, along with his full notes and scores on JamesSuckling.com (subscribers only). Georgie Hindle – Decanter Georgie Hindle describes 2025 as both "paradoxical" and "miraculous", two words that neatly capture the mood of many critics tasting the vintage. She notes that almost everything about the growing season pointed towards a rich, powerful vintage. Yet the wines themselves display freshness, poise and balance rather than opulence. The crucial turning point, in her view, was the late-August rain that arrived after months of drought and completely reshaped the vintage's trajectory. Hindle argues that terroir and winemaking decisions were decisive. Producers who adapted extraction techniques and handled the naturally high tannin levels carefully were rewarded with wines of precision and elegance. Others were less successful. While she believes the best wines are exceptional, she is clear that 2025 lacks the broad consistency of 2022 and should be approached selectively. Hindle's highlights: Beauséjour, Cheval Blanc, Haut-Bailly, Haut-Brion, Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, Petrus, Vieux Château Certan Explore Georgie Hindle's coverage on Decanter (subscribers only). Jeb Dunnuck Jeb Dunnuck compares 2025 to a modern-day version of 1961, citing tiny yields, drought conditions and extraordinary concentration. Yet unlike the blockbuster vintages often associated with hot years, Dunnuck finds the wines surprisingly fresh and elegant. He repeatedly highlights the role of cooler nights and late-season rainfall in preserving balance and preventing overripeness. He sees Saint-Émilion as one of the stars of the vintage, while also praising the best wines of Pauillac, Saint-Julien and Pomerol. Like several critics, he believes value-conscious collectors should look closely at Castillon and Fronsac, where some producers delivered outstanding quality relative to price. Dunnuck's highlights: Margaux, Haut-Brion, Léoville Las Cases, Montrose, Le Pin, Ducru-Beaucaillou, Mouton Rothschild, Petrus, Figeac, Beauséjour Explore Jeb Dunnuck's full report, notes and scores on JebDunnuck.com (subscribers only). James Lawther MW – Jancis Robinson James Lawther sees 2025 as one of Bordeaux's most pleasant surprises. He notes that despite being one of the hottest vintages of the last thirty years, the wines possess freshness, moderate alcohol levels and considerable charm. The defining feature for Lawther is the combination of power and approachability — wines that have both concentration and an almost unexpected amiability. Cabernet Sauvignon particularly impressed him, especially in Pauillac and Saint-Estèphe, while Saint-Émilion's limestone-rich soils again proved highly resilient in drought conditions. Pomerol was less straightforward, producing some brilliant wines alongside more uneven results. Lawther is also highly positive about Sauternes, which he considers one of the vintage's major success stories. Lawther's highlights: Palmer, Pavie, Suduiraut, Mouton Rothschild, Cheval Blanc Explore James Lawther MW's full reports, notes and scores on JancisRobinson.com (subscribers only). Read James Lawther MW’s report on the Left Bank, Right Bank and white wine on Inside Bordeaux (subscribers only). Explore Bordeaux 2025

As the Bordeaux 2025 campaign draws to a close, we review the critics' verdicts on one of the decade's most intriguing vintages and the wines that emerged as their standout performers.

Your essential crib-sheet to what the world’s leading wine critics are saying about Bordeaux 2025 en primeur–including Wine Advocate, Vinous and more

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur – what the critics are saying 

Bordeaux 2025: what the critics are saying

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

Il cognome di Jaime Araujo è ben noto ai collezionisti di Napa. I suoi genitori, Daphne e Bart Araujo, acquistarono il celebre Eisele Vineyard a Calistoga nel 1990, fondando poco dopo la loro omonima cantina. All’epoca, Jaime era all’università e non si unì ai genitori a Napa per molti anni, trascorrendo invece oltre due decenni in Europa, studiando e lavorando, anche per Moët Hennessy. Tornò a Napa nel 2012 per collaborare come consulente aziendale, ma il lavoro durò poco: nel 2013 la tenuta e il vigneto Eisele furono venduti ad Artémis Domaines (la società madre di Château Latour). Mentre i suoi genitori fondavano Accendo Cellars, con Jaime e il fratello come soci, in lei cresceva il desiderio di creare qualcosa di proprio. “Ho sempre voluto gestire un’azienda come forza positiva,” racconta. L’occasione arrivò durante la prima vendemmia di Accendo nel 2013, quando trasformò un lotto di Cabernet Sauvignon non adatto agli assemblaggi principali nelle prime 300 casse di Trois Noix (“tre noci” in francese, un riferimento scherzoso ai suoi due figli e alla figlia del fratello). Nonostante l’eredità familiare e la tentazione di puntare sul lusso, Jaime voleva creare vini accessibili e sostenibili. La sua strategia di prezzo lo riflette: bottiglie tra 30 e 50 dollari, con il Cabernet più costoso a 150. “Non lo faccio per diventare miliardaria,” sorride. “È importante che Napa resti accessibile a tutti. Bisogna accogliere e creare vini per ogni tipo di persona.” Molto prima che Jaime sviluppasse il suo marchio, Steve Matthiasson si era già affermato come uno dei massimi esperti di viticoltura biologica di Napa. Dopo gli studi in orticoltura all’Università di California Davis, iniziò la carriera come consulente viticolo nel 1995, stabilendosi a Napa con la moglie Jill Klein Matthiasson nel 2002. Dal 2007 collabora strettamente con la famiglia Araujo, prima all’Eisele Vineyard e poi ad Accendo, lavorando anche con nomi come Dalla Valle, Spottswoode e Chappellet. Diventare anche vinificatore è stato un processo graduale. Steve imparò “per osmosi”, partecipando a degustazioni dei clienti e osservando con attenzione. Nel 2003 produsse solo 120 casse con la moglie; nel 2017, però, raggiunse un traguardo importante acquistando una piccola cantina e un vigneto nell’Oak Knoll AVA. Oggi produce circa 12.000 casse l’anno, distribuite su 25 cuvée. Coltiva personalmente quasi tutti i vigneti da cui provengono i suoi vini, incluso quello domestico, dove sperimenta vitigni del Nord Italia come Refosco, Ribolla Gialla e Schioppettino. All’interno della compatta cantina Matthiasson, foudres e botti occupano ogni spazio. In un angolo, grandi vasi di vetro contengono infusi aromatici per il vermouth che Steve e Jill producono insieme a olio d’oliva e marmellate – accompagnamenti ideali ai loro vini, che spaziano da Cabernet da singolo vigneto a fermentazioni di frutta e vino. Anche se non è un nome noto ai collezionisti, Steve è molto rispettato dai sommelier: “Ci piace dire che siamo i musicisti dei musicisti,” scherza. Sia Jaime che Steve credono che le loro aziende debbano essere responsabili sul piano ambientale e sociale. “È fondamentale difendere ciò in cui credi,” sottolinea Jaime. Oggi Trois Noix vanta diverse iniziative sostenibili, tra cui la certificazione B Corp, riconoscimento che solo altre due cantine di Napa possiedono. La B Corp certifica l’impatto positivo sull’ambiente e sulla comunità, oltre al profitto. Tutti i vigneti coltivati da Steve per Matthiasson sono biologici, una certificazione per lui fondamentale, che rappresenta un ritorno alle sue origini agricole. “L’agricoltura biologica è ormai accettata e abbracciata qui,” afferma, “non è più un’eccezione, neppure tra le cantine più rinomate. E non è solo marketing: credono davvero che produca vini migliori.” I vini di Trois Noix e Matthiasson sono realizzati in uno stile fresco, incentrato sul frutto e sul terroir, piuttosto che sul legno o sull’estrazione pesante. Jaime punta a ricreare lo spirito di Napa di 50 anni fa, usando un tocco leggero. “A Napa abbiamo iniziato a fare vini sempre più ricchi e potenti, ed è giusto, ma possiamo fare anche questo, e farlo bene.” Alla Matthiasson Winery, la raccolta avviene presto per mantenere alcol basso e acidità viva. Oltre a un minimo uso di zolfo, non vengono aggiunti altri elementi. “Utilizziamo metodi tradizionali,” dice Steve, precisando con una risata che c’è differenza tra “vino naturale” e “natty wine”: l’obiettivo è creare vini puliti e freschi da frutti sani. Non utilizza selezionatrici ottiche, ma si affida alla cura del vigneto e a raccolte mirate. “Siamo sempre stati una comunità agricola, ma per molto tempo nessuno voleva parlarne,” racconta Jaime. Crede che il futuro di Napa risieda nella qualità, nella storia e nella comunità. Lo dimostra anche il suo nuovo ruolo come Presidente del Consiglio dei Napa Valley Vintners, associazione fondata nel 1944 che rappresenta oltre 500 produttori della valle. “Sono un ponte tra vecchio e nuovo,” spiega, “voglio portare una prospettiva fresca che rifletta la diversità di stili, prezzi e persone.” Steve condivide la stessa visione: “Il mondo del vino è pieno di artifici, ma noi vogliamo aprirlo alle persone.” Matthiasson e Trois Noix hanno collaborato a un lotto speciale per Premiere Napa Valley lo scorso anno – un lotto che abbiamo acquistato e che sarà presto disponibile. Contatta il tuo Account Manager per registrare il tuo interesse.

In una regione dove il vino è sinonimo di lusso, due produttori vogliono ricordare le umili origini di Napa. Rachael Ryan, Senior Buyer per Vinfolio, parla con Jaime Araujo e Steve Matthiasson della loro filosofia, del loro approccio alla viticoltura e alla produzione del vino.

Two Napa wine producers are championing economic, environmental and social sustainability: we talk to Trois Noix’s Jaime Araujo and Steve Matthiasson 

Farming for the future: Trois Noix and Matthiasson 

L'agricoltura del futuro: Trois Noix e Matthiasson

In Sicily, for the feast day of San Giuseppe, they make a soup, a very plain soup of 
chickpeas, fava beans and wheat grains, all soaked and cooked separately before 
being combined with bitter wild greens and perhaps some broken pasta. It is a 
celebration not of poverty but in poverty. The richness of the meal comes from the 
time it takes, the hours of soaking and boiling, of picking leaves in muddy fields. 
The feast day of the patron saint of workers (and the stepfather of God) falls on 
the 19th March, full spring in the Sicilian countryside with the almond trees in 
blossom. San Giuseppe’s soup marks the last use of the previous year’s harvest, 
the last pulses and grains to be taken from the store which the summer’s baking 
heat and the rains of autumn had provided for the coming winter. It is both a soup 
and a celebration, but it is also a sacrifice – a sacrifice of time against an uncertain 
future, time given freely as a kind of guarantee. Cooking of any kind – but especially the lengthy processes of preserving, drying, 
pickling and curing – is really an act of optimism, an assertion that there will be a 
future in which to eat. And the more time and care you put into such a process, the 
more value you get out. For example, the longer a cure or a pickle takes, the longer, 
in general, it will last. In providing food for the future, this sacrifice also makes 
it much more likely that the future it was made for will indeed occur. A practical 
optimism, you could say. A spending of time, not just because you have little else 
to spend, but because it is prudent to do so. For much of the world now, of course, the situation is reversed: we can buy almost 
anything we want at any time we please and have it delivered almost immediately. 
And we seem to be encouraged to spend less time doing things like cooking. 
Time is a commodity, and rather than sacrifice our time, we’re encouraged to 
sacrifice time itself, to take shortcuts. Time is listed in any given recipe, along 
with the rest of the ingredients and equipment: two onions, one stick of celery, 
one carrot, 15 minutes preparation and two hours cooking time, but it is almost 
always consequently manipulated. Everybody knows – once they have followed 
a few recipes – that enough time is never given to cook an onion. ‘Sauté until soft 
and golden, about two minutes,’ writes the chef (or the editor insists so the recipe can fall into the category of ‘quick and easy weeknight suppers’ or ‘fifteen-minute 
meals’ or whatever it is they are currently trying to sell). The fact that nobody ever
sautéed an onion until soft and golden in less than 10 minutes is elided, sacrificed 
to the promise that this dish, now, will not cost too much of your time. Even recipes 
which can never be made quickly – soups, stews, cures – are touted as demanding 
just a little of your time and even less of your attention, your active time. The slow 
braise allows the cook to focus not on cooking, but on other things. To me, this 
is a lost opportunity. Yes, it is nice to know that dinner is safely squared away, 
puttering merrily to itself in a low oven. It is exciting to think that a jar of cabbage 
is slowly transforming into sauerkraut at the back of a dark cupboard. But if all we 
see is the prepared ingredients and the end result, how much do we miss of the 
metamorphosis in-between? Convenience is desirable, but over the last year, time has – for most of us – come at 
less of a premium. Even before that, though, I have always found a certain satisfaction 
in giving my complete attention to whatever I am cooking. This goes without saying for 
the quick and fast – for the doneness of a steak, or pasta, for deep-frying, or grilling 
delicate fish. However, it is also rewarding for the slower processes, for observing the 
slow changing of textures as liquids bubble and reduce.  If, for example, you are making marmalade, you could work out the setting 
temperature and, once the final boil has begun, insert a probe thermometer with 
an alarm set to sound when it reaches the precise temperature: all well and good. 
If, however, there isn’t a thermometer to hand – or, as is often the case, you only 
have one that is in sore need of calibration and therefore useless – you can fall 
back on the finger test your mother may or may not have taught you. Placing a 
stack of saucers in the fridge and – when you think the marmalade is nearly ready 
– spooning a little out onto a cold saucer, you prod the result with your finger to 
see if it wrinkles. What, then, if you don’t have a stack or even a single perfectly 
chilled saucer to hand? Then you have to watch the bubbles rise. 
The point of making marmalade or jam is not simply that you are cooking a liquid 
until it reaches approximately 105˚C, but rather that you are cooking a liquid until 
it becomes capable (as water is not) of reaching that temperature – which means it 
has to become thicker, stronger. The bubbles it creates, at first double the liquid in 
volume (bringing the inevitable worry that your pan is too small) before settling and 
lowering into a dense boil that threatens to catch on the bottom. Once you’ve seen 
it, that transformation is unmistakable, and if you had just stuck a thermometer 
in the pan and got on with something else, you would never have noticed. This 
(admittedly useful and in a working kitchen, essential) piece of technology would 
have removed you from the process, from the facts of cooking. This is true of any kind of technology – it is, by and large, its purpose. I am not necessarily suggesting 
that you replace your oven with a wood-fired stove and monitor the temperature 
with a questing hand (if you can’t hold it in there, it’s hot enough) – although that 
would, I think, be fun. Certainly, anything which makes our lives easier is not to be 
dismissed out of hand, but isn’t it always worth wondering what, at any moment, 
you can afford to lose? 
The point with cooking is that the time put in is not simply lost but rather spent 
or, invested – although sometimes you might not think it – wisely. A six-hour 
braise consumed in less than 30 minutes can seem hardly worth the effort, but 
only if you see the eating of food as the sole reason to cook it. When I think of 
meals I have cooked for other people, for birthdays or holidays or simply for 
the pleasure of company, it is rarely the eating of them – the few minutes of 
attacking a chicken or slurping up pasta or licking grease off fingers – which 
comes immediately to mind but rather their slow build-up. It’s the digging of the 
pit to build the fire that has to die before I bury the lamb, wrapped carefully in 
foil and sackcloth; the careful attendance to a boiling pan of stock, its bubbles 
changing in size and consistency as it gradually reduces into gravy; the oil 
slowly spitting out of a pot of ragù, its surface barely moving as it stews. These 
are the things I remember fondly, the nurturing process of bringing a meal 
together. And these moments aren’t solitary meditations – with any meal there 
is more to be done than just cooking something. There are salads to be made 
and dressings to be whipped, pasta to be rolled, tables to be set, cocktails to be 
mixed, and wine to be poured. The making of a meal is only a chore if you begin 
to do it wishing it were already over. If instead you begin to do it because you 
want to do it, with the end result of ‘something to eat’ as almost a by-product 
of a rewarding activity, then the pleasure you find in it changes. 
Although for most of us, it’s no longer – as it was for the Sicilians celebrating 
San Giuseppe – a matter of life or death. This choice to involve yourself 
purposefully in the everyday act of cooking, and otherwise preparing food, still 
has an air of sacrifice, of time exchanged in the promise of something greater. 
It is, I suppose, literally a sacrifice, as the time you allot to cooking is time 
you could have made available for emails, or exercise, or simply to idly scroll 
through Netflix adding films you will probably never watch to your list. But, as 
is the way of all such propitiatory acts, it is a sacrifice which contains the seeds 
of its desired outcome. What you put in determines what you get out, in the 
straightforward terms of a meal you can eat – but it is also its own reward. You 
know, as you reverently chop, or soak, or simmer, that you are investing your 
time to create something better than good. That whatever you are making will 
have a special richness to it. The richness of chickpeas, or water or gold.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen.

Illustration by Stewart Walton.

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen

FONDATA: Time for Food

Time for Food

What is Cristal – and who makes it? 
The Grande Marque Champagne Louis Roederer produces Cristal. Founded in 1833, Roederer is the largest independent, family-owned Champagne house today. Cristal is their prestige cuvée – the very best wine they produce, only made in the finest years. Always a vintage wine, it's a blend of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. The current Chef de Cave (and Executive Vice-President) at the house is Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon, who is responsible for the entire Louis Roederer range. When was Cristal first made? The wine is considered the first and original “prestige cuvée”. It was first made for Tsar Alexander II in 1876, after he asked Louis Roederer to reserve the house’s best wine for him and his court. At the time, Roederer was one of the few house’s to own its own vineyards (a legacy that continues today). A gold capsule and label was used to indicate that the wine was the best in the range, as was common at the time. Reportedly, the Tsar lived in fear of assassination – and as such requested that the wine be bottled in clear glass, so that he could see if it had been poisoned, and with a flat bottom so that bombs couldn’t be contained in the punt (the traditional indent in the base of Champagne bottles). The glass used was lead-crystal – giving the wine its name, “Cristal”. When the Russian Revolution took place in 1917 and the Tsars were no more, Roederer continued to make the wine – releasing it commercially for the first time in 1945. Although the wine would originally have been sweet, the dry style of Champagne gradually became more popular (made initially for the English market) and Cristal evolved with the fashion. Today it is one of the most sought-after Champagnes in the world, alongside other prestige cuvées such as Taittinger’s Comtes de Champagne, Dom Pérignon, Krug, Pol Roger’s Sir Winston Churchill, Veuve Clicquot’s La Grande Dame and Bollinger’s Grande Année. How is Cristal made? Until 1999, Cristal was blended solely on taste. Different parcels from Roederer’s estate vineyards were tasted blind and the best-possible wine created. From 1999 onwards, however, Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon took over and started using the same 45 plots, all mid-slope with chalky soils across seven different Grands Crus. These plots have all been farmed biodynamically since 2012. Only fruit from vines more than 20 years old is used for the prestige cuvée, with any younger-vine fruit declassified to the Collection bottlings (the estate’s vintage, Blanc de Blancs and rosé wines all come from specific vineyards). Typically, it’s a blend of around 40% Chardonnay and 60% Pinot Noir. The base wines are mainly fermented in stainless steel, with a proportion in oak. The wine undergoes secondary fermentation and is aged on lees for a minimum six years, then aged for at least eight months after disgorgement prior to release. With climate change and general trends in Champagne, the dosage has been reduced – from 12-13 to around 8g/l today. The final blend is still blind-tasted by the family to ensure the wine is up to scratch. Around 300,000 to 400,000 bottles of Cristal are made a year. 
What does Cristal taste like? Cristal is an incredible Champagne – and one of the most age-worthy. With vibrant acidity and refined minerality, it is a linear and precise style of Champagne that rewards time in bottle. Complex, expressive and aromatic, critics have awarded the wine multiple 100-point scores over the years – notably the 2002 and 2008 vintages. To further emphasise its ageability, in 2017 Louis Roederer released the first of a new series of Vinothèque bottlings – aged both longer on lees and then for a further 10 years on cork. The first Vinothèque wines were from the 1995 vintage, but wines from 1996, 1997, 1999 and 2000 have since also been released. These are available in extremely limited volumes, but offer a taste of the wines with maturity. They tend to have a slightly lower dosage than the earlier-released wines. Is Cristal rosé? Yes and no. The original prestige cuvée is a white wine, however a rosé sibling was introduced with the 1974 vintage, created by Jean-Claude Rouzaud. The wine celebrates old-vine Pinot Noir from Grand Cru vineyards in Aÿ, historically from three sites (Bonotte Pierre Robert, Gargeotte and Côte du Moulin), but now also from La Villers. Pinot Noir typically represents 55% of the blend, complemented with Chardonnay from Pierre Vaudon in Avize and Montmartin in Le Mesnil. Cristal Rosé is made using the saignée method – pressing the grapes to extract colour, with the Pinot and Chardonnay then co-fermented (rather than blending). From the 2008 vintage, the Pinot Noir sees a cold-soak "infusion" with no punching over/pumping down, for up to 10 days. Around 20% of the base wine is aged in oak. The wine goes through secondary fermentation in bottle and is aged on lees for around eight years prior to release. Why is Cristal wrapped in plastic? The trademark gold cellophane wrapper is to protect the wine from UV light. As the wine is bottled in clear glass, UV light can cause “light strike” – a fault that causes cabbage or rotten-egg aromas in the wine. As such, the plastic should be kept on the wine until it is served. Cristal’s street cred and controversy Cristal was once the choice of hip-hop’s most famous names. “Cristal forever/Play the crib when it’s mink weather,” raps the Notorious B.I.G. on Jay-Z’s Brooklyn’s Finest. Raekwon, 50 Cent, Big L and many more were all fans. Tupac even created a cocktail with Cristal called “Thug Passion”, a combination of Cristal and Alizé Gold Passion liqueur. In 2006, however, Frédéric Rouzaud – seventh-generation of the Roederer family and CEO – was asked in an interview about the wine’s association with a “bling” lifestyle. In response he said, “What can we do? We can’t forbid people from buying it. I’m sure Dom Pérignon or Krug would be delighted to have their business.” Jay-Z responded: “It has come to my attention that the managing director of Cristal, Frédéric Rouzaud, views the ‘hip-hop’ culture as ‘unwelcome attention’. I view his comments as racist and will no longer support any of his products through any of my various brands, including the 40/40 Club, nor in my personal life.” Others followed, and soon Cristal was replaced by other wines and spirits. Jay-Z’s own brand of Champagne, Armand de Brignac, was launched later that year – thought partly to be a retaliation. Browse all Cristal listings or read more Editorial 


Cristal is one of the world’s most sought-after wines – but how did Champagne Louis Roederer’s prestige cuvée come to be, and what makes it so special? Here’s everything you need to know about the wine

Everything you need to know about Cristal – Champagne Louis Roederer’s cult prestige cuvée, from its Russian beginnings to hip-hop credibility

Your ultimate guide to Cristal Champagne

Everything you need to know about Cristal Champagne

“Corriamo rischi ogni giorno,” mi dice Vanessa Martin. Se non sapessi che ci troviamo in una cantina, potresti pensare che Martin fosse una pilota da caccia, una vigile del fuoco o forse una doppiogiochista. Le due donne davanti a me, Martin e la sua collega Chantal Uldry, non incarnano necessariamente l’immagine dei temerari – ma tra le loro mani sono passate migliaia di bottiglie di uno dei vini più preziosi al mondo: Ch. d’Yquem. Non sarà questione di vita o di morte, ma questo liquido è così ambito che può sembrarlo. 
 L’unica tenuta di Sauternes o Barsac ad essere stata dichiarata Premier Cru Supérieur nel 1855, Ch. d’Yquem ha una lunga storia che risale al Medioevo. Il vino prodotto da questa proprietà, nel punto più alto di Sauternes, è stato elogiato per secoli. Fu gustato da personaggi come Thomas Jefferson nell’Ottocento, mentre Jay-Z e Beyoncé hanno fatto visita alla fine dello scorso anno. La proprietà e i suoi vini sono roba da leggenda, ricercati da appassionati e collezionisti di tutto il mondo. 
 La produzione di questo dolce nettare è meticolosa – le viti sono curate con attenzione durante l’anno, e l’uva viene raccolta solo se Madre Natura fornisce le condizioni giuste perché si sviluppi la botrytis cinerea, alias “muffa nobile”. Se tutto gioca a loro favore, con la giusta quantità di umidità e calore al momento opportuno, questo fungo si insinuerà nei grappoli, perforando la buccia, concentrando acidi e zuccheri negli acini, oltre a conferire i suoi distintivi aromi speziati e di marmellata d’arancia. La squadra di Yquem passerà tra i filari fino a sei volte, raccogliendo grappoli e acini singoli al giusto punto. Le rese sono minuscole, con all’incirca un solo bicchiere di vino prodotto da ogni vite. Una volta che l’uva è arrivata in cantina, pressata, fermentata e affinata in botte, con solo il meglio selezionato per l’assemblaggio finale, il vino deve essere imbottigliato ed etichettato – preparato per il suo debutto nel mondo. Ed è qui che entrano in scena Martin e Uldry, parte della squadra che garantisce che ogni bottiglia che lascia la proprietà sia degna del nome Ch. d’Yquem. 
 “Cerchiamo la perfezione,” mi dice Martin. Lavora nella tenuta da due decenni, avendo iniziato tra i vigneti prima di passare in cantina; ha lavorato con la storica enologa della proprietà Sandrine Garbay sulla vinificazione così come sull’imbottigliamento e l’etichettatura, e ora sotto l’attuale Maître de Chai Toni El Khawand. Martin, come Uldry, è del posto – e il vino è il mestiere della regione. I suoi genitori hanno lavorato tra le viti, così lei ha seguito le loro orme. Ma non le piaceva, trovava il ciclo annuale ripetitivo – fare le stesse cose anno dopo anno – e chiese di cambiare. “Questo lavoro, cambia ogni giorno,” mi dice del suo ruolo in cantina. “Vedo persone diverse ogni giorno; il mio lavoro cambia ogni giorno.” Osservare il lavoro della squadra è notevole. Sebbene oggi molto sia meccanizzato, tutto viene controllato da un membro umano del team. Martin preleva una bottiglia dalla linea per controllare un’etichetta, tira fuori un metro e sospira, prima di staccare con cura la retroetichetta e riapplicarla un millimetro più in alto sulla bottiglia. Guardo una loro collega allineare un righello contro una doppia magnum (tutti i grandi formati sono ancora etichettati a mano), riapplicando un’etichetta cinque volte per assicurarsi che sia perfetta. A un’altra postazione, una donna arrotola delicatamente ogni bottiglia in carta velina traslucida, avvolgendo ciascuna con lo stesso tocco leggero, prima di adagiarla con cura in una cassa. 
 Uldry era pronta a ritirarsi alla fine dello scorso anno, dopo 23 anni a Ch. d’Yquem. Come Martin, ha visto molti cambiamenti nella tenuta, con la sua evoluzione sotto LVMH (Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessy), che ha investito molto da quando ha acquistato la proprietà nel 1999. Ricorda quando lavavano le bottiglie a mano, e i macchinari erano molto più goffi – mentre ora l’operazione è molto fluida, con standard più elevati che mai. C’è stato un periodo in cui lo château faceva molto riconfezionamento – vecchie annate venivano rimandate per essere controllate, autenticate, colmate e reincorciate, oltre a essere eventualmente rietichettate, prima di essere rispedite a un negoziante o a un collezionista. Di conseguenza, sia Martin sia Uldry hanno visto bottiglie straordinariamente antiche e – per loro fortuna – hanno avuto la possibilità di assaggiarne alcune. Martin ha assaggiato la 1921, mentre l’esperienza di Uldry risale all’annata 1904 – vini che faticano a trovare le parole per descrivere. Ricordo Sandrine Garbay raccontarmi di una bottiglia dell’Ottocento che si trovava in una cantina in Spagna, ma fu accidentalmente rotta, e la squadra di sommelier chiamò urgentemente lo château, cullando la bottiglia mentre guidavano fino a Bordeaux, disperati di salvare il prezioso vino. “È motivo d’orgoglio che queste bottiglie vadano in tutto il mondo,” dice Uldry, quando chiedo della destinazione finale del vino che passa tra le loro mani. Sono ben consapevoli del valore del vino che maneggiano, dell’impatto di eventuali rotture e di quanto sia cruciale il loro ruolo. È, dopotutto, l’ultimo passo per queste bottiglie prima che lascino la tenuta, partendo nel mondo come ambasciatrici dell’eredità di Yquem. E molte delle bottiglie, se non la maggior parte, dell’annata 2021 (appena rilasciata) sopravvivranno a chi le ha realizzate. Come dice Martin, il loro lavoro non riguarda l’oggi – ma il domani: “Lo lasciamo alle generazioni che verranno.” 
 Scopri tutte le inserzioni attuali di Ch. d’Yquem o leggi di più su Bordeaux

Per creare vini di livello mondiale serve un’attenzione maniacale ai dettagli, e questo vale anche per Ch. d’Yquem. Nell’ultima puntata della nostra serie dietro le quinte di Bordeaux, parliamo con chi garantisce che ogni bottiglia di oro liquido sia perfetta.

Exploring the art and craft of labelling each and every bottle of liquid gold from top Sauternes estate, Ch. d’Yquem – the world’s best sweet wine 

Gilding the future at Ch. d’Yquem

Doratura del futuro: Ch. d’Yquem

Winemaker Jessica Servet has certainly been busy since our last visit to Hegarty Chamans, an enchanting vineyard in the hills of the Minervois. The winery’s success over the last few years and conversion to biodynamics has earned them an enviable reputation – both abroad and locally. Servet has since been elected deputy mayor of the local village and asked to take the lead on environmental sustainability issues in the wider district. Once a team of outsiders – with the estate founded by Englishman Sir John Hegarty and his wife Philippa, they are now increasingly influential in the region. But this wasn’t always the case: Hegarty Chamans has always seen itself as the “black sheep” of the Minervois.  From the outset it had a very clear goal to promote organic principles, which back in 2002 was radical for the region. The estate was also keen to produce wines of a certain style, wines that were elegant and very pure, resisting what Servet describes as “the make-up” of products that can be (and are) widely used in the region to affect the style and flavour profile of the wines. “People want the wines very ripe but with acidity,” Servet explains, “so they simply pick late and add acidity in the winery. This is something we are strongly against. We want to produce a balance in the wine without manipulation.” In the southern French heat, it can be tricky to produce wines that are fully ripe, while also keeping the alcohol in check and retaining freshness. Servet explains the key to their success is not to push the vines too hard. “You look around and some vignerons are willing to push their vines to the extreme to maximise yield, 80 to 90 hl/ha is not unusual for the region. The vines are weak, susceptible to uneven ripening and disease and finding balance in the wine is not easy. We realised we had to drop right down to 25 to 30 hl/ha to find that natural balance.”  She goes on to explain this approach produced a wine style that initially was deemed “not Minervois enough”. Their wines had even been rejected by the appellation at tasting (to carry the appellation’s name, wines have to be presented to a tasting panel).  The irony is that their purist attempts to reflect the vineyard were seen as atypical of the region. This rejection, while unhelpful, did not steer them off course. Thankfully in more recent years their philosophy and the success of the wines both locally and further afield has seen their approach become influential in what is a true representation of Minervois, or
perhaps what is more important for Servet, a true representation of the Hegarty Chamans vineyards. It is a very particular site and not dissimilar to the likes of the secluded wineries of Ch. Rayas, further north in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, or even the secluded vineyard of Soldera in Tuscany. What they all have in common, alongside low yields, is a belief that great vineyard sites need biodiversity to produce great wine.  All these vineyards are surrounded by forests that not only protect the vineyard from chemical infiltration from neighbouring sites, but benefit from a rich ecosystem that protects soil health and the vine’s natural resistance to disease, extending its natural life. The ultimate goal is to have a vineyard in perfect self-sustaining health. Servet believes this rich biodiversity is key to the vineyard working with its surrounding environment. Animals are a fundamental part of this: the estate raises a small flock of sheep which eliminates the weeds which grow between the vines and provides natural fertiliser, supplemented by other organic manures.  They also keep bees and prepare their own composts which are energised using specific biodynamic preparations. After spreading on agricultural soils, they encourage microbiological life and the mineral and organic richness which Servet believes is at the source of the strong terroir expression found in the wines. Beyond Hegarty Chamans, Servet is also encouraging others to employ a sustainable approach. In the region, all three of the main wineries are now organic and her latest domestic project is to organise a communal composting system for all residents living in the region.  Hegarty Chamans’ top cuvée, Black Knight, comes from the estate’s finest vineyards and is made only in the best vintages. We were fortunate to taste the 2016 on a number of occasions earlier this year, from barrel and following bottling (which is exclusively in magnum). We were blown away by the quality, the textural richness of the wine, the layering of the tannins and the purity of fruit – which is really special. It certainly has the signature elegance the winery has always promoted above anything else, but there is Minervois power too. Servet knows in the run up to harvest whether there will be a Black Knight cuvée – and in 2016, it proved to be a very easy decision. “We had enough rain in the spring to see us through the summer with very steady weather, no heat spikes and very even ripening, it was the most relaxed season I can remember,” she explains. The cuvée is made typically from the same favoured plots. Syrah, which makes up 80% of the blend, always comes from the Rabbit vineyard. “It's special due to the particular exposition of the vineyard and the effects of a distinct red and white clay in the soil. It produces an unbelievable freshness to the Syrah from this site,” says Servet.  The Carignan (typically around 10% of the blend) always comes from the oldest vines on the entire property, high up on the hill above the winery, 60 to 70 years in age and offering consistency every year. The Grenache, however, is not always from the same site, and is often chosen after vinification.  “I know the flavour profile I am looking for and when I find it, it goes in. The best expression of Grenache is based on picking it at exactly the right time. It gives you incredibly pure strawberry jam flavour with white pepper. When you capture both that sweet and spicy flavour in the wine you know you have got it right,” explains Servet. Using only natural yeast, the grapes go through fermentation and undergo a four-week maceration with gentle extraction, with the wine kept at a low temperature to retain aromatics. Only the free-run juice used for Black Knight – again retaining the elegance in the wine. The wine is then aged in a mix of one, two and three-year-old 300-litre barriques, Stockinger and Séguin Moreau barrels for 22-24 months. It is this long élevage that creates the wonderful layered texture in the wine. “There are lots of tannins in the wine and it needs this time to fully integrate in barrel,” Servet says. As I push further to understand the secret behind this cuvée, Servet admits there is always a sense of mystery in winemaking. A lot of the time her work is done on instinct and how she feels. Servet explains that if she is in a bad mood, she doesn't go near the wines. "There is energy here and I trust in that. I feel it in the vineyards and I feel it in the winery.” There is certainly a bit of magic that goes on in winemaking and the vineyards of Hegarty Chamans are certainly special – as you can feel in the wine. The 2016 Black Knight is the finest cuvée we have tasted from the property, and it is fast becoming one of the most exciting wines from the south of France.  Find out more about Hegarty Chamans and browse all listings

Ahead of the latest release of Hegarty Chamans’ top cuvée, Black Knight, we caught up with Winemaker Jessica Servet to find out more about what makes this secluded vineyard in the hills of the Minervois so special

Winemaker Jessica Servet talks about what makes the secluded vineyard of Hegarty Chamans’ top wine cuvée Black Knight in the hills of Minervois so special. 

Making a mark in the Minervois

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