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  

Wine, though the most intimate of pleasures, lends itself to the most expansive of texts. We drink wine most often – tastings aside – in pairings of two, or in lonesome but agreeable solitude, and, its narcotic pleasure being felt internally, we feel its effects as we feel a fever: almost secretly, in shivers. Though wine is like sex in its intimacy, unlike sex, the form in which we fetishise wine – our vine erotica – is not hushed and illicit but encyclopedic. On the shelves of any wine drinker, there are likely to be catalogues, dictionaries organised by region, old Parker buying guides some 600 pages long that somehow, though dated, can’t be discarded.  Wine seems singular among human pleasures in this. We don’t, as a rule, rush from reading a poem to great anthologies of poetry, or add to the savour of seeing a play by reading a big atlas of dramatic literature – not, at least, after we graduate from school. Sports fans, it’s true, like big books of statistics, but then sports-watching is a social act in the first instance – the more people in the stands, the merrier the occasion. With wine, we like the macro with our micro: with a solitary glass in hand, we look, in print, over the next hill, or the current vintage, at the vineyard across the way, or the vintage yet to come. It’s part of the pleasure the glass provides. The reasons for this micro and macro turn are, on reflection, commercial and artisanal as much as aesthetic. The business of wine needs a big picture of its domain, its resources, and its potential market – scale sets the stage for commerce. The makers of wine like to place themselves on a broader map of where wine is and what it’s made with. The great Bordeaux classification of 1855 is not just the noblest public monument to a beverage ever attempted, but a model of market-making and even market price-fixing. Once a hierarchy of growths has been established, it is easy to slot in the price tags. But there is a truth of taste beneath the ordering of value. With wine, we know that what we are experiencing is, however singular, still an intersection of opposed forces – as the peerless wine writer Jancis Robinson MW says of her first glass of Chambolle-Musigny 1959; “I knew at once that there was something in the glass that was sensually delicious but that it was also made, produced, and therefore suggested a history of intellect and discernment.” The pleasure of wine is the crossing of a place, a grape and a people; and so, we turn to the big books to frame the small pleasures.  What distinguishes wine from even a good glass of ale or a local brew is the specificity of the pleasure set against the scale of the system that made it – one that historically embraces the planet. It’s a First Growth, or a domaine Burgundy, or a Ridge Zinfandel or a New Zealand Pinot Noir made to a Burgundy model by American wine makers … the more we know, the more we’re free to feel. Most sensory pleasures are specific to the point of being illicit – aside from the bemused fetishist, romance is a spontaneous pleasure, often aided, to be sure, by a systematic wine. Wine is premeditated; we choose a bottle, let it ripen, and break it open. Even casual table drinking has a tale to tell, a journey to trace on a map. These thoughts are brought to mind in contemplation of Wine Grapes, the monosyllabically titled but unprecedentedly expansive dictionary of grape varieties grown to be crushed and fermented on this green planet. Authored by Robinson, along with Julia Harding MW and the geneticist Dr José Vouillamoz, it marks an epoch – several epochs – in our understanding of wine, from both a professional planet-straddling and an amateur glass-in-hand perspective. A book of its time (published in 2012), it was made possible, in part, by a revolution in the DNA analysis of wine grapes to help discover their origins and histories.  The DNA profiling of wine grapes only began in 1993, and the first ‘paternity test’ successfully concluded in 1997 – a mere few days ago by historical perspective – with specialists, Dr Vouillamoz among them, drawing astonishing Darwinian lines among seemingly unrelated grapes. Zinfandel, it has been discovered in the last 40 years, is not only the Siamese twin of Primitivo, but its Croatian Siamese twin. In proper Darwinian fashion, the book tells us, “It looks increasingly as though an enormous proportion of the grapes we know today are members of a few key families.”  The leading families of wine, Pinot and Nebbiolo and the rest, like the leading houses of Westeros, jostle and engage in incestuous inter-breeding as they move towards dominance. As Jancis Robinson admits, the quest for the origins of grapes can become surprisingly emotional. “The Zin quest is so … heated. There was a Zinfandel conference in Croatia, with all the great Zin makers, even Joel ‘King of Zin’ Peterson from Ravenswood, and we all had to present our various things about Zinfandel. There was a small cohort of people from Montenegro who reckoned that their variety – whose name is unpronounceable – was the true progenitor of modern Zinfandel, not the Croatian one. It became so … Balkan! And you know what? They may be right!” Wine Grapes is of its time in another sense as well, marking the moment when we have started to think of wine not solely in terms of region, but much more in terms of variety, with the semi-mystical term ‘terroir’ acting as a kind of Holy Spirit between them. Thinking ‘grape’ more than ‘place’ releases our imaginations. The wholesome instructive pleasures of the book, to which we’ll come, shrink beside the unwholesome, guilty pleasures of turning the pages to meet the failures among grapes – the near-misses, the long-forgotten and forlorn lost toys – which please more than the patterns of primacy. The pleasure of reading about the grapes whose juice we do drink is nothing compared to reading about those we don’t. In dictionaries, oddities and parentheses fascinate us more than the major entries. No one turns to the dictionary to study ‘and’; we go to study ‘antediluvian’. So, turning these pages, flipping through the P’s on our way to encounter the great Pinot families, we come upon the lesser gods, even the little misshapen gnomes and dwarves of the wine world, and we delight in meeting them. (A fascination added to by the forthright sub-heads the editors provide.) On our way to Burgundy and Pinot Noir, we also meet Pinotin, a ‘recent obscure Swiss hybrid’ which edges into Pionnier, ‘a minor but complex, cold-hardy American hybrid used in blends in Québec’, and, of course, Pinotage ‘South Africa’s very own cross, both loved and despised’, which leads us on to Pugnitello and even Pukhliakovsky (a Russian variety ‘with erratic yields producing light wines’) and even unto Pules – ‘a minor Albanian white’. Radiating out from five pages on the major Merlot, we bump into Merseguera, ‘an uninspiring variety’ from Spain, and Merzifon Karasi, and Merzling, dismissed as a ‘very minor disease-resistant German hybrid’. Why these lost or obscure kinds of grapes bring so much delight with them is a fascinating question. It has in part to do with our general appetite for oddities and obscurities, which once produced ‘freak shows’ and still makes us fascinated with archaic musical instruments: we are curious to hear the sackbut because we want to know what led to the trombone. It is also the virtuous case that variety is the safeguard of continuity. In an age of ever-decreasing biodiversity with just a few varieties taking the place of many possibilities, one Quixotic California winemaker, driving through the fields of Cabernet and Chardonnay, dismissed them all – with a wave of the hand – as “chocolate and vanilla, chocolate and vanilla”.  The health of the planet is safeguarded by the persistence of so many kinds. It is also because the existence of these minor yet still thriving varieties gives us a satisfying picture of adaptation, the central biological act. Each of these grapes has found a home in the world. It may not be much of a home, but then neither, face the facts, is ours. We identify with the unknown grape. We are all more like a very minor disease-resistant German, or a cold-hardy Québec hybrid, than we are something noble and complicated. Few of us are bottles of Burgundy; we can all identify as minor Albanian whites. In conversation, Jancis Robinson, sheltering at home near Kings Cross in London, a home with a view of a graveyard (though a cheerful one she assures an interviewer) – talks of the wine almanac with the blunt enthusiasm that marks her writing. Robinson, in addition to her obvious honours and credentials, is a rare thing in the wine world, or any world: a writer who writes with equal parts brio and expertise. She explains the origins of Wine Grapes. “What happened was that one of the co-authors, Dr José Vouillamoz, who had been at University of California, Davis, felt that he needed to earn more of a living, and came back to Switzerland and got a job working on Alpine botanicals. But he didn’t want to lose his relationship with wine, and he came to me and said that he’d like to collaborate on a book about grape varieties. I’d already written one in 1986, based on our very fractional knowledge then.  Over lunch, I took along Julia Harding, a wine writer who works on my website. She’s extremely punctilious.” (Robinson, punctilious herself, says this with such emphasis that the listener feels that, with Harding, we must be talking about new frontiers, not to say dimensions, in punctiliousness.) “She had exactly the right sort of brain for a project like this. José suggested that we focus on the 10 or 12 most planted grape varieties to help simplify it. I thought that that book didn’t sound interesting enough. I waited until we were quite far down a bottle of Valpolicella and said, ‘I think our book should be about every single grape variety we can find.’ He gulped and said, ‘Then that’s what we shall do!’” The idea of creating a ‘perfect map’ of a subject is one of the itches that govern modern life. John James Audubon set out to describe not the major but every bird and beast in North America, and that’s what he did. Similar ‘almanacs of everything’ fill our botanical and anthropological shelves. It is an ambition so tied to modernity that in the mid-19th century, Lewis Carroll perfectly satirised it in his novel, Sylvie & Bruno, where two mad professors talk about their dream of making a map that would be on a one-to-one relation to the actual world – utterly perfect, if impossible to unroll. “I loved the scale of the thing,” Robinson says of her perfect map. “So, we carved things up: José did all the DNA stuff and history because he had good access to it, Julia, bless her, did the footwork – how much of each grape is planted where – while trying to taste as many as possible, too! And I wrote the entries on the best-known varieties, and the introduction and read every single word.  As with any dictionary, we used what came before: we went through appellation lists, with all of the varieties allowed, some of them almost extinct. A nice little detail of the book is that we persuaded the publisher that it should have some colour plates, and we were particularly keen to include the plates from the world’s first oenological book, L’Ampélographie: Traité Général de Viticulture, of 1901 … just out of copyright!” She pauses. “Of course,” she adds reflectively, “it was José, naturally, who discovered that Pinot and Syrah are related.” The offhand nature of her mention can’t conceal the significance of the remark. Of all the discoveries offered in the book, this is perhaps, for the amateur wine drinker, the most exemplary and astonishing. Painstakingly tracing the DNA heritage of the varieties, these two noble houses, Syrah and Pinot – the grapes of the Rhône Valley and those of Burgundy, the heart of Côte-Rôtie and the soul of Chambertin – are unified as cousins. This happened not through willed cultivation but in the natural evolutionary way: through variation and adaptation. Initially, the elegance of Pinot Noir was transformed through the usual evolutionary pressures of place and mutations, into the earthy pleasures of Syrah.  Chance mutation and lucky planting turned one grape into its near opposite. (‘Cross-fertilisation’, we’re told, ‘was common until the early 20th century because several grape varieties were often intermixed in the vineyards, facilitating natural crossings between distinct grape varieties’.) The phylloxera epidemic in France from the 1860s on – though it did not destroy as much as is sometimes thought – acted as a kind of sieve or filter of grape varieties, a sort of extinction event in large-scale natural history, forcing hard choices and making obscure varieties less desirable to save by root grafting with New World vines.   One virtue of the book is to propose, in effect, a new order of wines by celebrating ‘secondary’ grape varieties. “For me, among the obscure wines, something about as well-known as Cinsault stands out – it can make such lovely wines,” Robinson says. “There’s been such a sea change as the century turned. Everybody once wanted to make fruit bombs to one of three standard recipes. Then in this century, higher acidity, lighter wines are finally revaluing, and so Cinsault comes into its own. “Sometimes I come across a grape that isn’t well known but that’s so obviously superior. There’s Aglianico – the name suggests it’s Greek, though no Greek variety has ever been found and you only get it in Southern Italy. Perfect for late ripeness, and not for cool climates – and now it has travelled to Australia, where they’re desperate for hot weather varieties.  The whole array of Portuguese and Greek grape varieties are so fantastic! And so individual. And I love that after a dalliance with international varieties, both countries are now celebrating their own. There’s another white grape, an Iberian variety that’s stunning, and, again, I’m not sure it’s yet been planted much: Godello! It’s a bit crass to say it makes wines that taste like Montrachet, if a little more terroir-y and mineral … but it does. I could drink Cinsault for red and Godello for white into the next century. “There’s such a gap nowadays,” Robinson goes on, “between the Napa Cab thing, and these young people who are buying unknown grape varieties that sell for a fraction of the price, that are really good. Such a lot has happened in the field of recuperating old vines, some so obscure that they don’t even have a name. Miguel Torres, the scion of that great company in northeast Spain became very interested in grapes.  At first, he said, ‘Hey Dad, we need the posh varieties, Cabernet and Chardonnay’ – and made all these wines which did well in the Judgement of Paris. But, with time, he realised that it made more sense to concentrate on the indigenous varieties. He’s been engaged for 30 years, putting classified ads in the local press – ‘If you know of a wine grape that you can’t identify, let us know of it, and – if we think we can propagate out – we’ll do micro-vinification.’ He’s actually rescued Catalan varieties that were on the brink of disappearing; I think he found 30 varieties, and recuperated eight for micro-vinification with sufficient character to give them a new lease of life. And much the same thing has been happening all over Italy. If we published the book today, we’d be up to at least 1,500 kinds of grapes.” The great sorting question of our time, of course, is the question of climate change and its effects on wine cultivation. Robinson is cautiously hopeful about Burgundy. “I was lucky enough to go there and spend some time. The 2020 harvest is the earliest ever, at least since the 14th century. But, whereas the 2003 vintage, that legendary hot summer in France, produced wines that were pretty bizarre, the 2019s seem as fresh as a daisy, with pure fruit. I’m no plant biologist, but the vines seem to be getting used to the conditions … or the winemakers are. They’re not extracting as heavily, but, given that, there’s no sign of added acidity (it’s routinely added in the southern hemisphere), the acidity is coming from the grapes as well. Even some real old Burgundy hands, when you ask why the wines are so fresh, say, ‘I really don’t know.’” About the Southern Rhône, though, she is more pessimistic. “They’re not helping themselves in the Southern Rhône: too many are trying to make concentrated, high alcohol, 16% wines. And maybe consultants are too powerful down there – one consultant can be responsible for 20 or 30 labels, and so you’re going to have 20 or 30 wines that reflect that.” It’s here, though, that the knowledge of grapes, and our possession of this specialist dictionary, seems particularly valuable. If wine is to save itself from the vagaries of climate change, it will probably be through the introduction and new use of ‘marginal’ or forgotten ‘heirloom’ grapes. Only recently, France’s Institut National de l’Origine et de la Qualité (INAO) officially approved six new varieties: four red grapes – Arinarnoa, Castes, Marselan, and Touriga Nacional; and two whites – Alvarinho and Liliorila – all described as ‘well-adapted to alleviate hydric stress associated with temperature increases and shorter growing cycles’, potential saviours of the region against the villain of global warming. All of them, of course, are charted and explicated in Wine Grapes.

In the end, the great strange truth of wine is the truth of life: a thousand vectors press down on us at once – place, history, time, temperature, luck and breeding – and somehow in the intersection we find, or make, our pleasures. The question of type and variation was very different before Darwin who wrote, oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) almost simultaneously with the great classification of Bordeaux, publishing On the Origin of Species in 1859.  (Oddly because his theory would have been true in any other time; not so oddly because the urge to map the world, for the ‘almanac of everything’, was typical of mid-19th century confidence, as Carroll’s satire suggests.) Before Darwin, who loved wine, the fundamental view of the world was that the superintending categories, species and varieties, were the fixed things in the world. Everyone took it for granted that the ‘kind’ the ‘essence’, was the real thing and all the little variants merely particular shades away from it. A grape was a better or worse instance of its variety. Grapes, like apes, were of one fixed sort. Darwin’s great overriding insight was that only particulars exist, and that species and superintending categories are the labile and ever-changing kinds. Every kind of living thing came from somewhere weird and is on its way to somewhere weirder, with a brief stopover at being the thing it is now. The elegance of Pinot Noir is a close cousin of the earthiness of Syrah, one state is simply a moment in the life of the other, and each are moments in the life of the surging, unfixable whole. Wine, braiding through the planet and only coming to rest on a name for a moment in one place, is a bit of scientific epistemology in your glass, the truth of the particular made potable. It’s a fine destiny for a simple pleasure. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One Photography by Gavin Bond; floral set design by Studio Lupine

Essayist and author Adam Gopnik takes a look at the world of wine through the lens of seminal wine-lover’s bible, Wine Grapes, and talks to one of its three co-authors, Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

Adam Gopnik talks to Wine Grapes co-author Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

FONDATA: Pleasure in the detail

Pleasure in the detail

Ch. Belle-Brise is a rather inconspicuous Bordeaux property with a “garden” vineyard of just two hectares and an annual production of just 800 cases. With such small quantities produced and a legion of loyal followers, the wine is little known outside of an exclusive list of top restaurateurs, a few lucky distributors and their clients. Henri-Bruno is the 20th generation of the de Coincy family, famous for their Armagnac production that dates back an incredible 700 years. Despite this impressive lineage, Henri-Bruno's winemaking skills are a much more recent labour of love. Similarly, Ch. Belle-Brise was late to commercial winemaking – an enterprise started by Henri-Bruno when he bought the property in 1991 – despite producing wine since the 18th century. Ch. Belle-Brise is often compared to the Grand Crus of Burgundy and has been referred to as the "Musigny of Pomerol", such is the elegance and weightless power this wine consistently seems to possess. Theories abound about why this is the case. Perhaps it is Henri-Bruno's  Burgundian wife's influence, or the pre-1956 vines, or small-scale operation? For De Coincy, it is all of the above that makes this little wine of Pomerol so unique. The foundations of Ch. Belle-Brise What is really special about the Belle-Brise vineyard is the age of the vines, more than 100 vines are a staggering 120 years old and the average vine age is around 70 years old.   It is rare to find any Pomerol vines that pre-date 1956, as devastating frosts that year destroyed virtually all the region's vineyards. Many vines planted in Pomerol post-1956 were reliable clones but not as good in terms of wine quality. This is not the case at Belle-Brise, where vines either pre-date 1956 or were propagated from the surviving old vines. Outside of Belle-Brise, there are just a few pre-1956 vines dotted around Pomerol and Saint-Emilion – most noticeably at Ch. Lafleur and Ch. Ausone. Old Cabernet Franc and Merlot vines, De Coincy believes, create an overall elegance, finesse and depth of flavour on the palate that is something really special. The Belle-Brise vineyard contains a split of around 80% Merlot and 20% Cabernet Franc. The soil has gravel on the surface and beneath, a layer of clay, chalk and crasse de fer (iron rich bands of sand that play an important role in the flavour characteristics of many top Pomerol wines). Many believe this is responsible for the truffle aromas commonly found in Pomerol wines. Others believe it provides viticultural benefits, limiting vigour and excessive leaf growth, in turn producing smaller concentrated berries. Natural winemaking at Ch. Belle-Brise Despite being an experienced Brandy producer, De Coincy's project in Pomerol required considerable learning on the job and was faced with a challenging start. His first crop in the 1991 vintage was largely decimated by frost, meaning he had very small quantities to work with and likely not enough to sell. This did, however, mean he was able to experiment with the vintage and trial different approaches. Three very challenging Bordeaux vintages followed as Mother Nature threw everything at De Coincy. It was a steep learning curve. When the more successful 1995 and 1996 vintages arrived, the winemaker was ready to produce Belle-Brise in his style, with confidence. The approach is artisan and natural. There is no electricity on site and everything is made much as it would have been centuries prior. The grapes are grown using biodynamic and organic principles, and De Coincy employs horses to work the vines. The grapes are all harvested within one day allowing pin-point accuracy on picking dates. They are then hand-sorted exclusively by women – something de Coincy is insistent upon. Once picked and sorted, the grapes are then left uncrushed in concrete vats in the winery. De Coincy then closes up the cellar and leaves the grapes for five days, so the natural coolness of the cellar retards the fermentation process. After five days, De Coincy returns to open up the cellar. As the heat of the day enters the cellar, the grapes naturally begin to ferment from natural yeasts. De Coincy tends to pump over the juice twice a day over six to 10 days depending on the vintage and then leaves the wine to settle in-tank prior to the pressing of the skins. This traditional method is not very common in modern winemaking as it can run the risk of contamination. De Coincy, however, believes this method helps extract the delicate aromatics from the wine. After this stage, De Coincy carries out a very slow pressing of the skins using an old manual vertical process, which he believes is another vital element in the process that retains a delicate finesse typically found in Belle-Brise. Many of these methods are not possible in larger estates as they are laborious and manual. The Belle-Brise wines are then matured in large 400-litre barrels (one-third new, one-third one-year-old, one-third two-year-old), eschewing smaller barriques which De Coincy feels has too strong an affectation on the wine. The Ch. Belle-Brise drinking window Ch. Belle-Brise has always been a fairly accessible wine in its youth with its compact but soft tannins already beautifully integrated. For De Coincy, Belle-Brise needs five years maturation in bottle before you can really benefit from the full impact of the wine and then, depending on your tastes, it drinks beautifully over the next decade. De Coincy has often served his wine blind to his restaurateur clients and found it has been mistaken for premium Burgundy. The similarity with Grand Cru Burgundy is difficult to fathom, considering the completely different varieties and different climates, yet Belle-Brise does boast the silkiness, finesse and almost weightless power of Grand Cru Burgundy, with a touch more opulence you expect from Pomerol. Ch. Belle-Brise's rarity With a mere two-hectare walled -garden vineyard, production at Belle-Brise is minuscule, making it one of the rarest wines on today's marketplace. The vast majority of liquid never reaches private clients as it is snapped up by some of France's finest three-Michelin-starred restaurants. In fact, 80% of three-star-Michelin restaurants in France (and 25 other countries) list the wine, including Georges Blanc and Alain Ducasse: Le Louis XV. Beyond these locations,  private clients can only source Belle-Brise through FINE+RARE and Vinfolio. Browse all currently available Ch. Belle-Brise vintages, exclusively available through FINE+RARE & Vinfolio, or read more Editorial

We caught up with Ch. Belle-Brise's owner and winemaker Henri-Bruno de Coincy to find out the secret behind this idiosyncratic Pomerol estate  

Ch. Belle-Brise's owner and winemaker Henri-Bruno de Coincy on the secret behind this idiosyncratic Pomerol estate  

Ch. Belle-Brise idiosyncratic Pomerol wines

Ch. Belle-Brise: talking to Henri-Bruno de Coincy

Group CEO Patrick O’Connor reflects on Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry and early vintage defined by small yields, precise viticulture, restrained winemaking and a new wave of estates delivering wines of real distinction.

Patrick O’Connor, Group CEO, explores Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry, early vintage shaped by precision, small yields and standout wines.

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur: vintage overview      

Bordeaux 2025: vintage overview               

The skyline of the medieval village of Saint-Emilion is dominated by the spire of its 12th century monolithic church. Hewn from the limestone rock that imbues its wines with their shape and sinew, the 68-metre high belfry surveys the vineyards that cover its plateau and slopes. But it is not the only 12th-century edifice that stands tall among the green carpet of vines: Château Laroque has its own medieval tower, a reminder of its long and somewhat tumultuous past. The latest chapter in Laroque’s history is still being written, but – for wine-lovers – it could be the most exciting yet. Praise has been heaped on Château Laroque recently, with Vinous founder Antonio Galloni even claiming it “may well be the single most-improved wine in Saint-Emilion over the last few years” and that’s due in no small part to its dynamic director, David Suire.  Despite having worked in Saint-Emilion since 2002, Suire is part of the next generation charged with guiding the appellation in the coming decades. Although he only arrived in 2015, he’s already making waves at this historic estate. Happily ensconced at Premier Grand Cru Classé Châteaux Larcis-Ducasse and Beauséjour-Duffau, Suire had not been looking for a new job – but the owners of Laroque, the Beaumartin family, had their eyes on him. He agreed to replace retiring winemaker Bruno Sainson, but on strict conditions: “I knew the estate and its potential, but I would only join if the owners had the ambition to make a wine that reflected the quality of the terroir.”                                                  He requested a soil study of the vineyard, which is no mean feat considering it is the appellation’s biggest estate at a massive 61 hectares (the average holding is a mere eight hectares). “Bruno knew everything about the terroir. He was a very clever man, but my parents’ generation didn’t do analysis of the soil nor in the cellar; it was a question of feeling. I knew I could not wait 10 years to understand everything at Laroque and that’s why I asked for the study,” Suire explained. Armed with the results, there was no sudden change, but with 75% of the vineyards dating back to the 1950s and ’60s, Suire has created a replanting programme that will outlast his working years. The more immediate changes that have had wine critics drooling have come from tweaks in the winery. “I’m working on more precision,” he says. “I was allowed to make my own selection in the blend so it is slightly different. I chose the oldest vines from parts of the plots that best express the limestone.” In an effort to achieve greater elegance and delicacy, pump overs have now been restricted to the early part of the fermentation. The gentle process of plunging – pigeage – is preferred. “For me, the aim of pigeage is to have homogeneity in the ferments rather than extracting tannins. I just want to liberate the cap.” He’s also decided that the top wine will consist solely of free-run juice and no press wine, which tends to be harsher. Suire has also adjusted the estate’s use of maturation vessels depending on the terroir. The lighter texture of wines from the limestone plateau and slopes now spend their adolescence in wooden tanks, foudres and one-year-old Bordeaux barrels, rather than new oak. He explains: “When you have Cabernet on clay, you need a Bordeaux barrel, with Merlot on limestone you need to treat it like a white grape. We don’t need to polish the tannins because we have no press wine and limestone.” The changes are already paying off, with the world’s key critics finding lots to like and higher scores reflecting the upswing in quality, vindicating the Beaumartins’ decision to recruit Suire. In a short space of time, this historic property has forged a new path that could take it to towering new heights in the coming decade. Find out more about Château Laroque or read more Editorial 

Since David Suire’s arrival in 2015, Château Laroque has become one of Saint-Emilion’s most talked-about estates. We caught up with the man behind the modest property’s soaring reputation (and scores) to find out more

David Suire on how he is transforming one of Saint-Emilion’s most talked-about estates, Château Laroque, into a top-scoring property

Carving a new future at Laroque Saint-Emilion 

Carving a new future at Laroque

Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon is a legend of the industry. When he took the helm at Louis Roederer in 1999, he became Champagne’s youngest Chef de Cave, aged just 33. In a rare move for the time, he fought to ensure he was in charge of both the vineyards and winery – knowing that the former would define the wines he produced. Since then he’s continued to push boundaries in the name of quality.  The house is one of the last to remain family-owned and – even more rarely for a Grande Marque – it owns an impressive 242 hectares of vines, providing enough fruit for around 70% of its production. Lécaillon transformed the way Roederer farmed, pushing first for an organic, then biodynamic approach – with half the vineyards now certified organic and half worked biodynamically, and no herbicides used at all. The results speak for themselves – with the house’s prestige cuvée Cristal arguably the finest and most sought-after in the region.  And the man himself is as effervescent as the wines he crafts. Lécaillon is clearly still enchanted by the world of wine –absorbed by its complexities and totally excited by it. Talking to him at a recent tasting, he explains his aim simply: “We are going beyond the bubbles.”  For him, Champagne has traded on its fizz for too long. The wines were once sweet and served with dessert, they then became dry and were used as an aperitif, before becoming inextricably tied to celebrations – a curse that has limited the way Champagne is seen, and savoured. The industry has capitalised on its occasionality, but behind those bubbles – Lécaillon insists – is “a real terroir, a real wine”. It is this exact sentiment that is behind the Grower movement – something that Lécaillon clearly identifies with – however the movement also poses a threat to those trying to source fruit. For the little fruit Roederer doesn’t grow themselves (30% of their production), Lécaillon picks specific plots from around the region and tries to encourage growers to use a sustainable approach. The team will visit the vineyards in spring and summer, and choose the picking date with the grower. While today it’s sometimes tricky to persuade growers to change the way they farm, Lécaillon anticipates a generational shift will take place as more sustainability-invested children take over from their parents. Roederer used to buy fruit from Anselme Selosse, but – naturally –the star vigneron now keeps it all for himself. The fear is that the new generation won’t want to sell their fruit – leaving the Grandes Marques only lesser sites, farmed without the same stringency.  Everything Lécaillon has done at Roederer has been about championing site. He arrived at the house in 1989, but set off instantly for the property’s projects in Anderson Valley, California and then Jansz in Tasmania, returning to Champagne in 1994. Between 1996 and 1998, he worked on a soil study of the house’s vineyards, as well as an archive study – tasting wines back to 1876. When he took over in 1999, he separated all the plots – with 45 specific mid-slope chalky sites dedicated exclusively to Cristal, fruit for the Blanc de Blancs coming from their La Côte estate in Avize and the vintage wine based around Pinot Noir from their La Montagne estate in Verzy.  Changing the viticulture was the next step. In the 1970s, ’80s and even ’90s, Champagne’s soils were a literal dumping ground – with Paris’s rubbish used as “fertiliser”. Lécaillon is one of many that has pushed for change in this area. He feels that organic farming produces better fruit with more dry extract and concentration, but also healthier vines that are stronger and more resistant to the vagaries of vintage – and climate change. Half the property’s vines are now farmed biodynamically – including all the plots used for Cristal.  In a bid to further champion their terroir, Lécaillon established the region’s first private nursery in 2015. He wanted to gather different massale selections from the Roederer vineyards – cuttings from pre-clonal vines that he feels have adapted to climate change and will be key to the house’s (and Cristal’s) future. He claims that it’s the biggest private collection of Pinot Noir in France, and they’ve now expanded the nursery to include not just Chardonnay and Meunier, but all seven of the region’s permitted varieties – including the little-planted Arbane, Petit Meslier, Pinot Gris and Pinot Blanc. The Chef de Cave feels that field blends with these varieties could be the future with climate change – adding freshness to the wine. Over the last two decades, Lécaillon’s work in the vineyard has brought further freshness and precision to the wines – and the introduction of Collection was the latest step in that direction, a move to “bring [the wine] closer to the terroir”.  Cristal might be the jewel in the house’s crown, but a non-vintage blend is any house’s calling card – representing the most significant volume produced (75% at Roederer) and the wine that reaches the most people. It is, Lécaillon says, always the hardest to produce, the most complex to blend – and yet also the one that receives the least attention.  Roederer’s Brut Premier was introduced in 1986, but back then Champagne was more marginal, viticulture and winemaking less advanced, and the battle was for ripeness. In vintage years, the fruit was actually ripe; the art of non-vintage blends was correcting the under-ripeness of the other years with reserve wines. Now, with climate change and the evolution of farming, Champagne has riper fruit than ever before, and an increasing number of vintage-quality years. “The battle now is not for ripeness, but for freshness,” Lécaillon explains. Collection 242 was released in September 2021, with many initially mourning the loss of Brut Premier; people, however, have been won round. As has become fashionable (along with the likes of Krug or even Nyetimber), the wine is “multi-vintage” or “MV” rather than “NV” or “non-vintage”. In Lécaillon’s view, “NV” is “corrective”, whereas, “MV is the story of the new Champagne”. Their aim is no longer consistency, but to make the best possible wine in that year.   He points to 2002 as a pivotal year in the journey to Collection. It was a stunning growing season, with every plot producing wine of vintage quality – but to build a consistent non-vintage wine, they had to “destroy” the quality of each. While Lécaillon feels Brut Premier was an “outlier” in the range, Collection is “more Roederer”, “more Champagne” – which, for him, has to have an oyster-shell salinity.  A key part of developing Collection was creating a perpetual reserve. Held in an enormous 10,000hl stainless steel tank, this reserve is a constantly evolving blend of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Started in 2012, it contains wine from every harvest since, stored without oxygen, in the depths of their cellar where the temperature is cool and stable. This, Lécaillon feels, brings extra texture, depth and a “vintage dimension” to Collection – without the heaviness that he saw in Brut Premier.  The blend also includes more traditional reserves aged in oak (around 10% of the final blend), all with fruit from the younger vines in plots otherwise dedicated to Cristal (only 20-year-old vines make it into the prestige cuvée). The most important element here is that the toasting of the barrels is very light, what Lécaillon describes as a “white toast”, so that it doesn’t dominate the terroir.  Collection 242 was followed by 243 last year – and they are two extremely different wines, the 243 riper and richer versus 242’s more mineral expression. This – for Lécaillon – is what makes an “MV” approach so much more interesting, for both him and wine-drinkers. It is, he tells me, “a blank page every year”.  With everything from zero-dosage experiments to rootstock trials, Lécaillon is constantly looking for ways to improve – with a relentless zest and enthusiasm. For this vigneron, a blank page isn’t daunting – it’s a chance to express his terroir.  Explore all listings from Champagne Louis Roederer or read more Editorial 

The man who crafts Cristal, Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon, is one of Champagne’s most pioneering winemakers. We sat down with the man himself to look back at his journey so far – and discuss why it’s high time people started taking Champagne seriously.

The man who crafts Cristal, Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon, is one of Champagne’s most pioneering winemakers. 

Jean-Baptiste Lecaillon of Louis Roederer

Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon: Champagne “beyond the bubbles”

Non è mai facile scegliere un’annata preferita da bere oggi. Ma gli occhi dei produttori si illuminano quando viene chiesto loro, mentre ripensano alle migliori bottiglie – e ai momenti. Naturalmente, è tutta una questione di gusto. Ci sono collezionisti che amano i vini molto maturi, mentre altri sono molto più attratti da annate più giovani, ancora con un po’ di frutto primario. Anche la vinificazione è cambiata e – sebbene la maggior parte dei grandi Bordeaux sia fatta per durare a lungo – le annate più moderne, con una viticoltura e una vinificazione più precise, sono molto più accessibili in gioventù. Le annate più giovani da godere ora: 2017, 2013, 2009 + 2003 Come molti Pomerol, con il loro profilo di frutta opulenta e tannini morbidi, Ch. Lafleur può essere gustato giovane, ammette il cantiniere di Lafleur, Omri Ram. “Ma è come andare a un concerto dei Pink Floyd e andarsene dopo i primi 10 minuti. È brillante – ma ti perdi così tanto,” spiega. L’altro vino Pomerol di Lafleur, Les Pensées, proviene da terreni argillosi ed è proprio questo che lo rende molto più accessibile in giovane età rispetto a Lafleur, che proviene da terreni ghiaiosi. Ram ritiene, tuttavia, che il 2013 Lafleur stia bevendo magnificamente ora, nonostante la sua giovinezza. Allo stesso modo, sulla Rive Gauche, Damien Sartorius di Léoville Barton ritiene che, sebbene alcune annate siano migliori con 30 anni di età (come il 2010 o il 2016), la maggior parte, soprattutto quelle “intermedie” o “deboli”, si godono meglio giovani – e possono offrire un grande valore. “Sono molto felice di bere oggi un Lynch Bages o un Poyferré del 2013 – sono vini deliziosi e costano molto meno,” dice. Per Bruno Borie di Ducru-Beaucaillou, la scelta dell’annata da bere dipende da molti fattori: “Quando c’è il sole, mi piace bere annate più giovani. Quando fa freddo e inverno, preferisco annate mature, ma temperatura, pressione atmosferica, cibo e compagnia giocano tutti un ruolo nell’identificare quale annata bere.” Ritiene che anche un Ducru giovane come il 2017 sia bellissimo da bere ora. Sebbene pensi che l’annata sia stata sottovalutata dalla stampa, è un’annata elegante e già offre grande piacere con il cibo. Le annate più grandi, come il 2010, invece, richiedono ancora invecchiamento. Ch. Margaux, pur essendo distintamente elegante, è sempre stato un vino costruito per durare, e l’enologo Philippe Bascaules non toccherebbe nulla di più giovane del 2009 – anche le annate più leggere 2011, ’12 e ’13, a suo avviso, sono troppo giovani. Ma il 2009 rompe la tendenza in termini di approcciabilità: per Bascaules, è sempre stato piacevole. 
 È “un grande vino con una trama eccezionale, molto cremosa, opulenza, così potente ma per nulla aggressivo”, spiega. La scelta di Nicolas Audebert di Ch. Rauzan-Ségla tra le annate più giovani è il 2003. “Se i 2003 sono stati ben fatti – cioè senza eccessi – sono estremamente piacevoli da bere. Un buon terroir combinato con un’evoluzione lenta significa che dopo 15 anni in bottiglia ora si mostra magnificamente. Assaggialo alla cieca e non penseresti che sia stato un anno così caldo,” suggerisce. Sottovalutate e ottime ora: 2014, 2012, 2011, 2004, 2001 + 1999 La maggior parte concorda sul fatto che l’annata 2001 sia stata sottovalutata al momento del rilascio, oscurata dal clamore che circondava sia il 2000 che il 2003. “Il 2001 è un’annata molto bella da riscoprire,” spiega Audebert. “È scomparsa dopo l’hype del 2000, ma ha sicuramente resistito bene rispetto alle annate più celebrate.” Allo stesso modo, ritiene che il 2011 abbia condiviso un destino simile. “Dopo l’uscita del 2010, il 2011 ne ha sofferto, ma è un’annata molto bella e interessante. Non appariscente, ma molto elegante, un’annata molto intelligente e in lento sviluppo.” Come molti dei grandi vini di Bordeaux, bisogna avere pazienza con Ch. Lafite-Rothschild. “Facciamo vino per la lunga durata,” dice il Direttore Internazionale della proprietà, Jean-Sébastien Philippe. Per lui, una buona annata è un vino che sembra più giovane man mano che invecchia. Nonostante il grande potenziale di invecchiamento di Lafite, il 2004 è un vino moderatamente giovane che ritiene ottimo da godere ora. 
 “È sempre stato molto classico, ma molto chiuso e quindi sottovalutato. Con la maturità, è diventato un vino straordinario da riscoprire oggi,” dice. Bascaules ritiene inoltre che il 2004 sia una delle annate più sottovalutate di Ch. Margaux, di nuovo perché si colloca tra due anni riveriti, il 2005 e il 2003. 
 “Ma è molto meglio di quanto la gente pensi,” dice. “I tannini stanno ora iniziando ad ammorbidirsi. È molto concentrato, il naso è molto aperto. È molto complesso.” Per Bascaules, il 1999 è un altro vino che è passato inosservato ma che ora è al suo meglio. “È stata un’annata molto calda, ma non molto concentrata. Pertanto, i tannini sono molto maturi e morbidi, la trama è molto risolta, ma il naso è ancora giovane,” spiega. Ram fa eco a Bascaules nel lodare il 1999, con il Grand Vin di Lafleur al suo apice. “Si beve magnificamente ora, se riuscite a trovarlo, e proverete più piacere bevendo il ’99 che il 2000 oggi. Mostra un bellissimo equilibrio, potenza contro eleganza. Densità contro leggerezza. Tutte queste contraddizioni del vino fine si manifestano davvero bene nel 1999. Il 2000 si comporta ancora come un adolescente al confronto.” Ama anche il 2014: “È un’annata poco apprezzata, ma è l’ultima annata classica di Bordeaux – affascinante, elegante, sofisticata.” Il 2014 Ch. Canon è un esempio perfetto, si beve magnificamente ora. Sottolinea anche quanto sia stata di successo Saint-Estèphe quell’anno, con molti grandi vini tra cui scegliere e con un ottimo rapporto qualità-prezzo. Per Sartorius, c’è molto valore da trovare nel 2012: “Léoville Las Cases, Ducru-Beaucaillou, a un prezzo molto buono – sono così buoni e offrono così tanto,” dice. Al loro apice: 2000, 1996, 1995, 1989, 1986, 1985 + 1983 Per Bascaules, Margaux tra i 20 e i 30 anni è perfetto. “Il 1989 probabilmente si beve al suo apice oggi,” dice, “così come il 1990. Il naso del 1985 è terziario ma c’è ancora frutta. Mi piace che ci sia ancora un po’ di frutto nel vino. Il 1983 è un grande vino e ottimo da bere oggi.” 
 Il 1983 è stata un’annata classica in tutta l’appellazione Margaux, e molto migliore della più celebrata 1982, crede Audebert: “Il 1983 a Margaux è molto più interessante, mentre il 1982 rischia di essere troppo maturo.” 
 Spiega che un’annata matura e con alti volumi – all’epoca – era rara, e quindi spesso non qualcosa che i vinificatori dell’epoca erano pronti a gestire. Sostiene che ciò ha portato alcuni 1982 di Margaux a risultare un po’ stanchi, producendo “sapori di tapenade, metallici” e mancando di vivacità. L’annata preferita in assoluto di Ram di Les Pensées deve essere il 2000 – spiega che è stata “la prima vera matrice” per il moderno Les Pensées, quando è passato dall’essere un secondo vino a un’espressione dei terreni argillosi di Lafleur. Combina questo con il fatto che il 2000 è stata un’annata eccezionale e ottieni un vino superbo, anche simbolico. Il 1986 è la scelta di Lafite da bere ora. Per Philippe, mostra di cosa è capace la tenuta: “È l’annata che può davvero aiutarti a capire Lafite – l’emozione e la precisione,” dice. Vini per i secoli: 1955 + 1964 Ch. Canon, 1916 Ch. Ducru-Beaucaillou Mentre molti Claret raggiungeranno il loro cinquantesimo compleanno, alcune annate possono durare ancora più a lungo. Nicolas Audebert ha recentemente assaggiato Ch. Canon del 1955 e ’64, due annate fantastiche per lo château, entrambe ancora bevibili in modo splendido. Bruno Borie ha recentemente apprezzato un 1916 Ducru-Beaucaillou che era ancora in forma. È un’annata particolarmente interessante poiché è stata prodotta solo da donne, mentre gli uomini erano in guerra. 
 Una bella nota del maestro di cantina dell’epoca suggerisce che “il vino potrebbe essere troppo potente, ricco e forte per il commercio”. “Non sono sicuro che il commercio la penserebbe allo stesso modo oggi,” ride Borie. “A 104 anni, dimostra quanto sia importante produrre vini con una struttura sufficiente per superare i 100 anni. Anche oggi, il vino ha ancora un sacco di carattere.”

Abbiamo parlato con alcuni dei nomi più importanti della regione, come Chx Canon, Ducru-Beaucaillou, Lafite-Rothschild, Lafleur e Margaux, per scoprire quali annate ritengono siano al loro meglio in questo momento.

Chx Canon, Ducru-Beaucaillou, Lafite-Rothschild, Lafleur and Margaux on which Bordeaux vintages are entering their drinking window

Bordeaux wine vintages ready to drink now

Le annate di Bordeaux da bere adesso

Highlights of the programme: Daniel Johnnes (right) and Brunello Cucinelli (middle) introduce the programme and present Michel Troisgros (left) as the guest chef of La Paulée in Solomeo. A vertical tasting of Castello di Solomeo, featuring the 2018, 2019, 2020 and 2021 vintages, was led by Michele Baiocco (enologist), Pietro Grelloni (winemaker) and Riccardo Cotarella (consultant winemaker) on the first night. From left to right: Cristian Rimoldi (Champagne Salon and Champagne Delamotte), Olivier Krug (Champagne Krug), Guillaume d'Angerville (Domaine Marquis d'Angerville), Saskia de Rothschild (Château Lafite Rothschild and Château L'Évangile), Brunello Cucinelli, Pierre-Henry Gagey (Maison Louis Jadot), Daniel Johnnes (La Paulée) and Jacky Rigaux (University of Burgundy) at the winery at Castello di Solomeo. View over the vineyards from the winery at Castello di Solomeo, inspired by a Renaissance garden. Sir John Hegarty tasting the 2022 vintages of Château Lafite-Rothschild, Château Duhart-Milon and Château L’Évangile. Brunello Cucinelli's CEOs, Riccardo Stefanelli (left) and Luca Lisandroni (right), at the tasting in the hamlet of Solomeo. Guests are gathering at the Cucinelli Theatre in Solomeo, waiting for the conference to begin. Olivier Krug, sharing how Champagne Krug embodies quality, innovation and a deep respect for tradition, while staying true to its enduring family values. Brunello Cucinelli (left) with Michelin-starred chef Michel Troisgros (right), who traveled from Roanne to Solomeo with his esteemed kitchen team led by César Troisgros. The remarkable lineup for the final dinner (from left to right): 2010 Chevalier-Montrachet, Grand Cru, Les Demoiselles, Maison Louis Jadot (from jéroboam) 1986 Château Cheval Blanc 2017 Volnay, Premier Cru, Clos des Ducs Monopole, Domaine Marquis d’Angerville 1988 Château Lafite Rothschild (from double magnum) 2018 Castello di Solomeo (from magnum) Champagne Krug Rosé 21ème Edition (from magnum) 1988 Château d’Yquem 2013 Champagne Salon Champagne Delamotte Brut (from jéroboam) All images by Enrico Galletti (Brunello Cucinelli).

FINE+RARE, in partnership with Brunello Cucinelli and La Paulée, hosted an exceptional gathering on 13th and 14th of November 2024. This exclusive event, inspired by Burgundy’s traditional end-of-harvest celebration, was held in the breathtaking village of Solomeo, Umbria—home to Brunello Cucinelli.

In November FINE+RARE invited to an exceptional gathering inspired by Burgundy’s traditional end-of-harvest celebration in Solomeo, Umbria.     

Castello di Solomeo Welcomes La Paulée

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