Chianti Classico’s Gran Selezione serves as a fascinating case study in how to elevate (or, arguably, re-elevate) a region’s wines to fine-wine status. From a mere 33 producers when the category was first introduced ten years ago to 169 today – making 213 Gran Selezione wines between them – the category has seen explosive growth to 5% of total regional production, giving the region an almost unprecedented glow-up. It hasn’t always been a smooth road: ‘the Gran Selezione had a rather complex birth,’ says Dr. Marco Pallanti of Castello di Ama – who was president of the Chianti Classico Consorzio when the Gran Selezione was proposed and approved. He recounts that many producers wanted to participate in the drafting; what ultimately emerged was a kind of parcellation carried out by the producer and not by external bodies. "The Gran Selezione category has seen explosive growth" On paper, one might argue the requirements were moderate: the wines had to be estate-grown and -produced, aged for slightly longer (30 months, of which three had to be in bottle) with slightly higher alcohol and dry extract; there weren’t geographic requirements above and beyond the stipulations of the DOCG. The wines themselves, though, were typically far more ambitious than the above would imply, often made from single sites and treated to costly, oak-laden ageing regimens. However, the last several years, and 2023 in particular, have brought about some shifts – whether through regulations or market preferences. Below, I’ve explained some factors that may prove pivotal for the category as it moves ambitiously into its second decade. A new dawn for site specificity The most talked-about addition to the Gran Selezione has been the UGA or Unità Geografiche Aggiuntive, a broad division of this large region into 11 roughly commune-scale sub-regions (some of which are co-extensive with actual communes, like Radda, Gaiole and Castellina, and the rest of which are not). These are applicable exclusively to Gran Selezione wines and, as of July 2023, may appear on front labels. During my travels in the region immediately before the formal approval in 2023, many producers expressed a keen interest in this shift, though the level of that interest naturally varied with the prestige (and meaningfulness) of the UGA. Lamole and Panzano, both carved out of Greve commune, are two UGAs with clearly defined identities and aren’t burdened with the awkwardness of an unpronounceable name (my apologies to Vagliagli), and hence seem much more likely to be coming soon to a shop near you. Nearly monovarietal but not quite Another 2023 shift has been the increase in Sangiovese from 80% to 90% of the blend. Though a seemingly minor shift, there are those who view this as yet another step away from the historical ‘formula’ of Barone Ricasoli (the historical authenticity or at least intent of which is debated), which included white Malvasia grapes along with Sangiovese and Canaiolo. However, the vast majority of Gran Selezione wines reviewed in the Chianti Classico Report are already made up of 100% Sangiovese (not least Ricasoli itself). It is clear that the Sangiovese purists – perhaps originally inspired by the success of the varietal Sangiovese Supertuscans – have nearly won the day anyway. Banishing the internationals A possibly more controversial move is the exclusion of international varieties like Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and, to a lesser extent, Syrah, from the blend. These have – as Pallanti points out – made a home in Tuscany for at least the last 40 years and, in his view, end up ‘Chiantiggiato’ or ‘Chiantified’ by the environment (a viewpoint that aligns with my own observation during my MW studies that Tuscany somehow turns everything into Sangiovese). Pallanti’s own iconic Gran Selezione wines incorporate some Merlot, along with the native Malvasia Nera, as does the gorgeous Don Tommaso from Principe Corsini. Among the vanishingly few other non-varietal Gran Selezione wines in our tasting, the blending partners were largely natives: highly pigmented, plush Colorino seems to outrank the more historical Canaiolo, perhaps representing the last remnants of producers’ drive to make Sangiovese darker than it naturally wants to be. Meanwhile, native grapes are playing a bigger role in the Riservas and especially Annatas, where they add some richness or complexity. A new Gran Selezione style Chianti Classico has the great advantage of already being what the contemporary fine-wine market wants: translucent, elegant and low in invasive oak aromas. Revisiting the early 2010’s Gran Selezione wines is a reminder of the sheer ambition that accompanied these first strides towards fine-winehood. During a vertical tasting of their Gran Selezione, Castello di Albola’s Alessandro Gallo charted their change in style from plump and barrique-polished to something leaner and racier. The wines of today are not quite the dainty, low-alcohol featherweights of last century (most are about 14% on average, some reaching a Brunello-like 15%), but most have a luminescence and lyricism that make this one of the country’s most exciting categories to watch.

Despite a complicated birth, Chianti Classico's Gran Selezione category is elevating more of the region's wines to fine-wine status than ever. Written for Club Oenologique in 2024, Sarah Heller MW picks out some of the key factors for the future of Gran Selezione wine . 

Written for Club Oenologique in 2024, Sarah Heller MW picks out some of the key factors for the future of Gran Selezione wine . 

Chianti Classico’s Gran Selezione gets a glow-up

The old adage about necessity being the mother of invention springs readily to mind when you hear the story of Jean-Luc Pasquet. In 1970, he took over a Cognac vineyard at Chez Ferchaud, a few kilometres southwest of Châteauneuf-sur-Charente, from his uncle Albert Brisson. Things got off to an excellent start. The weather was glorious and the 1970 harvest was abundant – ideal when your business model is predicated on selling to the big Cognac houses that dominate the industry. Life, in other words, was good. But then came the oil crisis and a downturn that badly affected trade in Cognac, prompting Jean-Luc to think again. Amy Pasquet, his daughter-in-law, takes up the story. ‘He said, “I have some really unique terroir; I’m going to make my own label,”’ she explains. And so, in 1977, Cognac Jean-Luc Pasquet was born. Soon, Jean-Luc’s Cognacs were picked out and praised by a German journalist, prompting interest from Germany, Sweden and the UK – and the company, today run by Amy and her husband, Jean-Luc’s son Jean, hasn’t looked back since. Cognac is replete with individuals like Jean-Luc Pasquet. Often they are the unseen drones of a multibillion-euro industry, toiling in vineyard, winery, distillery and cellar to fuel the engines of the quartet of titans that dominate global trade: Hennessy, Martell, Rémy Martin and Courvoisier. But to those in the know, they shine a new and very different light on a corner of rural France that continues to produce the finest brandy in the world. ‘Cognac is so artisanal when you go outside of [the big four houses],’ says Amy. ‘I think a lot of people coming from the world of Scotch and other spirits think it’s kind of boring. But you have 250 artisanal brands with their own vines – it’s a joy to explore.’ Cognac is so artisanal when you go outside of the big four houses – it’s a joy to explore – Amy Pasquet As well as being the source of high-quality, excellent-value and sometimes downright quirky Cognacs, these small producers provide enthusiasts with no shortage of fascinating rabbit holes of flavour and provenance down which they can happily vanish. They are the antithesis of the blended VS, VSOP and XO bottlings that dominate shelves and back bars from Shanghai to San Francisco. Jean-Luc Pasquet’s vineyards – 15ha (37 acres) now, spanning the Grande and Petite Champagne crus – are all farmed organically, which is no small feat in this Atlantic-influenced, notoriously humid part of western France. The Pasquets rely heavily on weather stations and apps to ensure the vines get the right treatment at the right time. ‘Our two vineyards are only 5km [3 miles] apart but they have very different microclimates,’ says Amy. As if organics didn’t make life difficult enough, the Pasquets are also huge fans of Folle Blanche, the grape variety that dominated the pre-phylloxera Cognac vineyards but has fallen heavily out of favour since, on account of being fiendishly difficult to farm. (About 98% of Cognac plantings are now Ugni Blanc.) An annual JL Pasquet bottling of a 10-year-old cask of Folle Blanche is a perennial highlight. Jean-Luc Pasquet set up his business as a négociant; this meant he could bottle other people’s Cognacs, as well as his own, though he had no need to do so in the early years. In 2018, however, demand was such that the company ran out of its own aged stock. What resulted was L’Esprit de Famille, later renamed Trésors de Famille single-cask bottlings of Cognacs produced by small grower-distillers – known as bouilleurs de cru. It began with Le Cognac de Bernadette, a 1974 Cognac from Bouteville in Grande Champagne, and it has continued with bottlings of Le Cognac de Paul, Claude and André-all namechecking the producers in question. ‘For me, all of these vintners are the unsung heroes of Cognac’, says Amy Pasquet. ‘They’re selling to big houses, making really fine products and never getting any credit.’ It’s one thing to know that there are many dozens of small producers out there, but quite another to be able to track down their Cognacs, short of conducting your own painstaking tour, cellar door by cellar door, of the Charente region. Here specialist retailers such as The Whisky Exchange are a great place to start, unlike the multiples, they take the trouble and have the space to stock a much broader range of smaller producers and interesting bottles. If this were Scotch whisky, of course, enthusiasts on a quest for obscure single malts would turn to independent bottlers but that concept is far less common in Cognac. The superb selection offered by David Baker’s Hermitage Cognacs has long been an exception to this rule, as are the releases of Cognac Sponge from bottler Decadent Drinks, then there’s Through The Grapevine (TTG), an independent bottling offshoot of French retailer La Maison du Whisky in association with Italian importer Velier. Now managed by Antoine Bouchard, TTG was revamped two years ago, with Bouchard setting out to create a rolling annual release programme of single-cask Cognacs spanning from the 1930s to the 1990s in colour-coded bottles designating the region’s different crus. Unlike most Cognac operators, TTG encourages its partners to minimise any reduction in alcohol, everything is geared to reject homogeneity. ‘The idea of TTG is to unearth the “hidden gems” of the region, not to go towards the big four like Hennessy – although they’re doing a great job, don’t get me wrong’, says Bouchard. ‘We want to emphasise that the big brands are blending subregions, thus erasing, in a way, the identity of the grape and the distillate. Instead, we want to focus on how the soil influences the final product.’ The result, in the most recent round of TTG releases, is an eclectic selection of idiosyncratic Cognacs. There’s everything from a benchmark Grande Champagne from Jean Fillioux (Lot 63, signifying a blend of mainly 1963 eaux de vie with a little 1965) to a totally out-of-the-box Château de Beaulon 1988 Fins Bois. Created by the remarkable Christian Thomas in the far south of the region, close to the Gironde Estuary, it’s bottled at a muscular 55.2% ABV and eschews the ubiquitous Ugni Blanc for a unique blend of obscure grape varieties: Colombard, Montils, Folle Blanche and Folignan. If Beaulon waves the flag for Fins Bois, TTG’s remarkable Mauxion 45 (yes, 45 as in 1945) does the same for the often overlooked Bons Bois cru – although it’s sadly out of stock now. ‘It’s really about showing that there is no subregion inherently better than another’, says Bouchard. ‘To me, Bons Bois Cognacs are amazing and it’s such a shame that Grande Champagne is seen as the greatest cru.’ While a terroir-focused, provenance-rich approach to Cognac remains predominantly the preserve of smaller operators, others are taking note. Delamain – a specialist in long-aged Cognacs of XO grade and above – is now managing its own Grande Champagne vineyard, as is Hine. And Frapin, with its 240ha (600-acre) estate at Château de Fontpinot, has always been rooted in the soil surrounding its vines. Drinkers around the globe are changing and Cognac – ever so slowly – is changing with them The largest operators remain predominantly focused on their core VS, VSOP and XO blends, but the philosophy is shifting here, too. ‘For me, the approach for Cognac has to be much more precise, like the grands crus we have for our wine regions in France,’ says Baptiste Loiseau, cellar master at Rémy Martin. ‘We see more and more small producers going with much more information on the label.’ In 2022, Loiseau released Rémy Martin L’Étape in France, a 7,000-bottle release that blended 14 eaux de vie sourced from growers across Grande and Petite Champagne who have achieved HVE (High Environmental Value) certification – complete with a paper wrapper featuring grower testimonials, a map and a QR code for more information. Rémy Martin Tercet, meanwhile, highlights the respective roles of wine grower, distiller and blender. At Martell, cellar master Christophe Valtaud has created the Martell Single Cru Collection – a six-strong range of Cognacs including three Discovery Edition products (Petite Champagne, Borderies, Fins Bois), two Aged Editions (Grande Champagne XO, Borderies XXO) and one Vintage Edition (Borderies 1999). As well as showcasing Martell’s signature Borderies origin, these Cognacs challenge preconceptions, particularly the younger Discovery Edition trio. ‘Before tasting, people think that the Petite Champagne will be the best, but the best Cognac at this stage and the biggest pleasure to drink is the Fins Bois,’ explains Valtaud. ‘Fins Bois eaux de vie find balance more quickly than Petite Champagne, which is more spicy and a little bit less easy to drink. People think that Fins Bois and Bons Bois are not the best, but it’s not always the case.’ Drinkers around the globe are changing and Cognac – ever so slowly – is changing with them. ‘In England, America and China, I see the new generation wanting to know what the size of the cask is, or how many bottles we produced in this special vintage,’ says Delamain cellar master Charles Braastad. ‘I think that this is our time; the world has become more informed and more interested. People just want to know what it is that they are drinking.’

In this 2024 article for Club Oenologique, Richard Woodard speaks to Cognac’s foremost innovators to find out how times are changing for the spirit – propelled by a particular focus on provenance.

In this 2024 article for Club Oenologique, Richard Woodard speaks to Cognac’s foremost innovators to find out how times are changing for the spirit.

Reimagining Cognac from the ground up

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  

Xiao-Li Meng, professore di Statistica Whipple V. N. Jones a Harvard e fondatore e direttore responsabile di Harvard Data Science Review, si è lasciato ispirare da uno studente per combinare vino e statistica — ottenendo intuizioni ben oltre quanto entrambi si aspettassero.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Semplicità nelle statistiche, complessità nel vino, il resto nei biscotti della fortuna.

Will Berliner says he didn’t drink wine until he was in his 50s. There might have been the odd bottle of Thunderbird in his teens – he’s a New Yorker by birth – but that was all. ‘All I knew was that white wine was for girls and red wine was for guys. I never drank it.’ So it’s remarkable that now, in his 70s (he looks a decade younger), he’s producing a wine that has been lauded since its first vintage in 2010. Cloudburst, from Margaret River in Western Australia, has been described as ‘otherworldly and memorable’ by Matthew Jukes; ‘fearless and uncompromising’ (Huon Hooke); and ‘a gorgeous wine’ (Jane Anson). It joined the mighty John Riddoch and The Armagh as the first Australian wines on the Bordeaux Place. ‘Will works in ways that are completely different to the mainstream. He’s doing amazing things and his wines are excellent,’ Andrew Caillard MW, author of The Australian Ark, told me. In minimalist, etched glass (screwcaps on both red and white), Cloudburst wines sell for between £130 and £200 per bottle. It’s one of the most expensive Margaret River wines but given that it’s vanishingly rare – Berliner makes about 250 cases of Chardonnay, 200 of Cabernet Sauvignon and 50 of Malbec (it can be much lower – there was less than half that in 2022) – that’s pretty good value. We meet downstairs at Hedonism in London’s Berkeley Square. ‘There he is!’ Berliner says, as if it’s me who’s the celebrity. He’s compact, fit-looking and energetic; from the moment we sit down, he barely draws breath in his urge tell the story of what he calls ‘the most improbable project ever.’ A restless entrepreneur who grew up in New York and moved to New England, Berliner has run a Patagonia-style sustainable clothing business, a Whole Foods-style grocery and a futon business. He’s made schlocky feature films (‘they weren’t super successful’). He built a company, sold it, built another and so on. In 2003, he and his wife Alison Jobson (who is Australian) bought 100ha at Wilyabrup in Margaret River because they loved it and wanted to retire there. The estate was virgin land (though Wilyabrup is full of illustrious estates: Pierro, Moss Wood, Cullen, Vasse Felix) and he says he had no intention of making wine; he might plant a row or two to sell the grapes. Then he caught the bug. A friend – ‘a big New York restaurateur’ – taught him to taste and he got ‘turned on’ to Bordeaux (‘only the Left Bank’). He put himself through a night-school degree in viticulture and enology at UC Davis, and, in 2005, planted a pocket-handkerchief sized plot, one-fifth of a hectare of Cabernet Sauvignon. He was mentored at first by Stuart Watson and his father David, founder of Woodlands Wines in Wilyabrup. ‘I’m ever grateful to him. He’s brilliant and open-minded,’ Berliner says, before adding (with characteristic modesty), ‘but it took someone with my disposition and background to take it to this level.’He now makes the wines himself, from a slightly bigger vineyard – 1.25ha of Cabernet Sauvignon, Chardonnay and 10% Malbec, from which he makes hobbyist amounts of single-vineyard bottlings.When he pours the Chardonnay, I’m expecting something pretty good but somehow not so delicate (it’s not an adjective I’d use for the stocky New Yorker sitting opposite me). There is nothing showy about Cloudburst. The Cabernet is perfumed and delicately tannin-ed, the Chardonnay restrained. They are complex, structured and elegant, the fine work of someone striving for that holy grail of sense-of-place. It took someone with my disposition and background to take it to this level You meet winemakers like this on every continent and each has their own way of articulating this elusive ambition. For Berliner, it’s a Gaia-like concept of oneness with the earth. ‘My life energy has always been about being in nature,’ he says. Cloudburst, he recently told a magazine, ‘is driven by very different considerations than those of my neighbours. It is cultivated differently from any other vineyard in the world.’ Over the years, he’s said a few things that might be thought foolhardy for a fast-talking American in Australia. When I put this to him, he looks for a moment like a 14-year-old unfairly accused of pinching his dad’s cigarettes. ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to,’ he says. How about the idea you’re working to a different rhythm to everyone else? This gets us into a discussion of tall-poppy syndrome, the peculiarly Aussie mechanism by which anyone who puts on airs gets quickly cut down to size. ‘I have been tall-poppied,’ he admits. Some people in Margaret River were threatened by him, he goes on. ‘It’s a normal human characteristic for people to react in a certain way. I understand that, and part of me is very forgiving. But others realise there is great value in having an estate that’s absolutely pure and so small that it demonstrates something. And what we demonstrate is instructive for those who are willing to take a moment and listen.’ And Berliner’s neighbours seem to have got over his tall-poppyness. ‘Will nurtures the wine with his unique personality and it eventuates in Cloudburst as a unique expression of Margaret River,’ Virginia Willcox, head winemaker at Vasse Felix, told me by email. Were his neighbours annoyed by some of his comments? ‘I would hope that all growers have some different considerations to their neighbours. Will is unusually connected to his property and does things his way based on what he feels his plants require.’ The most critical I’ve heard is an off-the-record comment that ‘he’s not a team player.’His farming methods – own-rooted, dry-grown vines, no tilling, wild-yeast ferment in open barrels, no racking or stirring – are not that unusual for a modern artisan wine, but he was ahead of the game when he planted. No-dig mulching, for example, wasn’t that much in vogue in 2005. ‘I did nothing to the soil before I planted. I put down good quality cover crops but basically all I did was poke holes in the ground and stick [in the root]. And sometimes that worked, sometimes you’d have a root that made it on top of a rock and dried up. So there’s a differential from gnarly vines to very skinny vines.’ I care about making a little bit of something extraordinary Many gifted winemakers find it difficult to explain what they are trying to do. Some take recourse in mystical hocus-pocus, others skewer their audience with opaque science. Anyone who ever listened to the late Serge Hochar of Château Musar explaining his white wines will know what I mean.I imagine he got into wine in the same way he got into all his other ventures: learn the subject and do it better than anyone else. But if it had been just that, he’d be farming a lot more than 1.25ha now. He insists he’s not in it for the money, and I believe him. ‘This little bit takes all of me. I don’t give a shit about scaling. I care about making a little bit of something extraordinary. And the thing that has distinguished us, for our customers, is that they get a piece of something that tastes extraordinary.’And so he reaches for a bottle and pours me a glass that is – yes – extraordinary. Explore our full selection of available Cloudburst wines

In this 2025 article for Club Oenologique, Will Berliner talks to Adam Lechmere about arriving in Margaret River with no intention of making wine, producing some of its most expensive cuvées, being ahead of the game and getting ‘tall-poppied’ by the locals.

Will Berliner talks to Adam Lechmere in Club Oenologique’s 2025 article about his Margaret River journey and producing some of its most expensive wines.

The most improbable project ever:Will Berliner on Cloudburst

‘The most improbable project ever’: Will Berliner on Cloudburst

Sitting opposite us, the dark-suited, dark-haired figure waved an elegant hand at the bottle of white Burgundy which he’d just fished out of a carrier bag and planted on the table with the air of a conjuror at a party. “You’ll like this,” he said; it was a statement, not a suggestion, delivered in a faint accent with American overtones and a hint of gutturality. In this totally unremarkable West London pub, a bottle of Meursault looked as out of place as a KGB officer. Which he was. We did like it, of course, who wouldn’t? It made the greasy steak and chips almost bearable, and was one of the best wines I’d ever tasted at that point in my life. I was 33 that year, 1978, and as a newish BBC foreign correspondent I wasn’t particularly well paid. He’d brought the Meursault with him to show us how sophisticated he was, and to counter the blandness of the food. But why had he suggested The Mitre as a place for lunch? It was handy for the Soviet embassy up the road, certainly; but I realised that the real attraction for him was the high-backed seats that enclosed our table and kept our conversation private. Sergei was a major in the KGB, masquerading as a press attaché. The habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in him. The Meursault started to work on my companion, a gossipy, amusing, slightly naïve BBC executive. It worked on me, too, but under the influence of alcohol I tend to go quiet and introverted. Not so Harry. He delivered the brief lecture about Soviet harassment of our Moscow correspondent which he’d been planning. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t make Sergei burst into tears. On the contrary. “Ah, yes, the famous Declan.” Sergei managed to put the accent on the second syllable. “Such good Russian. A pity he wastes his time hanging around those drop-outs and wastrels.” I was particularly impressed by ‘wastrels’. “I suppose you mean dissidents,” I said, pushing my glass across for more Meursault. The label read ‘1968’; the Soviet embassy must have had a superb cellar. Sergei laughed scornfully and poured. “I hear Declan’s marriage isn’t going so good now,” he said. “Ah, no, his wife left him for an airline pilot,” Harry replied, giggling. I kicked him sharply: you didn’t feed personal details about your colleagues to KGB officers. “What?” Harry said, looking at me. We saw the bottle out. Sometimes I think I can still taste that rich, green-gold collection of butter, almond, citrus and, could it have been, or is it just my imagination after more than 40 years, hints of bracken and mayflower. At the end, we stood up and shook hands. “So you’ll go easy on Declan from now on?” Harry said. “Well, Declan must stop creating bad propaganda against the Soviet Union.” He had a good ear: this time the accent was on the first syllable. Sergei turned in the direction of the embassy, and we headed back to Television Centre. “Bloody good wine those Russkies can afford,” Harry said, and gave his high-pitched laugh.For journalists and spies, booze is a famous lubricant, a fuel, even. I came from a teetotal background, yet when I started as a foreign correspondent I soon found myself ordering a glass of single malt as a means of self-protection, while someone I was trying to pump for information opened up and talked in a way he or she never would if I’d ordered a Britvic orange. Yet there were exceptions. In Belfast and Derry, where I started my reporting career, the leaders of the Provisional IRA were mostly ultra-Catholic and never drank a drop; and as I branched out and began reporting on the Middle East, I found that organisations like Hezbollah and the followers of the Ayatollah were as teetotal as I had once been. There were no bars to meet them in, either. Fortunately, though, cities like Cairo and Beirut were more sophisticated. I soon found that anywhere with a sizeable Christian population, Egypt and Lebanon, of course, but also Syria, Iraq and westernised countries like Turkey and Pakistan, made allowances for thirsty westerners and permitted them to drink, even if in cities like Peshawar you had to sign a big leather volume and register yourself as an alcoholic. The bar in the old Commodore Hotel in Beirut was a wonderful centre for professional alcoholics of this kind. I first went there in June 1982, when West Beirut was under hourly attack from Israeli planes and tanks, and there were no shelters to protect us. The presiding spirit of the place was a correspondent called Chris Drake, a hospitable soul who dispensed booze and information even-handedly. When the barrage was going on, it would have been suicidal to leave the Commodore, and the building shuddered to every nearby explosion. Chris Drake had a parrot, and when the bar was packed in the evening with journalists glad to still be alive, it would imitate the sound of a shell in flight with startling accuracy. Most of the people there, not me, thank God, had walked into the bar on their first night, heard the parrot’s hugely convincing whistle, and thrown themselves on the floor shouting “Incoming!”. There would be a roar of laughter, and someone would help them up and offer them a glass of arak, an infusion of grapes and the seeds of the anise plant. I acquired a real taste for arak at that time, and I still think of that slightly oily, metallic, liquorice-tasting liquid hitting the back of my throat and burning its way down. A few years later, during another upsurge of fighting, the Commodore was heavily shelled by the Syrian army. The building was destroyed, and no trace of the parrot was ever found. When peace was restored and there was money around, the Commodore was rebuilt, much bigger and more glitzy, but the architect designed a new bar precisely where the old one had once been. You can still see the space on the floor where many a famous journalist measured his length when the parrot did its party trick. I took my wife and 13-year-old son there a couple of years ago, and one afternoon, when the bar was empty, my son insisted on re-enacting the whole thing. In China, things were different. Meetings with underground figures usually took place at their homes or outdoors, given the fear of surveillance. I often chose Ritan Park in Beijing, where teahouses served pu-erh tea and offered a discreet place to talk. By contrast, official meetings required alcohol, specifically Maotai, a fierce baijiu distilled from sorghum at over 50% ABV. At one banquet, after being insulted by a local Party official, I tried to outdrink him. The plan failed, he had help, but we still ended the night collapsed together, singing in two languages. The next day, I was told this had enhanced British prestige. Countries where alcohol is banned present different challenges. In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I smuggled in a 27-year-old bottle of Laphroaig disguised as Fanta, only to pour it down the toilet when soldiers began searching rooms for alcohol. They never entered mine. After the fall of the Soviet Union, I tried to track Sergei down but never found him. Before that, though, I had taken my revenge by signing him up to every unwanted mailing list I could find, encyclopaedias, dubious magazines, and more inventive subscriptions besides. It made me feel very good.And yet, if I imagine meeting him again, I always picture the same thing: Sergei standing in the doorway, holding a superb bottle of Meursault. For that, at least, I’ve always been grateful. This article was written by John Simpson, who reflects on his experiences reporting across the world, and the role alcohol has played in the art of face-to-face reconnaissance. Illustrations by Natsko Seki. Originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson reflects on reporting from conflict zones, recalling memorable bars, encounters and the role alcohol plays in the subtle art of face-to-face reconnaissance.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson on bars, encounters and how alcohol shapes reporting, trust and intelligence gathering worldwide.

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

Because of the technical demands of its wines, Champagne has often been associated more with the skill of the people and technology behind the bottles than with the land itself. Yet in the 1980s, amid a period in the wine world dominated by industrialisation, a handful of quality-focused grower-producers began championing terroir-driven Champagne, laying the foundation for the nuanced, expressive wines we celebrate today. Thanks to them, the names of Champagne’s grands crus are firmly etched in the minds of today’s connoisseurs. We can now delve even deeper into individual lieux-dits through an ever-expanding array of single-vineyard Champagnes. For decades, Philipponnat’s 1935-initiated Clos des Goisses from Aÿ’s monumental slope stood alone. The modern single-vineyard boom began in 1979 with Krug’s Clos du Mesnil, and the growth since the 1990s has been exponential. Through site-specific Champagnes, we have learned to thirst for such terroirs as Ambonnay Les Crayères, Cramant Le Bâteau, and Le Mesnil-sur-Oger Les Chétillons. The modern single-vineyard boom began in 1979, and the growth since the 1990s has been exponential Elevating the ‘autres crus’ Equally significant is the rise of Champagne’s autres crus, the once-overlooked villages without premier cru or grand cru designation. Montgueux and the Côte des Bar in the south have become particularly dynamic regions. Thanks to vigneron Emmanuel Lassaigne’s work at Jacques Lassaigne, Montgueux’s majestic Chardonnays are in high demand – not only by the major houses, which prize their structured elegance, but by discerning consumers seeking unique expressions. Another quickly rising village is Les Riceys – Champagne’s largest cru, with well over 800ha (1,980 acres) – where Olivier Horiot and Domaine Alexandre Bonnet showcase Pinot Noir’s distinctive power. If the classification were reassessed today, neither of these villages would remain autres crus. Following in the footsteps of the consistently magnificent Cédric Bouchard Roses de Jeanne Champagnes, the list of exciting producers in the Côte des Bar continues to expand, reflecting the subregion’s dynamism. Recently, I’ve been impressed by the bright, transparent non-interventionist style of Domaine de Bichery (Neuville-sur-Seine) and the sheer expressiveness of Clandestin (Landreville). The Champagne septet Chardonnay always remains in fashion in Champagne, but it is thrilling to see more regional expressions emerging. Among the most striking are Ulysse Collin’s single-vineyard wines from the up-and-coming Coteaux du Petit Morin, just south of the Côte des Blancs. The Sézannais and Vitryat regions are establishing themselves strongly, as is Montagne de Reims, which offers a wealth of exceptional Chardonnay sites. One of my personal favourites is Rilly-la-Montagne’s chalky Les Blanches Voies terroir, where both Vilmart & Cie and Huré Frères craft magnificent wines. Meunier, long out of fashion, has enjoyed a remarkable resurgence thanks to the passionate growers of the Vallée de la Marne. Once again in the spotlight through the work of, for example, Tarlant, Jérôme Prévost and Egly-Ouriet, today producers such as Nicolas Maillart, Gounel-Lassalle and Laherte Frères are elevating Meunier to unprecedented heights. Despite this progress, I believe Meunier still has vast untapped potential to reveal. In Champagne’s Pinot Noir heartland of the Grande Vallée de la Marne, houses such as Bollinger and Philipponnat are cementing their authority with a string of pure Pinot Noir releases. But what’s notable today is that the new wave of blancs de noirs is no longer chasing cult benchmarks like Bollinger’s Vieilles Vignes Françaises and Krug’s Clos d’Ambonnay – bottlings famed for their unapologetic richness. Instead, the spotlight is shifting to a fresher, more contemporary interpretation of Pinot Noir. Consider the precision of Nicolas Maillart’s Montchenot or the electric verve of Domaine La Borderie’s De Quoi Te Mêles-Tu?; these are wines embodying a new aesthetic that privileges finesse over power. In a nod to its past, Champagne is tentatively reviving its forgotten heritage grapes Arbane, Petit Meslier, Pinot Blanc and Pinot Gris. Let’s not overstate the trend – plantings of these cépages still account for just 0.4% of the region’s vineyard area, up only a fraction from 0.3% a few years ago – but the trajectory is undeniable: over the past two decades, these varieties have expanded by 45ha, now covering 136ha in total. The south of Champagne has quietly kept the flame alive, where Arbane, Petit Meslier, Pinot Blanc and Pinot Gris continue to offer an unmistakable local accent. Domaine Alexandre Bonnet’s Blanc de Blancs, for instance, is half Pinot Blanc, half Chardonnay. Arbane may remain an infamously meagre producer, yet vignerons such as Laherte Frères see real promise in Petit Meslier, particularly in the era of climate change, thanks to the piercing freshness it brings to the glass. Evolution, not revolution Freshness, rather than ripeness, has become Champagne’s new obsession. With harvests creeping into August and fruit coming in under a blazing sun, the challenge now is to preserve acidity, not to coax maturity. The old orthodoxy of 100% malolactic fermentation is giving way as more producers choose to let a streak of crisp malic acid sharpen their blends. Even the sacred formulas of brut Non-Vintage cuvées are being rewritten. Previously, reserve wines were prized for softening edges and adding richness, but today they are reimagined as a safeguard for vitality. Louis Roederer has gone so far as to reinvent its flagship Non-Vintage, now called Collection, introducing a perpetual reserve stored in gigantic vats – a safeguard of freshness that now defines the wine’s very DNA. Simultaneously, it has evolved from an ‘ageless’ Non-Vintage, with no reference to its base year or disgorgement, into a collectable, complete with edition numbering, like the Jacquesson 700 series or Lanson Création. The moment has finally arrived in Champagne to stop concealing the base year and other technical details and instead to celebrate them with pride. Falling sugar levels and minimal intervention The shift in Champagne’s taste profile goes hand in hand with a steady trimming of dosage. Despite the buzz in sommelier circles and wine-press headlines, the ultra-dry styles remain a statistical footnote: barely 3.6% of exported Champagnes carry less than 6g/l (extra-brut or brut nature). Yet the broader reality is unmistakable: sugar levels are falling fast. Dom Pérignon’s 2015 Vintage, for example, sits at just 4.5g/l. It’s not only prestige cuvées chasing purity; the entire region is recalibrating as even the world’s most popular Champagne, Moët & Chandon Impérial, is dropped down to a record low dosage of 6g/l. The old rationale of softening searing acidity with sugar has lost its purpose. In today’s warmer vintages, the dash of sugar is ‘seasoning’, tempering phenolic bite and extending the wine’s length and deliciousness. Few regions have leaned on sugar as heavily as Champagne. Traditionally, it has been added three times: first to enrich the must for higher alcohol (chaptalisation), then to spark the second fermentation in bottle, and finally as the sweetening dosage. Today, however, the pendulum is swinging towards authenticity, and sugar is a villain there. In a move pioneered by Agrapart in 2007, some vignerons are replacing industrial sugar with preserved grape must from the previous harvest to ignite the second fermentation (or, if bottling later, with the juice of the new season). Since the 2019 vintage, Fabrice Pouillon of Champagne R Pouillon & Fils has gone a step further, crafting his Champagnes entirely without external sugar. Even when dosage is applied, it comes from grape juice itself. It’s a small revolution – one that redefines purity in a region that was once synonymous with sweetness. If the first wave of Champagne’s game-changers sometimes veered into excess with bone-dry bottlings, overpowering oak, and (too) low sulphites, the next generation has found its stride with impressively sound and exciting wines, often achieved through minimal-intervention techniques. With offerings that are precise, vibrant and true to site, producers such as Jules Brochet and Domaine de Bichery exemplify this new, confident minimalism. For those chasing innovation, Famille Moussé is a must-visit. Cédric Moussé, a true inventive force, equips his ultra-sustainable winery with every tool and gadget imaginable. In the village of Cuisles, he has even launched Champagne’s first cooperative to cultivate vineyards with the aid of robots. For a greener future At the same time, Champagne is getting greener. Comité Champagne is pushing for a collective effort, while the grandes maisons are turning corporate ambition into vineyard action. The EPI Group trio (Piper-Heidsieck, Charles Heidsieck and Rare Champagne) were the first in the region to achieve B Corp certification. Pernod Ricard’s houses – GH Mumm and Perrier-Jouët – are championing regenerative viticulture. Ruinart, the sustainability flagship of LVMH’s Champagne empire, houses a landmark vitiforestry project across its vast Taissy holdings. But the movement is not confined to big brands – for example, Aurélien Lurquin and Domaine La Borderie are doing impressive work. And while small houses remain Champagne’s most visible champions of organics and biodynamics, it is Louis Roederer that has rewritten the scale: with 130ha now certified organic, it alone represents almost 6% of Champagne’s total organically certified vineyard area (2,240ha as of the end of 2024). As transportation makes up the lion’s share of Champagne’s carbon footprint, producers are finally looking at rationalising their packaging. Cédric Moussé recently developed the lightest bottle so far, which will enter the market in two years’ time. He also transitioned from traditional metal capsules to recyclable paper ones, which reportedly have a carbon footprint just 20% of that of aluminium. Ruinart deserves high praise for its Second Skin bottle cover, moulded to the contours of the bottle. Fully recyclable and made from 99% paper, the case is marketed as nine times lighter than its predecessor. Beyond the sustainability gains, it elegantly addresses a quality concern: Ruinart’s hugely popular Non-Vintage Blanc de Blancs in clear glass is now protected from light-strike – a phenomenon that can rapidly degrade Champagne yet is overlooked by consumers and the trade alike. Moving away from clear glass is not just a matter of quality, it is also a sustainability imperative, as these bottles require new, rather than recycled, glass for production.The Champagne landscape has never been more thrilling. Beyond the classic offerings, you’ll find late-disgorged gems, rosé de macération, clos and other site-specific expressions; perpetual reserves; and cuvées aged in a multitude of vessels from oak and sandstone to glass and clay amphorae, each promising a fresh take on the region’s tradition. Today’s younger buyers crave brands that marry luxury with ethics, and Champagne is responding. The rules are changing, the classics are evolving, and the next sip could redefine everything you thought you knew. Browse all Champagne listings 

Can Champagne evolve while preserving the traditions that define it? Writing for Club Oenologique in 2026, Essi Avellan MW draws on her recent tastings to explore the trends and exceptional wines shaping Champagne today and redefining luxury for a new generation of connoisseurs.

Writing for Club Oenologique in 2026, Essi Avellan MW draws on her recent tastings to explore the trends and exceptional wines shaping Champagne today.

Terroir vision: the future of Champagne

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

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

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

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

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