What springs to mind when you think of Bordeaux? Probably châteaux the size of medieval palaces, formal dinners, and rows and rows of pristine vines, neatly manicured rose bushes the only other signs of plant life. What you’re unlikely to be imagining are cow horns stuffed with manure buried in the ground, or horse-drawn ploughs churning through earthworm-rich soil. ‘In the past, in Bordeaux, you were scared to say you were growing biodynamically,’ says Corinne Comme, who manages 10ha of biodynamic vines at Château du Champ des Treilles in Entre-Deux-Mers with her husband Jean-Michel. ‘Now it’s trendy.’ An engineer and geologist, Jean-Michel Comme was behind the first transition of a grand cru classé estate on Bordeaux’s Left Bank to biodynamics. Although he and Corinne first came across the concept in the mid-1990s, he didn’t begin to advocate for the approach at Château Pontet-Canet in Pauillac until the early 2000s. ‘Corinne was scared,’ he recalls. ‘She thought they would fire me.’ "Behind the more esoteric elements is a series of principles that have been shown to improve soil health and vine strength" Originally laid out in a series of lectures by Austrian philosopher, scientist and social reformer Rudolf Steiner in 1924, biodynamic farming emerged as a holistic approach to agriculture before quickly evolving into formal certification movements. At its core, biodynamic farming centres on soil health and biodiversity; most distinctively, it operates according to the lunar calendar, with practitioners timing agricultural activities around specific ‘fruit days’, ‘root days’, ‘leaf days’ and ‘flower days’ to align with cosmic rhythms believed to influence plant growth and agricultural processes. For many in Bordeaux – Jean-Michel Comme included – this all sounded a bit wacky. ‘I was young, full of expectations about chemistry; the way biodynamics was presented was so remote that I felt it was crazy,’ Comme says. ‘But with experience, we did change our minds.’ Why? Because behind the more esoteric elements is a series of principles that have been shown to improve soil health and vine strength. In vineyards, biodynamic farming means specific practices such as hand-harvesting, using natural composts made with specific herbal and mineral preparations, avoiding chemical fertilisers and pesticides, and treating the entire vineyard as a self-sustaining ecosystem. In the cellar, there’s an emphasis on minimal intervention, using native yeasts, avoiding commercial additives, keeping sulphur use to under 70ppm, and employing gentle pressing and ageing techniques that respect the wine’s natural development. While biodynamics took root in regions like the Loire and Burgundy in the 1990s, biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux largely began in the new millennium, with just two early St-Emilion exceptions: Château Meylet, which has been practising it since 1987, and Château Fonroque, experimenting since 1995 with direction from Loire legend Nicolas Joly. This delay largely stemmed from two factors. First, Bordeaux’s humid maritime climate means that vines are especially vulnerable to both downy and powdery mildew, making the avoidance of synthetic fungicides a risky business. Second, large châteaux with multimillioneuro operations were reluctant to abandon the technological viticulture and winemaking that had built their global reputations in the first place. Comme, however, was convinced of the virtues of biodynamics. He began by seeking the assistance of François Bouchet. The Loire Valley winemaker was one of the first in France to pioneer biodynamics, also consulting for Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, Domaine Leroy and Domaine Leflaive in Burgundy. Bouchet guided the transition to biodynamics at Comme’s Château du Champ des Treilles; then, he persuaded Château Pontet-Canet owner Alfred Tesseron of its merits. In 2004, it was trialled on 15ha (about 20% of the estate’s total growing area) of the fifth growth at which Comme was also technical director. A severe mildew outbreak in 2007 led to the use of pesticides, undoing three years of progress, but it then became a crucial lesson that strengthened their long-term commitment to biodynamics. ‘They believed the fruit had more expression, more brightness,’ says the current technical director at Pontet-Canet, Mathieu Bessonnet, who reveals that they converted the whole of the growing area soon after. ‘It’s obviously much more difficult, time-consuming and expensive, so it was very risky,’ he adds. Since then, biodynamic farming has become a significant and growing practice across different classed growths in the region, with some of the most prestigious estates – such as Château Latour and Château Palmer – adopting biodynamic methods (the latter certified). ‘The link between the wines and the place where the fruit came from had become less and less obvious,’ says Château Palmer’s technical director Thomas Duroux, commenting on the region’s turn to the trend. He notes that, since the noughties, many have adopted organic practices in a bid to reverse this perceived drop in terroir definition. ‘Biodynamics is, in a way, the same story as organic farming, but with a larger vision,’ he adds. This shared perspective has led to more cooperation between practitioners. Every spring, the Médoc branch of the Biodynamic Agriculture Movement gathers at Château Ferrière. After unearthing a thousand manure-filled cow horns and replacing them with silica-filled ones (a process reversed in autumn to produce preparations 500 and 501, required for Demeter certification), participants share wines and gardengrown salads. The humus removed from the cow horns is stored in a cold, damp facility and made available to members. ‘We do that for free,’ says Claire Lurton, owner of Château Ferrière. ‘It’s a community.’ Though ‘community’ might be too strong a word for some, these gatherings symbolise a deepening professional exchange that has emerged among estates of all sizes through the practice of biodynamic winemaking. In fact, the shift among the classed growths has happened at the same time as these practices have been adopted by smaller growers arriving in the region. Christophe Landry of Château des Graviers, for example, returned to Arsac in the 1990s and began practising biodynamics around the same time as Comme at Pontet-Canet. He’s consulted for the Lurton estates and other properties. Originally from Minervois in Languedoc, Michel Théron established Clos du Jaugueyron nearby and has been certified biodynamic since 2008, while Laurence Alias and Pascale Choime – who are both from southwest France – established Closerie des Moussis, a patchwork of sites across 2ha, including a 170-year-old pre-phylloxera plot leased from Théron. On the Right Bank, other producers began switching lanes even earlier. Le Puy, owned by the Amoreau family, began practising in 1998, with certification since 2013, and Château Gombaude-Guillot in Pomerol has been certified biodynamic since 2006. While larger estates like Latour and Palmer collaborate on issues like mildew, smaller producers tend to engage more with one another. Shared biodynamic practices, however, are definitely helping to break down barriers. For example, Château Haut-Bages Libéral maintains regular communication with its neighbours at Château Latour, and the son of Théron at Clos du Jaugueyron interned at Château Palmer for two months. Can we speak of a unity of praxis? Not exactly. There is considerable variation in which aspects of biodynamics winemakers emphasise, regardless of estate size. The primary aim across the board is achieving living soil with rich biodiversity to promote deep-rooted vines. In pursuit of this, some winemakers emphasise tree growing or cover cropping (like Haut-Bages Libéral, which also recently planted a variety of local and fruit trees). Others, such as Le Puy, let nature take its course, allowing a diverse array of plants and flowers to sprout from the earth. Whether certified or not, biodynamic practitioners throughout Bordeaux use homeopathic treatments like nettle teas for the vines – they are believed to stimulate soil health, enhance plant immunity and improve nutrient uptake. More important than any of this, however, is the concept of energy. How can the energy of the plant be retained as its raw material transforms into wine? Every winemaker I visited was at least intrigued by the concept – and most were captivated. After a few days in the sometimes eerily flat Médoc, I drive through the verdant hills of St-Emilion to Le Puy, arriving with a raised spirit. Standing before a 5,000-year-old Celtic cromlech, Harold Langlais, the estate’s director, tells me, ‘Le Puy is a place of energy and life,’ pointing to its deep history as an intersection of water springs. At modern-day Le Puy, this philosophy extends from the vines to the cellar. Indeed, many others I speak to express that, since adopting biodynamics, the most striking change in their wines has been an increase in ‘energy’. It’s a term without a precise definition, but according to Château Palmer’s makers, something shifted with the 2015 vintage, the second year after full conversion. ‘You cannot measure it,’ Thomas Duroux says. ‘You can just feel it.’ At Château Durfort-Vivens, where the vineyard was operating under biodynamic principles by 2013 (with full conversion by 2016), owner Gonzague Lurton recalls the 2014 vintage as ‘the first where you really feel the energy of biodynamics’. It’s tactile and warming, with a sophisticated grip and charm. ‘It’s what I love – the linearity of tannins, never weak from start to finish. With many of the estates I visited, their wines showed an immediate appeal, vibrant even in their youth. Is energy just another way of describing freshness? Laurence Alias at Closerie des Moussis trained as an agricultural engineer; for her, energy and vitality are tied to the physical properties of grapes grown biodynamically. ‘We have more acidity, that’s an analytic fact,’ she tells me, standing in front of a newly acquired plot of vines bordered by forest. It might be romantic to think of energy as something ineffable, but it’s also rooted in what remains within the grapes. ‘Our idea of energy is based more on Einstein than Steiner,’ Langlais later qualifies. ‘Energy is matter.’ Biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux: five to follow Château Pontet-Canet At the 55ha Pontet-Canet estate in Pauillac, an immensely smooth operation is palpable. Winemakers here have spent almost two decades honing their biodynamic craft, continually moving towards a goal of self-sufficiency for the estate. Sturdy Comtois horses, introduced in 2008, now work half the vineyard, preventing soil compaction. Vineyards are sprayed over a single day using compost and herbal teas produced from plants grown in and around the property and processed in the state-of-the-art infusion room. Biodiversity-boosting fruit trees and hedges have been planted. The estate even employs a carpenter who repurposes wood from vats used on the property. Ageing involves custom-made wooden eggs and qvevri-style amphorae, with no fining and minimal filtration. The result? A Pauillac with untypical levels of energy and minerality, and a plush, velvety texture. But it’s more than that – according to Bessonnet, thanks to a low-intervention approach across the board, ‘you can really feel the soil.’ Château Palmer Thomas Duroux’s conviction in biodynamics is based in what he calls a ‘holistic vision’. ‘We started to see the entire place as a living organism,’ he says of Château Palmer, one of the most storied and historically significant third-growth estates in Bordeaux. When converting (a process that started in 2009), the Margaux estate was initially guided by François Bouchet’s son Matthieu, but now it follows its own evolving philosophy, integrating cover crops, animals for fertilisation and estate-grown vegetables and meat. ‘It’s just going back to agricultural common sense,’ Duroux says. ‘That was the way to grow anything before World War II.’ This respect for nature results in wines that are deeply tied to their terroir. ‘If I had to describe the wines how they are today, compared to how they were before, I’ll just say that it’s not a revolution, but we have the feeling that the wines have a better identity,’ says Duroux. He likens biodynamics to restoring an old painting: ‘Suddenly, you see small details that you were not able to see because of the dust.’ The estate uses stainless-steel vats for fermentation and temperature-controlled rooms for barrel-ageing, combined with nativeyeast and low-sulphur winemaking, to produce its esteemed Alter Ego and Château Palmer cuvées; both have been increasingly celebrated among critics and drinkers since the turn to biodynamics. ‘We just think it does help to go a little bit further in the interpretation of the place,’ says Duroux. Château Durfort-Vivens Standing over a rustic sorting table explaining how it used to work, Gonzague Lurton is visibly passionate about the savoir-faire of the past. This sensibility is reflected in the current winemaking practices, too, and in the second-growth Margaux estate’s reputation (and critics’ scores) increasing year on year. The thing to emphasise is that what began with a biodynamic approach in the vineyards led to a series of domino effects that changed the character of the wines. In search of what Lurton calls greater ‘singularity’, the proportion of Cabernet Sauvignon had already risen to over 90% by 2014 (from around 75%); and with the use of indigenous yeasts during fermentation and the reduction of sulphur levels over time (initially sparked by Demeter’s upper limits of 70mg/l), the wines have become more aromatically complex and expressive. The introduction of amphorae by Italian producer Tava has allowed for microoxidation without overextraction, contributing to a more delicate balance of flavours, with the 2019 estate wine a blend aged one third in amphorae and the rest in barrel. ‘It’s not a big wine,’ says Lurton. ‘And it’s what I was looking for with biodynamics, in terms of style.’ Château des Graviers Christophe Landry’s pioneering status in Margaux stems from an instinct refined over decades at his own estate. He grows medicinal plants — horsetail, absinthe, calendula, chamomile — for vineyard treatments, as well as using the manure from his own cows. ‘What we need to remember is that biodynamics isn’t just a practice,’ he tells me. ‘It’s about finding your own path to self-sufficiency.’ His precision extends to the cellar, where he uses concrete tanks, amphorae and oak barrels (produced according to the biodynamic calendar) tailored to each of the five cépages’ oxygenation needs, then ages the wines for different lengths of time. Timing is everything, with harvest choices also following the biodynamic calendar. Obsessive care for the vines’ life cycles goes hand in hand with the level of precision in the cellar. The outcome is two phenomenal wines that are, as Landry puts it, ‘thirstquenching’. Château des Graviers and Quintessence — which contains a higher proportion of Petit Verdot and is aged longer in barrel and amphorae — are aromatically expressive, velvety and strikingly lively, with the latter offering more depth and an enveloping finish. Expanding to 18ha, Landry has also turned his focus to Clos Dufourg, cultivating vines on previously wild land nearby and hand-building a striking new cellar with cement tanks painted with clay from the surrounding earth. Le Puy For technical director Harold Langlais, the Le Puy estate’s significance lies in how it challenges Bordeaux’s conventional identity. Outside of the region’s traditional focus on appellations and classifications, Le Puy sits on a plateau near St-Emilion. The estate’s land is unusual, with no topsoil but a deep limestone bedrock beneath red-brown clay, which forces the vines to develop deep roots to access the earth’s natural water and nutrients. This is further supported by horse-ploughing and biodynamic sprays made from horsetail, buckthorn and nettles, which grow on the property. ‘Our approach focuses on rooting the vine deep,’ Langlais explains, ‘encouraging it to search out hidden nutrients.’ A vigorous wind circulates around the vines, and Langlais explains the effects of the elements. ‘The beauty of Le Puy is that it’s an acid factory. The whole place creates acidity in the berries.’ The biodynamic philosophy extends to the winemaking, with two different processes applied to their 100% Merlot cuvées. Cuvée Emilien uses a ‘decantation method’, or ‘fermentation by infusion’, while Barthélemy is produced with zero sulphites and a process of lees-stirring called ‘dynamisation’, which is done on fruit days and involves a specific motion to create a vortex in the old barrels it ages in. ‘Barthélemy is much more intense,’ Langlais says. ‘All the matter taken by the plant is in there.’

Written for Club Oenologique in 2025, Joel Hart visits Bordeaux to track the region’s belated embrace of biodynamic winemaking. While other French regions ploughed ahead, Bordeaux had its reasons for delayed adoption. Yet now the practice is booming, and Hart gauges its employment across estates.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Joel Hart visits Bordeaux to track the region’s belated embrace of biodynamic winemaking. 

Taking root: the rise of biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux

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

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

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

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

Bordeaux 2024  Unsurprisingly, our coverage of the latest Bordeaux vintage once again dominated our most-read editorial in 2025. From our first impressions through to a full vintage overview, a detailed commune-by-commune breakdown and a comprehensive critics’ round-up, Bordeaux 2024 proved a vintage that demanded careful reading rather than sweeping conclusions. Our early coverage set the tone: a year shaped by climatic challenge rather than excess, producing wines of restraint, classical structure and freshness rather than sheer power. As the campaign unfolded, it became clear that success hinged on vineyard management, harvest decisions and precision in the cellar. The picture that emerged was a nuanced one, with standout performances varying markedly between Left and Right Bank, and site selection proving decisive. Critics were broadly aligned: Bordeaux 2024 is not a vintage of easy headlines, but one that rewards attention, discrimination and long-term perspective. Read all our coverage of the vintage here  Burgundy  The enduring pull of the Côte d’Or shows no sign of fading. Interest in Burgundy remained intense throughout 2025, with readers closely following our coverage of the 2024 vintage as it began to reveal its character. Our first impressions pointed to a year defined by energy and finesse, with Chardonnay and Pinot Noir expressing clarity and site definition. The subsequent vintage overview expanded on this picture, examining growing conditions, yields and stylistic trends, and highlighting where growers navigated challenges with particular success. Alongside this, our exploration of Corton-Charlemagne looked beyond the immediate vintage, positioning the Grand Cru as one of Burgundy’s most compelling long-term propositions – a wine of scale, longevity and growing critical confidence. Jasper Morris MW’s feature for FONDATA, The new Burgundians, examining eight domaines to watch in the region, also remained among our most widely read pieces throughout 2025. Read all Burgundy features Producer perspectives Our most-read interviews in 2025 reflected a strong appetite for depth, heritage and first-hand insight from the world’s leading estates. At Masseto, we explored the quiet evolution behind one of Italy’s most iconic wines — a reminder that even the most celebrated labels are shaped by continual refinement rather than stasis. Read more  A wide-ranging conversation with Antinori traced the scale and ambition of one of wine’s great dynasties, balancing centuries of tradition with a clear-eyed view of the future. Read more  In Champagne, our feature on Henri Giraud marked a landmark 400-year anniversary, using the occasion to reflect on legacy, oak, terroir and the house’s distinctive philosophical approach to winemaking. Read more  Finally, a deep dive beneath the surface at Château Montrose examined terraces, geology and long-term vineyard thinking — an object lesson in how great estates are built from the ground up, over generations. Read more  See what was popular last year or read more Editorial 

From in-depth vintage reports to interviews with the industry’s leading names, we’ve published a whole host of features over the course of 2025. Of it all, however, these were the stories that proved most popular

The most popular wine and spirits features we published in 2025 – as chosen by you, from detailed vintage reports to deep-dive interviews 

The biggest wine and spirits stories of 2025 

The biggest stories of 2025

Sono passati quattro secoli da quando la famiglia Giraud-Hémart iniziò a coltivare la vite ad Aÿ, scrivendo i primi capitoli di un’eredità straordinaria. 
 Anche se all’inizio erano mezzadri, la Chiesa concesse loro un’ampia porzione di terra nel XVII secolo – con François Hémart come primo membro della famiglia registrato nei registri parrocchiali. La storia moderna della famiglia, tuttavia, inizia nel XX secolo, quando un soldato di nome Léon Giraud fu di stanza ad Aÿ e si innamorò di Madeleine Hémart. La coppia si sposò presto e ebbe un figlio, Henri Giraud, trasferendosi nella proprietà in cui la famiglia vive tuttora. 
 All’epoca, i vigneti della regione erano stati abbandonati a causa della fillossera, e Léon si mise a ripiantare tre ettari di viti. Per 300 anni la famiglia aveva coltivato uva e venduto il frutto, ma dopo il ritorno di Henri dalla Seconda Guerra Mondiale, lui e suo padre decisero di iniziare a produrre il proprio vino – fondando l’etichetta Giraud-Hémart. L’attività crebbe ed evolse, soprattutto dopo l’arrivo di Claude Giraud (secondo figlio di Henri) nel 1972, a soli 20 anni. Lavorando con suo padre negli anni ’70 e ’80, riorganizzarono le proprietà viticole e acquisirono nuovi appezzamenti fino a raggiungere i 10 ettari che possiedono oggi, cambiando anche il nome della tenuta in Champagne Henri Giraud. Nel 1990 iniziarono ad acquistare uva aggiuntiva per soddisfare la crescente domanda e realizzarono la prima annata di Fût de Chêne – il vino che dal millesimo 2002 sarebbe diventato Argonne. Sebbene negli anni ’90 la famiglia già affinasse il vino in rovere, è solo nel XXI secolo che ha iniziato a lavorare esclusivamente con legno proveniente dalla foresta dell’Argonne – oggi parte integrante dell’identità della Maison. 
 La foresta dell’Argonne era storicamente la fonte di gran parte del legno utilizzato in Champagne, sede di oltre 150 bottai, ma fu gradualmente abbandonata e subì gravi danni durante la Seconda Guerra Mondiale. Henri Giraud ha fatto della sua restaurazione e protezione una missione, collaborando con l’Ufficio Nazionale delle Foreste francese (ONF) in un programma di riforestazione (ad oggi sono stati piantati oltre 60.000 alberi). La Maison considera la quercia dell’Argonne una componente essenziale del proprio terroir – tanto che il suo vino di punta ne porta il nome. I suoli poveri e aridi della foresta fanno sì che le querce crescano molto lentamente, sviluppando una grana particolarmente fine che dà al legno un aroma delicato, perfetto per accompagnare i vini eleganti di Aÿ. Oggi, l’azienda rimane un’impresa familiare strettamente unita – con la tredicesima generazione alla guida. Emmanuelle Giraud è al timone della Maison, avendo preso il posto del padre Claude, che – pur non essendo più ufficialmente parte dell’azienda – rimane presente e coinvolto nelle decisioni più importanti. La sorella di Emmanuelle, Anne le Golvet-Giraud, si è avvicinata alle pratiche terapeutiche, lanciando il marchio registrato della proprietà, la Craÿothérapie – un programma di benessere a base di gesso offerto nel loro hotel interno (furono tra i primi produttori della regione ad accogliere visitatori per degustazioni e, oggi, anche per soggiorni). È il marito di Anne, Sébastien le Golvet, a occuparsi della vinificazione.  “È molto importante essere sempre curiosi, cercare qualcosa di meglio dal vino, dall’uva,” ci racconta Giraud. Nessuno incarna questa filosofia alla Maison più di Le Golvet, una forza trainante che, dal suo arrivo nel 2002, ha spinto a sperimentare e innovare sia nei vigneti sia in cantina. Negli ultimi due decenni ha introdotto analisi dei residui nel suolo per certificare il loro approccio triple-zero (zero pesticidi, zero insetticidi e zero trattamenti fungicidi – qualcosa che ritengono più significativo della certificazione biologica e che hanno a lungo pionierizzato), ha bandito l’acciaio inox dalla cantina (utilizzando solo terracotta e legno) e tosta personalmente ogni botte che la Maison utilizza. Sempre alla ricerca di nuovi modi per elevare ulteriormente i vini, ha recentemente creato e iniziato a utilizzare botti personalizzate con fondi in arenaria. Come spiega Emmanuelle, la sua filosofia è ferma: “Il miglior vino sarà il prossimo.” Henri Giraud riesce a bilanciare un approccio all’avanguardia con la pazienza che il metodo classico richiede. Come spiega Emmanuelle, devono assicurarsi che tutto sia perfetto dal momento della raccolta delle uve – perché ogni errore si scoprirà solo dopo dieci anni. Sebbene si occupi della strategia e della pianificazione generale dell’azienda, durante la vendemmia la si trova sempre sul pavimento della cantina, a gestire la ricezione delle uve ogni anno, vedendo il culmine di un anno di lavoro. Essere indipendenti e a conduzione familiare permette loro il lusso di una visione realmente a lungo termine. Ogni annata conducono esperimenti i cui risultati emergeranno solo dopo dieci anni, ma l’investimento va ben oltre: piantano 12.000 alberi nella foresta dell’Argonne ogni anno, assicurandosi che Henri Giraud possa continuare a utilizzare questa quercia speciale anche tra due secoli. I vini straordinari della Maison riflettono questa visione, testimoni della loro instancabile ricerca della qualità e di un’attenzione al dettaglio senza pari. Chissà cosa porteranno i prossimi 400 anni – ma varrà certamente la pena seguirli. Scopri tutte le etichette attuali di Champagne Henri Giraud, inclusa la straordinaria MV10, sboccata nel 2017, o leggi di più su Champagne e vini spumanti.

La famiglia Giraud-Hémart coltiva vigneti ad Aÿ da 13 generazioni e produce vino con il proprio nome dagli anni ’50. Oggi Champagne Henri Giraud è una delle più piccole e rare maison a conduzione familiare. In questo incontro, esploriamo la sua tradizione con Emmanuelle Giraud.

The Giraud-Hemart family has been growing vines since 1625. Today the family’s descendants run Champagne Henri Giraud – we dive into their legacy and wines 

Celebrating 400 years of Champagne Henri Giraud 

Quattro secoli di Champagne Henri Giraud

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.

We learn a lot from winemakers around the world but often it extends well beyond their vocation. No more so than with Champagne Henri Giraud winemaker Sébastien Le Golvet, whose philosophy as a vigneron extends far beyond the vineyard. Under the mentorship of his father-in-law Claude Giraud, Sébastien believes a total immersion in one’s surroundings is essential to better understand it. Working with something that is alive, Sébastien believes, requires the nurturing of a symbiotic relationship between himself, his vines and more broadly with the natural world.  Henri Giraud, one of Champagne’s most celebrated producers, takes this immersion philosophy to the extreme, from tasting their own soils to identifying varying terroirs of oak within the Argonne forest that produce the barrels for their barrel-fermented Champagnes. Sébastien guides us through the extraordinary lengths they go to, his determination to reconnect with nature, and learning to trust one’s senses.  Inquisitive wine drinkers are eager to extrapolate why doing something in the vineyard or the winery leads to the flavours in the glass. When speaking to a vigneron it is rare to receive straightforward answers, but as Sébastien explains, it is a succession of small details. In Henri Giraud’s case, a minimum of 10 years of activity and adjustments go into a single glass of Henri Giraud Champagne, as well as a lifetime of experience to help guide decisions throughout the process.  Sébastien compares his winemaking philosophy to climbing a mountain: there are many ways up and some options are more difficult than others, some can even lead to a fall, but each time he tackles that mountain, he claims he emerges with a better understanding. He remembers the pitfalls of previous vintages, or fermentations that go wrong, he takes inferences that might have led one way and chooses a different direction. Slowly finds the right path while remaining humble to the many routes available.  The multitude of factors at play in growing grapes and making wine, explains Sébastien, means a vigneron has to learn to trust one’s own sensibilities. His inferences are broad and multifaceted and not necessarily linked to winemaking. He talks about how important childhood memories of picking fresh cherries as a young boy, or the smells of his mother’s cooking, are, all providing him with a memory bank of senses that he refers to today.  100% barrel fermentation The domaine has had a fascination with oak from the Argonne forest, east of the Champagne region, since Claude Giraud took over from his father in the 1980s. Its top cuvee is even named after the forest (home to their barrels) of which 100% new oak is used in fermentation of their Argonne cuvee. Oak plays a central role across the range, with the sole exception the amphora-fermented Dame Jane Rose.  Since 2016 they have stopped using any stainless-steel tanks at all in the winery, even with their “Esprit” entry-level cuvee. Historically there were more than 150 coopers working in the Argonne forest producing barrels for Champagne production, but with the introduction of stainless-steel fermentation tanks, this tradition almost completely died out in the region. The cheaper more efficient effects of stainless steel led to most Champagne houses giving up on barrel fermentation. The obsession with oak at the domaine was not a whim. Initially, Claude Giraud invested in stainless steel to test and compare the effects of different fermentation vessels on the wine. They also tested extensively with different types of amphora including cement and terracotta before eventually opting for sandstone jars, offering the right amount of porosity to imprint texture and flavours, they are looking for. The problem with stainless steel, in Sébastien’s view, is that it doesn’t retain the tension in the wine in the same way as oak barrels; they don’t believe it translates their beloved Aÿ terroir. The reasons might not be clear cut, but their evidence in extensive tasting was enough to convince.  Sébastien states that the exchange during fermentation is much quicker in stainless steel, just two months, whereas in barrel it is between six to 12 months. This long exchange of solids, yeast and lees, according to Sébastien, creates much better equilibrium in the wine, more texture and more complexity. The small volume vessel (the barrels are just 228 litres) also creates more power and intensity in the wine.  Dealing with smaller vessels, according to Sébastien, also means more control of the product and less concerns with oxidation lowering the need for additions of sulphites (anti-oxygen agents) as well as giving Sébastien so many more options when it comes to blending. Each vintage he is managing over 1,000 barrels. While it sounds like a lot, in Champagne terms this would typically amount to four or five large tanks (maximum 10 smaller tanks) which when considering the Henri Giraud domaine has over 200 different separate vineyard plots, fermenting these all together in stainless-steel tanks would lose the specific terroir inferences that remain a vital element to the Henri Girard philosophy.  The terroirs of the Argonne Forest While Krug, Bollinger and Selosse are strong advocates of oak barrel fermentation in Champagne, perhaps the most unique element about Domaine Henri Giraud is the lengths they go to in determining what oak they use. Henri Giraud believes the terroir of the forest plays an essential role in the final effects in their wines. The wood is sourced from the Argonne forest but within the forest based on the varying soils, different parts of the forest offer different expressions. The domaine has identified at least 10 distinct terroirs within the Argonne forest. The three main regions they predominantly source from are Les Châtrices, La Contrôlerie and Les Haut-Bâtit. What is important about these specific terroirs, according to Le Golvet, is the geological positioning of the tree and the specific soil: a very poor, dry soil, causing the trees to grow very slowly producing wood with the tightest grain in the forest.  The tighter the grain, the more delicate the effect and flavour of the wood has on the wine. For Sébastien, the wines of Aÿ are very delicate and while they want to incorporate the terroir of the forest into the wine, they don’t want to overpower it. These trees take up to 250 years to reach maturity and thus Henri Giraud has partnered with the French National Forestry Office to invest in replanting programmes. For Sébastien, each of the terroirs brings distinct characteristics to the wine. The oak from Les Châtrices can emphasize the effect of acidity in the final wine as well as mineral freshness. The oak from La Contrôlerie brings red fruit and apricot notes. The oak of Les Haut-Bâtit brings power and depth and is often used in cuvees that lack the balance from maturity. How this all works they do not know, but again on tasting you can identify clear differences in the effect of using different oak from different terroirs of the forest. Sébastien is keen to share this with anyone who is interested. At Henri Giraud, they make a point of making their Vin Clair wine (still Champagne wine prior to the second fermentation in bottle) available to taste for visitors at the domaine throughout the year. They have the same cuvee fermented in the different types of oak for visitors to get a direct experience of how different they taste.
 Bespoke barrel toasting at the domaine One particular skill of Sébastien, seemingly fairly unique in the wine world, is that he toasts his own barrels. Trusting only his sense of smell and how specific toasts will affect different cuvees, Sébastien sources the barrels untoasted and toasts each one. Typically wine barrels are toasted for 30 to 40 minutes but he prefers a much lower heat but for around 90 minutes – sometimes longer –  depending on each barrel and using only his nose to guide him.  When the toasting process starts, he describes the wood smelling of flour, and as it cooks further the aromas develop to white bread, then darker, wholemeal bread, the bitterness of the green tannins drops out from the barrel and croissant buttered notes develop.  He identifies the character he is looking for, depending on the different vineyard sites, to produce a delicate balancing act between fruit and wood. Even before harvest, he has already decided how he will separate his 200 separate plots of vineyards, identifying which grapes will be fermented in specific barrels. The terroir of the Grand Cru village of Aÿ Transparency is a key part of the Giraud philosophy. They were among the first Champagne houses to farm organically, their vines have been pesticide-free since 1996. But whilst they are not officially certified, they believe recording the actual amount of chemical residuals found in the soil is a more transparent approach than an organic certification. They now identify on every bottle the molecular analysis of the wine via a QR code, identifying exactly what trace elements have reached the wine.    Receiving over 5,000 visitors every year, they are keen to share their philosophy of complete terroir immersion and transparency. Not only can you taste the different terroir effects on the oak, but they are keen to extol the virtues of the Grand Cru village of Aÿ. Sébastien explains how Aÿ has a distinct terroir, identifying key factors that resonate in the glass. The vineyards of Aÿ have a thin layer of very rich topsoil with high levels of iron oxide of which below is deep chalk mixed with clay.  The south exposition brings sun intensity that “roasts” the grapes, but a small river creates a fresh breeze that blows across the vineyards, preserving freshness. There is a distinct aniseed taste from the wines of Aÿ that brings freshness; the density of chalk, its structure and flavour can be tasted in the mouth as well as providing a distinct salinity. A part of their terroir immersion at the domaine involves tasting these elements with visitors, mixing the chalk, the clay and the iron oxide with water and tasting the effects in the mouth.  It is clear, explains Sébastien, that tasting these elements helps you to understand where you feel minerality in wine – where each element sits in the palate. Sébastien’s conviction in terroir immersion and the power of one’s senses is best extolled in the raising of his children. He has three sons aged between seven and 16 and from a very early age he and his wife were keen to immerse them in nature, to encourage them to explore their senses, and to connect them to nature. They spend much of their time in the vineyards, in the forests and the kitchen.  Sébastien recounts his memories of his mother’s cooking, the picking of fresh cherries from the tree – these are smells you never forget. He wants his children to savour these childhood memories, to help them build an extensive memory bank of sights, sounds and flavours. This immersion in their senses he believes is key to becoming a good vigneron of which he hopes his children (the 14th generation of the Henri Giraud domaine) will put into practice as Henri Giraud’s vignerons of the future. Browse all Champagne Henri Giraud listings or read more Editorial 

We explore the ultimate expression of terroir with Sébastien Le Golvet, the talented winemaker at Champagne Henri Giraud 

Exploring the ultimate expression of terroir with Sébastien Le Golvet, the talented winemaker at Champagne Henri Giraud 

Henri Giraud's Sébastien le Golvet on terroir 

Terroir immersion therapy with Sébastien le Golvet

Tres Girard

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