Although Hungary has 22 wine regions, producing almost every style imaginable, it is the wines of Tokaj that define the fine wine scene. These vibrant yet lusciously sweet wines are some of the most age-worthy on the planet. 

Tokaji

Explore the finest wines of Hungary, in particular the historic, luscious, sweet wines and crisp dry whites of Tokaj, aka Tokaji 

Discover the wines of Hungary 

About The wines of Hungary

Hungary 

I am too disorganised to call myself a collector, but I often find myself thinking about the multiple meanings of collecting. I have a room full of books left unread from one year to the next, whose mute reproach I feel every time I am in their presence. I have half a dozen radios, from Marco Zanuso and Richard Sapper’s folding Brionvega TS502 to a Danish-made Beolit 707 from Bang & Olufsen, with its slide rule tuning device. I have a manual typewriter.  Most of us accumulate such random clutter. These were never possessions that were primarily about being useful – the Brionvega and the Beolit have long since been supplanted by a bluetooth speaker and a smartphone. They represent my membership of the design tribe.  The books carry other layers of meaning. My five years at university are on one shelf. The traces of the eight years I have spent writing a just-completed biography of Boris Iofan – Josef Stalin’s preferred architect – are spelled out in the titles of the books on another shelf. The typewriter was inherited from my father and it serves to remind me of childhood. The closest that I come to having a collection that a serious collector might acknowledge is in my chairs: a Rover chair that Ron Arad salvaged from a car, a Gio Ponti Superlegera, an Eames Lounger, a Harry Bertoia, George Sowden’s Palace chair from the 1983 Memphis collection and a deconstructed armchair designed by Rei Kawakubo. On a larger or smaller scale, humans develop complex relationships with their possessions that can go from the professionalism of full-blown collecting, to the casual significance of a row of junk shop finds on a mantlepiece. They can tell us a lot about ourselves. Marina Warner’s guide to the house in Hampstead, now run as a museum, in which Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life, offers an arresting insight into the significance that collecting had for him. She describes the ranks of ancient bronze, ceramic and marble figures parading across the desk that Freud brought with him to London from Vienna where he no longer felt safe due to Nazi occupation in 1938. Certainly, they are beautiful, and mostly they are precious. Thanks to their association with Freud, even the few that have been established as 20th-century forgeries will have become valuable. Some are almost 4,000 years old and reflect the religious and political practices of the distant past. Others, such as Freud’s art deco cigar case, come less freighted with history. But as Warner says, “they were also tools of thought, the kitchen utensils of his imagination”.   The batterie de cuisine of psychoanalysis included Egyptian coffin masks from the Roman period, Chinese jade and gold brooches, Roman glass, a 2,500-year-old sphinx, sarcophagus lids, Babylonian cylinder seals and Egyptian heart scarabs, as well as a 19th-century neck rest from New Guinea, modern metal porcupines, and Balinese figures. The pieces in pride of place on his desk, placed in apparently random order, were his special favourites, a tiny fraction of his collection that had become permanent fixtures. From time to time, Freud made space for a few new acquisitions to get a look in. “A collection to which there are no new additions is really dead,” he told his biographer Ernest Jones. After a short interval, most of the new things would be moved into the glass-fronted cabinets positioned around his study, where they were placed in more organised groups than those standing on his desk. Greek sculptures went on a shelf together. A cluster of representations of the Egyptian god Horus were grouped on another.  In Freud’s lifetime, the collection was continually changing. Before his move to London, he toured Vienna’s antiquities dealers almost every week on the look-out for new finds. He was ready to exchange pieces for items he could not afford to buy, and was generous in gifting pieces to friends and pupils he thought would appreciate them. Freud also had no qualms about buying items that came on the market in questionable circumstances, in particular, from the unofficial excavations (sometime after 1906) at a Roman fort in Hungary.   Despite the important part it played in his life, Freud wrote very little about collecting. The nearest that he came to spelling out what drove his interest in fragments of ancient sculpture, was when he compared his own exploration of the unconscious minds of his patients to an archaeological excavation of an ancient city. “The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist, must uncover layer after layer of the patient’s psyche before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures.”  Freud was known to share his dining table with choice specimens to act as companions during a meal. “I must always have an object to love”, he confessed to his colleague and rival Carl Jung. When he was writing his book The Interpretation of Dreams in 1895, Freud spent the summer at Schloss Bellevue outside Vienna. He took a selection of what he called “my old grubby gods who take part in the works as paperweights for the manuscripts” with him.  Before Freud left Austria for England in 1938, his desk, his consulting room, and his study at Berggasse 19 were photographed by Edmund Engelman. Engelman’s 150 images helped Freud’s architect son Ernst to transpose the desk and its contents from a dark back room in a Viennese apartment to a sunlit Hampstead villa.  Like most collectors, Freud could never limit himself to a single field. Ronald Lauder the former MoMA chairman, for example, is known for the collection of Viennese modernism that forms the basis for his own museum, the Neue Galerie in New York. He also collects (in depth) in 15 other fields with little apparent connection between them. Lauder is fascinated by the work of the Japanese designer Shiro Kuramata. He has a collection of arms and armour going back to The Crusades, and another of World War Two memorabilia. He owns some of Egon Schiele’s finest works, as well as various 18th-century French artworks. Fellow collector Rolf Fehlbaum (head of Vitra) has one of the largest collections of modern chairs in the world, and gave Frank Gehry his first European commission to design a gallery for it, but he is equally fascinated by toy robots manufactured in Japan since 1937. He calls them tiny kinetic sculptures. Where possible, he acquires their original packaging too. Perhaps the best way to understand the psychology of collecting is to see it as a spectrum. At one end, it is about order and control. In a messy and uncontrollable universe, a collection offers at least a semblance of certainty. A collection of this kind is based on provenance, completeness and authenticity. An over-restored vintage Bugatti is less desirable to a collector than one in original condition.  Every previous owner, every detail of its making forms part of its record. A red Olivetti typewriter designed by Ettore Sottsass that once belonged to David Bowie was sold at Sotheby’s for US$65,000. You can buy one (that hasn’t been owned by Bowie) for US$750, which is still a lot of money for a piece of obsolete technology. Some collectors attempt to make patterns from the things that they acquire or, like jigsaw puzzlers, set out to complete a picture by locating every piece of a set. Some try to document the evolution of a species whether the subject of their interest is biscuit tins or the eggs of a particular type of bird. Some forms of collecting require the active engagement of the collector. Wildflowers need to be picked and dried quickly before they are pressed into a book. Butterfly collectors used macabre methods such as poison jars, or squeezing the thorax, to dispatch their prey without causing so much distress that they risk damaging delicate wings. At the other end of the spectrum, the accumulation of stuff by people who die alone in homes overwhelmed by stacks of ancient newspapers and tins of cat food, is a kind of sickness. It’s a condition that can overwhelm even the most celebrated of artists. In the last 17 years of his life, Andy Warhol filled a succession of cardboard boxes with a seemingly random accumulation of objects: taxi receipts, a vinyl Ramones single signed by Joey Ramone, a piece of an ancient, mummified foot, pastel-coloured corsets and a selection of metal dentures. Every time he had a full box, it was sealed and shipped off to storage in a warehouse in New Jersey. A typical box has 400 objects in it, some have as many as 1,200. Items in them include a piece of Caroline Kennedy’s wedding cake – Warhol seems to have been a regular guest at Kennedy weddings. He showed up 20 minutes after the wedding ceremony for Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger had started, in the company of Grace Jones. He was in black leather, and wearing two wigs; she had on a huge green fur hat.   Warhol’s boxes are a collection of the uncollectable and the uncontrollable, which, thanks to the resources of the Andy Warhol Foundation, has been tamed after six years of work by a dedicated group of archivists and cataloguers. The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh has aestheticised the cardboard boxes. They sit on back-lit shelves in the museum to suggest that this is not a random collection of trash that Warhol never looked at, but, in the view of the museum, is in fact a time-based art piece, comprising at least 500,000 objects that took 30 years to complete. It presents a considerably less impressive sight than British Regency period architect Sir John Soane’s museum. The architect of the Bank of England put as much effort into adapting his Lincoln’s Inn Fields house (and subsequently the two adjoining houses) to display his Hogarth paintings, a sarcophagus and his architectural models, as he did to accumulating the collection itself. The Nobel prize-winning Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, The Museum of Innocence is an eloquent exploration of the hoarding end of the collecting spectrum. What initially appears to be an account of a doomed love affair, quickly reveals itself as an exploration of the meaning of collecting. The story’s main protagonist Kemal starts acquiring things when his relationship with his lover Füsun is going well. When she drops an earring, he finds it and puts it to one side. As Füsun falls out of love with him, Kemal begins an increasingly desperate accumulation of objects that record their relationship. He picks up each of the cigarettes that she smokes. When she has stopped seeing him altogether, Kemal starts hanging around at her parents’ house and stealing pieces of cutlery that she might have used.  What makes Pamuk’s book particularly remarkable is that he acquired a house in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district that had belonged to a Greek merchant in the Ottoman era, and transformed it into a physical Museum of Innocence. It is, of course, very far from innocent; everything inside it is a lovingly created fiction. The first thing that you see once you get inside, is a wall covered with 4,213 cigarette ends, each of them carefully annotated in Pamuk’s neat handwriting, with imaginary details of the time and place they were smoked. The rest of the house is full of equally carefully fabricated objects from cosmetics to movie posters that reflect Pamuk’s vision of the modernising Turkey of the 1970s. “I think getting attached to objects happens in traumatic times and love is a trauma,” Pamuk once said. “Perhaps when they are in trouble, people hoard things.”  When Pamuk gave me a tour of his museum, he told me about meeting Warhol’s archivist, and expressed his reservations about the significance of the boxes in Pittsburgh. “Hoarding objects reaches the level of collecting only when there is a story that unites them,” he said. But that is a novelist criticising another, less narrative art form. While Freud’s desk in Hampstead was always useable, if overcrowded, the desk in fashion designer Paul Smith’s office in Covent Garden is completely overwhelmed with a snowdrift of collected objects that sweeps over an office chair, down onto the floor, and back up to the shelves that line every wall. There are stacks of books and magazines, cameras and mountains of vintage cycling jerseys. There is an i-Mac computer, a gift from Jony Ive that Smith has never used. Computers aren’t Smith’s thing. In any case, it’s too late now, short of purging half the contents of the room: there is no way to get near it. There are toy tin cars, collections of bottles from Moroccan markets, a pink bicycle and a lot of rabbits. “I once said in an interview that seeing a rabbit brings me luck, and they haven’t stopped pouring in ever since,” explains Smith. Collecting began, as did so many things in Smith’s career, with his early enthusiasm for cycling. Growing up in Nottingham in the 1950s, there was a newsagent which occasionally had a copy of L’Equipe, which would portray the heroes of the Tour de France in their yellow jerseys in colour on the cover, but in sepia inside. He bought the magazine, fascinated by the images, even if he couldn’t read it. “I can remember once saying, ‘I really like Jacques Anquetil’ to my father, which baffled him, since none of our family had ever been abroad. I saved my pocket money so that I could upgrade the gears on my bike from Simplex to Campagnolo. The box it came in was as important to me as the gear itself.”  What attracted Smith to the Campagnolo box, along with stamps and matchboxes which he has in large numbers – not just in his office but at his Nottingham HQ where he has an archivist trying to make sense of it all – is the way that designers can say so much in such a tiny space. He showed me a Japanese book of matches produced for a Tokyo nightclub in the 1970s. “It so clearly says it’s ‘contemporary’. You can hear the jazz already.”  Despite the huge assortment of assembled objects, Smith is reluctant to describe himself as a collector. “I just have a large quantity of the same things,” he says, matter of factly. “In my head, a collector is someone who selects an item or a subject. They collect them because they know a lot about them. Maybe I have a little knowledge about cycling jerseys.  In the early 1980s, on my first trips to Japan and India, I just got a bit carried away. I bought lots of Japanese furniture. In India, for some reason, I bought 15 wardrobes, and a piece of furniture that doubled as a staircase with drawers.” Smith had them all sent home on the Trans-Siberian Express.  He suggests that his is a collection that has found him. “Things collect me,” he says. “For some reason I started to be sent things, and they still keep coming.” There is an individual who regularly sends Smith artefacts that come unwrapped but covered in postage stamps. Others send him letters, toys, books and even ancient packets of razor blades. One visitor took careful photographs of his office, and later sent him a precisely detailed model of his office, complete with its chaotic contents. Smith’s London home, where he lives with his wife Pauline, is much calmer. “The house is hers. I do have one room for my stuff, but it’s mostly at the office that I get to look at things.” In 1996, patron of the arts and barrister Jill Ritblat gave the V&A Museum the largest single donation of clothes in its history, more than 1,000 items. There are ski outfits in postmodern pastel shades from the 1980s, and challenging Japanese experiments from Yohji Yamamoto and Issey Miyake, as well as couture from Dior and Saint Laurent. There is work by Alexander McQueen, Biba, Mary Quant, and Christian Lacroix, Emanuel Ungaro and Victor Edelstein, and an evening outfit produced by a dressmaker based on an idea of Ritblat’s own design.  The early days of British fashion from the 1960s are represented by Foale and Tuffin, and Zandra Rhodes, and from the 1980s by Margaret Howell and Katharine Hamnett. There is tailoring from Tommy Nutter and work by Giorgio Armani. It is by no means a complete account of contemporary fashion, but it is certainly extensive, and like the personal wardrobe that it is, combines some very special pieces made for family occasions, with more everyday wear. The connecting thread of Ritblat’s collection is Ritblat herself. These were all pieces that she had bought to wear. They were not chosen like stamps, or old masters, or celadon vases to make a self-conscious collection, but were the result of a continuing sequence of choices over time. Taken together they are a reflection of her life as an English woman of a certain background, at a particular time in the country’s history. “I never saw it as a collection, it was more like my diary, though I have never had time to write a diary. Each piece brings back memories of when I wore it,” says Ritblat. She made her first donation to the V&A at the end of 1996, but kept back the things that she wanted to be able to go on using, and they formed the core of a donation to the Design Museum of another 400 items in 2013. Ritblat is ambivalent about fashion. As a child she was somewhat self-conscious about being dressed by her mother, who had studied fashion herself. She was relieved to be able to assume the camouflage of the complex uniform rituals of an English public school for girls in the 1950s. “I loved my school uniform at Roedean; we were expected to change our clothes four times a day, as chic as anything. Scratchy afternoon dresses, regulation school loafers, very nice blazers and pleated skirts.” As a student barrister, she found herself adopting the formal uniform of the legal profession, but then as a married woman began to build a wardrobe that reflected the life that she was leading. Later, when she was making her own choices, she was early to discover Miuccia Prada. “What you pick out is based on whether it suits you and on the zeitgeist,” she explains. Smith, Heseltine and Ritblat represent three very different approaches to collecting. For Smith, the unruly mountain of things in his office, is, like the collection on Sigmund Freud’s desk, part of the tools of his imagination, a source of imagery and ideas for his work as a designer. It’s also a means of establishing his personality. Heseltine’s garden is an investment of time, resources and creativity in the remaking of a place that speaks to the future using living organisms that will outlive us all. Ritblat’s clothes are a record of the full life of an individual. All of these collections provide insights into unique people, their lives and times. In their different ways all three reflect on the nature of collecting, and its ability to be a creative activity in itself. In a world in which technology threatens to abolish the material world altogether, objects have not lost their allure. Their physical condition marks the passing of time in ways that pixels and code cannot do. Collecting is the means all of us have to create histories of our times, and even more, of ourselves. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two. 

In order to explore the mindset of the collector, Deyan Sudjic shines a light on the collected objects of Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol, and speaks to three British collectors to better understand what it is that makes collecting such a vital part of the human experience.

Exploring the mindset of the collector and why the act is a vital part of the human experience, with a focus on Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

In the conversation about terroir in spirits, rum arguably has a stronger position than most. There are numerous cane-to-bottle rums and many more with a credible claim to the dictionary definition of the term typically associated with wine. However, as is often true in the rum world, this isn’t an open and shut case. “Wherever unique spirits are found I think there is an opportunity to discuss the influence of terroir on the liquid,” Mitch Wilson, Black Tot Global Brand Ambassador, says. “How people interpret terroir in wine versus spirits is often different – wine terroir focuses on transmission of flavour from the land and the region into the final product. Spirits can be a much broader interpretation of terroir – here we often look at local ‘method’ and ’savoir-faire’ or know-how – how the local traditions together with production choices of the distiller and blender help to create a sense of identity in the final spirit.” Foursquare Master Distiller Richard Seale picks up the point: “Terroir is an interesting question in rum and you will get a different answer in different rum producing countries.” At the Barbados distillery, Seale ferments with added cultured yeasts in one section and pure cane juice natural fermentations in another. When it comes to the latter, Seale says “terroir in the traditional sense of the word is everything”. “The rum depends on the year of harvest, the time of harvest and the field from where it is harvested. It is 100% natural input. [There’s] not even a cultured yeast to give us some consistency or predictability,” he adds. Daniele Bondi, Export Manager at Hampden Estate's global distributor La Maison & Velier, is a staunch believer that terroir exists in rum and is perplexed by any arguments to the contrary. “I never understand when people think that spirits don’t preserve the characteristics of the fermented wash,” Bondi says. “Obviously, the terroir is respected and expressed only if the whole process of production is carefully preserved.” Wilson says sugarcane juice-based rums are undoubtedly the best examples of terroir in its “classical interpretation”. “Their flavour is almost entirely dependent on the local raw material used, and helps illustrate the vast array of differences between different genus of sugarcanes,” he explains. “Sugarcane juice is not easily transportable – when cane is crushed, the natural yeast on the outside of the cane is immediately brought into contact with the fermentable sugars in the juice, meaning fermentation happens spontaneously within a short period of time. This tends to encourage much more local distillation, often on the same estate where the cane is produced, allowing us to more easily focus on environmental terroir in these specific regions.” He says the fact rhum agricole, as well as their sugarcane-spirit cousins clairin and cachaça, are often found unaged means they are excellent examples of terroir. The purity of the raw material is preserved all the way through to distillation and ultimately glass. The climate of ageing has an enormous impact on terroir, according to Seale. He points to the fact a rum will age very differently in Martinique, which is approximately 140 miles away from his distillery in Barbados. Bondi says this crucial stage can negate terroir entirely. “If a product is aged far from the rest of the production, terroir doesn’t exist anymore.” This is something Dictador has played with in its 2 Masters series. Creative Director Ken Grier says rum, arguably, has a more diverse terroir influence than any other spirit category and this is about the influence of culture rather than soil. “Simplistically, the role of the original colonists has the biggest influence on rum production,” he explains. “The rhum agricole style found in ex-French colonies is derived from the juice of the sugarcane. In former British colonies like Jamaica the predominant style has been pot still, drawn from molasses. Ex-Spanish colonies have been more about column stills and finally Cuba is a tapestry of styles. Of any spirit, rum really reflects the history of the place where it is produced.” Sugarcane honey is used as the spirit base for Dictador. A blend of column and pot still rums are matured in oak casks on the coast by the Caribbean Sea. Grier says these factors all contribute to a particularly elegant, well-aged and complex rum. For the 2 Masters series, Dictador laid down between 10 and 20 casks with prestigious partners from the spirits and wine world. The rum was transported for maturation in the partners’ warehouses to benefit from their terroir, according to Grier. From there, the partners have the creative freedom to choose, in conversation with Dictador Master Blender Hernan Parra, which age and style of rum to use and what to do with it. These partners have included the likes of Glenfarclas, Royal Tokaji and Niepoort. The Royal Tokaji project, for example, took a 1977 rum and matured it in 12-year-old 300-litre Zemplen barrels for seven months in Hungary. These barrels had previously been used to age the producer’s 2016 Tokaji Aszu 6 Puttonyos.
 While there is a general consensus about ageing and sugarcane-juice rums, there is less accord when it comes to the role of molasses in the terroir conversation. “Molasses tends to be a fairly homogenous product,” Seale explains. “When discussing the contrasting styles of molasses rum from Barbados and Jamaica, the terroir element is more about the process and the know-how and less about the agricultural input. Much like a lot of Scotch whisky in that sense,” he explains. The decline of sugar production in many regions has understandably presented a problem when it comes to supply and demand. For this reason, many distilleries have resorted to importing their molasses. The same is true of grain in Scotch whisky production, which is often where the wheels come off in the debate around terroir in whisky. “It might be tempting to consider molasses-based rums as lacking a sense terroir (certainly in the wine sense), but this would be unfair,” Wilson says. “I’d be tempted to bet that given the opportunity to taste a line-up of single origin molasses from around the world that there would be enough variety to contribute to the idea of local terroir.” Ultimately, he says, it’s down to the producer at each stage of the production process to decide to what extent to allow the terroir to influence the final liquid. And, lest we forget: their savoir-faire. Explore all rum or read more Editorial 

The concept of terroir in spirits is a comparatively new one. And, in the case of rum, takes on a very different meaning to wine. Holly Motion explores

Exploring the comparatively new concept of terroir in spirits via the lens of rum – and how it takes on a very different meaning to wine. 

Exploring what terroir means in the rum world

Rum: the raw deal

In Bordeaux, you can’t buy wine directly from producers. Instead wines are sold via a complex three-tier system, as they have been since the 17th century. This distribution network – La Place de Bordeaux – is how the wines find their way into markets around the world. So, how does it work? Château X will sell its wine to a négociant (essentially a wholesaler) via a middleman or broker, known as a courtier – originally introduced to avoid the aristocratic owners of châteaux dealing directly with the merchant classes. The négociant will then sell Château X’s wine to merchants around the world – like FINE+RARE – who then sell the wine on to consumers. While, over time, the aristocratic owners of châteaux have in many cases been replaced by banks and insurance companies, the system remains in place. La Place de Bordeaux is seen by many as antiquated and cumbersome, bloated with middlemen taking their cut. However, it’s hard to ignore that more often than not the system works, providing an established and efficient route to the global market – meaning a château can sell its entire vintage in a matter of hours. Initially, the system was a way to reduce risk, and manage supply and demand as effectively as possible. The courtiers’ job is to understand the current market conditions, liaising with the 400 or so négociants to calculate demand and advise châteaux on appropriate pricing for their wine. While the courtiers don’t always get it right, this market insight and propensity to adapt pricing to wider circumstances provides a flexibility rarely seen elsewhere in the wine market. Take the 2019 en primeur releases, for example: many top châteaux reduced their prices by as much as 30% in response to global economic uncertainty, despite the exceptional quality of the vintage. The négociants take on the burden of distributing the wine – meaning châteaux don’t need their own network of salespeople around the world. This is particularly useful for wines where demand outweighs supply; the négociants are responsible for distributing the limited volumes as fairly and as globally as possible. In addition, the system helps with tracing provenance: having a set number of distributors means the wines can be more easily tracked – by both producers and consumers. These different elements make La Place a fast, low-cost and efficient way of distributing wines – and a reason that the system is no longer limited to Bordeaux’s top wines. While most (but not all) Bordeaux will be sold en primeur in the spring, September now sees a second flurry of activity on the Place – with new vintages of top wines from Napa, Chile, Argentina and Italy’s Super Tuscans. The first non-Bordeaux wines to make their way onto La Place were Almaviva and Opus One – Bordeaux-style blends made in partnership with First Growth Ch. Mouton Rothschild. Despite their prestigious pedigree, at first négociants struggled to sell the wines alongside the depth and breadth offered by Bordeaux alone. Today, however, it’s a different story: a shift toward more elegant wine styles in the New World, combined with critics’ praise, has created a global audience hungry for the latest releases from California, Chile and Argentina. While La Place might seem old-fashioned, this historic distribution system is remarkably efficient, giving fine wine producers access to millions of consumers around the world. Read more Editorial

Formed of layers of négociants, courtiers and châteaux, La Place de Bordeaux is not a place at all, but the complex distribution system for the region’s wines – and increasingly the top wines from around the world. Here’s everything you need to know about how it works.

This distribution network – La Place de Bordeaux – is how the wines find their way into markets around the world. So, how does it work?

La Place de Bordeaux explained

La Place de Bordeaux explained: what it is and how it works

Truffles: small, gnarly things. Equally ugly and alluring. Pungently intoxicating. Deliciously rare – and undeniably expensive. Alexandre Dumas described truffle as “the holy of holies”. Rossini called it “the Mozart of mushrooms”. Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin said just the name “awakens erotic and gastronomic ideas”. There’s something magical about the way these funghi lie just out of sight. The elusive treasures lurk beneath an otherwise unassuming forest floor, found only with the help of a specially trained hound. Once unearthed, however, they become the centrepiece to the world’s most expensive dishes, prized by Michelin-starred chefs and gourmands alike. They aren’t just another ingredient, however, there’s theatre to their presentation: the stage set in the kitchen, then served with a flourish tableside. For Rowan Jacobsen, author of the recently published Truffle Hound, one sniff was enough to keep him on the trail for three years. The Vermont-based writer was in Barolo in 2018 and on his way to the table, when he passed a giant white truffle under a glass cloche. Instinctively he lifted the dome: “I didn’t even make it to the table. Such a crazy smell. I was destroyed at the luncheon – I kept thinking about the truffle,” he tells me. That one flare of the nostrils had him hooked, and he’s been following truffle hunters around Europe ever since. His book follows his adventures – discovering “dreamers, schemers, and some extraordinary dogs” along the way. Piedmont is considered the home of the truffle – with the annual fair in Alba (running from October to December) the epicentre of the trade. White truffles (tuber magnatum), as found in Alba, are the crème de la crème of the truffle world – distinctly seasonal, flourishing in the autumn and winter. This brief window of opportunity is key to their appeal. As Donald Edwards, Head Sommelier at La Trompette, says, “What else can you have where the stopwatch of deliciousness is literally ticking by the table?” Of course, not all truffles are created equal. Black truffles are a third or a quarter of the price of white truffles and offer a very different aroma. Jacobsen describes “more pungent, more overwhelming” and “invigorating” scent of white truffle as “garlic, salami, almost gasoline” versus the “comforting, soothing, round” notes of “cured olives, cocoa and hazelnut” that he associates with black truffles. And while there is only one white truffle, there are two types of black truffle: the black winter truffle (or Périgord, tuber melanosporum, now mostly grown in Spain) and the black summer truffle (tuber aestivum, sometimes known as the Burgundy truffle but found all over northern Europe, including southern England). The latter, more widespread breed is not nearly as intense as its winter sibling, meaning more is needed for the same impact. One reason that white truffles carry such a premium is also that they have – so far – proven impervious to cultivation (although scientists in France have recently claimed to have cracked this). The truffle hunters, or trifulau, in Piedmont are therefore unsurprisingly secretive about where they find their treasure. Often speaking only a local dialect, these foragers roam the woods – often under the cover of darkness in search of “white gold”. Their dog will sniff their way to the right spot, pawing the ground and patiently waiting for their master to dig up their bounty. “It’s a billion-dollar industry totally dependent on dogs’ noses,” Jacobsen says, laughing at the absurdity. While the hunters might avoid the limelight, it’s not the case when it comes to their dogs, Jacobsen tells me. The canine connection is taken to the next level when you also depend on a four-legged friend for your livelihood. While pigs were the original snouts charged with sniffing out truffles, hunters switched to dogs in the 17th and 18th centuries. Lagotto Romagnolo is the “traditional” truffle-hunting breed (and comes with an associated premium, given their potential return), but today almost any dog is used. They simply need to be trained and have the right nose for the job. “Good ones are amazing,” Jacobsen tells me. “They can find a truffle 50 yards away in the forest and they just know it’s there.” Trifulau Luigi Rosso has been – along with his dog Danko (aged seven) – sniffing out the good stuff for 30 years. While it might look easy, he says that it’s incredibly difficult and can be dangerous for both hunters and their dogs, traipsing through forests in the dark. It is, however, all worth it for him. “The tranquillity that is in the air while you go for the truffles. The moon, the silence and only the sound of your footsteps on the damp leaves, then the joy of your dog when it finds one…” he tells me. The unique scent of truffle is what drives connoisseurs to seek them out – bidding on the finest examples for extortionate sums. “I feel like they've evolved to hit some deep pleasure receptors in our brains. When they're good you just want to luxuriate in them,” Edwards says. William Lowe MW – the man behind Cambridge Distillery – set about capturing the elusive flavours of truffle in his quest to create a digestif-style gin. The idea was born when looking at the digestif trolley in a Michelin-starred restaurant – and a sommelier who was scornful at the idea of a gin worthy of joining its ranks of fine Cognac and single malt whisky. “If you look at those rare and mature examples, you’ll see that the oxidative maturation process creates these beautiful earthy aromatic profiles sometimes referred to as ‘forest floor’. We wanted to achieve this profile through distillation rather than maturation, and truffles gave us the perfect route to do so,” Lowe says. “It took me a very, very long time. Because truffles are hard to deal with. They are packed full of volatiles, which is to say that truffles smell more than they taste,” the Master Distiller explains. “If you think it through – every time you open a door to a restaurant that is serving truffles, bang you get it straight away. But if you look at the food they serve truffles on and it’s always almost neutral dishes: creamy pasta, mushroom risotto. It’s never on super flavoursome dishes because if it is, you can’t taste the truffle anymore.” The challenge, however, was capturing something that doesn’t want to be caught, and finding the right level of truffle. “With truffle, chefs will normally do one of two things: either they’ll know you know it’s expensive so they’ll use loads of it so you can’t taste anything else for the rest of the meal – or they’ll do the opposite. They know that you know it’s expensive so they use so little that it’s the Emperor’s new clothes – you sort of have to search for it. It takes a genuinely skilled chef to use truffle well. And using it well is when you get all of that amazing aroma but you can still taste the other things.” This was what Lowe was aiming for – but it wasn’t easy. He spent months refining the distillation technique for truffle, but the flavour was only “ok”. He went back to the drawing board and decided that the problem was the truffle he was using – black wouldn’t cut it. “We went straight to Piemonte – white truffles from Alba. Gram for gram, worth more than gold […] and it came out and tasted a lot better than gold does so that’s an easy trade,” says Lowe. For trifulau Rosso, you need at least 10 grams on a dish (whereas, he says dismissively, restaurants will often only use a measly five) – with homemade tagliarini top of his list, although he also suggests trying it on panna cotta. He considers Pelaverga – a rare red variety that’s native to Piedmont – the classic pairing, but otherwise goes for one of the region’s other reds, Barbera, Barbaresco or Barolo. These are undoubtedly the classic pairings, following the simple rule of what grows together goes together. However, Jacobsen or Edwards don’t agree. “It couldn’t be more wrong. It really requires a white. The tannins clash with the aromatics,” Jacobsen says. The truffle specialist opts for Champagne, white Burgundy or cool-climate Californian Chardonnay – even Beaujolais. As for Edwards, he likes something that plays on the delicacy’s textural quality: “They work so well with buttery, umami-laden cheese sauces that I can't not want really classy Chardonnay. I want bâtonnage, I want really expensive but underplayed oak and I want ripeness with a gimlet-eyed stare of terroir behind. Basically, Burgundy, Mornington or the best of the Santa Rita Hills (I'll accept that other places also make perfect wines for this), plus if I can have a few years in bottle to build that sous bois flavour connection then all the better.” At the time of writing, we’re in the midst of the 2021 truffle season – one that has brought eye-watering prices. The hot, dry summer in Piedmont (unlike the wet conditions experienced in northern Europe) has led to a tiny crop – some say the smallest in history, driving prices up. Bloomberg has declared it “The Great White Truffle Crisis”. The white truffle needs such specific conditions that climate change, and – as Rosso tells me – the warmer autumns in Piedmont, pose a serious threat. While we consider Alba the spiritual home of white truffles, today most come from elsewhere. Both Central Italy and Le Marche, but also Romania, Serbia, Croatia and Hungary are all now hotspots for truffle hunting. Many of these regions are benefiting from the shift in climate, now having the ideal conditions to nurture the rare tuber magnatum. As for black truffles, the summer variety can now be found as far north as Sweden, but drought conditions mean that irrigation is becoming essential for existing orchards. Beyond climate, there are other challenges. In Piedmont, there are fewer forests than there once were, with more profitable vineyards replacing woodland (another reason that hunters are looking elsewhere). Also, the local trifulau are – in general – an ageing group. One truffle hunter, Carlo Marenda, has established a non-profit, Save the Truffle, to try and protect the region’s truffle hunting heritage – both by passing on the tradition to younger people and protecting the forests, nurturing the right environment for truffle growth. “It used to be that these forests were very actively used by farmers, peasants – fallen wood for firewood, leaves for animal bedding etc. So forests didn’t have a lot of undergrowth,” Jacobsen explains. “But then the world changed.” With the forest floor not being cleared, decaying matter acidified the soil – something that truffles hate. Truffles thrive in high pH soils, which is why they’re found on beds of limestone. To ensure the forests provide a welcoming home for the tubers, it’s essential they’re managed correctly. While there are certainly challenges to preserving the truffle’s place in Piedmont, the good news for gastronomes is that these tubers aren’t disappearing – just moving. After three years on the trail, Jacobsen is as enchanted by truffles as when he began. But he’s less keen on the hierarchy that comes with them. There are, he says, plenty more species of truffle beyond those currently on the market – but hunters can’t sell them, so keep them for themselves. He hopes the truffle culture will shift to grassroots foraging, rather than “waiters in tuxedos grating your precious morsel over your pasta”. However it reaches your table, it’s clear that the truffle holds a special allure – and the transience of its elusive scent, fading with the seasons, is what keeps us on the hunt. Truffle Hound is out now. Explore more Editorial 

Love them or loathe them, truffles are undoubtedly some of the most majestic ingredients on the planet. But, with a changing climate and an ageing cohort of specialist truffle hunters, the future of this rare delicacy is uncertain. Sophie Thorpe explores

Truffles are undoubtedly some of the most majestic ingredients on the planet. But the future of this rare delicacy is uncertain. Sophie Thorpe explores

Chasing truffles

BURGUNDY 2021: THE GROWING SEASON After three warm years, 2021 marked a return to the sort of weather traditionally associated with Burgundy – and all its challenges.  The winter was warm and wet – “too warm”, Frédéric Weber at Bouchard told us. He remembers finishing pruning in just a t-shirt in March. The vines started growing enthusiastically, with early budbreak, only to be struck by a cold spell at the beginning of April – as frost struck the whole of France. The nights of 6th, 7th and 8th April were devastating, especially 7th. Temperatures dropped to -8˚C in places – temperatures at which candles, helicopters and wine machines could offer little help.  
Images of the Côte de Beaune littered with a milky way of candles filled social media, and vignerons could do little but pray. For the early-budding Chardonnay, 80% losses were normal, with some producers in Chablis losing everything. The humid conditions, with snow falling, made matters worse – unusually this combination means that lower-lying village sites were less impacted than the Grands Crus (higher up-slope, where more snow fell). Indeed, if producers had lit candles (or “bougies”), the warmth melted the snow, which then froze and the buds were burnt by the morning sun – cruel retribution for trying to protect their livelihood. This severe, black frost (“le gel advectif”, as Florence Heresztyn explained) was savage – caused by a mass of cold air from Siberia. Chardonnay (and therefore especially the Côte de Beaune) was impacted more, as were any earlier-ripening Pinot Noir sites, such as Cazetiers or Combe au Moine. Candles can normally only increase the temperature by 2˚C, however some producers noted how a collective effort could make a difference – with a high-density of candles concentrated on an area. Erwan Faiveley had installed electric wires in their Bâtard-Montrachet and Bienvenue-Bâtard-Montrachet, as used previously in Chablis, which saved their crop in these plots, but other parcels were devastated. As Thibault Gagey of Louis Jadot noted, late pruning could help; one of their long-term growers in Bâtard-Montrachet pruned late and got a better crop, but the damage was still significant. David Duband reported how he also had issues in April with caterpillars which munched on the nascent buds. He had to hire five additional workers for a week to battle their hungry attack. The cold weather continued, with May cold and cloudy. Flowering at Bouchard began on 16th June, in wet and mild conditions that were perfect for oidium (powdery mildew) and downy mildew. Because the weather was so wet, mud prevented tractor access and at Bouchard they hired more people to spray by hand – a luxury not everyone could afford. Producers across the region spent their weekends during the summer spraying their vines when they could, with the disease pressure a particular challenge to anyone working organically or biodynamically. Edouard Confuron estimated he had sprayed four or five times more than in a normal year. There was some localised hail, with a storm in June causing damage in the north of Gevrey-Chambertin, especially in Les Champeaux, said Pierre Duroché and Olivier Bernstein.  
With the wet and cooler conditions, deleafing was important to open up the canopy, reducing disease pressure and exposing the fruit to much-needed sunshine. At Olivier Bernstein, Richard Séguin explained how they deleafed the fruiting zone and kept just one or two bunches per vine, removing any green bunches that remained at mid-véraison.  September saved the vintage, with warm, sunny and mostly dry conditions. With the tiny volumes, this was enough to ripen the fruit – Jacques Devauges at Domaine des Lambrays described it as Mother Nature evening the score, making up for what she’d taken in April.  Harvest dates varied quite significantly – starting from 10th September through to early October. Rain fell on 19th and 20th September, and producers were often divided between picking before and after this date. Generally producers started with Pinot Noir, then moved onto the Chardonnay, and dates were around a month later than in 2020. Jean-Marie Fourrier felt it was important to wait for phenolic maturity – which only arrived after the rain, and Erwan Faiveley argued that it was essential to wait for the dilution from the rain to pass before picking. Given the low yields, the harvest was often shorter – simply because there wasn’t much fruit.  Selection was essential – making a small crop even smaller – but there was some beautiful fruit of both colours. Yields varied, with losses between 50 and 80% – and some parcels (especially of Chardonnay) were blended together due to the tiny volumes at play. BURGUNDY 2021: THE WHITE WINES 
There’s no doubt amongst producers – or tasters – that this is an excellent vintage for Chardonnay. Production levels are laughable – with often the lowest yields they’ve ever seen, at a mere 20% of their normal crop – but the quality goes some small way to making up for the loss. The small crop (reduced by the harsh April frost) had a long season to slowly ripen, developing intense levels of concentration, yet – with cooler conditions than 2018, 2019 or 2020 – retaining amazing freshness and acidity. With the wet summer, disease was an issue: Erwan Faiveley described oidium as “exploding” on the Chardonnay (with levels not seen since 2004). Extensive sorting was essential. He also felt it was necessary to fine with bentonite after pressing to ensure the must was clean; similarly at Bouchard, Frédéric Weber didn’t use the very first free-run and inoculated fermentations this year to ensure they ran smoothly. Others, such as Philippe Abadie at Alvina Pernot and Paul Pernot, emphasised how important it was not to over-press. Most wines were chaptalised this year, often just to bring up 0.5%, with the final alcohol levels sitting between 12.5 and 13.5%.  Guillaume Boillot at Henri Boillot – who has produced a stunning range of wines – describes the whites as “salin”, having “belle matière”. Vibrant and pure, these are tightly wound with cool, white-fleshed fruit character, sometimes with tropical richness, often a mineral, saline thread and piercing acidity.  Due to the tiny volumes produced, oak usage varies this year. Boillot used none, but others have slightly more in the blend – feeling it didn’t need the freshness added by components aged in stainless steel. For Jadot, it was the first year that they used exclusively foudres, the larger barrels reducing the flavour impact of oak on the wine. Erwan Faiveley believes that tasting the whites, you can feel “the struggle in them”, that the vines suffered. Tasting through the exceptional Grands Crus he’s produced, however, it’s hard to see this – and perhaps he’s biased by the challenges of working the vines and crafting the wines in 2021. Comparisons are hard for such a unique year, but 2014 and 2017 were common themes, largely due to the high acidity, quality and ageing potential. Philippe Abadie and Alvina Pernot described it as “classic bourguignon”, while Thibault Gagey at Louis Jadot compared the year to 2011 or 2013, although feels the wines are better than those of the latter vintage. Faiveley points to 2007 – a vintage that has never shut down or, for him, disappointed; for Boillot they’re closest to 2016, but more precise. At Bouchard, Weber is so excited by their potential that he plans to keep them in barrel longer – possibly bottling in July 2023. These are really exciting wines – with a vibrancy and energy that is compelling. The cool and mineral classicism here, with great fruit concentration and balance, should age beautifully. 
Read our full report on Chablis 2021

 BURGUNDY 2021: THE RED WINES 
While there is a clear consensus on the 2021 whites, the reds are more varied in the vintage – but much better than we initially thought. The wines have clearly benefited from additional time in barrel, and most addresses have crafted a flight of elegant, pale-coloured and light-bodied Pinot Noirs. Although there are a few, rare examples of dilute or overly lean wines, this is in the main a return to “old school” Burgundy, with wines of perfume rather than power. The volumes are more generous than for the Chardonnay, but still measly, mostly sitting between 30 and 50% of a normal year’s yield. 
Frédéric Weber at Bouchard felt there were two styles of Pinot Noir in 2021: those from plots not damaged by frost, with normal yields but grapes with thin, fragile skins, prone to grey rot. The fruit from frost-hit sites, meanwhile, came with lower yields, thicker skins and less disease – for the latter he preferred to harvest later, with their higher tannin levels.  
Jean-Marie Fourrier noted that the picking date for Pinot Noir was key, worrying that anyone harvesting before the rain on 19th/20th was playing a risky game when it came to phenolic maturity and might have unripe tannins and vegetal notes.  
In general, Florence Heresztyn of Heresztyn-Mazzini felt it was a vintage, like 2012 or 2013, where producers needed to be attentive and precise at every stage – from the vineyard to winery. Sorting was essential and almost every producer chaptalised – largely used to prolong the alcohol fermentation rather than with the sole purpose of increasing the alcohol level. 

 Beyond this, tactics in the winery were varied – with vignerons often taking opposite approaches. Some producers, such as Bouchard, opted for more whole-bunch fermentation. Winemaker Frédéric Weber explained that the stems were so beautiful that he was happy to include 30-50% on average; the potassium also helped reduce the acidity of the wines, giving – he felt – a better expression of the year. 
The opposite was true of many, including Benoît Stehly at Georges Lignier and Hugues Pavelot. At Olivier Bernstein, the team used 30-40%, much less than in a warmer vintage, as they didn’t feel additional freshness was required, nor were the stems sufficiently lignified; similarly Heresztyn-Mazzini used 30-60% rather than 50-100% to avoid any greenness. While Jean-Marie Fourrier de-stems everything, in 2019 and 2020 he added the stems back into ferments for freshness, but didn’t feel it was necessary in 2021. 
When it came to extraction, the approach was similarly broad. Some felt it was a year to be more delicate, others thought it was a year that required more work to extract the colour and tannin that was in the grapes.  
Maxime Cheurlin at Domaine Georges Noëllat used a warmer – and therefore shorter – fermentation (sustaining 33-34˚C, versus 31˚C normally) to build the mid-palate of the wines. Charles van Canneyt had to buy smaller tanks for the miniscule yields, but the tiny tanks therefore fermented more quickly and he was careful to keep maceration short to avoid risking over-extraction. Similarly, Olivier Bernstein was keen to keep the fermentation short, with a five-day cold soak to extract colour and aromatics, then just 13 additional days on skins before the must was pressed – the fermentation finishing off the skins. 
By contrast, Fourrier opted for more extraction to get everything possible from the fruit. Guillaume Boillot echoed this view, with an additional week of skin contact. He used just pumping over rather than punching down to focus on fruit and aromatics rather than tannin; but at Faiveley, Erwan used more punching down than pumping over. 
Some producers highlighted that the grapes had high levels of malic acid (which has been notably low in recent, solar vintages), meaning that malolactic fermentation had a significant impact on the wines. Both Benoît Stehly and Charles van Canneyt noted how they were verging on severe at first, but after malolactic were open and fruity – totally changing in style. On paper, the pH is quite high for some wines (up to 3.7) – yet there is plenty of freshness, the lighter body and lower alcohol (mostly 13-13.5%) perhaps balancing it out.  
For élevage, some winemakers feel the wines need longer or shorter élevage, or different types of oak, with more or less new or different toasting. Nicolas Potel at Domaine and Maison Roche de Bellene feels that the crunchy character of the Pinot Noir will only be enhanced by a longer maturation in barrel (planning for 24 months versus the normal 12). Boillot opted for no new oak (as for his whites), feeling it would mark the fruit too much; while Maxime Cheurlin used less new oak but higher toast levels to add further complexity – and plans to bottle the wines earlier.  For Domaine Joblot, they felt that more new oak helped round out the lighter wines, using 50% new. At Domaine des Lambrays, Jacques Devauges favoured a slow, gentle toast – a "chauffe blonde" that gives the scent of freshly baked bread. Indeed, Devauges feels the wines have been improving significantly in barrel, offering more concentration and aromatics with each month that passes – something that reminds him of the 2010 vintage. 




Frédéric Weber at Bouchard describes 2021 as “charming”, comparing the wines to those of 2017, with good terroir definition and balance at 13-13.5% – more in line with what used to be “normal” for the region.  Thibault Gagey at Jadot pointed to 2004, 2013 or 2017 as possible similar vintages, but finds it hard to compare – it’s old school but approachable. Marion Raphet added 2014 into the mix, and although the wines are incredibly open now, wonders if they might shut down in bottle. For her, however, it is a year where, “On retrouve la typicité” (they rediscovered Burgundy’s typicity). The team at Tortochot pointed to 2011 or 2001, while Erwan Faiveley looked to 2007 and Florence Heresztyn noted the growing season was reminiscent of 2016.  
Maxime Chuerlin looks further back, feeling it has a similar equilibrium, colour and density to the outstanding 1991 vintage – in no doubt that the balance of the wines will allow them to age. While it’s easy to assume that these paler Burgundies might not be the longest-lived, almost every producer anticipates that 2021 will surprise everyone with its ageability – especially for the top wines. 
Almost every single grower we spoke to used a different approach for the 2021 vintage – but almost all have succeeded, producing vibrant, open and pretty Pinot Noir. It is a year in which careful vignerons could craft exceptional wines that were both light-bodied, yet persistent – with a purity and intensity that is surprising, along with captivating aromatics. As Nicole Lamarche said, “You can have both lightness and concentration.” It is, overall, a year that has surpassed expectations – one that was transformed by producers’ dedication, work in the vineyard, and modern technology and know-how in the winery.
 BURGUNDY 2021 IN BRIEF An extremely challenging growing season, with April frost and high disease pressure over the summer Yields were drastically reduced by between 50 and 80%  The whites are superb – concentrated, high-acid with minerality and cooler fruit tones The reds are a little more varied, but the best are elegant, charming, pale and light-bodied – yet with impressive intensity and freshness A handful of wines are a little dilute or lean, but all the best vignerons crafted superb wines Alcohol levels are more traditional for the region, mostly between 12 and 13%, with little above 13.5% The best wines of both colours will age well, but the reds in particular will be approachable in their youth Producers used different approaches to handle the year’s challenges The most common vintage comparisons are to 2014 and 2017, but include a wide range of other years 

Over two separate trips, our team delved into the 2021 vintage – visiting, tasting with and talking to a wide range of producers up and down the Côte d’Or. The vintage was complicated – but Burgundy’s vignerons have crafted some exceptional wines. We dig into everything you need to know

Everything you need to know about Burgundy 2021: our report on the growing season, how the region’s best winemakers handled it and what the wines are like

Burgundy 2021 full vintage report

Burgundy 2021: a wine-grower’s vintage

It’s often noted that Burgundians know nothing about Bordeaux and its wines – and vice versa. This is an exaggeration, though it retains a nugget of truth. These two great French wine regions are poles apart culturally. This is not a novel observation. Indeed, Jean-Robert Pitte, a professor at the Sorbonne, wrote an entire book, Bordeaux Bourgogne: Histoire d’une rivalité (2016), on this very theme. Just a couple of examples. In Bordeaux you will encounter people with names such as Basile, Vanessa, Diana or Jennifer – that would be inconceivable in Burgundy. This may be to do with the fact that Aquitaine was English-owned for centuries, or it may be that some Bordelais believe that an English name confers a certain cachet. At celebrations organized by the Chevaliers du Tastevin at Clos de Vougeot, and just about anywhere where Burgundy’s wines are praised and consumed, the ban bourguignon is an unavoidable part of the proceedings. It entails raising both arms in the air and twisting them in time to a raucous ditty with the words ‘Lala, lala, lalalala layla, lala, lala, la, la, la’. Can you imagine such a thing at Haut-Brion? Another striking difference is that Burgundy excludes, while Bordeaux includes, at least in terms of embracing those it considers helpful to its promotion, such as merchants, auctioneers and journalists. I have visited Burgundy and its growers every year for over three decades and can count on the fingers of two hands the number of times I have been invited to stay for lunch, let alone dinner. Without fail, a 10.30am appointment will come to an end at noon, and the visitor will be politely shown the door. Hungry after a morning of tastings? That’s your problem, monsieur. I used to find this irksome but soon came to understand that for the Burgundian, noon is the time when family members return to the homestead from pruning or tractoring or delivering bottles. It’s the sacred lunch hour, and outsiders have no place. You can taste from every barrel in the cellar, but that hospitality doesn’t extend to the dining room. It’s the exact opposite in Bordeaux, where it’s assumed that a visitor with a late-morning appointment will stay for lunch. Indeed, when researching one of my books in Saint-Emilion, I was amazed to find that my programme, organised with enthusiasm by the local syndicat, included lunch and dinner every day, weekends included. The Bordeaux proprietor will usually use the occasion not just to offer a fine meal, but to open some older vintages for the delectation of the visitor. The Burgundian really couldn’t care less. On one occasion, a grower with whom I spent a morning to research a profile for a magazine, had suggested, when I made the appointment, that I might like to stay for lunch. With pleasure, I responded, hoping that a mature Richebourg might be brought up from the cellar for my appreciation. But sur place, when I had completed my interview, it was clear that the owner had completely forgotten his offer. (However, after an embarrassing few minutes all around, his wife did rustle up a rather good meal.) Born to be hospitable Burgundy’s wine culture is about the nuances of terroir; Bordeaux is about selling wine that’s produced in far larger quantities than from patchwork Burgundy, and all those who can serve that purpose are corralled into a network of hospitality. A lunch will always take the same form. Coats and bags are deposited in the hallway of the château and one is led into a salon, where a small table supports a bottle of Champagne (often Pol Roger, sometimes Bollinger) and some glasses.  In comes the butler or maid (often on hire from the local traiteur, or caterer) with a plate of gougères or roundels of toast with foie gras to stimulate the appetite. Then the host rises to his (and occasionally her) feet and leads the way into the dining room. Lunch is invariably a butler-service event, so guests must calculate how much meat or veg to convey onto one’s plate without either appearing greedy or depriving others of their fair share. The dishes are always replenished, however, so seconds are in order. No need to panic. If the aim is to impress, it usually succeeds. In contrast, the Burgundians en fête are after a good time. Other than the rather forced jollity of the Chevaliers du Tastevin dinners, usually accompanied by indifferent wines, the highlight of the Burgundian wine calendar is the Paulée de Meursault (other paulées are available, but all agree that Meursault does it best). This is in effect a giant bottle party. Each producer, who may be accompanied by family or guests, will bring a basket stacked with a few bottles or magnums of a venerable or prized vintage. These will be poured and later circulated in the course of a five-hour lunch. Those lucky enough to attend can often taste spectacular rarities. This is not the Bordeaux way. At a formal dinner, for example during the en primeur tastings or Vinexpo, invited merchants or journalists will find themselves at a large round table in the company of two or three château owners or winemakers. They will have brought bottles – often very fine bottles – that will, in due course, be delivered to your table. There’s a certain amount of swapping with other tables to provide more variety, and certain journalists, towards the end of the evening, will be seen roving the room in search of wines to try on distant tables. (I plead guilty.) Here again, the aim is to impress. Brigades of waiters and waitresses, quite often students from a local catering college, will swoop in from the kitchen with such efficiency that a few hundred guests can be served almost simultaneously. Moreover, the food will usually be excellent, provided by one of the many highly professional traiteurs who flourish in Bordeaux. Access is the name of the game. The privileged guest, sipping Champagne or Sauternes during the prolonged apéritif hour before a grand Bordeaux dinner, will be in the company of dozens of château owners. Reach out a hand, even to someone you’ve never seen before but vaguely recognize, and it will instantly be shaken: ‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’ Everyone present is within the magic circle. You have been appointed, like it or not, as an ambassador for Bordeaux. Over 20 years ago I was present, along with 400 other guests, at the Fête des Vendanges, a great feast organized each year before the harvest by a leading château. I could see from the menu that 1985 Haut-Brion was to be the final wine of the evening, but what I hadn’t anticipated was that it was to be served in magnums only. Moreover, on a very warm evening each magnum had been lightly chilled before serving to ensure that it would retain
its freshness and digestibility in the glass. Other blandishments include guests of honour who are often prima donnas or celebrated actresses. Who wouldn’t want to be around when, as once happened, Gina Lollobrigida was escorted between the tables by the château owner? These feats of generosity, glamour and service are to be observed at all such events in Bordeaux. If you’re lucky enough to be present, it’s hard not to experience a wave of self-satisfaction. This warm embrace of the wine trade is not extended to mere consumers, of course. Although châteaux are more open to visitors than they were in the past, most wine tourists making their way up the roads that connect Margaux to Saint-Julien and Pauillac are confronted by closed gates or notices that read ‘by appointment only’. Some 25 years ago a delegation of Bordeaux worthies came to London to ask friendly journalists (over a good lunch, of course) what they could do improve the image of their region. ‘Try opening your gates,’ was my suggestion, and it did not go down particularly well. Fees, factotums and fixers Oeno-tourism has been slow to come to Bordeaux. Showcase châteaux such as Pavie, Smith Haut Lafitte or Lynch-Bages have become adept at offering tours and tastings, though at a price. A fee is understandable, as the cost of staffing the tours and the wines to be poured needs to be recouped. Napa does it differently. Visitors are courted, and the customary tasting fee will be refunded if you buy a bottle or two. In Australia, the ‘cellar door’ is always open for visitors to enjoy the wines and other merchandising. However, in Bordeaux, most prestigious châteaux make little effort to welcome visitors.  In Burgundy, top growers sell to a band of importers and perhaps a few private customers and restaurants. In Bordeaux, châteaux sell to négociants, who distribute their wines worldwide. Châteaux have no direct influence over who sells or buys their wines. That’s why it’s important to have influential writers and critics on their side. A high score from a wine guru may just persuade a group of merchants or consumers to buy Château X in preference to Château Y. And the other way around the following year. No wonder top châteaux treat the media with affection and respect. Consultants, too, form part of the hype machine. They are rarely present in Burgundy, where savoir-faire is passed down (not always successfully) from one generation to the next. But in regions such as Tuscany or Bordeaux, where estate owners are often rich and enthusiastic but short on expertise, the consultant is an essential member of the team. Nothing wrong with hiring good advice, of course. But choosing the right consultant also adds lustre to the estate. In Italy, take on Carlo Ferrini or Riccardo Cotarella and you can be certain, at the very least, of media attention. In Bordeaux, the consultant is more than an adviser on viticulture or vinification, suggesting how high your canopy should be or which coopers are best suited to your style of wine. They have influence too. Michel Rolland, notoriously, had the ear of Robert Parker for many years. This was perfectly understandable because, broadly speaking, they liked the same style of wine. I once asked a château owner with a group of properties why he had chosen a particular consultant rather than another of similar renown. ‘He’s good at what he does,’ was the reply, ‘but he also has a track record of getting his clients’ wines onto airline lists.’ Many of the older generation of consultants were invisible. In decades of visits to Bordeaux, I never encountered Jacques Boissenot, who advised most of the top estates of the Médoc, or Gilles Pauquet in Saint-Emilion. Others, such as Stéphane Derenoncourt, court importers and the press assiduously, with regular tastings that provide a showcase for all their clients. Wine writers like, for sound reasons, to be on close terms with consultants such as Derenoncourt, as they can be invaluable sources of information. Save time and score it? Admission to the magic circle of Bordeaux carries its own risks. I doubt there is much corruption as such – no wine writer of any importance would, I assume, be foolish enough to accept backhanders in exchange for favourable ratings – but what has happened is that independent assessment has been almost abandoned. And there are stories of bribes, often in the form of a few cases of wine, being offered. Newly minted bloggers would be particularly susceptible to a helping hand. Back in the 1980s or even 1990s revered critics such as Robert Parker would not hesitate to give a poor score to a wine he considered below standard. These days a poor score has become close to inconceivable. A score below 90 has become the equivalent of a smack in the face. In an article some years ago I predicted the scores that the major critics would give the 2014 vintage when, a few months later, the wines became available for tasting En Primeur.  My educated guesses, made without tasting a single wine, were alarmingly accurate. That, simply put, is because critics now score the brand and not the wine. No one is going to rate a first growth or scarce Pomerol at below 96; likewise, no obscure fifth growth or Côte de Bordeaux red, however fine, will ever be scored at 93 or higher. Bordeaux has succeeded in imposing its own self-valuations on its critics. Price has become equated with quality, as has been the case since the 18th century. This is why new owners of certain properties relentlessly push up their prices, because this is the best way to confer prestige on the wines. For Bordeaux as a whole, it may be a costly business organizing lavish dinners with superlative vintages, but it has paid off in establishing a group of wines as safely within the band of the world’s most appreciated and sought-after. For the wine critic, it’s a tricky balance. Without access, an article or vintage assessment becomes impossible. I am not immune. To research my own publications on Bordeaux, I have accepted offers to stay at comfortable châteaux for extended periods. I do my best not to let my judgment be swayed by this quid pro quo (which I disclose), but one can never be certain. Schmooze or you lose? It’s not only the wine press that is courted and pampered. Top châteaux will lay on lavish feasts for négociants and brokers too. Corinne Mentzelopoulos of Château Margaux once described such events as a way of thanking the Bordeaux wine trade for their success in selling her wines (not an arduous task, I would have thought). She intimated that it was also a way of keeping the trade on her side. Selling top claret in a great vintage is a doddle (except when grotesquely overpriced); selling the same label in a mediocre year such as 2013 is another matter. Maintaining brand loyalty – to Brand Bordeaux and individual châteaux – is crucial. By 2020 the region was having to face the threat of USA tariffs, the cold shoulder from China, the uncertainties of Brexit for the important British market, not to mention the growing climatic vagaries bringing drought, frost and hail in their wake.  Other challenges are stylistic rather than economic. A colleague who is involved in assessing the wine lists of top restaurants worldwide notes that there are a growing number of such lists that ostentatiously scorn Bordeaux in favour of, usually, ‘natural’ or other styles considered trendy. This is sommelier-driven, and Bordeaux producers and merchants are not always aware of how old-fashioned and stuffy their offerings appear to sommeliers (and their clients) in search of novelty rather than reliability. It’s hard for individual châteaux to promote their wines worldwide since they don’t know precisely who is buying their superb wines. In contrast, their Napa Valley equivalents stage auctions and other events targeted very precisely at super-rich clients and social media. Australia has its highly regarded agricultural shows, awarding medals that confer more prestige than most medals from wine competitions.  Bordeaux doesn’t have such marketing opportunities at its disposal, which is why generic marketing campaigns, prestigious tasting events, and the assiduous wooing of the media are such necessary tools. Whether they will continue to be effective as they have been in the past is undoubtedly open to question. On Bordeaux: Tales of the Unexpected from the World’s Greatest Wine Region – an anthology of writing on Bordeaux with a foreword by Jane Anson – is published by Académie du Vin Library and available now.  Explore more Editorial 

Bordeaux and Burgundy couldn’t be much more different. In this extract from Académie du Vin Library’s new publication On Bordeaux, Stephen Brook considers how the two regions market themselves – asking whether wooing the world’s press is enough to keep Bordeaux in pole position

Stephen Brook considers how the Bordeaux and Burgundy wine regions market themselves 

Bordeaux, Burgundy wines and building the hype

Bordeaux, Burgundy and building the hype

Exploring the world of eaux de vie with artisan distillers who are elevating the ancient harvest ritual to the realm of alchemy

Exploring the world of eaux de vie with Rochelt, Capreolus, Domaine Roulot and Capovilla, who are elevating the ancient harvest ritual to the realm of alchemy

FONDATA: The quest for distilled perfection - eaux de vie

Fruits of wonder: the quest for distilled perfection

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