Valpolicella from maestro Romano dal Forno   February sees the annual release from Valpolicella’s pioneering Dal Forno estate. The sad news is there will be no new Amarone release this year. The 2014 vintage was difficult across Italy and Dal Forno was hit badly by hailstorms in June which only reduced the yield further. The grapes were deemed too fragile to undertake the long two-year drying process necessary for Dal Forno’s Amarone. The silver lining is that the top fruit went into their Valpolicella Superiore, which is already a canny buy in any year. The production of the Valpolicella is 30% down on normal years so it will be in short supply. To make up for the lack of a new Amarone release, the winery will be releasing a rare set of Amarone magnums from the 2011 vintage – one of the finest in the winery’s history. Look out for them later this month.  The king of kings: Château Latour’s first 2016 release  Pauillac de Latour is the ever-popular “third” wine from the First Growth Bordeaux estate Château Latour. The wine captures the purity and precision that defines Latour, but with a softer, more approachable structure, allowing fans of the estate to enjoy an earlier-drinking offering at an enticing price for the pedigree. The 2016 vintage, now in bottle, is widely acclaimed as one of the greatest modern vintages of Bordeaux, which only makes the release more exciting. Latour 2016 was without question one of the top wines of the vintage, awarded 100 points across the board from the world’s leading critics. This sibling, made by the same team, offers an affordable and approachable insight into this extraordinary estate and vintage.  The latest from Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy   The annual release from Leroy will be out this month. Exact release dates are never disclosed but we are expecting to see them any day now. The Maison wines will be released first, followed by the domaine wines from d’Auvenay later in the month. While we can’t confirm exactly what will be available, we can disclose that the selection this year has some exceptional vintages from some of the region’s top villages. Look out for further updates later in the month. To be considered for an allocation, please get in touch with your Account Manager.  Agave at altitude It’s not often that tequila really stops us in our tracks – but that was the case with Clase Azul’s stunning spirits. This artisan, ultra-premium producer is based in the town of Jésus María, at one of the highest points in the highlands of Jalisco, a location that results in a particularly flavourful agave spirit. Bottled in handmade and painted ceramic decanters, these are some of the most exciting agave spirits we’ve seen – and you’ll have the chance to sample them before the month is out.   From further afield: spotlight on Switzerland and Lebanon  We will be putting some under-the-radar regions in the limelight over the next month. You’ll see the new exceptional Pinot Noir and Chardonnay from Donatsch, a winery that has put the Bündner Herrschaft region of Switzerland firmly on the fine wine map. You’ll also have the chance to grab the latest releases from Château Musar. Lebanon’s fine wine specialists are set to release their 2014 – a low-yielding, high concentration vintage that comes highly recommended. Tasting through a range of back vintages was a highlight of last year – it’s well worth ageing these extraordinary wines. 

A varied palette of releases in February will satisfy even the most esoteric of collectors. From some of the biggest releases of the year from Leroy and Domaine d’Auvenay to lesser-known beauties from Switzerland, these are wines and spirits you won’t want to miss

A varied palette of releases in February will satisfy even the most esoteric of collectors. We name some of the most exciting ones 

Wine and spirits releases this month

What to look out for this February

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  

Cerbaiona is widely recognised as one of the top estates in Montalcino, but has been a little elusive of late. Under Diego Molinari’s stewardship, the winery achieved cult status, but the property was sold in 2015, and hasn’t released any Brunello since. The new owner Matthew Fioretti has added to the radio silence, requesting critics not to score the wines, believing “a softer and more inquisitive form of journalism and criticism might be better than the score bazooka”.  Production is so small that Fioretti doesn’t need to rely on critics to promote the wines, but Cerbaiona has been noticeably absent from recent rave reports on the 2016 vintage from the likes of the Wine Advocate and Vinous. Our woman on the ground in Italy, Annalisa Florian, is one of the few people to have tasted the about-to-be-released 2016 Brunello, the first under Fioretti. Fioretti and his team have overhauled the estate. It’s a brave decision to make such a clear break from the past with a winery of such repute, and testament to their commitment to quality. Due to massive restructuring, Fioretti decided to declassify all the wine made in 2014 and 2015 to Rosso di Montalcino. As he points out, “Several aspects of this wine had formed before taking over the business.” Despite the obvious success of the 2015 vintage, Fioretti commendably didn’t want to rest on Cerbaiona’s reputation. All the vineyards are located on the Cerbaiona hill, just northeast of the town of Montalcino, and neighbouring another Brunello icon, Salvioni. The success of Sangiovese grown on this specific site long predates the Brunello appellation, with vineyards located here for hundreds of years and the wine historically produced known simply as Cerbaiona. The soil is a distinct limestone shale infused with sand and, according to Fioretti, “Almost by doing nothing, you can make an exceptional wine at Cerbaiona. Its vineyard location is that special and unique.” Fioretti, however, wasn’t happy with doing “nothing”. While praising Molinari’s legacy, he felt the estate desperately needed modernising – with serious work to be done in the vineyard and winery. He is very much inspired by what he calls a “tectonic shift” in winemaking in Italy (and elsewhere) over the last 30 years, with a move towards precision viticulture and a more hygienic approach to winemaking. Fioretti sees this as a shift from winemaking as an “art form” to winemaking as “craftmanship”.  In his mind, it was the pioneering efforts of producers like Romano dal Forno in Valpolicella and Luciano Sandrone in Barolo who have shown what can be achieved in Italy with such an approach. Just after taking over Cerbaiona, Romano dal Forno commented to Fioretti, “I’ll tell you what I told Molinari: you can’t make great wine in a barn.” Until recently, the sacristy of the small chapel was the fermentation cellar. The chapel itself was used for wine storage, while the granary and old animal stables acted as barrel cellars. “Hardly a precision and hygienic environment for winemaking,” Fioretti quips. As for the vineyards, “The rootstocks and clones of all the plantings at Cerbaiona were not selection massale nor specially selected material.  It was simply what the nurseries were selling at the time,” says Fioretti. “By 2010, the knowledge that had been gathered around Sangiovese was incomparable to what was understood in the 1970s and '80s.” Fioretti knew they needed replanting with better clones and rootstocks.  He retained and harvested the oldest vineyards for four harvests, working with top agronomists. “We made many attempts to overcome the shortcomings of these rootstocks and clones (which tended to produce enormous bunches, especially in wet years). But we all agreed: the sooner we replanted, the better off Cerbaiona would be.” As such, they’ve embarked on a six-year replanting program, making significant changes. The original three hectares (of which one hectare was dedicated to Bordeaux varieties) have been completely replanted to Sangiovese. An additional hectare of olive groves located on the steepest slope (and Fioretti believes the finest of the estate) has also been replaced with vines. Where possible, vines have been planted at a higher density and Fioretti has also converted the property to organic viticulture. Finally, with the release of the 2016, we find ourselves on the eve of the first Brunello release from Cerbaiona since the 2013 vintage. Fioretti believes 2016 to have been the “perfect” growing season. “The Sangiovese produced is captivating and sumptuous,” he tells me – the latter something he feels isn’t common for the variety. The moderate summer temperatures, the correctly timed rain and dry harvest conditions saw the Sangiovese thrive. The result, says Fioretti, is “a wine with fragrant aromas and a strong acidic shoulder – a guarantee of ageing”. It was in fact the latest harvest in the last five years at Cerbaiona. In Fioretti’s opinion, the 2016 is “not very far from” the 2010 – a vintage he feels is definitive for Montalcino – and comparable to other top modern Brunello vintages such as 2006 and 2007. There is tremendous excitement about the 2016 vintage, as well as the long-awaited return of this much-loved Montalcino estate. The 2016 Cerbaiona will no doubt be constantly compared to the wines made under Molinari, and it will be a fascinating comparison considering the effects of vine material, age of vines, viticultural techniques and winemaking practices versus overriding terroir.  What is clear is that Fioretti has no interest in resting on the laurels of this cult estate, nor simply following the footsteps of his predecessor. From what we’ve heard, it sounds like his labour-intensive approach both in the vineyards and winery is having the desired effect, and Cerbaiona’s legacy is safe. Whatever happens, Fioretti’s clear philosophy is set to mark a new and exciting era for the estate. Browse our range from Cerbaiona or read more about the 2016 vintage in Montalcino

There’s been a buzz about the cult Montalcino estate Cerbaiona since it changed hands in 2015. Ahead of the release of the 2016 Brunello – the first under Matthew Fioretti’s ownership – we caught up with the new owner to find out more about how and why he’s transforming the property

Cerbaiona is widely recognised as one of the top wine estates in Montalcino, and now Fioretti and his team have overhauled the estate. We find out more 

A new era of Cerbaiona

Cerbaiona: a new era

2018 Ch. Mauvesin Barton (in jeroboam) + Champagne Elise Bougy, Le Mesnil – chosen by Damien Barton-Sartorius  “To me, a meal is always about a moment. Sometimes very important ones such as announcing a baby, sometimes it’s more casual as would be a meetup with friends. I like to think that the bottle should never be more important than the moment. It should not frustrate the generous person who wanted to share a special bottle that becomes overlooked – or even worse steals the show... Unless it is the show! The special bottle then becomes a moment of its own. It is an interesting thing (and sometimes fun!) to taste great labels blind, judge them on their value/pleasure. But it tears away what wine should be: excitement. If I am going to drink a Mouton Rothschild 1945, I honestly don’t really care if it’s good or not. It’s a piece of history in a bottle that I will be sharing with friends and I would really like to know this ahead of time so I can be excited about it for as long as possible. Just like planning holidays ahead!  “Christmas is an important moment but the moment is family, not the wine that will be put on the table. I want a wine that will trigger some chat. Briefly – before enjoying the wine as a lovely drink, fuel of diverse conversations. There should be enough of it to spend some time with it. Aim for large format. We all know that even a magnum can be short…  “To be very personal here, I just got married and I will spend my first Christmas Eve with my wife’s family. A bit of home, some volume to enjoy and share: Ch. Mauvesin Barton 2018 in jeroboam is my choice for dinner. Oh but what would Christmas be without Champagne… a sneaky bottle to share only with my wife before the dinner: Elise Bougy Le Mesnil. Now I am excited for Christmas!”  Damien Barton-Sartorius is the 10th generation of his family to run the Bartons’ Saint-Julien Classed Growth estates (Ch. Langoa Barton and Ch. Léoville Barton), while his sister Mélanie is at the helm of Ch. Mauvesin Barton, together continuing their grandfather Anthony’s and mother Lilian’s legacy. 2010 Ch. Latour, Pauillac – chosen by Jonathan Maltus  “We’re drinking Ch. Latour 2010. There are 10 of us – all family – two grandparents, four parents and the rest kids. As a family we don’t enjoy turkey so we have beef Wellington – which I’m hoping this will go well with.” Jonathan Maltus is the man behind the Saint-Emilion property Le Dôme, one of Bordeaux’s original garagistes. 2001 Richebourg, Grand Cru. Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat – chosen by Charles van Canneyt “For dinner, a Richebourg 2001. Perfect to drink now and taking full advantage of the complexity and power of a Richebourg – with a good capon! We had Suchots 2017 – all about the fruit – when we put up the tree, a vintage that’s approachable young and very enjoyable!”  Charles van Canneyt is one of Burgundy’s most talented winemakers. The young vigneron is at the helm of Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat, based in Chambolle-Musigny, and also has a négociant label under his own name.  2015 Ch. Haut-Bailly + 2019 Meursault, Les Vireuils, Domaine Roulot – chosen by Véronique Sanders “It’s so very difficult to choose just one bottle… while many people start their celebration with Champagne I always love to start (and finish) with a glass of Sauternes or Barsac. Right now I am loving Ch. Haut-Bailly 2015 which is so charming and is pure pleasure! Of course I also love wines outside of Bordeaux – white Burgundy being my weakness… I have my eye on a bottle of Domaine Roulot Meursault Les Vireuils to share with the family this year.”  Véronique Sanders is the powerhouse at the helm of Ch. Haut-Bailly, the leading Pessac-Léognan estate.  2018 Paul Cluver Estate Chardonnay, Elgin, South Africa – chosen by Spencer Fondaumiere  “I grew up in Nairobi at a time when the wine scene was not nearly as advanced as it is now. My mother enjoyed her wine. My dad was a beer man through and through. What was regularly available was wine sold in five-litre boxes labelled as ‘late harvest’, with just enough sweetness to interest you to get to the bottom of the bottle – or more accurately the last dredges of the cask. I have now lived in Cape Town for the last 11 years and my wine appreciation has grown a little bit beyond the voluminous late harvest on tap.  “Christmas is a time for family and my mom and dad will be spending the holidays with me and my family. Since I last saw her, Mom has developed an appreciation for cool-climate Chardonnay and I am quite keen to crack open this bottle that has a bit of age on it. I am hoping it will be like nothing she has ever tasted before and I am hoping even more that she will like it. Dad, on the other hand, remains partial to beer, but every Christmas I optimistically open a bottle and hope that this will be the wine that converts him into a wine lover. That being said, there is not too much 2018 Chardonnay hanging about so it may not be the worst thing if this doesn't turn out to be the one.”  Spencer Fondaumiere is one of the most exciting names on Africa’s wine scene. The Kenyan chef-turned-sommelier and serial entrepreneur is now Chairman of the South African Sommelier Association and has two businesses – using his expertise to advise wine-drinkers, restaurants and producers via Slowgold and Wineyard East Africa. A trio of Bouchard’s best – chosen by Frédéric Weber  “For Christmas with my family, I have planned a 2016 Meursault Genevrières to accompany the foie gras that my sister makes herself every year. I like the combination because our Genevrières has just the right freshness and delicacy, especially in 2016, to awaken the tastes and accompany the sweetness of foie gras seasoned with a touch of Sichuan pepper and a hint of fleur de sel, a great match! With the duck, of course a Beaune Grèves Vigne de l’Enfant Jésus 2003. Two-thousand-and-three was my first vintage in the house [at Bouchard], 20 years ago already, great memory of this harvest and Baby Jesus is a nice wink for Christmas Eve! And then a Corton 2013, my mum loves Le Corton and we don't refuse her anything.”  Frédéric Weber is the detail-oriented Head Winemaker at Bouchard, one of Burgundy’s leading, quality-focused producers and négociants. He has been at the company since 2002, taking over fully from his predecessor Philippe Prost from the 2014 vintage.  Champagne Corbon, Brut d'Autrefois, Avize (and a couple of back-up bottles) – chosen by Chris Gaither MS  “Christmas is always a special time of the year for my family. My wife, Rebecca (also a Master Sommelier), who is Jewish, always looks forward to the combo of Hanukkah and Christmas celebrations back-to-back, especially with our young daughters. We tend to favour multiple evenings of delicious food and drink that we can enjoy, albeit with moderation. And she and I rarely finish a bottle when drinking together at dinner, if it's only the two of us sipping. Surprised? It’s partially because we have two kids and run two businesses (Ungrafted and GluGlu), so work doesn’t stop even after dinner! So, on Christmas evening we'll be having a low-key 'Jewish' Christmas dinner, with a few other Jewish families. We are going to order Chinese food from one of our favourite restaurants in Millbrae (Wonderful is the name if you'd like to know), and chow down on some tasty dishes with a few of our favourite bottlings from producers we admire.  “Rebecca and I are huge fans of Champagne, and most times if you ever see us sipping on something together, it's usually just that. Champagne Corbon is a tiny grower based in the Vallée de la Marne (run by Agnès Corbon – ladies rule!), but they sell a good portion of their fruit from their vineyards there. They own two hectares of vineyards in Avize, of which they use to produce most of their wines. The Brut d'Autrefois is based on a 35-plus-year-old perpetual reserve (or solera) that is roughly based on 90% Chardonnay and 10% Pinot Noir. The solera consists of a single neutral oak vat that is 50% drained each year for bottlings of D'Autrefois, and then refreshed with a new year's vintage. Delicious, exuding a bit of richness, with nice texture, and loads of complexity. We were fortunate enough to get a few bottles of these, and I think we'll be drinking the last one we have... for now... The other bottles are ‘just in case’ bottles that we love.  “2018 Domaine Weinbach, Riesling Schlossberg, Grand Cru, Alsace: Who doesn't like Riesling? Any sommelier with street cred will tell you to drink more Riesling – it's routinely underappreciated in the world of wine, and you can get fantastic examples that are made with the same care as Grand Cru wines in other regions, but at less than half the price. Weinbach is one of our favourite domaines within Alsace, and it is currently run by Catherine Faller (again, shoutout to all the ladies making the magic happen in wine!) and her sons, Eddy and Theo. This Riesling is coming from their holdings in Schlossberg, the first Grand Cru to be ratified in Alsace in 1975. The wine almost always has a deftly balanced touch of botrytis, with lovely bruised apple and peach, with a very noticeable meyer lemon twang on the finish.   “2011 Fixin, Premier Cru, Clos de la Perrière, Domaine Joliet Père & Fils: This particular vineyard is a monopole within the village of Fixin, and this bottling is 100% Pinot Noir. It is run by Bénigne Joliet, who purchased the vineyard from his other family members in 2004, with the goal of making the Clos de la Perrière one of the more famous vineyards in the Côte de Nuits in Burgundy. Rebecca had the opportunity to visit the estate and meet Bénigne back in 2014 on a visit. She purchased the bottle of 2011 Clos de la Perrière on this trip. I’m super excited to drink it with her! She’s great at putting bottles away and not touching them!”  Chris Gaither MS was born in Atlanta and started working in hospitality to help pay the bills while at college. He gradually fell into the wine side, becoming hooked and – after a stage at The French Laundry in 2008 – launched into San Francisco’s wine scene, working at top restaurants and earning various awards. He became the fourth black person to pass the Master Sommelier exam when he passed in 2022. Married to a fellow Master Sommelier, Rebecca Fineman, together they own and run two restaurant/wine bars, Ungrafted and Glu Glu, in San Francisco. 2003 Chinon, Les Roches, Domaine Alain & Jérôme Lenoir – chosen by Ivan Massonat  “Of the (many) bottles I intend to open, one is high on my expectation scale: a 2003 Chinon from Domaine Lenoir. It’s a bare bottle, without any label nor cap, that I bought from Jérôme [Lenoir] a couple of years ago, after a few hours of tasting down in his ‘cellar of wonders’. After tasting several decades, 2003 had struck me as super fresh and elegant, like magically untouched by the famous 2003 summer heatwave in France. I would like to open it for New Year’s Eve, with one my best friends from high school who’s also a wine lover – and not a label drinker!” Ivan Massonat is the ex-financier that created Domaine Belargus, the Anjou estate that has fast become one of the Loire’s most famous, shining a light on its varied terroir through a single grape – Chenin Blanc. Stellar Spanish and South American bottles – chosen by Carlos de Carlos  “This year we have some cousins from the USA that will come home for Christmas evening and dinner. As they come to try some good South American wines, I will drive them around some of my all-time favourites for dinner. So the selection will be: Baettig Los Primos Chardonnay 2021 for the aperitivo. A wine that shows the very best of the south of Chile with a finesse and minerality that I love. Then Viña Cobos Chanares Malbec 2018 – one of my favourite wines in Argentina coming from Los Arboles in Tunuyán, Valle de Uco. Really special vintage from a really unique vineyard! And the grand finale will be Vega Sicilia Unico Reserva Especial 2008-2009-2010 [the 2020 release] – not only because the wine itself, but also because it was a very special present for my birthday that a very close friend gave me… and will be tasted alongside my favourite dish, Spanish paella.” The charming Carlos de Carlos is one of the founders of Baettig, along with winemaker Francisco Baettig, a Chilean producer that is one of our favourites. A flight of Champagne, Burgundy and Bordeaux – chosen by Blandine de Brier Manoncourt  “This Christmas my family will begin with a fabulous Champagne, Laurent Perrier’s Grand Siècle Itération No. 26, which we will enjoy as an apéritif around the tree. At the table, our dinner will begin with Corton-Charlemagne from our dear friend Stéphane Follin-Arbelet, the 2008 vintage, which will pair perfectly with a lobster dish. Next is, of course, Figeac! First the 2010 vintage of Ch. Figeac – it is magnificent right now, and goes very well with truffled capon. Finally we will enjoy our favourite vintage of Ch. Figeac, the 1990. We wish everyone a very happy Christmas and a wonderful New Year!”  Blandine de Brier Manoncourt is daughter of the iconic Thierry Manoncourt who established Figeac’s modern reputation. Having studied at Sciences Po Bordeaux, she is Co-owner and General Secretary, especially involved in managing the property’s heritage.  2001 Ch. Figeac – chosen by Frédéric Faye  “My family is very excited this year to serve one of my favourite vintages of Ch. Figeac at our Christmas dinner, the 2001. This is a vintage in its full maturity, a vintage which sadly is often overlooked by wine-lovers but is in fact one of the great references of the property. Fresh, elegant, with a beautiful concentration… it will pair perfectly with ris de veau in a sauce à la morille. Wishing a happy Christmas and New Year to you and your families!”  Frédéric Faye is Managing Director of Ch. Figeac, where he has been working for over two decades, having arrived as an intern in 2002. Blanquette de Limoux, Antech, Brut Nature – chosen by Christina Stanley  “I share a holiday tradition of sipping bubbles with my mum while cooking, before any guests or family arrive. My dad suffered a stroke back in 2014, and she is his caretaker. Last year, when she tasted Varnier-Fannière Blanc de Blancs, she said, “This tastes like every good time I have ever had,” but Champagne is not what we drink while cooking. You know what’s great with a splash of orange juice? Antech Blanquette de Limoux Brut Nature. It has delightfully bright, lemony acidity, an abundance of chalky minerality, and it’s inexpensive. The main grape is Mauzac, locally known as ‘Blanquette’. Wonderful as a versatile aperitif and perfect as a Mimosa base, Blanquette de Limoux plays a starring role in any holiday gathering.”  Christina Stanley is an Advanced Sommelier and the Wine Director at The Slanted Door Napa – an outpost of Charles Phan’s group of legendary restaurants that are a reference point for fine dining and modern Vietnamese food. 2008 Merlot, Miani, Colli Orientali del Friuli – chosen by Michele Dal Forno  “I think I would pick a Merlot from Miani. Enzo, the owner, is truly the ‘last of Mohicans’ of vignerons in Italy, as he is seriously devoted to his vines and the wines he makes are a pure expression of each varietal he grows. I was lucky enough to taste many of his wines last summer with himself and some other friends and I was shocked by the genuineness of them all. In particular the Merlot 2008 was so fresh and rich that I was literally blown away when I tasted it. If you want to understand how an authentic Merlot should taste, Miani is the one.”  Michele Dal Forno is one of Romano Dal Forno’s sons, founder of the legendary eponymous Valpolicella estate  1988 Ch. Montelena, Napa – chosen by Maya Dalla Valle   “After a fantastic 2023 harvest, we are relaxing and celebrating this holiday season. At our most recent team holiday dinner we decided to open a magnum of 1988 Ch. Montelena to commemorate the successes of the 2023 growing season and vintage. With the recent passing of Mike Grgich, it was also an homage to one of the great winemakers of Napa. The wine was stunning, and well appreciated by all of us as red wine producers.”  Having travelled and made wine around the world, Maya Dalla Valle returned to Napa in 2017 to make wine with her mother Naoko at Dalla Valle, as well as embarking on a new project in collaboration with Ornellaia, DVO. 2016 Champagne Henriot, L’Inattendue – chosen by Stefan Neumann MS  “Expect the ‘unexpected’! Henriot’s single expression of Avize called L’Inattendue (translating literally as ‘the unexpected’) from the 2016 vintage is something I look forward to sharing with my family on Christmas Day. Full of energy, this pure Chardonnay gives me on the one hand the comforting softness of spiced pear and golden apple, but on the other hand the razor-sharp freshness of lemon and orange peel. This, in front of the family’s Kachelofen (tiled ceramic stove), paired with a freshly cured trout, might sound simple yet is heaven to me. If life has taught me one thing – you can’t beat an old-time classic.”  Austrian-born Master Sommelier Stefan Neumann cut his teeth at restaurants in Vienna and Salzburg before moving to the UK. He’s worked at many of Britain’s most illustrious establishments, most recently on the floor at The Fat Duck. Today he works as a consultant, using his extensive expertise to advise clients and companies. Explore more Editorial 

There’s no better time than Christmas to crack open a bottle of something special. We asked some of the biggest names in the industry – from top sommeliers to superstar winemakers – to tell us what they’re uncorking this year, and why

We asked some of the biggest names in the wine industry – from top sommeliers to superstar winemakers – to tell us what they’re uncorking this year, and why 

What the wine world is drinking this Christmas 

What those in the industry are drinking this Christmas

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

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

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

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

FONDATA: Pleasure in the detail

Pleasure in the detail

Valpolicella

Veneto

Italy

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