The key words that spring to mind when describing Clos des Papes are ‘elegance’ and ‘consistency’. Whilst the common perception of Châteauneuf-du-Pape is (usually correctly) one of power and richness, Clos des Papes possesses a restraint and an almost Burgundian character that very few other wines from the region do.  The consistency of Clos des Papes wines is largely thanks to the stability behind the scenes, and that over the decades there have only been minor tweaks in the approach and philosophy of this great domaine in the Southern Rhône. Winemaker Vincent Avril took over from his father Paul in 1987 and is currently on his 38th vintage. ‘I have changed very little of what my father did. The biggest change has been a deeper focus in the vineyard, as I would say that 80% of the work is done in the vineyard itself. And, of course, the soils are key: we have 24 different plots and 24 different soil types, which is a blessing.’ Clos des Papes possesses a restraint and an almost Burgundian character There has only ever been one red and one white cuvée produced here, with Avril showing no interest in following the trend for cuvée speciale, which all too often can be even more powerful and weightier than the traditional cuvées. One of the more significant changes has been the changing grape mix in the vineyard, with less Grenache and more Mourvèdre. ‘Chateauneuf is the most northern outpost for Mourvèdre in France, and it gives a brightness and wildness and spice to the wines in their youth. We now have around 55% Grenache, 30% Mourvèdre, 10% Syrah and the balance is Counoise and Cinsault.’ According to Avril, the most important thing for his wines is tannin and phenolic maturity. He never picks on sugar content but on tannin ripeness. ‘If your tannins aren’t ripe then you will feel the alcohol far more. If the tannins are ripe then you will automatically have better balance and alcohol integration. I also believe that the quality of tannins is fundamental for the ability to age. For that reason, I also only use old foudres and never any new oak; I don’t want oak tannins in the wine, I want to taste the grapes, the soil and the place.’ At Clos des Papes, the reds are always co-fermented with two varieties together. When I ask what this brings, Avril explains that ‘the wines are just more complete when fermented and blended from the beginning. My father and I did trials every year of single ferments and co-ferments and then we tasted the results; we always chose the co-ferments, they are deeper and more complex.’ As this vertical tasting demonstrated, they are certainly wines with profundity, complexity and an incredible capacity for ageing. On the issue of climate change, it was interesting to hear Avril’s thoughts on the impact it has had on Clos des Papes over the decades. ‘This really hasn’t had a huge amount of difference, especially not compared to places like Burgundy. We are now only harvesting on average two to three days earlier than we were 30-40 years ago. But what we have are more peaks, so we may see a huge downpour of 100mm of rain in an hour, and we certainly see less rainfall in summer. So it is more extremes but not necessarily warming.’ One effect on the winemaking as a result of these changes, however, was the decision made in 1992 to totally de-stem the fruit. With less rain in the summer, the stems do not get fully ripe and therefore would potentially add a greenness to the wines, thus undoing all the hard work of the judicious tannin management. The white wines are somewhat atypical in terms of Châteauneuf for several reasons. Firstly, they are a blend of six varieties, all contributing in different ways. Grenache and Rousanne give richness but can lack acid, Clairette and Picardin add elegance and the freshness comes from Bourboulenc and Picpoul. Secondly there is no oak or malolactic fermentation and the wines are bottled very early, normally in February following harvest. For Avril, the whites nearly always follow the same maturity: ‘The young wines show peach, anis, white flowers, grapefruit and a salinity. As they age, they become more mineral and almost show a Riesling like petrol note. And then heading towards 20 years we see honey, dried apricots and quince appear.’ These are whites that do have a freshness that many other whites from the appellation do not have, yet never at the expense of the textural richness that is integral to their identity. I consider Clos des Papes wines to be extremely good value for money The tasting demonstrated perfectly the trajectory that Clos des Papes wines tend to follow as they age. In their youth, they offer very attractive drinking for two to three or so years after bottling with primary fruit and a suave feel as demonstrated by the 2021, 2022 and 2023. The wines then tend to shut down in bottle, as seen with the 2019, which whilst having a spellbinding nose was quite tight on the palate but with such balance. The 2016 was still somewhat tight but just beginning to unfurl and open up, while the 2010 was drinking just beautifully yet clearly with great potential to develop further. The coup du coeur for me was the quite magnificent 2005, which still maintains such tannic structure and grip but with beautiful fruit, texture and minerality. Again, this seemed to be dipping into a quieter phase as well and I expect it will age gracefully for another 20 years. Clos des Papes is a wine that should be on every Rhône lover’s radar. Firstly, I consider them to be extremely good value for money. They are wines that offer so much pleasure over such a long period of time yet can still be enjoyed in their youth. Each vintage really does speak of the year yet with the hallmark of Clos des Papes, as Avril explains, ‘I compare my job to that of a painter. At the beginning of the year, I get a blank canvas and the weather is what gives me the colours with which to paint the best picture possible. Each year the resulting painting will be different but always with the same signature beneath.’ Vincent Avril is a man that makes it all sound so simple, yet the wines are anything but and offer incredible complexity, elegance and refinement.

Written for Club Oenologique in 2025, Alistair Cooper MW reports on a vertical tasting of Clos des Papes with winemaker Vincent Avril, highlighting some of the best wines from the estate over the last 20 years and explaining why they are must-haves for Rhône collectors.

Written for Club Oenologique in 2025, Alistair Cooper MW reports on a vertical tasting of Clos des Papes with winemaker Vincent Avril.

Clos des Papes 2005-2023

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

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

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

Reimagining Cognac from the ground up

“Time is necessary,” Paul-Etienne Defaix tells me. He should know – he is the 16th generation of his family to make wine in Chablis – and, at Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix, time is everything.  Wine has been made at the Domaine du Vieux Château (the property’s historic name, which still features on the labels today) for eight centuries, and under the Defaix family since 1610. Much has changed in Chablis over the past 400 years, however – and today the estate is a last bastion of the Chablis of yore.   Demand for Chablis was booming by the 1970s, and producers reduced the élevage (the time wine spends in barrel or tank), bottling, releasing and selling the wines earlier. These modern wines, often bottled within six to 12 months, were lean and crisp, but for Paul’s father Daniel-Etienne, they were disappointing – lacking the complexity and ageability of wines that spent longer on their lees (the dead yeast cells). Daniel-Etienne decided to do things differently – to return to making wine the way they had in generations past – and the family hasn’t looked back.  Generally, their approach is to let the wine be – waiting, watching and waiting some more. Fermentation is all with indigenous yeast and notably slow, taking up to six months, with malolactic fermentation left to rumble along on its own timescale, only finishing after up to two years. Their Premier Cru wines then spend up to nine years on their fine lees, while for the Grands Crus it can be up to 15 years, kept at a cool 10-12°C.  During the wines’ extended élevage, autolysis takes place – the enzymatic breakdown of the dead yeast cells, or lees. It’s the same process that takes place in Champagne and other traditional-method sparkling wines aged on their lees, and is the key to the Defaix – and once traditional – style of Chablis, giving the wine a rounder mouth-feel, and lending bready, toasty complexity. It is also, for Paul, “key to revealing terroir”. Although the tiny volumes of Defaix’s Grands Crus and Pinot Noir go into oak, most of the wines are aged exclusively in stainless steel, meaning it is only the site and time that you taste in the bottle. Once deemed ready, the wines are bottled and released into the world.  Ageing its wines in stainless steel tank for not months but years, Defaix creates textural, complex wines that are only released as they reach their drinking window. It is a rebellion, Paul tells me, against “a society of rapid consumption”.  Paul is now in charge of the property’s vineyards and winemaking, although his father is still involved in the business. Paul studied in Beaune, getting experience at a handful of estates – largely focused on Pinot Noir – before returning to the family domaine, working his way from the vines to the cellar. As Daniel-Etienne told him, “You need to learn your soil, your vines, then you can make the wine – and then you try to sell it.”  And, although it’s often the style of winemaking that steals headlines at Defaix, the domaine has some remarkable vineyards. The family farms 28 hectares in total. It has two Grand Cru parcels (0.15 hectares in Blanchot and 0.3 hectares in Grenouilles), but it’s the property’s Premiers Crus that have built its reputation – with four hectares each in Côte de Léchet and Vaillons. From these, they produce three wines: their Côte de Léchet, Les Lys and Vaillon. Importantly, the latter is Vaillon, not plural Les Vaillons – their parcel lying in the historic heart of this Premier Cru, prior to its expansion in 1976. Les Lys is a cooler climat within the larger Vaillons, and is often our favourite of the range, while the Côte de Léchet is drastically steep – with a 45% gradient.  The remaining hectares are largely dedicated to the estate’s village Chablis – their Vieilles Vignes. These vines are all over 45 years old, but some are very old – own-rooted, having survived phylloxera and now 145 years in age. When I ask Paul how this half-hectare has managed to survive ungrafted, he pauses, before saying: “I think God prays for these vines.”. They crop a mere 15hl/ha, but produce beautiful fruit (“For my bank, it’s bad; for my wine, it’s perfect!” Paul jokes) – and are now used for massal selection across the estate.  The final piece of the property is a tiny section of Vaillons planted to Pinot Noir, which is bottled as Bourgogne Rouge (as the land is only classified for Chardonnay production). Comprising less than a hectare, these vines too are ancient, planted in 1900, and still on their own roots.  Their spacious cellars are stocked with back-vintages, carefully maturing – a bank of wine that eases the vagaries of each specific growing season, protecting them from dramatic drops in yield – something that is a constant threat in Chablis. Take 2024, a year that was challenging across much of northern Europe with its wet conditions and high disease pressure, but in Chablis also brought hail that devastated huge swathes of vineyard – including Vaillons.  Global warming might have made it easier to ripen grapes in this marginal region, but it’s also made for more extreme conditions – highs and lows that keep producers on their toes. It’s also, arguably, made Chablis a little less Chablis. With riper fruit, the wines are less steely, taut and lean. Harvest dates are inevitably earlier, Paul notes, to preserve acidity and retain Chablisien backbone, but he also emphasises that the fruit requires not just sugar ripeness, but phenolic ripeness – to give dry extract and allow the wines to age. For him, working with old vines and low yields is key – both to phenolic ripeness and to preserving Chablis’s style.  The 2014 vintage – the first that Paul made – has finally just emerged from the cellar, over a decade after it was produced. It’s been a long wait, but delayed gratification is part of life at Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix.   Explore all current listings of Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix – including the 2014 Vaillon – or read more about Burgundy. 

In many ways, time stands still at Chablis’s Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix. As the latest vintage is released, we caught up with Paul-Etienne Defaix – the 16th generation to take the helm at one of the region’s oldest addresses 

Exploring this traditional Chablis estate and its top Premier and Grand Cru wines with 16th generation winemaker Paul-Etienne Defaix

Worth the wait, Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix’s Chablis wine

Worth the wait: the wines of Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix   

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

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

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

Chianti Classico’s Gran Selezione gets a glow-up

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

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

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

The most improbable project ever:Will Berliner on Cloudburst

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

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

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

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

Taking root: the rise of biodynamic winemaking in Bordeaux

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

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

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

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

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

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

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

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

Paul Jaboulet Aine

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