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  

I’ve written this having just finished my second en primeur report for Decanter magazine. Four weeks of intensive tasting, two weeks of intensive writing – Primeurs is both the best and hardest period of the year, exhausting and rewarding. But, where one tasting finishes another one arises: tomorrow, I fly to Canada for a tasting of Bordeaux 1982 wines – with the legendary vintage showcased in 40 top bottles at a charity dinner in Vancouver. Sometimes my life feels like a dream.   Despite not having a background in wine before joining Decanter in 2011, and certainly no family cellar filled with dusty treasures, I became enthralled the moment I was handed my first glass of fine wine – at my desk, no less. “How is this a job?” I thought to myself. Many years of tastings and trips passed, meeting the world’s foremost winemakers and writing about wine in various ways, however the “critic” role (more of an American designation than British, I think) was never one I coveted – and certainly not one I expected to ever have.    The barrier to entry seemed so high, even though I was already working at Decanter, which understandably tended to only use “regional experts” and Masters of Wine, many with decades of experience and often living in their chosen region – something I now fully understand and would encourage any budding wine writer to do.   Skip forward a decade or so and I’m now responsible for Decanter Premium, overseeing the digital strategy for subscriptions and content behind the paywall on decanter.com – and now Bordeaux correspondent too, having taken over from long-time Decanter contributor Jane Anson in July 2021.   When Jane moved on, the question was who would fill the position. A combination of desire on my part and the lure of a challenge (who wouldn’t want this job?), happenstance (in that I had not long moved to live in Bordeaux city, placing me in the perfect location to take up the role), and a shortage of qualified candidates in the region, all seemed to work in my favour.  While Decanter authoritatively covers wines from all around the world (one of its biggest selling points for me), Bordeaux is what we call “heartland content” – and the stats don’t lie. It’s consistently the most-read and paid-for content we produce, by far. From Primeurs to livrable “in-bottle” tastings to estate verticals and incredibly old horizontals, there’s always something to taste, at every price point, in every conceivable style. And with around 7,000 estates, there’s no end of new cellars to see, new vineyards to walk into and new winemakers at the helm.   So there’s pressure, especially writing for the magazine with its expectation of quality and deep understanding. But, there’s also non-stop dynamism, and living here brings the action so much closer, something I never truly understood before. An hour each way from my home, I can be in Saint-Emilion, Sauternes or Saint-Julien.   The Decanter name is hugely respected in Bordeaux and I’m extremely fortunate to have been welcomed so generously and thoroughly. The last 22 months have been spent tasting and visiting estates as much as I can. I’ve done dozens of verticals that have yet to be published, spent weeks with winemakers in vineyards and cellars, talked to consultants about changing styles and négociants about market trends. I took part in my first harvest last year (thank you Cheval Blanc) and my first blending session this year (thank you Nicolas Glumineau, General Manager at Pichon Comtesse).   I've also been inducted into the Commanderie du Bontemps of the Médoc, Graves, Sauternes and Barsac, as well as the Hospitaliers de Pomerol (two historic brotherhoods, now modern-day societies that encourage, support and help promote the wines and winemakers of their respective regions). These are all enriching experiences that are the building blocks of my Bordeaux knowledge.  Somehow I thought having done the 2021 en primeur tastings and report last year (as well as two in-bottle reports since I started – all with around 900 wines sampled each time) the 2022 report would be easier – it wasn’t. Tasting is actually really tough – not only physically demanding and tiring, but mentally exhausting. It goes without saying that experience is helpful, comprehension and context are key for notes and scores, but passion is also a must. I’m building the first two, the latter I still have in abundance.   Despite sometimes pinching myself, looking back there’s a strange sense of destiny attached to my current role. My first ever work trip was to Bordeaux (and I ended up buying an apartment almost round the corner from the hotel I first stayed at). My first fine wine vertical was – amazingly –  of First Growth Ch. Mouton Rothschild with the then brilliant winemaker Philippe Dhalluin at Café Lavinal in Pauillac. My first article was about a Bordeaux panel tasting and I even had maps of Bordeaux vineyards on my bedroom wall in London, something I had forgotten until I came across some old photos recently.   An added bonus, my father only drinks Bordeaux wines so this job definitely earns me favourite child status.  As much as it’s serious and hard work, it’s also huge fun, interesting, glamorous and ever-changing. I think humility and gratitude are important, as well as a genuine enthusiasm to tell the stories of these wonderful wines and the people who make them.  Is the role of “critic” my true calling – above publishing, improvement strategies and brand building? I don’t know. What I do know; I love writing. I love Cabernet (Sauvignon and Franc)! I love mature Bordeaux (and am currently seeking out as much 2001 as possible). I love blind tasting the region’s wines to try and place them in their appellations (despite myriad differences in viticulture and vinification this is somehow still possible – the power of Pauillac, the prettiness of Margaux, the minerality of Saint-Estephe). I love the light in Saint-Emilion at dusk during the summer – is there a more romantic wine region?    But most of all, I love the joy and passion surrounding winemaking – not limited to Bordeaux, but the family histories, long-standing traditions, connection to gastronomy, focus on innovation and investment – they all give the region an extra glint in my eye.   What I don’t love, however, is my dentist telling me off and trying to find a place to store all my bottles... but there are worse problems, admittedly. (Speaking of which, if anyone wants to drive me round the region for next year’s Primeurs, applications open soon!)  For now, I'm excited to see how this year's Primeurs campaign goes. There's no doubt that many producers have created exceptional wines worth buying, but whether the market is sufficiently dynamised by the prices is another question. I'm eagerly awaiting a copy of this year's Bordeaux guide (on sale with the June issue of Decanter) filled with all the wonderful happenings in Bordeaux right now, as well as looking forward to discovering some of the hidden non-classified gems of Margaux. The sun looks set to appear for the first proper time this week, sending temperatures up and kickstarting the 2023 growing season – and, as with any vintage, there’s already so much to look forward to.  Read more about Bordeaux or browse all Bordeaux listings  Photography: Luke Carver

Georgie Hindle had big shoes to fill when she took over from Jane Anson as Decanter’s Bordeaux correspondent in 2021. Here she talks about how she fell for the region and what it’s really like working as a wine critic

Decanter’s Bordeaux correspondent Georgie Hindle takes us behind the scenes in Bordeaux, talking about life as a wine critic

Behind the scenes with Decanter’s Georgie Hindle

Auxey-Duresses is, at best, sleepy. As I rolled into the village on Monday morning, the streets were empty in the grey of a rainy winter’s day – just one retiree trundling slowly toward the boulangerie. But here, in this quiet corner of Burgundy, lies the home of Maison Leroy.  A visit to the négociant arm of the Leroy empire is a chance to look behind the curtain at one of Burgundy’s greatest properties, and the allure of such an audience doesn’t fade – even now, on my 12th visit. The wines are remarkable – and rapidly vanish into the cellars of eager collectors as soon as they’re released.  Despite the prestige of this address and its wines, however, it’s a humble, rural Burgundy charm that reigns supreme. Soon after I arrive, the phone rings – it’s Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy herself calling from the south of France to say hello, apologising that she can’t be there herself and hoping that the wines are showing well. There’s no pretence or politics, just modest and unassuming politesse.  And that style is characterised by the building itself. The Maison feels like a home – one that hasn’t changed for 30 years, with stacks of books squirrelled into every corner and the walls lined with articles, photos, reviews and other mementos. One could spend hours exploring this living archive. In amongst every issue of Bettane & Desseauve’s guide and issues of the Wine Spectator stretching back to the 1990s, there’s a picture of Bize-Leroy with Nixon, while nearby there’s a hand-written note from one Bob Parker.  Each year the Maison releases its annual collection – not just the latest vintage but a curated selection from the house’s extensive reserves, all hand-selected by Lalou Bize-Leroy herself. In September, she and her team start preparing the list, tasting endlessly to decide which wines should be set free into the world the following year. And there is an extensive back-catalogue to choose from – Bize-Leroy has been buying the very best parcels she can find for half a century. Over four months, the team decides what to release – wines that are drinking well or showing something that catches Bize-Leroy’s eye (or, more accurately, her palate).  While each collection used to be extensive, the releases have become increasingly focused. This year sees 10-15 reds and whites – and is particularly appealing to the wine geek. The collection is dominated mainly by 2017 reds and 2018 whites, however each one is paired with a more mature vintage of the same wine (or as close to as possible), stretching back to 1970. Inevitably, the older vintages are available in tiny volumes – but they’re testament to how age-worthy these “mere” négociant bottlings are.  Tasting through the range, the 2017 reds were a particular highlight. Even at 10am it was a challenge to resist swallowing – they are irresistible with their pure, crunchy fruit, so fresh and delicate with great persistence and complexity. The 2018 whites, meanwhile, from a warmer year are only just entering their drinking window and will gain with more time in the cellar.  Last year we couldn’t make it out with Covid restrictions, so it was all the more special to be back at Leroy this week. Emerging once more on Auxey-Duresses’s unassuming streets, I left even more in awe of this amazingly humble address.  Tasting notes: the Maison Leroy 2022 collection White 2018 Bourgogne Blanc: A pale lime-tinged colour, Maison Leroy’s 2018 Bourgogne Blanc is a bit shy at first, but with air opens up to reveal a fresh, floral nose. On the palate, the wine broadens, with layers building in the mouth to bring richness and stone-fruit notes. There’s a slight puppy fat to the texture at present, but this is lifted by vibrant acidity, making for a moreish wine overall. This is very different to last year’s sharper-angled 2017; the 2018 is a much more gourmand wine that will go beautifully with food. Drinking well now, it will age eight to 10 years without breaking a sweat. 2018 Saint-Aubin: Golden and concentrated in colour versus the Bourgogne Blanc, the 2018 Saint-Aubin has a profound, expressive nose – with limey tension. The palate is driven by a mouth-watering salinity, complemented by layers of vibrant citrus – blood orange, lemon and grapefruit – on show. Harmonious and balanced, the finish is long. Might need more time to reveal its full potential, but there’s no doubt that the potential is there.  2018 Meursault: Maison Leroy’s 2018 Meursault is attractive and concentrated with ripe, juicy white peach pulled fresh from a tree in the summer. But it’s far from simple fruit here – with honeycomb and grapefruit adding to the overall profundity. On the palate, there’s incredible tension between the ripeness of the 2018 vintage and a mineral acid backbone. Very vibrant and approachable, this offers depths that defy its status as a village wine. As with the Saint-Aubin, it will offer more with time in bottle.  2018 Meursault, Premier Cru, Les Genevrières: A step up from the village Meursault, the Premier Cru Genevrières offers even more concentration. The deep, complex nose is full of yellow stone-fruit, white blossom and hints of hazelnut. On the palate, it’s mouthcoating, but the concentration is not overblown – there’s precision and focus, with a saline mid-palate and mouth-watering acidity to complement the wine’s generosity. The finish is impressive, combining sharp-angled freshness and the wine’s sumptuous volume. This is built to age but is approachable now. 2014 Chassagne-Montrachet, Premier Cru, Les Chenevottes: The 2014 Chenevottes is expressive on the nose – it’s a wine with a lot to say. There’s a hint of reduction, but beyond that layer upon layer of aromas is revealed, showing different facets. Floral, lime and orange notes evolve on the palate, developing into deeper stone-fruit, ginger and honeysuckle. There’s a wash of salinity on the long finish that lifts the wine. Totally approachable now, this will age effortlessly for 10-15 years. Red 2018 Bourgogne Rouge: The 2018 Bourgogne Rouge from Maison Leroy is beautiful – punching well above the weight of its modest appellation. The nose is poised, perfumed and delicate – with expressive dried rose petals dancing against a backdrop of pure raspberry, wild strawberry and cherry fruit. There’s great density on the mid-palate, the alcohol and tannins seamlessly integrated with vibrant acidity from this warm vintage. It’s our favourite release of the cuvée for several years. 2017 Côte de Beaune Villages: Maison Leroy’s Côte de Beaune Villages is a blend of village fruit; while the exact blend is never disclosed, it can span the whole Côte, from Maranges to Beaune. The nose of the 2017 is exuberant, with sweeter and darker fruit than the Bourgogne Rouge, while a hint of smokiness gives a savoury edge. It’s both fresh and dense on the palate – there’s underlying power, yet the fine tannins make it feel light on its feet. The finish is long, laden with crunchy fruit. Very approachable now.  1997 Côte de Beaune Villages: The 1997 is remarkably dense in colour, with mature aromas of cured meat and very concentrated dark fruit. From a riper vintage versus the 2017, the richness of the fruit is evident here, however there’s still good balance on the palate with plenty of acidity and resolved tannins. It’s at a beautiful point of maturity, unlikely to gain from further ageing, but there’s no rush – with sufficient density to hold for five to 10 years. 2018 Savigny-lès-Beaune: This Savigny-lès-Beaune is deliciously enticing – a nose of archetypal, crunchy sour cherry. While it’s red fruit that draws you in on the nose, the palate shows a more serious side, with complexity building in layers. Freshness and finesse runs through the palate, with a vibrant acid backbone and lifted finish. Verry attractive and approachable, this is a superb, moreish wine that will keep you reaching for more.  2018 Beaune, Premier Cru, Les Montrevenots: This vineyard borders Pommard, sitting just above Beaune Clos des Mouches on a gentle southwest-facing slope. This Premier Cru site instantly shows more depth than the village wines, with an expressive, multi-layered nose with shifting cherry, blackberry, plum and wild strawberry aromas and an alluring hint of smoke. On the palate, the vibrant red fruit and freshness of this site and youthful Pinot Noir mingles with the ripe and serious dark-fruited side of the 2018 vintage. Beautifully balanced, this can be drunk now but will evolve nicely for 10 years or more. 2017 Nuits-Saint-Georges: The shift to the Côte de Nuits is instantly noticeable here. The wine has a deep colour and more austere, serious nose – with dark-fruited power accented by lighter white pepper spice and florals. On the palate, layers of bramble fruit build to create a concentrated and structured wine. There’s a firmer tannic backbone as is typical of Nuits-Saint-Georges, without being overly grippy. With underlying power, this is an aristocrat. The depth and balance here offers great potential, hold onto this for 15 to 20 years at least. 2017 Chambolle-Musigny: This is still beautifully aromatic on the nose, with a delicate, lace-like array of fruit and florals. This is pretty and refined, yet with underlying powerful. There’s a lot happening on the palate, with a certain juiciness balanced by tannins that are already beautifully silken. Despite the supple tannic structure, this feels like a baby – and will only deliver more with time in bottle. The length is stunning, lasting for minutes. Punching well above village level, this was a new favourite in the line-up – and one of the most promising in the range. 2017 Gevrey-Chambertin: This was the most concentrated wine in the line-up – both in terms of colour and aroma. Combining depth, complexity and power, this is impressive, with a multidimensional nose that keeps evolving in the glass, showing different facets from sweet cherry to gentle sweet spice and floral notes. The palate is turbo-charged – mouth-filling and generous, yet all the while retains superb balance. The tannins are chewy and plentiful, yet all wrapped in silk, bringing an overall impression of finesse. There’s incredible length, with a fresh, juicy finish. As with the Chambolle, this will only improve in bottle. It’s interesting to taste it side by side with the Chambolle-Musigny, each anchored in their terroir, but sharing finesse, poise and elegance. Discover more about Maison Leroy or read more Editorial 

Ahead of the 2022 releases from Maison Leroy, our Fine Wine Buying + Partner Director Corentin Margier visited the producer’s headquarters – an unassuming address that belies the greatness of the wines that emerge from its cellars 

Exploring the 2022 releases from the Maison Leroy's headquarters – an unassuming address that belies the greatness of the wines that emerge from its cellars

Exploring Maison Leroy, a humble home 

Maison Leroy: a humble home

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