Sitting opposite us, the dark-suited, dark-haired figure waved an elegant hand at the bottle of white Burgundy which he’d just fished out of a carrier bag and planted on the table with the air of a conjuror at a party. “You’ll like this,” he said; it was a statement, not a suggestion, delivered in a faint accent with American overtones and a hint of gutturality. In this totally unremarkable West London pub, a bottle of Meursault looked as out of place as a KGB officer. Which he was. We did like it, of course, who wouldn’t? It made the greasy steak and chips almost bearable, and was one of the best wines I’d ever tasted at that point in my life. I was 33 that year, 1978, and as a newish BBC foreign correspondent I wasn’t particularly well paid. He’d brought the Meursault with him to show us how sophisticated he was, and to counter the blandness of the food. But why had he suggested The Mitre as a place for lunch? It was handy for the Soviet embassy up the road, certainly; but I realised that the real attraction for him was the high-backed seats that enclosed our table and kept our conversation private. Sergei was a major in the KGB, masquerading as a press attaché. The habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in him. The Meursault started to work on my companion, a gossipy, amusing, slightly naïve BBC executive. It worked on me, too, but under the influence of alcohol I tend to go quiet and introverted. Not so Harry. He delivered the brief lecture about Soviet harassment of our Moscow correspondent which he’d been planning. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t make Sergei burst into tears. On the contrary. “Ah, yes, the famous Declan.” Sergei managed to put the accent on the second syllable. “Such good Russian. A pity he wastes his time hanging around those drop-outs and wastrels.” I was particularly impressed by ‘wastrels’. “I suppose you mean dissidents,” I said, pushing my glass across for more Meursault. The label read ‘1968’; the Soviet embassy must have had a superb cellar. Sergei laughed scornfully and poured. “I hear Declan’s marriage isn’t going so good now,” he said. “Ah, no, his wife left him for an airline pilot,” Harry replied, giggling. I kicked him sharply: you didn’t feed personal details about your colleagues to KGB officers. “What?” Harry said, looking at me. We saw the bottle out. Sometimes I think I can still taste that rich, green-gold collection of butter, almond, citrus and, could it have been, or is it just my imagination after more than 40 years, hints of bracken and mayflower. At the end, we stood up and shook hands. “So you’ll go easy on Declan from now on?” Harry said. “Well, Declan must stop creating bad propaganda against the Soviet Union.” He had a good ear: this time the accent was on the first syllable. Sergei turned in the direction of the embassy, and we headed back to Television Centre. “Bloody good wine those Russkies can afford,” Harry said, and gave his high-pitched laugh.For journalists and spies, booze is a famous lubricant, a fuel, even. I came from a teetotal background, yet when I started as a foreign correspondent I soon found myself ordering a glass of single malt as a means of self-protection, while someone I was trying to pump for information opened up and talked in a way he or she never would if I’d ordered a Britvic orange. Yet there were exceptions. In Belfast and Derry, where I started my reporting career, the leaders of the Provisional IRA were mostly ultra-Catholic and never drank a drop; and as I branched out and began reporting on the Middle East, I found that organisations like Hezbollah and the followers of the Ayatollah were as teetotal as I had once been. There were no bars to meet them in, either. Fortunately, though, cities like Cairo and Beirut were more sophisticated. I soon found that anywhere with a sizeable Christian population, Egypt and Lebanon, of course, but also Syria, Iraq and westernised countries like Turkey and Pakistan, made allowances for thirsty westerners and permitted them to drink, even if in cities like Peshawar you had to sign a big leather volume and register yourself as an alcoholic. The bar in the old Commodore Hotel in Beirut was a wonderful centre for professional alcoholics of this kind. I first went there in June 1982, when West Beirut was under hourly attack from Israeli planes and tanks, and there were no shelters to protect us. The presiding spirit of the place was a correspondent called Chris Drake, a hospitable soul who dispensed booze and information even-handedly. When the barrage was going on, it would have been suicidal to leave the Commodore, and the building shuddered to every nearby explosion. Chris Drake had a parrot, and when the bar was packed in the evening with journalists glad to still be alive, it would imitate the sound of a shell in flight with startling accuracy. Most of the people there, not me, thank God, had walked into the bar on their first night, heard the parrot’s hugely convincing whistle, and thrown themselves on the floor shouting “Incoming!”. There would be a roar of laughter, and someone would help them up and offer them a glass of arak, an infusion of grapes and the seeds of the anise plant. I acquired a real taste for arak at that time, and I still think of that slightly oily, metallic, liquorice-tasting liquid hitting the back of my throat and burning its way down. A few years later, during another upsurge of fighting, the Commodore was heavily shelled by the Syrian army. The building was destroyed, and no trace of the parrot was ever found. When peace was restored and there was money around, the Commodore was rebuilt, much bigger and more glitzy, but the architect designed a new bar precisely where the old one had once been. You can still see the space on the floor where many a famous journalist measured his length when the parrot did its party trick. I took my wife and 13-year-old son there a couple of years ago, and one afternoon, when the bar was empty, my son insisted on re-enacting the whole thing. In China, things were different. Meetings with underground figures usually took place at their homes or outdoors, given the fear of surveillance. I often chose Ritan Park in Beijing, where teahouses served pu-erh tea and offered a discreet place to talk. By contrast, official meetings required alcohol, specifically Maotai, a fierce baijiu distilled from sorghum at over 50% ABV. At one banquet, after being insulted by a local Party official, I tried to outdrink him. The plan failed, he had help, but we still ended the night collapsed together, singing in two languages. The next day, I was told this had enhanced British prestige. Countries where alcohol is banned present different challenges. In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I smuggled in a 27-year-old bottle of Laphroaig disguised as Fanta, only to pour it down the toilet when soldiers began searching rooms for alcohol. They never entered mine. After the fall of the Soviet Union, I tried to track Sergei down but never found him. Before that, though, I had taken my revenge by signing him up to every unwanted mailing list I could find, encyclopaedias, dubious magazines, and more inventive subscriptions besides. It made me feel very good.And yet, if I imagine meeting him again, I always picture the same thing: Sergei standing in the doorway, holding a superb bottle of Meursault. For that, at least, I’ve always been grateful. This article was written by John Simpson, who reflects on his experiences reporting across the world, and the role alcohol has played in the art of face-to-face reconnaissance. Illustrations by Natsko Seki. Originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson reflects on reporting from conflict zones, recalling memorable bars, encounters and the role alcohol plays in the subtle art of face-to-face reconnaissance.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson on bars, encounters and how alcohol shapes reporting, trust and intelligence gathering worldwide.

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

Some of Nicolas Champagneux’s earliest memories are of life in the vines – of the hubbub of harvest with his grandparents. It’s not the hard work that he recalls, it’s “des bons moments de famille” he tells me – the convivial spirit that infused the air. He grew up in the heart of Côte-Rôtie, spending weekends and holidays in his family’s vineyard – a swathe of Les Grandes Places, a prized site in the commune of Verenay, where his great-grandfather planted vines at the start of the 20th century.  Les Grandes Places is an extraordinary site – with the most famous producer arguably Jean-Michel Gérin. In the north of the Côte Brune, in a southwest-facing amphitheatre, this steep site has crumbly mica schist soils, which allow the vines’ roots to drive deep into the bedrock. It’s home to some very old vines – such as the centenarian plantings that Champagneux farms – and produces wines that are beautifully elegant yet with dark, fleshy power. Champagneux has almost two hectares here, having the largest holdings. Nicolas’s uncle André took over running the vineyard after his grandparents, while his father Gérard went to work in a factory. There wasn’t enough money for both brothers to join the family business back then, with Côte-Rôtie not nearly as sought-after as it is today. Other than a couple of barrels for personal consumption, the family didn’t make wine, farming the site and selling almost all the fruit to Guigal, one of the Northern Rhône’s most famous names.  Indeed, beyond the family vineyard, Nicolas spent a lot of time at Guigal – after his father Gérard left life on the factory floor to head up their viticulture team. From 16, Nicolas would work there in his holidays to earn some money. When Champagneux turned 18, he needed to find a job: he was determined not to work in an office and loved being outside, so he ended up becoming a high-wire electrician – working with huge currents of 20,000 volts. “You were never in the same place, each day was different, each task was different – so there was no monotony,” he says. He often finished his day early, and – a farmer born and bred, unaccustomed to the concept of relaxing – would go help in the family vineyard.  When his uncle passed away, there was no one else to take over the domaine – so he stepped up to the plate, keen to ensure his family’s heritage was preserved. He decided to start keeping the fruit and making wine under the family name, wanting to see the year’s efforts captured. He knew how to work the vines but had never dreamt of being a winemaker – but, never one to be put off by a challenge, he learnt on the job. That was 2014, and the wines have rapidly earned him a reputation in the region. The family cellar had the essentials, but the first few vintages were made with the bare minimum – with a new cellar built in 2016 (Yves Cuilleron advised on the project).  Almost a decade after he left the world of pylons, transformers and conductors behind, life might follow an annual cycle, but it’s as un-monotonous as it was before. Nicolas works as a one-man band and values the independence that brings – managing his own time and being his own boss. “There is still a lot to do and each year is different,” he tells me. He hopes his son will join him at some point – he was born in 2009, and his uncle put away a stash of wine from the vintage, some of which is set to be released for its 20th anniversary in 2029.   Climate change is at the forefront of his mind, with harvests now early September and even August versus October under his uncle. Where they used to struggle to get 13% potential alcohol, his wines often sit at 14-14.5%. He’s now working with grass cover, deleafing less and using a little whole bunch in warmer years to preserve freshness in the wines. Otherwise, little has changed in the decade since he started – he continues to work as simply as possible, looking to translate the vines he grew up amongst into wine. And that’s just what he does: the wines are elegant expressions of Les Grandes Places, perfumed and suave, with a fine grip of tannins and an underlying savoury salinity, ageing beautifully – as a mini-vertical of the 2015, 2016 and 2017 vintages showed recently.   The Nicolas Champagneux wines  From his four hectares of vines, Nicolas Champagneux makes three wines: an IGP Vin de Pays des Collines Rhodaniennes La Rémise and two Côte-Rôties, Les Grandes Places and La Dédicace, all made with 100% Syrah.   La Dédicace comes from the younger vines in Les Grandes Places, with a “mere” 40-60 years behind them on average. Around 6,000-7,000 bottles are produced of this “baby” Grandes Places.   Les Grandes Places comes from his oldest vines, averaging a little over 100 years in age, with some planted in 1910. Just 1,500 bottles or so are made of this wine each vintage.  Both the Côte-Rôtie wines are made in exactly the same way, mostly de-stemmed with  little whole-bunch added in warmer vintages and fermented with indigenous yeast, reaching a maximum 28-30°C, and spending around three weeks on skins. The wine then spends 20-24 months in old oak before bottling.  Nicolas Champagneux Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: a vertical tasting  2022 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: This is packed with spicy intensity – clove and cardamom along with a hit of Szechuan pepper. The palate offers a juicy lushness, layered with deep, concentrated dark cherry fruit and a twist of black tapenade, with mouth-coating tannins and all refreshed by a line of vibrant acidity. A baby now, best approached from 2030.  2021 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: A really impressive 2021, poised and powerful, Champagneux’s Les Grandes Places needs air but gradually reveals pepper spice and more delicate, lifted, violet florals. There is, however, power and weight to the palate – more than you might expect from the pretty nose, with a savoury firmness, supple but structured tannins and juicy acidity. It’s dark and brooding, gothic with its haunting florals, with a long, mouth-watering, saline finish. Approach from 2027.  2017 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: The 2017 Les Grandes Places combines delicate florals with a bloody, iron note on the nose, leading on to a palate layered with bramble fruit. The tannins are round, supple and soft-textured, with tangy acidity that cuts through the concentrated fruit, while the long finish is scented with white pepper and parma violets.  2016 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: This 2016 is in a gorgeous place. Heady incense combines with sweet cherry fruit and a touch of smoke on the nose, leading onto a palate that you sink into – the wine soft and supple, with waves of sweet fruit, yet all cut by an intensely saline, savoury edge. Fresh and flawlessly balanced, decant and enjoy now and over a good decade to come.   2015 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: The sternest of the trio of 2015, 2016 and 2017, this is a powerful and impressive vintage of Les Grandes Places – with all the best characteristics of the year. The wine is dark and broody, compact and amazingly primary still, with black cherry fruit and blackberry filling the nose. On the palate, however, it has amazing purity and intensity, with a crystalline quality to the fruit, plenty of acidity to complement its concentration and the firm tannins. Smoky, saline notes linger in the mouth, with a dusting of petal florals on the finish. Decant if opening now, but this will be even better if you can resist for another few years.  Explore all current listings from Nicolas Champagneux including a range of back-vintages or read more about the Rhône 

It’s almost a decade since Nicolas Champagneux took over his family’s vines and started making wine under his own name – the first generation to do so. We sat down with the vigneron to find out more about his heritage and the journey so far 

How the talented young vigneron in Cote-Rotie has taken his family’s legacy and created a new domaine that is one of the Rhone’s most exciting 

Nicolas Champagneux – building on his birthright 

Nicolas Champagneux: building on his birthright 

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  

About Académie du Vin Founded in Paris in 1973 by Steven Spurrier, the Académie du Vin grew out of a love of wine and a desire to share it with clarity and intelligence. What began as informal wine appreciation courses in 1970s Paris evolved into a publishing house dedicated to the finest wine writing of the past, present, and future. Today, the Académie du Vin Library maintains a deliberately small and carefully curated list, selecting books for their readability, authority and enduring insight into the world’s great wine regions – guided by the belief that fine wine writing, like wine itself, deepens with time. About this article This article presents the introduction to Côte d’Or: The wines and winemakers of the heart of Burgundy (2nd Edition) by Raymond Blake. In it, Blake sets the scene for Burgundy’s most revered stretch of vineyard, exploring the historical, cultural and human forces that shape the Côte d’Or. The introduction offers essential context on place, tradition and the vignerons themselves—laying the groundwork for a deeper understanding of Burgundy’s wines and the people behind them. Introduction The Côte d’Or, the Golden Slope, enjoys a reputation and exerts an influence in the wine world out of all proportion to its size. It possesses none of the grandeur of the Douro Valley, for instance, nor the picture-postcard beauty of South Africa’s winelands. It is not majestic; its beauty is serene, and what strikes the observer time and again is the tiny scale. From north to south it is about 50 kilometres long, is sometimes less than a kilometre wide, and can be driven in little more than an hour. At a push it could be walked in a day. Yet for a thousand or more years this favoured slope has yielded wines that have entranced and delighted wine lovers, with a fair measure of frustration and disappointment thrown in too. Avoiding hyperbole when writing about the Côte d’Or is a problem, for it has held people in thrall for centuries, frequently prompting poetic flights of prose: ‘The Pathetic Fallacy resounds in all our praise of wine … This Burgundy seemed to me, then, serene and triumphant … it whispered faintly, but in the same lapidary phrase, the same words of hope.’ Thus wrote Evelyn Waugh in Brideshead Revisited eighty years ago. Literary critics might cavil at such prolixity, and Waugh himself tamed it severely in later editions, but it was enough to intrigue me decades ago and engender a love for the region and its wines that has never waned. Greater Burgundy is a bigger, more geographically diverse, region than might first be supposed, stretching from Chablis, south-east of Paris, to Beaujolais, north of Lyon. The subject matter of this book, however, is Burgundy’s heart, the Côte d’Or. There is no more celebrated stretch of agricultural land on earth. It has been pored over and analysed, feted and cosseted, obsessed about and sought after for centuries and today, if anything, it exerts a greater pull on wine lovers than ever before. ‘Astronomical’ does not begin to describe the prices now being paid for prized patches of grand and premier cru vineyard, and for the wines produced from them by the top domaines. Such prices hog the headlines and paint a dazzling, though severely one-dimensional, picture of the Côte d’Or today. In the early years of the twenty-first century they are part of the story but they are not the only part. This book aims to get behind the dazzle and flesh out the story, to add some nuance and extra dimension. The Côte d’Or cannot be captured in a sound bite nor, it must be admitted, in a book of this scope – but my hope is that it may add another chapter to the ever-unfolding tale, setting it in the early years of the twenty-first century, a period that may come to be considered by future historians as a golden age for Burgundy but which has brought its own challenges in the shape of those ludicrous prices, the scandal of premature oxidation in the white wines, and the increasing challenge of dealing with extreme weather events such as hail and spring frost. The Côte d’Or has been the subject of forensic scrutiny for centuries, generating a library of books, so why another one now? For the simple reason that it is ever changing. Every year sees new names added to the producers’ roster and old ones slipping away, and thanks to this ongoing evolution the infant domaine of today can be the superstar of tomorrow. The core of the book comprises about a hundred producer profiles. Many fine domaines and négociants whose wines I am happy to purchase and drink have not found a place here. It is important to stress that they have not been included, rather than excluded, simply for reasons of space. The aim was to feature a representative collection of producers, not a top-down selection of the most celebrated names in descending order of renown. As a consequence this book is not, nor was it ever intended to be, a comprehensive A to Z of producers. I write as an amateur du vin, an enthusiast whose admiration for the wines of Burgundy stretches back over four decades, and who has been visiting the region and writing about the wines for some thirty years. I do not trade in wine. I try to see beyond the wine to get something of the backstory, the story of people and place that makes the Côte d’Or so fascinating. To examine the wines in isolation is to dislocate them from that, and not knowing something of the backstory precludes a full understanding of them. A broad lens must be brought to bear on the côte. Too narrow, and the wood will never be seen for the trees. I have learned much by coming across things serendipitously rather than dashing hither and thither, seeing a lot but noticing little. Without time for assimilation and reflection, subtlety and shade are missed. Finally, no gustatory experience can match the thrill of a great Côte d’Or red drunk at its peak. The colour, crimsoned by age; the heavenly scent, perfumed with notes of sweet decay; a sauvage edge, the palate lively and tingling, managing to be so many things at once, oscillating between fruit and spice and meat and game, a merry-go-round of flavour, spiralling on the palate, refusing to be pinned down by anything so prosaic as a tasting note. All the primary components melded by age and yielding up new ones, unsignalled when the wine was young. Everything cohesive and in harmony, like a great orchestra playing at its best. Above all, vital and living, endlessly enchanting and intriguing, engaging the palate and the spirit like no other wine. Learn more about Raymond Blake's Côte d'Or (2nd edition) Shop all books from the Académie du Vin Library Visit the Académie du Vin website Upcoming Event FINE+RARE & Académie du Vin Present: The Impossible Tasting FINE+RARE and Académie du Vin are delighted to present a rare and intimate exploration of the finest wines ever made. Wines of historical legend. Wines that are rarely seen, much less opened. Wines that should be impossible to bring together at one time. Lunch (April 29): River Restaurant, The Savoy Hotel Dinner (April 30): St James’s Room, 67 Pall Mall Club Learn more about the event here

Explore Burgundy with the introduction from Raymond Blake's book: Côte d'Or: The wines and winemakers of the heart of Burgundy. Blake tells the whole story of this hugely influential region, painting a complete picture of life there: the history, landscape, climate, culture and people.

Discover Raymond Blake's Côte d'Or (2nd Edition): a deep dive into Burgundy's wines, winemakers, history, culture and the people behind this iconic region.

Raymond Blake on the Côte d'Or

Group CEO Patrick O’Connor reflects on Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry and early vintage defined by small yields, precise viticulture, restrained winemaking and a new wave of estates delivering wines of real distinction.

Patrick O’Connor, Group CEO, explores Bordeaux 2025: a hot, dry, early vintage shaped by precision, small yields and standout wines.

Bordeaux 2025 en primeur: vintage overview      

Bordeaux 2025: vintage overview               

Xiao-Li Meng, Whipple V. N. Jones Professor of Statistics at Harvard and Founding Editor-in-Chief of Harvard Data Science Review, was inspired by a student to combine wine and statistics—leading to insights far beyond what they ever expected.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Seeking simplicity in statistics, complexity in wine, and everything else in fortune cookies 

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

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

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

The Reynaud wines are the stuff of legend. Utter “Rayas” to a certain crowd and they will swoon. The singular style of this iconic Châteauneuf-du-Pape estate – pale, hauntingly aromatic, almost Burgundian in texture and incredibly long-lived – has a fervent following, a clan of Reynaud obsessives keen to seek out everything that Emmanuel Reynaud touched.  The property’s rustic charm – a far cry from the grandiose buildings of many famous estates – combined with the family’s inclination to shy away from their fame, happier quietly farming their vines, has only fanned the flames. Tucked away in the northern reaches of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Ch. Rayas and its owners are elusive – only making them more sought-after.   There is no shortage of praise for these rare and special wines – whose appeal, given the Reynaud’s minimal-intervention approach, broaches the worlds of fine and natural wine. William Kelley is a loyalist, and is one of several to note how well the property performs in “off-vintages” – where the property’s distinctive profile shines through, above and beyond the vintage and region, revealing their “captivating perfume, sensual textures and eternal youthfulness”. Robert Parker described the 1990 Rayas as “one of the greatest young red wines I have ever tasted”. For Nicolas Grainacher (Vinous), “The substance, finesse and intensity packed into these wines make it hard not to fall in love with them.” Neal Martin (Vinous) perhaps put it most concisely: “God invented wine to drink wines like this.”    The history of the Reynaud empire  In 1880, Albert Reynaud, a notary from Avignon, lost his hearing aged just 45. No longer able to work as a lawyer, he bought an estate in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, in an area called Rayas, where he saw out his days farming vines, apricots and olives. In 1910, his son Louis Reynaud took over running the estate. Louis had studied agriculture in Angers and was particularly interested in viticulture. He uprooted trees to plant new vineyards and bottled the property’s first wine in 1920 – using the name “Rayas”, the name of the forest on their parcel of land. It was the beginning of Rayas as we know it today.  Louis famously added the wording “Premier Grand Cru” to the Rayas labels, a self-pronounced classification of the wine – and notoriously defying the appellation rules (introduced in 1936). Building the property’s reputation and sales, he started expanding the business. Between 1935 and 1938 he bought Ch. des Tours in Vacqueyras, entrusting his son Bertrand with the larger 58-hectare property northeast of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, not far from the town of Orange. Around the same time, he built a new cellar and winery at Rayas, bringing the buildings within the appellation’s boundaries. After the Second World War in 1945, Louis purchased Ch. de Fonsalette, an estate further north of Orange, in Lagarde-Paréol – and, with that, the full suite of Reynaud properties was in place.  By the time Louis passed away in 1978, the Reynaud wines were some of the Rhône’s most famous.  
After his death, his youngest son Jacques took over Rayas and Fonsalette, while Bertrand continued to run Ch. des Tours. With the shift in ownership at Rayas and Fonsalette, quality dipped a little – but soon Jacques was making wines that lived up to the Reynaud name.  The old vines at Rayas, planted on sandy soils, facing north/northeast, surrounded by pine forest, produce wines of exceptional elegance and aromatic finesse, wines with haunting perfume, pale colour and almost Pinot-like delicacy, yet phenomenal persistence and ageability.   Jacques was renowned for being eccentric. A recluse, happiest in the vines and never keen to welcome visitors, he was rumoured to, on occasion, lie in a ditch to avoid journalists or other members of the trade. His aversion to the limelight surely only added to the wines’ allure. He died rather suddenly in 1997, while shoe shopping in Courthézon. Having no children of his own, his nephew Emmanuel – Bertrand’s son, who had been running Ch. des Tours since 1989 – inherited both Rayas and Fonsalette, taking the reins across all three properties.  The transition between Jacques and Emmanuel wasn’t seamless, as Emmanuel renovated the estate and replanted parts of the site, but by the early 2000s quality was once more living up to the Reynaud name. The style has shifted between generations, and while Jacques’s wines were more structured and solid, Emmanuel favoured more sensual, perfumed expressions. Over the last two decades, little has changed across the Reynaud properties – the wines’ mythical status only confirmed with each release. The new generation – Emmanuel’s sons Louis Damien and Benoît – are now continuing the family’s legacy.    The Reynaud philosophy  The approach at Reynaud is old-school – here, tradition reigns. Modern monoculture is not the method – with various crops across the estates, and biodiversity nurtured with swathes of woodland. The vines – all bush vined, many with significant age – are farmed in exactly the way as they’ve always been, organically with minimal inputs, ploughed by horse.  The fruit is all hand-harvested, whole-bunch fermented with indigenous yeast in cement tanks. Since Emmanuel took over, parcels have all been vinified separately. Macerations are gentle, generally under two weeks with a single pump-over a day. Ageing is in large, old oak, with no new wood used anywhere across the properties – indeed the youngest demi-muid or foudre at the estate may well be 30 years in age. Sulphur additions are minimal, with only a small amount at fermentation and a final addition at bottling, with the wines bottled unfined and unfiltered. The method is simplicity at its finest, focused on expressing each site – and the results speak for themselves. The wineries are rustic farm buildings, offering only the basic requirements, with no modern technology employed – and, given the wines produced, not needed.  Grenache is the core of all the Reynaud wines – the grape that thrives in their terroir and is the magic behind Rayas. Beyond Rayas, Cinsault is used to bring elegance and suppleness, while Syrah was long avoided – used only at Ch. de Fonsalette. Louis Reynaud believed the variety belonged in the Northern Rhône, and other than the small portion that made it into the Côtes du Rhône, the rest of the Syrah was sold off in bulk under his reign (often to local restaurants, who used it in their sauces). The Côtes du Rhône Syrah cuvée only introduced under Jacques Reynaud’s tenure, at first sold to the restaurants who had seen its quality in their sauces. There is no Mourvèdre at any of the estates, as Emmanuel Reynaud believed that their soils are too dry for the grape.  The Reynaud wines and estates  The Reynaud family comprises three distinct estates – Rayas, Fonsalette and Ch. des Tours, although Fonsalette doesn’t have its own winery.   Ch. Rayas  Rayas is the original Reynaud estate, purchased in 1880, and takes its name from the climat. In the northern reaches of Châteauneuf-du-Pape lie the 12 hectares of vines, surrounded by 11 hectares of forest. Forget the region’s stereotypical galets roulés or pudding stones, known for their ability to hold heat, Rayas sits on red, iron-rich, sandy soils, over richer clay. The soils are poor and the bush vines planted at low density, with a mere 2,500 vines per hectare – yielding just 10 to 20hl/ha. Significant replanting took place in the 1980s, meaning the vines now average 40 years in age, although there are still some survivors from the 1940s.  The site’s northern exposition combines with the influence of the wooded areas, offering shade and humidity, making for an extended growing season and preserving freshness in the wines. The Reynauds are among the last to harvest, often only picking in October/November, as much as two months after their neighbours. The resulting wines, however, do not speak of intense ripeness – but are all about elegance and finesse.  While Châteauneuf permits 13 red varieties, at Rayas you’ll find only Grenache Noir, with two hectares dedicated to white grapes – Grenache Blanc and Clairette. The Grenache vineyards can be divided into three section: Le Levant, Le Coeur and Le Couchant, each taking its name from its exposure to the sun – respectively as it rises, at its peak and as it sets. Writing for The World of Fine Wine, William Kelley describes the three components of the vineyard thus: “Le Levant is the most floral and ethereal, contributing the wine’s spine; Le Coeur is the most complete, contributing Rayas’s skeleton; and Le Couchant, with its richer, more compote-like fruit tones, brings the fat.”  The fruit is all hand-picked. The Grenache is kept on its stems, the whole bunches crushed before a gentle maceration for maximum two weeks (one pumpover a day) and indigenous-yeast fermentation. The wine is pressed off and aged in old foudre for a little under two years.  The delicacy and finesse of the resulting wine is reminiscent of top Burgundy. Pale in colour, Rayas is deeply aromatic, with haunting floral notes and an ethereal, silken texture that balances the wine’s earthy, savoury intensity. Between 1,200 and 1,500 cases of the flagship Châteauneuf-du-Pape are produced each year. The wines age beautifully and Emmanuel himself recommended waiting 20-25 years before opening a bottle of Rayas to fully experience its evolution.  The white grapes are planted across three parcels in Le Levant, comprising two hectares. The Grenache Blanc was planted in the 1940s, ’50s and ’95, with the Clairette planted in 1986. Fermented in old (80 to 100 years old) foudre, purchased second-hand by Louis Reynaud (Emmanuel’s grandfather), Rayas Blanc is a 50:50 blend of Grenache Blanc and Clairette, aged in old oak for around 11 months. The wine is made in extremely limited volumes, with only 400 or so cases produced each vintage. Rich yet poised, this rare white is immensely fragrant with notes of almond and white flowers, intensely mineral and textured, and can age for at least a decade.  Pignan is sometimes considered a “second wine” at Rayas, but it in fact comes from it own, specific site on the estate, a single two-hectare block surrounded by pine trees on the northern edge of the property with less sandy soils. Also pure Grenache, made in exactly the same way at Rayas, it offers a more immediate and approachable expression of the Rayas style, yet similar perfume, purity and structure – and is still capable of extended ageing. It can, on occasion – and especially in cooler vintages, rival its older sibling, Rayas. Around 650 cases are produced each year.  The Rayas wines are all only released when entering their drinking window, with the reds often only emerging from the estate over a decade after the harvest.  Ch. de Fonsalette  The “latest” addition to the Reynaud galaxy, Ch. de Fonsalette was purchased by Louis Reynaud in 1945. The property is large, covering 120 hectares in total, but with 12 hectares of vines in amongst woodland, farmland and olive groves, north of Orange in Lagarde-Paréol. Today it sits largely within the Côtes du Rhône Villages Massif d’Uchaux appellation (established in 2005), however the wines are all labelled just as Côtes du Rhône. Further north, the microclimate is cooler than at Rayas, and stylistically the wines are more restrained than those of Ch. des Tours, for example, but not as ethereal as those of Rayas.  The soils here are very different to those at Rayas with gravel, sand and red pudding stones. The vineyards are planted to Grenache, Cinsault and Syrah for red grapes, and Grenache Blanc, Clairette and Marsanne for whites. The vines are generally old, with the oldest planted in 1929.  The philosophy in the vineyard and winery is exactly the same as at Rayas – and, as the property doesn’t have a winery of its own, the wines are even made at Rayas. The reds are whole-bunch fermented, with a maximum two-week maceration and one pump-over a day. The wines are aged in a combination of enamel-lined tanks and large, old oak, bottled around a year or so later.   There are three wines in the range at Ch. de Fonsalette. The Côtes du Rhône Rouge is a blend of 50% Grenache, 35% Cinsault and 15% Syrah, the notably high percentage of Cinsault giving the wine particular lift and aromatic finesse – a wine that whispers and draws you in. There is a second red, a Côtes du Rhône Syrah which is 100% Syrah – a structured, dark-fruited wine that offers restrained power and quiet depth. Under Louis Reynaud, this was sold off in bulk, only first bottled under Jacques Reynaud (from 1978) and sold locally, largely to restaurants, before being offered more widely under Emmanuel. The Côtes du Rhône Blanc is a blend of 80% Grenache Blanc, 10% Clairette and 10% Marsanne, producing a textural and complex white with notes of stone fruit and herbs, and a saline undertow.  La Pialade  This wine is a slight anomaly in the Reynaud line-up. Only made in certain vintages, La Pialade Côtes du Rhône is vinified and aged at Rayas, made with declassified parcels from either Rayas or Ch. de Fonsalette. The blend is typically 85% Grenache, 15% Cinsault and 5% Syrah. Produced in tiny volumes, and even rarer given it isn’t made every year, it is often described as an “everyday Rayas” – more open in style, but can match Rayas for its subtlety and delicacy, even if it does not have the same depth.  Ch. des Tours   Purchased by Louis Reynaud in the late 1930s, Ch. des Tours was Emmanuel Reynaud’s home estate – having taken over running the property from his father Bertrand in 1989. As it was entrusted to Bertrand from the beginning, and never managed by Jacques Reynaud, the estate has always stood apart from Ch. Rayas and Ch. de Fonsalette – however all three have fallen under Emmanuel since 1997. Benoît – Emmanuel’s son, who studied oenology in Switzerland – has recently taken the lead at Ch. des Tours, having worked closely alongside his father.  The property gets its name from the towers or tours that frame the château building. Located in Vacqueyras, not far from Orange and northeast of Châteauneuf, it covers 40 hectares, with grains and olives as well as grapes. As it was long run separately, the property has its own winery.  Although the Reynaud philosophy runs through all three estates, the wines at Ch. des Tours are stylistically distinctive, offering more structure, muscle and intensity versus the more subtle, high-toned, perfumed style of Rayas and Fonsalette. The winemaking is largely similar to at Rayas and Fonsalette, with fermentation is concrete and maturation in old oak. Although the red grapes are mostly whole-bunch fermented, this is the only property where small portions are destemmed. The range is more complex at Ch. des Tours with a selection of wines bottled under Ch. des Tours, some under Domaine des Tours and a rosé made under the Parisy label.  There are five wines under the Ch. des Tours label:  Vacqueyras: A blend of 80% Grenache and 20% Syrah, this is a structured and powerful wine made exclusively from the oldest vines on the estate.  Côtes du Rhône Rouge: A blend of 65% Grenache, 20% Syrah and 15% Cinsault, this is a supple, juicy red packed with fruit and spice.   Côtes du Rhône Rouge Grande Réserve: Only made in specific vintages, this is effectively the Vacqueyras declassified when there isn’t sufficient colour – made in 2002, 2014 and 2015.  Côtes du Rhône Blanc: Made in very limited volumes, this white is 100% Grenache Blanc – a floral, textural wine that is worth seeking out.  Côtes du Rhône Blanc Grande Réserve: Only made in certain vintages, this is not a declassified bottling (like its red sibling), but a special bottling of the property’s best Clairette and Grenache Blanc. The 50% Grenache Blanc, 50% Clairette wine was produced in 2003, 2014 and 2015.  The Domaine des Tours label is all sourced from Ch. des Tours however is a slightly separate project, generally offering more accessible wines, almost all labelled as IGP or Vin de Pays. There are four wines under the label:  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Rouge: This is a deeply expressive field blend of Grenache, Counoise, Syrah, Cinsault, Merlot and a host of other varieties.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot: This 100% Merlot comes from the richest, clay soils on the property, producing amore opulent and exuberant wine.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot-Syrah: A blend of Merlot and Syrah, which shifts according to the vintage, is a concentrated wine that combines the generosity of Merlot with the spice of Syrah.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Clairette: This 100% Clairette is pure and fresh, driven by minerality.  Under its own label is Les Tours Grenache Blanc – a rich, ripe and generous 100% Grenache Blanc full of stone fruit, bottled under the Vaucluse appellation. The last wine from Ch. des Tours is the Parisy rosé, a dry, delicate Grenache/Cinsault Vin de Table designed for everyday drinking. The labels themselves don’t detail the vintage, with this information only visible on the cardboard case.  Which Reynaud wines are made where? Ch. Rayas, Pignan, Ch. de Fonsalette and Pialade are all made at Rayas Ch. des Tours, Domaine des Tours, Les Tours Grenache Blanc and Parisy are all made at Ch. des Tours  Explore all current listings of the Reynaud wines or read more Editorial 

Few wines have the cult status of Rayas – a wine that stands alone in Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Here, we offer an essential guide to the wines crafted by the Reynaud family in the Rhône – Rayas, of course, but also those of Ch. de Fonsalette and Ch. des Tours 

Everything you need to know about the wines made by Emmanuel Reynaud – Rayas, Pignan, Chateau de Fonsalette, Chateau and Domaine des Tours, and Parisy  

Guide to Rayas, Fonsalette and Des Tours – the Reynaud wines

Everything you need to know about Rayas

Nicolas Potel

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shows any items that are currently awaiting user action.

Pending

This is the dynamic market price of the item with trading margin removed.

This is the amount of profit you will receive if your listing sells.

Pre-authorised payments enable automatic transactions on your behalf, ensuring seamless and hassle-free payments. This allows recurring charges, subscriptions, or scheduled payments to be processed without manual approval each time.

The number of cases you wish to place on sale

Your catalogue item will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Your catalogue items will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Before you request delivery, you can adjust the quantity for each item in your selection below.

*Market price is dynamic and may change. At time of sale a 10% trading fee will be deducted from the final sale price.

Total market price*

The fixed custom price you wish to sell each item for.

Split into {caseSize} individual {bottleSize}cl bottles.

Title

shows all the items you currently store with us. These items can be sold.

Available for sale — items stored with {name} eligible to be listed on the marketplace.

Profile

This item is at FINE+RARE, available for storage, transfer or delivery.
 Most UK deliveries can be made within 3-5 working days, with next day delivery for London;
 an exact date will be available when arranging delivery.
 International deliveries have longer lead-times, please contact us for details.

This item is at FINE+RARE HOME Hong Kong, available for delivery or local pickup. Most Hong Kong deliveries can be made within 3 working days, an exact date will be available when arranging delivery. International deliveries have longer lead-times, please contact us for details.

Wines sold en primeur will be released from the producer after bottling, typically 18 months after the so-called campaign ends. Your wine will then be stored by FINE+RARE in a bonded warehouse until you decide to take delivery.

We will source this item at the guaranteed price from our network of suppliers and arrange expedited shipment to FINE+RARE.
 The lead-time depends on many variables, but 2-4 weeks is typical for expedited sourcing.
 Once your order is confirmed, we'll keep you updated on its ETA.
 Every item is checked on arrival by our expert team, with photographs available on request (please note that charges may apply).

We will source this item at the guaranteed price from our network of suppliers and arrange shipment to FINE+RARE.
 The lead-time depends on many variables, but 6-12 weeks is an average estimate.
 Once your order is confirmed, we'll keep you updated on its ETA.
 Every item is checked on arrival by our expert team, with photographs available on request (please note that charges may apply).

Nicolas Potel

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