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

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

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

Reimagining Cognac from the ground up

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  

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               

Earlier this month, I returned to Auxey Duresses to spend time at the Domaine and taste the 2026 Maison Leroy release in full. This was a significant visit.

We tasted more than 25 wines across vintages, appellations and styles, which allowed for a level of depth and comparative understanding that is rarely possible with Maison Leroy. It is a way of tasting that strips away hierarchy and focuses entirely on expression, timing and intent.

Having visited consistently for more than 12 years, and multiple times each year, I have seen many releases in different forms. I can say with confidence that this is the most complete and compelling Maison Leroy selection I have encountered. It is an exceptional release. The 2026 Maison Leroy collection tasted as a modern collection in the fullest sense. What gives it its shape every year are wines drawn from different years, now brought together at a point where Madame believes the wines have something extraordinary to say. However, this felt like the first Maison collection to begin to mirror, with real conviction, the superlative character of Domaine Leroy.

There is range here, certainly, across appellation, level and vintage. Each feels released at precisely the point where evolution had hardened rather than softened its definition.

That is what gives the release its outright drinkability — an unflattering expression to many, and perhaps one not preferred at the Maison, but these were wines of serious joy and poise.

What makes the 2026 release especially significant is that it presents Maison Leroy in a form that feels entirely of the present, while carrying the same gravitas, refinement and inner control that have come to define the Domaine at its highest level. The result is a Maison collection of unusual stature: one that stands on its own terms, yet also comes closer than any previous release to reflecting the authority and brilliance associated with the Domaine’s dominant era. Process and Élevage To understand Maison Leroy, one must first understand the process. Every wine is tasted blind by Madame Lalou Bize Leroy before any decision is made. Hundreds of wines are assessed each year, with producer, appellation and reputation set aside. Rarely do new wines make the cut. Only when a wine meets her standard does it carry the Leroy name. That responsibility remains directly hers. It is only the beginning. Once secured, the wines are transferred to the cellars, where they enter a long and closely controlled élevage. For the reds, with Bourgogne Rouge the sole exception, every wine completes its élevage in used Domaine Leroy barrels, regardless of appellation. Village or premier cru, classification gives way to quality. Each wine is handled according to its potential, allowing a level of refinement and integration that rises above hierarchy. The same philosophy applies to the whites. With Bourgogne Blanc the exception, the wines complete their élevage in used Domaine d’Auvenay oak barrels. The foundation of Maison Leroy Maison Leroy is the original cornerstone of one of Burgundy's most influential and enduring families. Founded in 1868 by François Leroy in Auxey-Duresses, the business began as a négociant operation with access to vineyards across the Côte d'Or, including Auxey-Duresses, Meursault, Pommard, Chambertin, Musigny, Clos Vougeot and Richebourg. At the time, the wines were not bottled under the Leroy name, instead being sold through the Comptoir des Propriétaires de la Côte d'Or. Under Joseph Leroy, the Maison expanded commercially, before Henri Leroy fundamentally reshaped its trajectory. In 1942, during a period of uncertainty in Burgundy, Henri acquired a 50% stake in Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. His stewardship was instrumental in restoring and elevating the estate to its modern standing at the very pinnacle of fine wine. While the négociant arm continued, it was under Lalou Bize-Leroy that Maison Leroy assumed its modern identity. Joining the family business in 1955 and taking control in 1971, Lalou transformed the Maison into something far more exacting: a house defined by independence, absolute selection and long-term vision. Maison Leroy sits at the centre of a wider Leroy ecosystem, alongside Domaine Leroy and Domaine d'Auvenay – each representing distinct, yet complementary, expressions of the same uncompromising philosophy — wines that consistently transcend AOC convention. The forthcoming Domaine Leroy release will offer a contrasting perspective – rooted in vineyard ownership and production, yet entirely equivalent in rarity, prestige and ultimate quality.  The 2026 Maison Leroy collection will be released soon. Read more about Maison Leroy and browse all current listings 

Managing Director Craig Norton returns to Auxey-Duresses for a tasting unlike any other – the 2026 Maison Leroy collection in full, and what it reveals about one of Burgundy's most singular houses.

The 2026 Maison Leroy collection in full — selected by Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy, released only when ready. 


The 2026 Maison Leroy Collection

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

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.

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From humble beginnings in Beaujolais in the 1980s, the natural wine movement has become a global force. But what influence has it had just north in Burgundy’s long-established, terroir-focused appellations? Simon J Woolf explores the blurred line between classical and natural winegrowing

From Beaujolais to Burgundy, how has the natural wine movement shaped a terroir-driven region? For FONDATA Simon J Woolf explores the changing landscape.

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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 

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