For a long time, Tuscany was known merely for its squat jugs of rustic Chianti, almost inevitably in quaint straw baskets; thin, insipid wines that are a shadow of what the region has proven it can produce today.  While Chianti had once been known for making fine wine – having been the first region to have geographical limits defined for wine production back in the 18th century – its reputation had, by the mid-1900s, been ruined. The area for production had been expanded in the 1930s, far beyond the historic heart of the region, encompassing lesser vineyards. The appellation rules encouraged producers to favour quantity over quality, with yields as high as 85hl/ha allowed, and specifying that red blends had to include a minimum 10% (and up to 30%) white grapes, with as little as 50% Sangiovese. Winemakers took advantage of high-yielding Trebbiano to bulk out the once-famous wines.  But one man changed all that. Enter Mario Incisa della Rochetta, a man who had been brought up tasting Claret with his grandfather. In 1944 – missing the taste of Bordeaux and inspired by the good wines his friend Duke Francesco Salviati was making near Pisa – he decided to plant a vineyard on his wife’s Tenuta San Guido estate in Bolgheri, on Tuscany’s coast, two hours west of Siena.   Identifying a stony site that sat at over 1,000 feet above sea-level, he took Cabernet cuttings from Salviati, and planted his first vines. The resulting wine was consumed only by family and friends, seen as overly green by the locals. But Incisa della Rochetta was encouraged by the results, and decided to plant more vines lower down the slope, and closer to the sea, in 1965.  His nephew Piero Antinori – who had recently taken over the family business – realised the potential of the wine, and the Antinori winemaker Giacomo Tachis started making the wine. Influenced by time in Bordeaux, Giacomo filled the cellar with new French barriques – small barrels that were a radical move away from Italy’s traditional large, old casks made with Slavonian oak. In 1971, Piero convinced Mario to release the 1968 vintage commercially and a star was born: Sassicaia.  Being 100% Cabernet Sauvignon, aged in new French oak and from Bolgheri – a region that at the time didn’t have a DOC – Sassicaia was labelled with the lowest official classification for Italian wine, “vino da tavola” or table wine. It rapidly won praise from critics and consumers, commanding a serious price that was at odds with its lowly classification. Where Sassicaia led, others followed. In 1978 Piero Antinori released the first vintage (1971) of Tigananello – a blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet grown in the heart of Chianti Classico. Bordeaux authority Emile Peynaud advised on the project, suggesting that the appellation’s stipulated white grapes were abandoned and that it be aged in new French oak. Falling outside Chianti’s rules, it too was sold as a vino da tavola.  Piermario Meletti Cavallari founded Grattamacco in 1977, and was the first to feature Bolgheri on the label, featuring this then little-known region in larger font than even the wine’s name itself. Piero Antinori’s brother Lodovico established Tenuta dell’ Ornellaia in 1981, planting Cabernet and Merlot. A flight of Chianti producers followed suit – ripping up the appellation’s rulebook to make cuvées with international grapes like Cabernet, using 100% Sangiovese, and/or French oak: Le Pergole Torte, Flaccianello, Cepparello, Percarlo, Fontalloro and more all pushed the boundaries of what was possible in Tuscany – but didn’t (and couldn’t) bear the region’s name on their labels. These wines – the “Super Tuscans”, as they became known – were soon being recognised the world over. In 1978 Hugh Johnson organised a blind tasting of the world’s best Cabernets for Decanter. Pitted alongside the First Growths, it was Sassicaia that came out on top. The 1985 vintage of Sassicaia became legendary when Robert Parker – who had just risen to fame – gave it 100 points. In 2001, 1998 Ornellaia was named Wine Spectator’s Wine of the Year. These wines were putting two fingers up to Italy’s appellation system as they sold for the same price as Grands Crus Classés, despite their vino da tavola status.  In a bid to stem the tide of these ultra-premium table wines, the Italian authorities started to make changes. In the late 1990s and early 2000s, Chianti amended its appellation rules to try and reclaim the wines, allowing more variation in the winemaking, with no white grapes required and allowing 100% Sangiovese wines. But the damage was done, with the Super Tuscans already established as their own brand. Few returned to the fold to use the Chianti name on their label – a region that producers felt didn’t, then or now, have a reputation that aligned with the quality of these world-class wines.   The likes of Sassicaia, Tignanello and Ornellaia drew the international wine market’s eye to Italy. Bold, big, rich wines that won critics points, the Super Tuscans arguably turned the tide for the nation, garnering praise – and proving that Italy’s wines could compete on the world stage. Today, critics and consumers are looking beyond these iconic names to explore Italy’s extraordinary viticultural heritage, with the terroir-driven styles of Barolo, Barbaresco, Montalcino, Etna and more starting to find the spotlight. But Tuscany’s rebellious streak continues, with a new wave of producers – such as Bibi Graetz – producing wines that are bottled defiantly as IGT Toscana. While there’s plenty more competition, the Super Tuscans remain some of the country’s finest and most collectable wines. The Super Tuscans you need to know While there’s no set definition for a Super Tuscan, and there are many that could take the title, here’s our pick of the most famous wines. Sassicaia: The first Super Tuscan, made by Tenuta San Guido, in Bolgheri; it’s a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon (85%) and Cabernet Franc (15%), and is the only single estate in the whole of Italy to have its own DOC, Bolgheri-Sassicaia. Tignanello: A rival to Sassicaia in terms of fame, and also put under the sporlight by Piero Antinori, Tignanello comes from Chianti. It was the first to blend Sangiovese with Cabernet. Solaia: Tignanello’s sibling, Solaia is the reverse in blend – with Cabernet taking the lead, complemented by a smaller proportion of Sangiovese. Ornellaia: Created by Piero Antinori’s brother Lodovico, with advice from André Tchelistcheff, it’s a Cabernet-led Bordeaux blend. The property has changed hands over the years and is now owned by the Frescobaldi family. Masseto: The other wine created by Lodovico Antinori: although planning originally to work just with Cabernet, Tchelistcheff identified the hill of Masseto as ideal for Merlot. The fruit from this site was bottled separately as a pure Merlot for the first time in 1986 (although the 1987 was the first vintage released), and today Masseto operates separately from the Ornellaia estate, having its own winery and identity. Grattamacco: Another of the earliest Super Tuscans, this is Cabernet blended with Sangiovese. Piermario Meletti Cavallari purchased an abandoned vineyard in 1977 which was all Sangiovese, but he later grafted over with Cabernet. He was one of the first producers to feature Bolgheri on the label of his wine. Montevertine Le Pergole Torte: This was one of the earliest expressions of pure Sangiovese from Chianti, aged in French and Slavonian oak. The first vintage of this was 1977, a blend of fruit from the estate’s best vineyards. Fontodi Flaccianello della Pieve: The first vintage of Flaccianello was 1981. Originally a single-vineyard expression, since 2001 it’s been a blend of the best grapes from the estate, but remains 100% Sangiovese, classified as Colli Toscana Centrale. The proportion of new oak has been toned down, and a portion of the wine goes into amphora. Isole e Olena Cepparello: This pure Sangiovese was first made in 1980, and today only sees around a third new oak, with a small proportion of American oak. It’s notable that it is bottled both under screwcap and cork, with Paolo di Marchi a strong believer in the benefits of screwcap. San Giusto a Rentennano Percarlo: First made in 1983, this 100% Sangiovese comes from the estate’s best vineyards. Fèlsina Fontalloro: Made with vines falling in Chianti Classico and Chianti Colli Senesi, this pure Sangiovese was first made in 1983. Castello di Ama L’Apparita: Narrowly beating Masseto to be the first 100% Merlot made in Tuscany (with the first vintage 1985), the 1987 vintage of L’Apparita famously beat Pétrus, Le Pin and several other Merlots in a blind tasting which was judged by a panel including Michel Rolland in 1992. Querciabella Camartina: First made in 1981, this was originally a blend of mainly Sangiovese with Cabernet in support, but the blend has reversed over time. Bibi Graetz Testamatta & Colore: Bibi’s top wines are elegant expressions of Tuscany’s indigenous grapes, sourced from old vines at high altitudes. Testamatta is pure Sangiovese, while the flagship Colore is Sangiovese with a touch of Colorino. Explore all Tuscan wines or discover more Editorial

Sassicaia, Tignanello, Ornellaia: these fabled Super Tuscans are some of the world’s most desirable wines – kickstarting Italy’s fine wine renaissance, re-defining its reputation and proving what was possible. But how did these lowly table wines rise to the top of the fine wine ranks?

Exploring how the fabled Super Tuscans Sassicaia, Tignanello and Ornellaia have re-defined Italian wine's reputation.

Learn more about Super Tuscan wines

The Super Tuscans: everything you need to know

I am too disorganised to call myself a collector, but I often find myself thinking about the multiple meanings of collecting. I have a room full of books left unread from one year to the next, whose mute reproach I feel every time I am in their presence. I have half a dozen radios, from Marco Zanuso and Richard Sapper’s folding Brionvega TS502 to a Danish-made Beolit 707 from Bang & Olufsen, with its slide rule tuning device. I have a manual typewriter.  Most of us accumulate such random clutter. These were never possessions that were primarily about being useful – the Brionvega and the Beolit have long since been supplanted by a bluetooth speaker and a smartphone. They represent my membership of the design tribe.  The books carry other layers of meaning. My five years at university are on one shelf. The traces of the eight years I have spent writing a just-completed biography of Boris Iofan – Josef Stalin’s preferred architect – are spelled out in the titles of the books on another shelf. The typewriter was inherited from my father and it serves to remind me of childhood. The closest that I come to having a collection that a serious collector might acknowledge is in my chairs: a Rover chair that Ron Arad salvaged from a car, a Gio Ponti Superlegera, an Eames Lounger, a Harry Bertoia, George Sowden’s Palace chair from the 1983 Memphis collection and a deconstructed armchair designed by Rei Kawakubo. On a larger or smaller scale, humans develop complex relationships with their possessions that can go from the professionalism of full-blown collecting, to the casual significance of a row of junk shop finds on a mantlepiece. They can tell us a lot about ourselves. Marina Warner’s guide to the house in Hampstead, now run as a museum, in which Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life, offers an arresting insight into the significance that collecting had for him. She describes the ranks of ancient bronze, ceramic and marble figures parading across the desk that Freud brought with him to London from Vienna where he no longer felt safe due to Nazi occupation in 1938. Certainly, they are beautiful, and mostly they are precious. Thanks to their association with Freud, even the few that have been established as 20th-century forgeries will have become valuable. Some are almost 4,000 years old and reflect the religious and political practices of the distant past. Others, such as Freud’s art deco cigar case, come less freighted with history. But as Warner says, “they were also tools of thought, the kitchen utensils of his imagination”.   The batterie de cuisine of psychoanalysis included Egyptian coffin masks from the Roman period, Chinese jade and gold brooches, Roman glass, a 2,500-year-old sphinx, sarcophagus lids, Babylonian cylinder seals and Egyptian heart scarabs, as well as a 19th-century neck rest from New Guinea, modern metal porcupines, and Balinese figures. The pieces in pride of place on his desk, placed in apparently random order, were his special favourites, a tiny fraction of his collection that had become permanent fixtures. From time to time, Freud made space for a few new acquisitions to get a look in. “A collection to which there are no new additions is really dead,” he told his biographer Ernest Jones. After a short interval, most of the new things would be moved into the glass-fronted cabinets positioned around his study, where they were placed in more organised groups than those standing on his desk. Greek sculptures went on a shelf together. A cluster of representations of the Egyptian god Horus were grouped on another.  In Freud’s lifetime, the collection was continually changing. Before his move to London, he toured Vienna’s antiquities dealers almost every week on the look-out for new finds. He was ready to exchange pieces for items he could not afford to buy, and was generous in gifting pieces to friends and pupils he thought would appreciate them. Freud also had no qualms about buying items that came on the market in questionable circumstances, in particular, from the unofficial excavations (sometime after 1906) at a Roman fort in Hungary.   Despite the important part it played in his life, Freud wrote very little about collecting. The nearest that he came to spelling out what drove his interest in fragments of ancient sculpture, was when he compared his own exploration of the unconscious minds of his patients to an archaeological excavation of an ancient city. “The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist, must uncover layer after layer of the patient’s psyche before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures.”  Freud was known to share his dining table with choice specimens to act as companions during a meal. “I must always have an object to love”, he confessed to his colleague and rival Carl Jung. When he was writing his book The Interpretation of Dreams in 1895, Freud spent the summer at Schloss Bellevue outside Vienna. He took a selection of what he called “my old grubby gods who take part in the works as paperweights for the manuscripts” with him.  Before Freud left Austria for England in 1938, his desk, his consulting room, and his study at Berggasse 19 were photographed by Edmund Engelman. Engelman’s 150 images helped Freud’s architect son Ernst to transpose the desk and its contents from a dark back room in a Viennese apartment to a sunlit Hampstead villa.  Like most collectors, Freud could never limit himself to a single field. Ronald Lauder the former MoMA chairman, for example, is known for the collection of Viennese modernism that forms the basis for his own museum, the Neue Galerie in New York. He also collects (in depth) in 15 other fields with little apparent connection between them. Lauder is fascinated by the work of the Japanese designer Shiro Kuramata. He has a collection of arms and armour going back to The Crusades, and another of World War Two memorabilia. He owns some of Egon Schiele’s finest works, as well as various 18th-century French artworks. Fellow collector Rolf Fehlbaum (head of Vitra) has one of the largest collections of modern chairs in the world, and gave Frank Gehry his first European commission to design a gallery for it, but he is equally fascinated by toy robots manufactured in Japan since 1937. He calls them tiny kinetic sculptures. Where possible, he acquires their original packaging too. Perhaps the best way to understand the psychology of collecting is to see it as a spectrum. At one end, it is about order and control. In a messy and uncontrollable universe, a collection offers at least a semblance of certainty. A collection of this kind is based on provenance, completeness and authenticity. An over-restored vintage Bugatti is less desirable to a collector than one in original condition.  Every previous owner, every detail of its making forms part of its record. A red Olivetti typewriter designed by Ettore Sottsass that once belonged to David Bowie was sold at Sotheby’s for US$65,000. You can buy one (that hasn’t been owned by Bowie) for US$750, which is still a lot of money for a piece of obsolete technology. Some collectors attempt to make patterns from the things that they acquire or, like jigsaw puzzlers, set out to complete a picture by locating every piece of a set. Some try to document the evolution of a species whether the subject of their interest is biscuit tins or the eggs of a particular type of bird. Some forms of collecting require the active engagement of the collector. Wildflowers need to be picked and dried quickly before they are pressed into a book. Butterfly collectors used macabre methods such as poison jars, or squeezing the thorax, to dispatch their prey without causing so much distress that they risk damaging delicate wings. At the other end of the spectrum, the accumulation of stuff by people who die alone in homes overwhelmed by stacks of ancient newspapers and tins of cat food, is a kind of sickness. It’s a condition that can overwhelm even the most celebrated of artists. In the last 17 years of his life, Andy Warhol filled a succession of cardboard boxes with a seemingly random accumulation of objects: taxi receipts, a vinyl Ramones single signed by Joey Ramone, a piece of an ancient, mummified foot, pastel-coloured corsets and a selection of metal dentures. Every time he had a full box, it was sealed and shipped off to storage in a warehouse in New Jersey. A typical box has 400 objects in it, some have as many as 1,200. Items in them include a piece of Caroline Kennedy’s wedding cake – Warhol seems to have been a regular guest at Kennedy weddings. He showed up 20 minutes after the wedding ceremony for Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger had started, in the company of Grace Jones. He was in black leather, and wearing two wigs; she had on a huge green fur hat.   Warhol’s boxes are a collection of the uncollectable and the uncontrollable, which, thanks to the resources of the Andy Warhol Foundation, has been tamed after six years of work by a dedicated group of archivists and cataloguers. The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh has aestheticised the cardboard boxes. They sit on back-lit shelves in the museum to suggest that this is not a random collection of trash that Warhol never looked at, but, in the view of the museum, is in fact a time-based art piece, comprising at least 500,000 objects that took 30 years to complete. It presents a considerably less impressive sight than British Regency period architect Sir John Soane’s museum. The architect of the Bank of England put as much effort into adapting his Lincoln’s Inn Fields house (and subsequently the two adjoining houses) to display his Hogarth paintings, a sarcophagus and his architectural models, as he did to accumulating the collection itself. The Nobel prize-winning Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, The Museum of Innocence is an eloquent exploration of the hoarding end of the collecting spectrum. What initially appears to be an account of a doomed love affair, quickly reveals itself as an exploration of the meaning of collecting. The story’s main protagonist Kemal starts acquiring things when his relationship with his lover Füsun is going well. When she drops an earring, he finds it and puts it to one side. As Füsun falls out of love with him, Kemal begins an increasingly desperate accumulation of objects that record their relationship. He picks up each of the cigarettes that she smokes. When she has stopped seeing him altogether, Kemal starts hanging around at her parents’ house and stealing pieces of cutlery that she might have used.  What makes Pamuk’s book particularly remarkable is that he acquired a house in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district that had belonged to a Greek merchant in the Ottoman era, and transformed it into a physical Museum of Innocence. It is, of course, very far from innocent; everything inside it is a lovingly created fiction. The first thing that you see once you get inside, is a wall covered with 4,213 cigarette ends, each of them carefully annotated in Pamuk’s neat handwriting, with imaginary details of the time and place they were smoked. The rest of the house is full of equally carefully fabricated objects from cosmetics to movie posters that reflect Pamuk’s vision of the modernising Turkey of the 1970s. “I think getting attached to objects happens in traumatic times and love is a trauma,” Pamuk once said. “Perhaps when they are in trouble, people hoard things.”  When Pamuk gave me a tour of his museum, he told me about meeting Warhol’s archivist, and expressed his reservations about the significance of the boxes in Pittsburgh. “Hoarding objects reaches the level of collecting only when there is a story that unites them,” he said. But that is a novelist criticising another, less narrative art form. While Freud’s desk in Hampstead was always useable, if overcrowded, the desk in fashion designer Paul Smith’s office in Covent Garden is completely overwhelmed with a snowdrift of collected objects that sweeps over an office chair, down onto the floor, and back up to the shelves that line every wall. There are stacks of books and magazines, cameras and mountains of vintage cycling jerseys. There is an i-Mac computer, a gift from Jony Ive that Smith has never used. Computers aren’t Smith’s thing. In any case, it’s too late now, short of purging half the contents of the room: there is no way to get near it. There are toy tin cars, collections of bottles from Moroccan markets, a pink bicycle and a lot of rabbits. “I once said in an interview that seeing a rabbit brings me luck, and they haven’t stopped pouring in ever since,” explains Smith. Collecting began, as did so many things in Smith’s career, with his early enthusiasm for cycling. Growing up in Nottingham in the 1950s, there was a newsagent which occasionally had a copy of L’Equipe, which would portray the heroes of the Tour de France in their yellow jerseys in colour on the cover, but in sepia inside. He bought the magazine, fascinated by the images, even if he couldn’t read it. “I can remember once saying, ‘I really like Jacques Anquetil’ to my father, which baffled him, since none of our family had ever been abroad. I saved my pocket money so that I could upgrade the gears on my bike from Simplex to Campagnolo. The box it came in was as important to me as the gear itself.”  What attracted Smith to the Campagnolo box, along with stamps and matchboxes which he has in large numbers – not just in his office but at his Nottingham HQ where he has an archivist trying to make sense of it all – is the way that designers can say so much in such a tiny space. He showed me a Japanese book of matches produced for a Tokyo nightclub in the 1970s. “It so clearly says it’s ‘contemporary’. You can hear the jazz already.”  Despite the huge assortment of assembled objects, Smith is reluctant to describe himself as a collector. “I just have a large quantity of the same things,” he says, matter of factly. “In my head, a collector is someone who selects an item or a subject. They collect them because they know a lot about them. Maybe I have a little knowledge about cycling jerseys.  In the early 1980s, on my first trips to Japan and India, I just got a bit carried away. I bought lots of Japanese furniture. In India, for some reason, I bought 15 wardrobes, and a piece of furniture that doubled as a staircase with drawers.” Smith had them all sent home on the Trans-Siberian Express.  He suggests that his is a collection that has found him. “Things collect me,” he says. “For some reason I started to be sent things, and they still keep coming.” There is an individual who regularly sends Smith artefacts that come unwrapped but covered in postage stamps. Others send him letters, toys, books and even ancient packets of razor blades. One visitor took careful photographs of his office, and later sent him a precisely detailed model of his office, complete with its chaotic contents. Smith’s London home, where he lives with his wife Pauline, is much calmer. “The house is hers. I do have one room for my stuff, but it’s mostly at the office that I get to look at things.” In 1996, patron of the arts and barrister Jill Ritblat gave the V&A Museum the largest single donation of clothes in its history, more than 1,000 items. There are ski outfits in postmodern pastel shades from the 1980s, and challenging Japanese experiments from Yohji Yamamoto and Issey Miyake, as well as couture from Dior and Saint Laurent. There is work by Alexander McQueen, Biba, Mary Quant, and Christian Lacroix, Emanuel Ungaro and Victor Edelstein, and an evening outfit produced by a dressmaker based on an idea of Ritblat’s own design.  The early days of British fashion from the 1960s are represented by Foale and Tuffin, and Zandra Rhodes, and from the 1980s by Margaret Howell and Katharine Hamnett. There is tailoring from Tommy Nutter and work by Giorgio Armani. It is by no means a complete account of contemporary fashion, but it is certainly extensive, and like the personal wardrobe that it is, combines some very special pieces made for family occasions, with more everyday wear. The connecting thread of Ritblat’s collection is Ritblat herself. These were all pieces that she had bought to wear. They were not chosen like stamps, or old masters, or celadon vases to make a self-conscious collection, but were the result of a continuing sequence of choices over time. Taken together they are a reflection of her life as an English woman of a certain background, at a particular time in the country’s history. “I never saw it as a collection, it was more like my diary, though I have never had time to write a diary. Each piece brings back memories of when I wore it,” says Ritblat. She made her first donation to the V&A at the end of 1996, but kept back the things that she wanted to be able to go on using, and they formed the core of a donation to the Design Museum of another 400 items in 2013. Ritblat is ambivalent about fashion. As a child she was somewhat self-conscious about being dressed by her mother, who had studied fashion herself. She was relieved to be able to assume the camouflage of the complex uniform rituals of an English public school for girls in the 1950s. “I loved my school uniform at Roedean; we were expected to change our clothes four times a day, as chic as anything. Scratchy afternoon dresses, regulation school loafers, very nice blazers and pleated skirts.” As a student barrister, she found herself adopting the formal uniform of the legal profession, but then as a married woman began to build a wardrobe that reflected the life that she was leading. Later, when she was making her own choices, she was early to discover Miuccia Prada. “What you pick out is based on whether it suits you and on the zeitgeist,” she explains. Smith, Heseltine and Ritblat represent three very different approaches to collecting. For Smith, the unruly mountain of things in his office, is, like the collection on Sigmund Freud’s desk, part of the tools of his imagination, a source of imagery and ideas for his work as a designer. It’s also a means of establishing his personality. Heseltine’s garden is an investment of time, resources and creativity in the remaking of a place that speaks to the future using living organisms that will outlive us all. Ritblat’s clothes are a record of the full life of an individual. All of these collections provide insights into unique people, their lives and times. In their different ways all three reflect on the nature of collecting, and its ability to be a creative activity in itself. In a world in which technology threatens to abolish the material world altogether, objects have not lost their allure. Their physical condition marks the passing of time in ways that pixels and code cannot do. Collecting is the means all of us have to create histories of our times, and even more, of ourselves. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two. 

In order to explore the mindset of the collector, Deyan Sudjic shines a light on the collected objects of Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol, and speaks to three British collectors to better understand what it is that makes collecting such a vital part of the human experience.

Exploring the mindset of the collector and why the act is a vital part of the human experience, with a focus on Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

Giorgio Meletti Cavallari

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In transit

Local delivery is free for orders over HK$1,800 (to a single location). For orders below this value, delivery is HK$150 for up to four cases and HK$50 per case thereafter.

Shipping starts from €15 within Italy and €45 to Switzerland and the rest of Europe for up to 48 bottles (75cl). Costs vary by destination. Larger shipments can be quoted on request.

The date shown below is when your order will ship from our local warehouse. Your final delivery date, along with full tracking details, will be provided once our team has processed your request.

You can arrange collection from our Retail store on 22nd Floor, 8 Wyndham Street, Central Hong Kong.
Collection times are between 9:30am-13:00 and 14:00-18:00pm, Monday to Friday. We are closed on public holidays.

You can arranged collection from our warehouse STI INTERNAZIONALE SPA, on Viale del Lavoro, 57, 37051 Bovolone, Verona.
Pick-up hours are between 8:30 AM to 12:30 PM and 1:30 PM to 5:30 PM, Monday to Friday. We are closed on public holidays.

This is the current estimated market value for this item.

Manually set prices will be overwritten. Already listed wines are not affected.

Updates all unlisted wines to current market price.

Set all at market

represents all the wines you currently have in your Portfolio that aren't stored with us. Press the

My cellar

Name

Net price

New portfolio available

New portfolio

You do not have any invoices at this time.

shows all the items from your Portfolio that are currently on the market.

On sale

shows all the items you currently have in your Portfolio. You can perform individual actions on them from this page.

Overview

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).

Giorgio Meletti Cavallari

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