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  

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

Andrew Jefford isn’t like other wine writers. Browse his Instagram account and you’ll find not a bottle in sight. Check his Twitter and you’ll find a steady, quiet stream of haiku – or, as he prefers to describe them, “short texts”. These feeds are – like Jefford –gently honest; absent of ego, flash and fanfare. His prose is poised and purposeful, each word carefully considered yet never weighed down by pointed effort. He is a rarity in the world of wine: a writer whose (main) topic happens to be wine.  “I was always a huge reader. It always meant more to me than anything else,” Jefford tells me, thinking back to his childhood. But wine was omnipresent. As the son of a priest, it was a part of family life, consumed “on high days and holidays”.   “I remember first tasting Champagne with my brother, at the age of 10 or 11,” he says. “It was the first tasting note we agreed on: it tasted like vomit. Things got better from then on, happily.” The slight, wiry wine writer smiles, seeming almost sheepish about the wines that he’s since enjoyed.  Aged 16, Jefford decided to start making wine – brewing up grape juice concentrate and whatever else he could find– to supplement supplies at Sunday lunch. The transformative effects of fermentation hooked him – but it was the concept of terroir that reeled him fully in.  He was working at a local hospital, but after his shift – armed with The Penguin Book of Wines and André Simon’s A Wine Primer – he’d venture out to browse the shelves of “French Wine Farmers”, a wine shop in Norwich. He vividly recalls taking home a bottle of Chianti and being struck by the magic of travelling through a glass. “That’s full of wine. And every drop in there came from a vine in Tuscany. I’m drinking Tuscany!” he recalls thinking.“ And I’ve still not got over that. It’s amazing.”  Wine took a back seat when he set off to study English at the University of Reading, before embarking on both a Masters and PhD. The lure of words led him into publishing – a background which, along with his academic approach, defines his writing today. He spent four years “editing mediocre copy into something readable” – but eventually had had enough, and leapt at the chance to write a book on Port.  From there, he wrote articles for Margaret Rand in Wine Magazine, then Decanter, where he’s now a Contributing Editor and his monthly column is the stuff of legend. He was, for a number of years,The Evening Standard’s drinks writer, penned features for The Financial Times and is a regular in The World of Fine Wine. He’s authored several books – including the deservedly totemic The New France. Published in 2002, it looked beyond Burgundy and Bordeaux, shining a light on the nation’s varied wine scene at a moment when it was going through a revolution. If that wasn’t enough, he’s dabbled in radio, presenting for BBC Radio Three and Four.   While wine might be his mainstay, he’s written extensively on whisky and other spirits (including his respected book on Islay, Peat Smoke and Spirit), as well as travel and perfume. But writing, rather than any particular topic, is his real trade. His editorial experience has been key: his prose is intelligent, considered and a masterclass in eloquent economy – something that he finds all too often lacking elsewhere.   Two of Jefford's most famous books: The New France (2002) and Peat Smoke and Spirit (2004) “One of the problems is that a lot of [wine writing] is online, so there aren’t space constraints,” he decries. “[Wine writing] tends to attract quite large egos. They do write three times more than they need to – because they think it’s all wonderful.” It’s perhaps the lack of ego in Jefford’s writing that sets it apart. He seems to approach any topic unbiased and open – still with the wide-eyed joy of that first bottle of Chianti. Wine remains, to him, “dead exciting”.   “It’s a great shame that fairly early on the rest of the journalistic world decided that wine was a ghetto,” Jefford laments. “It embraced wine with gusto initially – probably in the 1990s – then it all got very boring once we passed 2000 and they just asked everybody to offer recommendations and that’s it. Newspapers are no longer a great school for wine writing in the way that they once were.” It is an industry, he feels, sorely in need of imagination. “There’s such a weight of detail to communicate that people never get their head above the waves of the detail.” And that detail, the intricacies of wine – or “its enormous apparatus of geekdom” – are the challenge. He hopes that his latest book, Drinking with the Valkyries – a collection of his work from the last 15 years, “could climb out of the wine ghetto – to anybody who enjoys language, enjoys storytelling, enjoys the interrelation of place and flavour that wine can offer”.  But, by his own admission, wine is “never going to be a mass market popular subject”. While the industry was long obsessed with finding its own “Jamie Oliver” – someone to bring wine to the masses, food is an essential part of life – “whereas wine need be a part of nobody’s life”.   Wine has, undoubtedly, come a long way – “vastly democratised” – but he worries about the “top end of things”, where wine has become so exclusive as to be “almost a plutocracy”. Wine criticism, for him, is intricately linked to the category’s self-imposed segregation, with “its relentless focus on points, excellence and things being better than other things – hierarchy, rather than difference”.  He’s long been vocal about scoring, feeling like Hugh Johnson that – although they may be of practical use to consumers, who undoubtedly want them – they are “philosophically untenable” and “disempowering”.  “You’re being misled to some extent if you think the 96-point wine is always better than the 94-point wine. It’s miles more complicated than that,” says Jefford, who scores wines reluctantly.“ And very often the 89-point wine can be better than either the 96- or 94-point wine.” His advice to wine drinkers is simple: “Trust your palate.”  Despite his impressive resume and effortless intellect, Jefford’s modesty shines through in our conversation – as we dash from the dangers of climate change (“Misery throughout the Third World – but the Bordelais and Bourguignons are raking it in”) to a fascinating co-fermented 15-variety blend from a Lirac estate (Ch. de Montfaucon’s Vin de Mr le Baron). And while the 66-year-old might be softly pensive in the written – and spoken – word, there’s such energy to the man himself.  He’s invariably described as a wine thinker, a philosopher-cum-writer, as well as – of course – a poet; but it’s impossible to pigeon-hole Jefford, his ideas, or his voice.  Andrew Jefford’s book Drinking with the Valkyries, published by Académie du Vin Library, is out now.

Andrew Jefford is one of the world’s greatest wine writers. As his latest book – Drinking with the Valkyries – is released, Sophie Thorpe caught up with the wordsmith to talk about his career so far, the art of writing and why he’s so against scoring 

Andrew Jefford – one of the world’s most famous wine writers – on his career, the art of writing and why he’s so against scoring wine

Sitting down with wine writer Andrew Jefford

Andrew Jefford: wielding words

Inspired by a Russian, first made by a Hungarian, who was succeeded by a Frenchman and then a German, the winemaking lineage at Masseto has been decidedly international – until now, that is. Since January 2024, the leading Super Tuscan and Ornellaia’s sibling estate has had its first native at the helm: Marco Balsimelli – born in Arezzo, not far from Siena, took the reins from longtime Production Director Axel Heinz.  Balsimelli comes with his own illustrious pedigree, having long been based in Bordeaux, working at Gruaud Larose and, since 2010, alongside the famous Eric Boissenot as a consultant winemaker to many of the region’s leading estates, but the chance to work at Ornellaia and Masseto – iconic names from his Tuscan homeland – was an opportunity he couldn’t turn down.  It was André Tchelistcheff (the Russian-born Napa winemaker) who first suggested to Lodovico Antinori that a particular hill on the Ornellaia estate would be perfect for Merlot. Tchelistcheff was consulting for Antinori, and recognised the potential of the parcel of blue clay – the same soil that is synonymous with Pétrus. Back then, in the 1980s, Merlot was barely planted in Tuscany and remained an unknown quantity in the region, with only Castello di Ama – based further inland in Chianti Classico – having some vines (today used for its flagship L’Apparita). Nevertheless, the Ornellaia team took a chance and planted most of the seven-hectare swathe of clay in 1984 (additional planting took place in 1995).  The first vintage of Merlot from the site was made in 1987: Masseto was born. The name comes from “masso”, Italian for rock, after the large boulder-like clumps of clay that dot the vineyard’s surface. It didn’t take long for the wine to earn international acclaim, with Wine Spectator giving the 2001 vintage 100 points, and its place was cemented in vinous history.  Although Tchelistcheff consulted until 1989, replaced by Michel Rolland from 1991, Hungarian Tibor Gál was the property’s first winemaker. Gál was succeeded by Thomas Duroux (now of Ch. Palmer), who in 2005 passed the baton to Axel Heinz, the German-born winemaker who preceded Balsimelli. The property has changed hands over the years too, with the Mondavi family taking a share in 1999 before buying it outright from Lodovico Antinori, and selling it onto the Frescobaldi family, who took full ownership of Ornellaia and Masseto from 2005.  Much might have changed, but the terroir hasn’t. “It’s a very special site,” Balsimelli tells me. The all-important clay dominates the topsoil, which is only about a metre deep. When it rains, the clay swells, making it near impossible for the vines’ roots to develop. High sodium levels in the soils only accentuate the problem. “For the roots, it’s a battle every day,” he says. It’s that struggle, he feels, that you can taste in the concentrated, high-acid fruit from the site.  The climate is key too, lying just 10 kilometres from the Tyrrhenian Sea. Fresh marine breezes mean the temperature is around 5°C lower than that in central Tuscany, with a drop of circa 15°C from day to night. Combine this with the light reflected off the sea, and you get a long growing season, preserving aromatics and acidity, yet encouraging phenolic ripeness – wines that combine perfume and power. Surrounded by forest, there is a reason that Masseto is run as an entirely separate project to Ornellaia, with its own unique identity – even if it has always shared a winemaker (and, until 2019, a winery) with its sibling estate.  For Balsimelli, the project has provided a fresh challenge. The shift away from a consultant role – no longer offering advice before moving on to the next project, but sitting with each and every decision – adds a new weight of responsibility. “I spend a lot of time thinking about the technical questions and the consequences,” he tells me. Since most of his work with Boissenot had been based on Bordeaux’s Left Bank, focused on Cabernet-driven blends from larger estates, working with a small property, focused on just one variety and various sub-plots is a different sort of jigsaw puzzle. The approach, for him, is much more Burgundian – all about expressing the purity of the site and its blue clay. “You have to be perfect with only one type of soil and one grape variety,” he explains.  The quest for perfection was started long ago at Masseto and today the vines average between 20 and 30 years in age. They’ve also been moving from cordon-trained to bush vines – first trialled in 2008 and something which they have found helps temper the effects of global warming (coping better in dry conditions and shading the fruit from the heat of the sun). Farmed organically since 2012, there has also been a significant focus on encouraging biodiversity across the site, including using cover crops to reduce soil compaction, increase organic matter and retain humidity in the soils.  Balsimelli’s first vintage was 2024, which won’t be released until 2027. But he’s clearly excited by the site, as well as how he can tweak and improve a wine that is already lauded by critics and consumers. “When you taste old vintages of Masseto, you can feel the legacy, taste the terroir,” he says – and that’s exactly what he wants to do moving forward, channelling the Boissenot philosophy: understanding a piece of land and finding the best solution to express it in the glass. For him, that solution will be all about accentuating the wine’s elegance.  He notes how there was – across the world of wine – a trend towards low yield and high levels of maturity in the early 2000s, but his preferred vintages are those that saw more balance. The 2006, for example, is his favourite at the moment – a year with more rainfall, more vigour, and – he feels – more energy as a result. It’s a vintage that he believes is “the key for the future”.  The site is one that can ripen quickly, and he plans to focus on freshness, maybe picking a little earlier, reducing extraction and lowering temperatures for maceration. The 2022 is the vintage set to be released this September – a wine that Balsimelli notes shows just how good the site is – performing even in tricky conditions such as 2022’s hot growing season. It is, he says, “the magic of Massseto”. Magic it may be, but Balsimelli is set on elevating this special estate even further.   Explore all current listings of Masseto or read more Editorial 

Often considered the Pétrus of Italy, Masseto is a wine like no other. Ahead of the new release, we sat down with Marco Balsimelli – the man at the helm today – to talk about the special site and what lies ahead for the Super Tuscan 

Talking to the Super Tuscan’s new Production Director Marco Balsimelli about Masseto, Ornellaia sibling estate and its unique Merlot wines

The magic of Masseto - Marco Balsimelli

The magic of Masseto

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 

The name Andrew Rankin might not mean much to the average whisky drinker. But mention him to the whisky world – the one that exists behind the public glare, and is largely reliant on lasting relationships and mutual respect – and there’ll be little doubt who you’re referring to.   Throughout his career, Rankin has worked for two of the biggest names in the industry: Chivas Brothers and Morrison Bowmore. When we speak, on an overcast Monday in early November, he tells me it’s 47 years to the day that he joined the ranks as a trainee blender at Chivas.  It’s hard to imagine a wet-behind-the-ears Rankin embarking on his “old-fashioned proper blending training”. He remembers those days fondly, tasting hundreds of different distillates – including malts and grains from Scotland and the US – from the vast library, and getting stuck in with every aspect of the production process from distillation to the vatting and cask dumping. It wasn’t long before the young Rankin found his passion: casks.   “There was a lot of not-very-good wood filled in the industry way back in the 1970s and ’80s,” he tells me. “Even in those early days, I pushed to get some better quality wood in the system.”   Rankin learned from the old guard at Chivas who’d spent their life in the industry. In the early 1990s, he moved to Morrison Bowmore in a General Manager role, concentrating on blending, inventory management and, most importantly, cask trading. He spent 22 “lovely years” at the company until his position became untenable when Suntory (“in their infinite wisdom”, Rankin says wryly) decided to buy Morrison Bowmore’s owners Beam in 2014.   Rankin says the whole dynamic changed overnight and the decision to move global management of all spirits – including whisky – under American management in Chicago was the final straw for him, Chief Executive Mike Keiller and Finance Director Douglas Crawford, who all walked that same year. Rankin says he “doesn’t want to get into it all” but does say part of his motivation to leave was the fact he didn’t want to work for an American-managed company that late in his career – having already experienced a similar takeover with Chivas and Seagram many years earlier.   Rankin is a loquacious Scotsman. When you land on the right subject, he can talk endlessly with such knowledge and humour that it’s easy to lose track of time. In fact, when a small team from FINE+RARE visited his new distillery project, Ardross, in August, we did just that. One thing he doesn’t talk about, without great coaxing, is his immense success. This includes but is in no way limited to his work on Bowmore Black, the Trilogy releases, and the 50-year-old. He is a humble man, and has quite intentionally stepped back from the limelight, while some of his counterparts have been drawn to it.   Since setting up his own company in 2014, Rankin has not stopped working. Undoubtedly his biggest project has been Ardross, a new distillery in the Scottish Highlands. Rankin was given the mandate (and a healthy budget of £30m) to find a home for the new distillery by Ardross Single Cask Society founder Barth Brosseau. He found the dilapidated 50-acre site, which was formerly a farm, with its own seven-acre loch and moved heaven and earth to turn it into the stunning distillery we see today.   Rankin says the project has, and continues to be, “much much bigger” than he originally anticipated, and what started out as a little tree constantly grows branches all over the place. But, he says, it has been his biggest achievement to date.   The latest unwieldy branch is a second, small-batch distillery that is being built on the Ardross site, destined to become the Creative Suite – exclusively for Single Cask Society Members’ use. Once completed, it will be capable of producing 250 casks a year of almost any style of whisky that a Society Member could desire. When it is up and running, likely by the end of next year, Society members will be able to call Rankin or visit him at the distillery to discuss their requirements. He will advise them on certain elements and Sandy Jamieson – Ardross’s Distillery Manager with near-50 years’ experience, and hands-down one of the most hospitable people you will meet – will get involved in the “nittier grittier side of the distillation”.  “Society members have the flexibility of different malt styles, of different grain stills, of different blend styles, and the multi-cask options that we’ll have available,” Rankin says. “But always without getting to the gimmicky stage,” he adds gravely.   This is a word that comes up a lot in our conversations – “gimmicky”. Rankin is, by his own admission, a traditionalist and has baulked at the changes in the whisky industry over the past 47 years.    “In my mind, a gimmicky type thing that lets you say we were the first in the world to do x only lasts a day and then it’s old news,” he says. “So everything we do falls within traditional methods – but pushing the boundaries a wee bit in terms of the styles of whisky.”  After spending a number of hours with Rankin, you can tell he’s not the type to mince his words – his standards are exacting, and he’s been around the block enough times to know when he’s being sold a pony. For these reasons, and many more, he’s unafraid to tell Brosseau – who he on occasion butts heads with – and Society members what he thinks.      It’s this straight-talking, mixed with an unwavering sense of tradition, that has stood him in such good stead throughout his career. Relationships formed over the past four decades have been vital to getting Ardross off the ground and saved his bacon – and the whisky producers he’s worked for – countless times.   “I always made it my policy to not sit on the end of the phone negotiating prices or volumes never having met the person that’s at the other end,” he tells me. “I’ve made it a policy that we’d go and visit all the major suppliers. We’d have dinner with them. We’d get to know them.”  When Rankin first started visiting Kentucky – a place he has a real fondness for and has undoubtedly influenced elements of the Ardross build – the state was just coming back from a real depression. He got to know a lot of people in the cooperages and distilleries, and many of these relationships last to this day. You sense it is this longevity and being around throughout hardship that has fortified these ties. The same is likely true of Japan. Enviably, Rankin has a relationship with one of the oldest independent cooperages in Japan, from whom he sources a steady amount of the mystical Mizunara cask – something many producers would give their right arm for. As quite a coup, Ardross filled some of its first runs of new-make spirit into Mizunara in 2020.   Rankin is too humble to go into detail but he does say these relationships have proven useful over the years. “If barley is in short supply, which it was not that many years ago,” he says, “because of our relationship, we would always get priority. If casks were in short supply, we’d always get the priority.”   Sadly, this way of working is something Rankin sees diminishing in most industries. “Everything is done via Zoom and telephone and internet now,” he bemoans. “Having listened to some of COP26, the environmentalists will say that’s a good thing, you’re not using air travel, but there has got to be a balance.”  Another change Rankin “isn’t keen on” is “the quest to get something different all the time”. “All the limited releases,” he says downcast. “The best limited release now is the standard edition because [producers] push everything else and don’t push the standard edition,” he only half jokes.  “Make no mistake, Barth and I have had a lot of serious heated discussions on various things like all the different wines and tequila [finishes]. It’s not traditional,” he says impassioned. “Why would we want to put a perfectly good product into a cask that’s had tequila maturing for six months?”   He pauses for what seems like an eternity, and I’m unsure if he wants an answer, before he, mercifully, continues: “I ask the question and I’ll get the response that it’s what the modern market wants. To which I respond: ‘says who?’”  Throughout his career, Rankin says he’s always stuck to the more traditional casks, like Sherry and Port. But he’s quick to say that the market is a minefield, and you need to proceed with caution as producers are often offloading casks for a reason.   “Even Port is one that would be low down of my list of things to use,” he says. “Because historically, Port producers don’t generate a lot of casks. They only generate them when they are clearing a warehouse out. The casks will be sold to people in the whisky industry when there is absolutely no maturation left in them at all, so you’re achieving nothing by finishing in those types of casks.”   Rankin says the only chance you have of producing a decent whisky, or at the very least not ruining the good one you’ve got, is to deal with certain individuals who will give you a cask that’s not spent.   He tells me some horror stories from the Glasgow facility where he warehouses and oversees cask operations. “We see some of the casks come in, and we’ve gotta send it back. They’ll say the Sherry casks are new. They’re not. They are probably the oldest casks that have been lying in that bodega. I have to say to the client, ‘Trust me, you’ll lose half your whisky because it’s not good wood, it’s very porous-looking, the smell inside them is slightly sour and you can’t get rid of that. But, it’s your gamble’.” Unsurprisingly, they heed his advice and make another call pretty sharpish.   He adds: “You’ve just got to know what you’re looking for and be careful. Because you can ruin a perfectly good whisky.”   It’s rare to meet somebody with such candour in or out of the whisky industry. Hand on heart, I can’t think of a person I’d rather entrust to guide me when deciding what to do with my whisky.   Learn more about Ardross or read more Editorial 

After working as Master Blender for some of the biggest names in the industry, Andrew Rankin knows a thing or two about good whisky – and good casks. He tells Holly Motion why strong relationships and traditional values are far more important to him than being a whisky personality

The ex-Bowmore Master Blender Andrew Rankin talks about working for some of the biggest names in the whisky industry and tells us why relationships are key.

Ex-Bowmore Master Blender Andrew Rankin on casks

The great Scotsman

For Marelise Niemann, the lure of wine is the very thing that might frustrate less intuitive winegrowers. “You’re never in control: you’re always humbled,” she says – by the weather, by the baboons that eat your grapes, by nature. Humbling though it may be, Niemann has made Grenache her mission – crafting South Africa’s finest, most elegant expressions of this grape under her Momento label.  It's perhaps not surprising, given the style of her wines, that it was a vintage in Burgundy that provided her lightbulb moment. At the time, in the late noughties, South Africa was still focused on producing big wines: bold reds, extracted and heavily oaked, were seen as the best. Parker’s influence was lingering, and South Africa was still bouncing back from apartheid and the stifling monopoly of the KWV. But a stint working with Pinot Noir made Niemann realise the surprising and sometimes incongruous power of delicacy – in short, that bigger wasn’t always better.  And she was one of many on a similar journey. South Africa’s New Wave movement was gathering pace. Led by the likes of Eben Sadie, Adi Badenhorst, and Chris and Andrea Mullineux, these producers were crafting fresh and fine wines, reinventing South Africa’s vinous identity. What started in the Swartland soon swept across the nation, and Niemann was part of this groundswell.  It was farming that first drew her to wine, having spent time as a child on her grandparents’ farm in Stanford, a small village in the Overberg, getting up at the crack of dawn to help milk the cows or do whatever else needed doing. Although her parents both left agriculture behind, she wanted to work the land. Growing up in Elgin, dominated by apples but with a nascent grape industry, she decided to try viticulture. Late nights with many bottles at university in Stellenbosch convinced her that growing grapes wasn’t enough, and soon her degree had broadened to include winemaking.  After travelling the world and doing vintages in the Rhône and California, she got a job working alongside Sebastian Beaumont – who had just taken over his family’s estate, Beaumont Family Wines. It was here, she explains, that she could unlearn everything in the books. While there, she continued to travel and do vintages in the Northern Hemisphere – including the aforementioned stint in Burgundy.   Although Pinot Noir was her inspiration, it was the freshness and vibrancy that she was chasing, rather than Pinot itself – well aware that much of South Africa is simply too hot and dry for the variety. A trip to Terroir al Limit (the Priorat project created by Dominik Huber and Eben Sadie in 2001) in 2010 was pivotal. She fell instantly for the region’s beautiful old Garnacha vines, and the lighter styles that Huber and Sadie were producing.   She immediately returned and sought out a parcel of Grenache in the Western Cape. She bought two tonnes from a 50-year-old vineyard in the Swartland with Donovan Rall (of Rall Wines); he picked the fruit and trucked it down to Stellenbosch, where they stashed it illicitly in a university cold room overnight courtesy of a friend, and she then drove it down to Beaumont. The winemaking was minimal, in part because she was busy making the Beaumont wines, and she didn’t have any equipment – but also because it was what the vineyard gave her, leaning towards a lighter, more fragrant style. The first vintage of Momento Grenache was born. That was 2011, and before she’d even decided on a name or considered designing a label for the bottled product, it was chosen for the famous Young Guns tasting. (Her husband – an artist – sketched the vine you’ll see on the label today, with faces in the trunk, because for Niemann wine isn’t just the geeky stuff, but the people – both those who make it and those who enjoy it.)  Fast forward a decade, and Momento has earned quite the reputation. Niemann was named Tim Atkin MW’s Young Winemaker of the Year in his 2023 South Africa Report, and critics gush over the wines from this “Grenache-whisperer” (as dubbed by Malu Lambert, Decanter).  Although Niemann makes a Chenin Blanc/Verdelho blend and Tinta Barocca, Grenache is very much the core of the Momento range – with Grenache Gris and Blanc, as well as several different bottlings of Grenache Noir. It’s unsurprising given the beautifully fragrant, fine and fresh style of her wines that those she looks to for inspiration are Rayas (of course), but also those of Sierra de Gredos (such as Comando G), and finer, new-wave examples from Australia too – like Yangarra or S.C. Pannell. With the 2022 vintage, she introduced three additional single-site expressions of Grenache Noir, adding a bottling from Botrivier shale, Piekenierskloof sandstone and Riebeekberg schist, alongside her Paardeberg wine (previously labelled as Swartland, or Western Cape, all on granite). The idea is to show what Grenache can do in South Africa, speaking of their different soils, yet all retaining her trademark vibrancy and delicacy.  For Niemann, Grenache and the other varieties she works with aren’t an arbitrary choice, but those that are sustainable in the South African climate. Almost all the vineyards she works with are dry-farmed (with one that she’s weaning off its water-dependency). She points to the drought of 2015-2018 with its threat of Day Zero, when no one could irrigate their vines: she recalls how the Cabernet and Merlot in a neighbouring vineyard gave up, offering little to no crop, but it wasn’t the case with her Grenache, which “just carried on with life”. As she says, “There will be another day zero in South Africa. It will become hotter and drier. We need to farm varietals that don’t need to be irrigated.” Grapes like Grenache, Chenin and Verdelho, alongside Cinsault and Carignan are – for her – the answer. “It’s what our climate wants us to plant,” she says.  One thing’s for sure: if this is the future for South African wine, it’s incredibly exciting. Forget high-alcohol, soupy sweet Grenache; Niemann’s wines are fine-boned, fresh, textured, perfumed and pure – wines that speak of place. Allocations of her single-site bottlings vanished almost instantly on release – and I’m in no doubt that her star will only continue to rise. Snap these wines up while you can.  Explore the Momento range or read more about South Africa 

Named Tim Atkin MW’s Young Winemaker of the Year in 2023, Marelise Niemann is crafting some of South Africa’s most exciting wines. We sat down with the Momento winemaker to talk about her journey into wine, falling head-over-heels for Burgundy and why Grenache is the future for the Western Cape

Sitting down with Marlise Niemann, the winemaker behind Momento wines in Bot River, South Africa – Tim Atkin’s Young Winemaker of the Year 2023

Redefining Grenache: Marelise Niemann’s Momento wines

Redefining Grenache: Momento 

William Kelley + Yohan Castaing – Wine Advocate  Once again, the Wine Advocate’s Bordeaux en primeur coverage is shared by William Kelley and Yohan Castaing, with both providing scores, but Kelley writing the publication’s report. It’s telling that the highest potential score given for any of the 2024s is 94-96, with over half of the wines sitting below 90: in Kelley’s words, the year – which “tested growers’ limits” – “has produced few compelling wines”. Although there are some “notable successes”, the duo he feels that this is “clearly Bordeaux’s weakest vintage of the last decade”, with many wines that are “dilute, herbaceous and tart”.  The year is not homogenous, and Kelley attributes this simply to ripeness levels. He argues that those producers who “dared to wait” to harvest were rewarded. He is clear, however, that no particular variety or sub-region fared particularly better in 2024, with the year only able to be judged at a producer level. The best 2024s are, for Kelley, “intensely flavored middleweights with good structure and energy, exhibiting integrated acidity and ripe tannin”. Although the worst have acidity that can be “shrill”, with “astringent tannins and overt pyrazine character”, some – largely from early-ripening sites harvested late – “possess a density and mid-palate amplitude that transcends the year”. The vintage is, however, “a throwback”, closer to those of the 1990s than anything more recent. Elevage should help flesh out some of the wines, but Kelley is cautious of the wines’ fragility – and anticipates it “will only amplify the gap between the best and the rest”.  Kelley’s highlights: Cheval Blanc, La Conseillante, Pontet-Canet, Les Carmes Haut-Brion  Explore Kelley’s full report, notes and scores on the Wine Advocate (subscribers only)    Jane Anson – Inside Bordeaux  For Anson, 2024 exceeded her expectations: although there are, she acknowledges, "many disappointing bottles", the vintage is better than 2013 and – in the best cases – than 2021. She feels there are “more overall successes on the Right Bank than Left, simply because underripe Cabernet is very difficult to mask”, and generally speaking second wines don’t come recommended this year, with a notable step in quality. In the best reds, the acidity lends “juice, muscles and salinity”, with the Médoc offering linear, “floral, fragrant, nuanced” Claret. She highlights the quality of Saint-Julien in particular, and notes that there are “many excellent wines” in Pauillac, while Saint-Estèphe is more varied.  The Right Bank produced her wine of the vintage – Eglise-Clinet – but she notes how Pomerol is varied, with some successful wines that are “fabulous, lifted, aromatic, great quality” and some that are less successful, generally with the best hailing from the inner plateau. In Saint-Emilion, she notes how the limestone’s natural austerity needed to be managed – but “there are many tasty, successful if slim wines” in the appellation.  She emphasises the quality of the whites in the vintage, both sweet and dry, with “greater consistency and many excellent wines”. The dry whites offer great aromatics, but don’t have the density of the best wines, hence her ceiling on scores. She describes the sweet wines as “less luscious than the 2022s and 2023s”, but with “many balanced, delicious wines that are full of pleasure”.   Anson’s highlights: Eglise-Clinet, La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc, Coutet, Pavillon Blanc, Les Champs Libres, Margaux, Léoville Poyferré, Brane-Cantenac, Ausone, Laroque, Couvent des Jacobins, La Prade, Vieux Château Saint André, L’If, Pagodes de Cos Blanc, Rieussec, Suduiraut, Clos Albus, Les Hauts de Smith Blanc, Les Charmes-Godard  Explore Anson’s full report, notes and scores on Inside Bordeaux (subscribers only)    Antonio Galloni – Vinous  Galloni is the first of the two Vinous writers to publish their report on 2024 Bordeaux. Although he admits the wines are “all over the place in terms of quality and style”, he also feels that “the very best wines have a lot to offer”. After all, “Weather is no longer the critical element in determining the quality of wines and therefore a vintage.”  He emphasises how key élevage will be in the wines’ development, expecting “a very high level of variability in the finished wines” – feeling, as per the title of his report, that many of the wines sit on a “razor’s edge”. Galloni describes the 2024s as aromatic, leaning towards red fruit, with the best “exud[ing] balance” – although some can be “excessively light”, making for a “frustratingly erratic vintage”. It is, however, “far from the total disaster” suggested. For him, it’s a year where the Left Bank and Cabernet thrived, highlighting the wines of Saint-Estèphe and Pauillac, and finding those of Pomerol and Pessac-Léognan the most variable.   He emphases the quality of the dry whites in 2024, which are “some of the finest” in the vintage and can be “truly exceptional”, while also offering relative value. As for the sweets, they are – for him – very good, but not outstanding, not having the “thrill factor of the very best years”.  Galloni’s highlights: Beychevelle, Clos Puy Arnaud, Cos d’Estournel, Jean Faure, Larcis-Ducasse, Lascombes, La Conseillante, Rauzan-Ségla  Explore Antonio Galloni’s full report, notes and scores on Vinous (subscribers only)    Neal Martin – Vinous    Following on from Galloni’s report (above), Neal Martin covers the growing season defined by its “biblical” amount of rain. He feels 2024 is “a good vintage with limitations”, noting that the wines are inconsistent and the “maleficent season… widens the divide between the haves and have-nots”. He emphasises that those who triumphed had not the best terroir, but “the deepest pockets and those who made the right decisions at the right times” – and even then, it is “a growing season that is impossible to transcend”.  He, like others, notes how different the vintage would have been just a couple of decades ago, noting that it is “unequivocally far superior” to the likes of 1984, 1992 or 2013. Although it is not consistent, he admits there are wines that “touch the sky”, and the best are “pretty” – offering “delineated and focused” aromatics, balanced wines in which a “spine of acidity lends poise”, with “ample freshness and sapidity”. They are, he writes, “ideal restaurant wines that will provide easy-drinking pleasure whilst you wait for the 2019 or 2022s to mature”.  Martin highlights the quality of the dry whites – with cool conditions producing “riveting, tensile Sauvignon Blanc/Sémillon-based wines that often trump their red counterparts”. As for Sauternes, he reports that they are very good, but not classically opulent, instead “full of freshness and purity”.  Neal Martin’s highlights: Vieux Château Certan, Lafleur, Eglise-Clinet, Lafite Rothschild, Margaux, Montrose, La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc, Domaine de Chevalier Blanc, Malartic-Lagravière Blanc, Le Blanc de Lafite, Les Champs Libres, Doisy-Daëne, Coutet, Guiraud, Suduiraut  Explore Neal Martin’s full report, notes and scores on Vinous (subscribers only)    James Suckling  For James Suckling, tasting 2024 was a nostalgic experience – reminding him of “modern renditions of years such as 1985 or 1995”. Although he feels it is among the most heterogenous vintages he’s tasted, he describes the top 2024s as having “fine tannins and a crunchy, bright character”, “linear and fresh” with “vivid acidity”, noting that they’ll be approachable early. The best, he believes, come from early-ripening sites with the large teams necessary to tackle the year. He feels the dry whites, meanwhile, are very good to excellent – with Haut-Brion Blanc and Pavillon Blanc both among his top-scoring wines.  Suckling’s highlights: Haut-Brion Blanc, Evangile, Lafleur, Latour, Pavillon Blanc, Angélus, Ausone, Cos d’Estournel, Haut-Brion, Eglise-Clinet, La Mission Haut-Brion, Léoville Las Cases, Les Carmes Haut-Brion, Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, Pétrus, Smith-Haut-Lafitte Blanc, Vieux Château Certan  Explore James Suckling’s full report, notes and scores on his website (subscribers only)    Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW – The Wine Independent  The headline for Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW is that the best reds in 2024 are “lighter-bodied, soft-textured, refreshing and perfumed”, while there are “many spectacular dry white wines and small quantities of excellent wines from Sauternes”. She notes how the wines generally have ripe tannins, but flavour ripeness was more challenging – and has resulted in “a lot of good, delicious, drinkable, if not awe-inspiring, reds” although “many don’t have the flavor layers or intensity of a truly great wine”.  One thing shines through for her: “Quality levels are all over the show.” She, like us, feels the Right Bank is more consistent and notes that “many elegant, bright, refreshing, soft-textured and perfumed wines” come from Saint-Emilion and Pomerol. On the Left Bank, she finds that quality drops away as you move away from the gravel terraces and the finest terroirs, although many Classed Growths produced wines “worthy of their status” if in a lighter style than recent years.  The dry whites are, for her, “the silver lining” of the vintage – noting their consistency and quality. She finds that many have “an effortless sense of harmony”, the aromatics and acidity preserved by the cooler conditions. She highlights a number of dry whites to look out for – noted below. Quality in Sauternes and Barsac is “excellent”, she writes, feeling the acid backbone injects “vivacity” into the wines, bringing greater balance versus warmer vintages. The best have “great flavor intensity, plenty of botrytis-instilled complexity, and racy backbones” – and are wines well worth seeking out.  Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW’s highlights: Figeac, Haut-Brion Blanc, Smith Haut Lafitte Blanc, La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc, Pavillon Blanc, Eglise-Clinet, Montrose, Trotte Vieille, Pape Clément Blanc, Domaine de Chevalier Blanc, Valandraud Blanc, D’Aiguilhe Blanc, Larrivet Haut-Brion Blanc, Suduiraut Pur Sémillon, Les Champs Libres, Cos d’Estournel Blanc, Lespault-Martillac Blanc  Explore Lisa Perrotti-Brown MW’s full report on The Wine Independent (subscribers only)    Georgie Hindle – Decanter  Decanter’s coverage is being gradually released, and so far includes a report on the growing season, as well as an early look at the styles the year produced. Georgie Hindle says it is closest in style to 2021, looking at recent vintages, however highlights the drier, warmer summer which differentiates it. She emphasises that the year is not uniform, and the wines are generally shaped by a “taut, mineral freshness” rather than fruit depth or opulence. She says the best “offer flashes of aromatic precision, elegant and refreshing clarity with structure and length” – they “achieve balance between fruit, acidity and tannins”. Many are weak or thin and – as we and others have emphasised – you cannot generalise this year – and it shouldn’t be one you write-off, she urges.   She doesn’t feel that the dry whites fared better than the reds, with results similarly mixed – but some successful wines that are aromatic and appealing. As for the region’s sweet wines, they offer “an easy drinkability” but don’t all have “the density and consistency of stronger vintages”.    Explore Georgie Hindle’s coverage on Decanter (subscribers only)     Colin Hay – The Drinks Business This is the first year we’re including The Drinks Business. A trade publication, it has been expanding its coverage of Bordeaux and relatively recently started scoring wines, all tackled by Colin Hay. Despite the challenging growing season, he argues that “those with both the resources – human and financial – and above all the acumen to respond to its trials and tribulations have triumphed”. Although at the lower end of the quality tree, he finds the wines disappointing and the vintage far from even, he writes that “at the top of the pyramid” there are “wines that transcend the challenges of the vintage” – “fully ripe, elegant, refined, highly aromatic, with soft, delicate, finely grained tannins and a succulence, clarity and brilliance that is rare indeed”. He finds them “remarkable” – even without the context of the year. Although they don’t reach the heights of 2019, 2020 or 2022, he feels the wines can be favourably compared to other recent vintages – indeed, he feels the best sit above wines from 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2006. 2007, 2008, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2017 and 2018. He writes that although the wines are “likely to be highly accessible in their youth”, they “still have quite significant ageing potential”. He is another to feel the vintage is slightly stronger on the Right Bank, and rave about the whites (“unique and spectacular”, “an undoubted highlight of the vintage” that he puts on a par with 2017 and 2021) and the sweets (although he confesses these are less consistent). Although there are exceptions, Pauillac is “the least flattered by the vintage”, and can be austere. He found that estates in Saint-Estèphe seemed to embrace the vintage, finding several highlights – including Montrose, “a wine of staggering depth and originality, yet also of an ethereal and aerial beauty and profound aromatic complexity”. In Saint-Julien, he finds “a reassuring sweetness to the fruit and a nutty creaminess”, coping with the vintage better, as Margaux also did, offering much “charm and typicity”. He finds the reds of Pessac-Léognan and Graves especially heterogenous, although he feels people will remember the vintage for its whites.  On the Right Bank, Hay finds that the best of Pomerol “indicate nothing of the difficulties of the growing season”, with elevated proportions of Cabernet providing “additional aromatic lift and florality”. In Saint-Emilion, he also discovers many vintage-transcending wines, “far more homogenous” than expected, especially versus the Left Bank, and many of them sit within its classification system – suggesting it is “an impressive guarantor of quality to the consumer”.  Colin Hay’s highlights: Mouton Rothschild, Montrose, Cos d’Estournel, Gruaud Larose, Palmer, Lafleur, Le Pin, Petrus, Eglise-Clinet, Trotanoy, Bélair-Monange, Rocheyron, Cheval Blanc, Figeac, Angélus, Beauséjour, Larcis-Ducasse, Pavie, Les Carmes Haut-Brion, La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc, Smith Haut Lafitte Blanc, L’Extravagant de Doisy-Daëne, Lafaurie-Peyraguey, Suduiraut Explore Colin Hay’s full report, notes and scores on The Drinks Business Jeb Dunnuck Although 2024 was a difficult vintage, it produced “charming, mid-weight, forward, moderately concentrated wines”, writes Dunnuck. He compares quality to 2021 but with more “openness and suppleness”, feeling it is neither a Left or Right Bank year, but one that needs to be analysed by estate. He does feel, however, that Pessac is “a shining gem in the vintage”. The wines are about “approachability over density”, and the Merlot-driven wines of the Right Bank show their terroir well, while Pomerol is darker in style. On the Left Bank, similarly, they are not blockbusters, but – he says – they “will certainly appeal to those who pine for the yesteryears of the 1980s and 1990s”, and will “unquestionably offer ample drinking and longevity”. He suggests they may follow a similar trajectory to the 2001s, wines “drinking beautifully today” – and some “have a balance and harmony that might surprise”.  As for the whites, although there are “some brilliant whites”, it is not universal – a good rather than great vintage. And that is trye for the vintage across the board, in his mind, selective buying is advised, but there are some good wines worthy of attention. Jeb Dunnuck’s highlights: Figeac, Haut-Brion, La Conseillante, Lafaurie Peyraguey Coeur de Terroir, Pavillon Blanc, Mouton Rothschild, Pape Clément, Suduiraut, Suduiraut Pur Semillon, Valandraud Blanc    Explore Bordeaux 2024 

As the floodgates open for Bordeaux 2024 releases, the world’s leading wine critics are offering their thoughts on the vintage. Here you’ll find a round-up of what the Wine Advocate, Vinous and more are saying about the vintage so far – and the wines they rated most highly 

Your essential crib-sheet to what the world’s leading wine critics are saying about Bordeaux 2024 en primeur–including Wine Advocate, Vinous,Decanter and more

Bordeaux 2024 en primeur – what the critics are saying 

Bordeaux 2024: what the critics are saying 

Domaine André Mussy

France

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