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  

Saint-Emilion has been hitting the headlines. And not in the way it would like to. In July, just after the region’s châteaux submitted applications for the 2022 classification, two of the region’s four Premier Cru Classé A estates – Chx Cheval Blanc and Ausone – announced that they would be withdrawing from the classification system. This week sees a dispute over the 2012 classification enter the courts – with accusations that the results were fixed. The Médoc’s leading names were ranked in 1855 – with but one change (Ch. Mouton Rothschild's promotion) in 1973. The classification was uncomplicated, with no fussing over terroir, tastings or winemaking talent; it was based purely on price. It’s hard to believe that it remains relevant today – but, while of course there are properties that stand out, it’s more or less accepted, and reflective. Across the river in Saint-Emilion, they wanted something different. Something fairer. A system that flexed with an estate’s waxing and waning. The ambition was – and is – laudable. The reality, well… The classification is overseen by the Institut National des Appellations d’Origine (INAO) – the body responsible for France’s appellation system. The concept was mooted in the 1950s, with the first list published in 1955. The idea was that it would be re-drawn every 10 years – both to be more democratic and provide an incentive for long-term quality. Unlike the Left Bank’s system, it would assess terroir and include a tasting of the wines. The aim was, and is – as a spokesperson for the INAO told me, to help consumers distinguish between the region’s many properties and help “maintain a level of excellence”. The classification is based on a scoring system out of 20, with the breakdown of scores different to qualify for Grand Cru Classé (requiring a minimum 14 points) versus Premier Grand Cru Classé (requiring a minimum 16). In 2012, the possible points for Premier Grand Cru Classé were broken down thus: 30% based on the quality of the wine – with a tasting of 15 vintages; 30% on the estate’s terroir; 35% on the property’s renown (both national and international), promotion and distribution; and the remaining 5% on viticulture, vinification and traceability. Even the first, 1955 list was disputed, changed just three years later, then again two months later, before settling on 63 Grands Crus Classés and 12 of the elite Premiers Grands Crus Classés. The very best of this latter group were named “Premier Grand Cru Classé A” (the rest Premier Grand Cru Classé B) – with just two making the cut, Chx Ausone and Cheval Blanc. Since 1958 the region’s wines have been re-classified regularly – if not quite on the 10-year cycle forecast, in 1969, 1986, 1996, 2006 and then 2012. But there has always been an undercurrent of discontent. In 2006, five properties filed lawsuits and the ruling was declared invalid, with the 1996 classification reinstated. For the 2012 classification, the INAO seemed determined to clean things up. The tastings and site inspections were, for the first time, outsourced by the INAO, with wine professionals from other regions (Burgundy, the Rhône, Champagne, the Loire and Provence) roped in – including Marcel Guigal and Robert Drouhin. A company called Qualisud was to handle the tastings, while Bureau Veritas would take on visiting the estates. These independent authorities would, they thought, make it indisputable. The result was two new Premiers Grands Crus Classés A estates – with Chx Angélus and Pavie; while Larcis Ducasse, La Mondotte, Pavie Macquin, Troplong Mondot and Valandraud all promoted to Premier Grand Cru Classé B, and significant changes to the Grands Crus Classés (with a new total of 64 estates). But of course that wasn’t the end of it. Enter Chx Corbin-Michotte, Croque-Michotte and La Tour du Pin Figeac. The latter two had applied for and hoped to be promoted to Grand Cru Classé, while Corbin-Michotte was demoted in the 2012 rankings. They argue that the decision against them was “incomprehensible”, challenging the criteria for classification and insisting that two individuals – Hubert de Boüard (of Ch. Angélus) and Philippe Castéja (of Ch. TrotteVieille) – had “undue influence” with their roles within the INAO. It’s alleged that de Boüard was “present at all stages of the process elaborating the 2012 classification” (with it implied he influenced the ranking not only of Angélus but seven properties for which he consulted), while Castéja “pulled strings” to guarantee TrotteVieille’s Premier Grand Cru Classé status. The case went to administrative court, however the plaintiffs lost in 2015. They appealed, but lost again in 2019. And now they’re taking it to the criminal courts, with jail time and a fine of up to €500,000 on the cards for the accused. When I asked Frédéric Castéja – Philippe’s son and General Director of Borie Manoux – about the accusations, he told me: “I can only tell you that the Attorney General has dropped all accusations against [my father] and stated that he was not concerned at all with this so-called ‘influence’.” “When it comes to a public ranking, the level of controversy is as high as the stakes,” the INAO told me. It’s unsurprising, perhaps, given the impact the classification can have on an estate’s bottom line. After their promotion in 2012, Chx Pavie and Angélus saw instant price hikes: 2012 Angélus was released at 30% more than the 2011 en primeur, while Pavie went up 58%. That’s big bucks. And beyond the actual wine, it’s the land prices that really rocket. It wasn’t just these three (relatively minor) properties that seemed dissatisfied. Rumour has it that each year, the Médoc’s First Growths, Cheval Blanc, Ausone and Pétrus (“the group of nine”) all meet to taste the latest vintage. After Pavie and Angélus became newly minted First Growths, the group reportedly preferred to restrict the group to the original set. And in 2012 Ch. Ausone quietly removed the classification from its labels – a hint at what was to come. Eric Morain – one of the lawyers representing the three disgruntled estates – has commented that the classification has become “a system that sells the brand and no longer the grape”. La Revue du Vin de France’s 2021 Man of the Year, the attorney is a specialist in the world of wine and has earned a reputation for standing up for the little guys. He was instrumental in establishing the Syndicat de Défense des Vins Naturels (which introduced the Vin Méthode Nature trademark last year – a formal definition for natural wine in France), and has defended several wronged natural wine producers, such as Olivier Cousin and Alexandre Bain. Morain’s latest crusade, however, is against two goliaths – with connections and deep pockets. “The classification was thought out and developed and judged by people who had a direct interest. The rules were not the same for everyone,” Morain said on email to me. De Boüard and Castéja should have recused themselves, he argues. For Chx Corbin-Michotte, Croque-Michotte and La Tour du Pin Figeac (“They aren’t notable, just winegrowers who do their job well,” Morain says), this isn’t about money. They just want someone to admit they were wronged, unfairly excluded from the ranking. “Will they be convicted?” Bordeaux expert Jane Anson pondered, “I would imagine not, but I guess we will all have to wait and see...” For her, the drama is an unnecessary distraction “from the excellence of the wines and the entire classification”. In the meantime, the process for the 2022 classification has been rumbling on, with applications submitted this summer. Some changes have been made, again trying to make the classification – once and for all – watertight. Independent third party Bureau Veritas is now in charge of both tastings and site inspections, and the weighting of the tasting element has been increased for the Premiers Grands Crus Classés (bringing it in line with the weighting for the Grands Crus Classés) – worth 50% of the score (previously 30%) – while the portion for a property’s terroir has been reduced to just 10% (previously 30%). The puzzle is why the criteria remain different for a Premier Grand Cru Classé versus a Grand Cru Classé – something for which I haven’t been able to find an answer. Given estates need to score 17 for the heralded Premier Grand Cru Classé A, 16 for Premier Grand Cru Classé B and 14 for Grand Cru Classé, why make things even more complicated and declare that, for example in 2022, the quality of terroir has more significance for a Grand Cru Classé than a Premier Grand Cru Classé estate (20% versus 10% for the latter)? To make it into the upper echelons of the Premiers Grands Crus Classés, reputation is considered key – and this is a sticking point for many. While reputation, promotion and distribution represents 20% for the Grands Crus Classés, it stands for 35% of a property’s score for Premier Grand Cru Classé status. Including elements such as wine tourism, social media, PR and the accessibility of an estate, it has prompted remarks that the size of a winery’s car park has more relevance than the quality of its soils. The INAO emphasises that the criteria are very similar to those of the original classification in the 1950s. Reputation has always been included, they argue – they are simply adapting this to the modern day. Either way, it’s a minor element, they assure me – with, for example, social media representing just 0.3 points, or 1.5% of the final score, while wine tourism makes up a mere 1%. This hasn’t soothed the worries of the region’s two original Premiers Grands Crus Classés A properties, Ausone and Cheval Blanc. News broke soon after applications for the classification closed on June 30th that the prestigious estates had not submitted anything. When I spoke to both estates ahead of en primeur (April this year), the responses were interesting. Pierre-Olivier Clouet, Technical Director at Ch. Cheval Blanc, noted it was “a touchy question” before he continued. “We believe it’s quite difficult in 2021 to classify the wine like in 1855. This is not the same period this is not the same price per hectare, it is not the same price per bottle… Producing an outstanding wine is difficult on paper,” he said. “We don’t produce wine for the critics, for the classification – we make wine for the wine lover. Premier Grand Cru Classé A, Premier Grand Cru Classé B, Grand Cru Classé… we are Cheval Blanc, that’s it.” When I enquired whether he felt a wine’s distribution should have as much weighting as its terroir, he shrugged and smiled: “The answer is in the question.” Pauline Vauthier of Ch. Ausone was less willing to broach the topic, not wanting to be embroiled in the debate. “What counts is the quality of the product,” she said – making very clear that that is where the estate’s focus lies. “There are many classifications and they’re difficult for the public to understand. Ausone prefers to communicate about the quality of its wine.” She added: “[The 2012 classification] created much controversy, and that will certainly be the case with 2022.” When the news broke in July that both estates were withdrawing (along with sibling estates, La Clotte and Quinault l’Enclos), Pierre Lurton (Director of Ch. Cheval Blanc) and Clouet told Terre de Vins that there wasn’t enough emphasis on “the terroir, the wine, the history”. Edouard Vauthier (Ch. Ausone) explained, “Since 2012, some criteria added are not linked into the wine itself anymore. Some people apply for the classification for economic reasons more than quality and the respect of the terroir.” He highlighted that many of their customers hadn’t even noticed that “Premier Grand Cru Classé A” was no longer on the label. Indeed, why would they? Interestingly, these estates agree with Eric Morain on this. For Morain, the tasting component should represent much more – and as long as it counts for so little, “the classification will mean nothing”. The two behemoths are their own brands – brands that are much stronger than that of Saint-Emilion Premier Grand Cru Classé A. The loser, sadly, is set to be the classification itself, and its top-tier properties – which will no longer benefit from Cheval Blanc and Ausone’s halo effect. Of course, the INAO was keen to emphasise that – whether classified or not – the two estates would always be closely associated with the region, and that there were plenty of other estates that eagerly submitted applications. “Ausone and Cheval Blanc have always been driving forces behind the appellation and I hope will remain so,” Frédéric Castéja told me. “The risk is that at the next occasion other top estates (meaning other First Growths) do the same, then if too many leading estates leave, the classification is meaningless.” Morain – unsurprisingly given his campaign against the classification – is damning about its fate. Ausone and Cheval Blanc’s departure is, for him, “a symptom of a system on its last legs”. So is the 2022 ranking set to be the Saint-Emilion classification’s swansong? Perhaps – the more important question is maybe if it matters. “Saint-Emilion has so many châteaux (by far the most of any of the prestigious appellations) that there is a definite benefit to have some way of distinguishing the best wines,” Jane Anson said. “I fully agree with the principles, in fact think the idea of a renewable classification is very much consumer-driven and provides an incentive to estates to keep investing etc, but I think it has become unworkable.” And that is the problem – the theory is excellent, but how can it be put into practice? While the classification sounds helpful in principle, for most people, I suspect it isn’t. There’s too much confusion with Grand Cru, Grand Cru Classé and Premier Grand Cru Classé A or B. Unlike the Médoc’s straightforward numbering of First to Fifth Growth, it is not – to the uninitiated – immediately clear which is meant to be better than the other. Price and branding of an individual estate will be the more important differentiator. Talking to other producers in the region, few have answers – and few wish to champion the system’s survival. I asked Noëmie Durantou Reilhac – of Denis Durantou estates – whether she’d ever wish to see something similar in Pomerol. The answer was a firm no (“definitely”). “What really saddens me is seeing some plots in Saint-Emilion Grand Cru that are truly devastated,” she tells me. When I ask Nicolas Glumineau at Pichon Comtesse in Pauillac – a producer with a little distance – about his thoughts on it, he’s quick to quip: “That’s why we have an 1855 [classification] that we never move.” More seriously, he thinks the decade cycle is problematic. “I have this feeling that one classification every 10 years is probably too fast, too frequent. Probably 25 years – one generation could be enough.” Of course applying for the classification is voluntary – and not everyone does. Ch. Tertre Rôteboeuf, notably, has never played the game – despite the high quality of its wines. (The property is also renowned for handling its own distribution, outside the négociant system.) Ch. Haut-Brion owner Prince Robert of Luxembourg recently highlighted a benefit to being outside the classification – announcing his plans to expand Quintus with vineyards from the recently bought Ch. Grand Pontet. And this really gets to the point of what could make the Saint-Emilion classification work. As Anson said to me, “Saint-Emilion is the only classification in Bordeaux that includes the notion of terroir (and in fact taste) and that is also linked to a specific piece of land.” A classified property can’t automatically include new vineyards – unlike estates on the Left Bank. The classification is admirable in many ways – but how can you really quantify excellence? Is it ever really possible to pin down the true quality of a wine, or estate, with such exactitude? Is the picture not more nebulous than points can ever paint? “All classifications are correct as long as all players clearly know the rules,” Frédéric Castéja noted. “One must remember that classifications are always the picture of the past, but of course confirm the potential of the estate.” For Saint-Emilion, even the past feels in flux – discussed and debated. What the future holds is hard to say – but, for now, we’ll wait to see what’s in store for the class of 2022. Read more about Editorial  Since this article was published, Hubert de Boüard was found guilty of having undue influence in the 2012 Saint-Emilion classification. He was fined €40,000 and has not appealed the charge. Two properties, Ch. Croix de Labrie and Ch. Tour Saint-Christophe, are taking the INAO to court over their applications for the 2022 classification. In January 2022, Ch. Angélus announced it too was leaving the Saint-Emilion classification, stating the system had become a "vecteur d'antagonisme et d'instabilité". This leaves Ch. Pavie as the only remaining Premier Grand Cru Classé A estate. September 2022: the new classification has been unveiled, with Ch. Figeac promoted to Premier Grand Cru Classé A, alongside Ch. Pavie.

Saint-Emilion’s classification is in crisis – embroiled in court cases and controversy. But why? And does it matter? Sophie Thorpe investigates

Saint-Emilion’s classification is in crisis after leading names abandoned the system. We talk to Ausone, Cheval Blanc, Angelus and more about the controversy

Investigating Saint-Emilion's classification

Class act: Saint-Emilion

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