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  

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

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

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

Nature vs. Nurture: The quest for Burgundy’s true identity

What is Krug?  Krug is one of the most famous Champagne Houses in the world. It is unusual for making only prestige cuvées and is prized by fine wine lovers, seen by many as the pinnacle of fine Champagne – competing with the likes of Cristal and Dom Pérignon.  When was Krug first made?  Joseph Krug established Krug & Compagnie in 1843 with a wine merchant friend, Hyppolyte de Vivès. Born in Mainz in 1800, Johann-Joseph Krug was the son of a butcher. He dropped the Johann, moved to Paris in 1834 and worked as a bookkeeper at Champagne Jacquesson before starting to blend his first wines with De Vivès, trials for what would eventually become the Krug project.  Is Krug still owned by the Krug family?  No – although the family is still very much involved.  When Joseph passed away in 1866, his son Paul took over the business. In 1868 he moved the business to 5 Rue Coquebert in Reims, the address still occupied by Krug today and home to its historic cellars. The company passed to Paul’s son Joseph II in 1910, but his wife Jeanne took the reins when Joseph II became a prisoner of war during the First World War. Joseph II’s nephew Jean Seydoux became a joint manager after the war, with the business passing to Paul Krug II (Joseph II’s son) in 1959 and then to Henri and Rémi Krug, who joined the company in the 1960s and took over in 1977.  Brothers Henri and Rémi were pivotal in developing the House – expanding the range, building its international reputation and overseeing its sale to luxury goods conglomerate LVMH in 1999. Although they continued to manage the House, the financial backing of LVMH only allowed Krug to thrive. In 2009, Olivier Krug – the sixth generation of his family – took over as Director of the House and remains at the helm today.  What is the Krug style?  Often quite deep golden in colour, Krug is renowned for its use of oak, choosing to ferment all its base wines in old 205-litre oak barrels, allowing micro-oxygenation. This, combined with long lees ageing (minimum six years for non-vintage and 10 for vintage wines), produces a powerful, broad and richly autolytic style of wine, layered with bread, biscuit and brioche notes. The huge number of blending components used for Grande Cuvée makes a particularly complex non-vintage – or as they prefer to call it, multi-vintage – wine. The House also favours picking on the earlier side to retain freshness in the wines. Dosage here is average with the wines labelled Brut, and dosage normally sitting around 5-6g/l in modern releases.  It's interesting to note that Krug feels Meunier is an important element in their blends (sometimes viewed as a lesser grape by Champagne Houses), valuing the mid-palate generosity it brings to wines. Meunier often represents 15-25% of the House’s vintage blends.   What are the different Krug wines?  Joseph Krug had clear ideas about how to make the best Champagne and famously outlined these in his burgundy-coloured leather notebook (which is on display at the Krug family headquarters today). He declared that the House would only make two cuvées, intended to be of equal quality. Cuvée No 1 was a non-vintage wine, conceived to be “the fullest expression of Champagne every year” (embodied today by Grande Cuvée), while Cuvée No 2 would express each vintage. He also firmly believed in the importance of site, writing, “We cannot obtain good wines without using good elements and good terroirs.”  For many years, the House continued to produce just two wines, but the range has since expanded. Although the non-vintage and vintage wines were intended to be equal in quality, the vintage wines command higher prices today.  The Krug range consists of six wines:  Krug Grande Cuvée: Grande Cuvée is Krug’s flagship non-vintage, or multi-vintage (MV), wine, and the modern Cuvée No 1, and previously known as Private Cuvée (until 1978, see below for more on this). There are up to 200 components in each bottling of the wine, combining over 10 vintages (the youngest six years old, the oldest over 20 years old). While it is the House’s “entry-level” offering today, the House holds back many of its best wines from top vintages for the wine. It spends minimum seven years’ ageing on lees prior to disgorgement, with an additional year on cork prior to release. Unlike many non-vintage wines, the goal is not for the wine to be entirely consistent between releases, but to make “the fullest expression of Champagne”. From 2011, this was acknowledged officially when Krug added the Krug ID to every bottle (see more below). In 2016, the House took this further and decided to add an Edition number to each release, starting with Edition 163 (for which the base year was 2007). Some collectors seek out particular editions of Grande Cuvée, with 164 (base 2008) or 168 (base 2012) unsurprisingly lauded. Half-bottles don’t have the edition number on the label, so you need to use the Krug ID to identify the specific bottling.  Krug Rosé: The House’s other non-vintage wine, Krug Rosé was created by Henri and Rémi Krug in the 1970s, with the first release based on the 1976 vintage, released in 1983. The wine is a blend of white wines, with around 11% still red Pinot Noir blended in, combining anything between 20 and 70 different components from five vintages, spending minimum six years on its lees. As for Grande Cuvée, in 2016 Krug added an Edition number to the Rosé label, starting with Edition 21 (base 2008).   Krug Clos du Mesnil: Clos du Mesnil is a single-vineyard vintage Blanc de Blancs Champagne, and one of Krug’s top wines. Champagne expert Richard Juhlin describes it as “the best wine in the world”. Henri and Rémi Krug purchased six hectares of Chardonnay in Le Mesnil-sur-Oger in 1971 and when they went to inspect the vineyards they discovered it included a walled 1.84-hectare plot in the heart of the village. On the wall is inscribed, “In the year 1698, this wall was built by Claude Jannin and Pierre Dehée Metoen and in the same year the vines were planted by Gaspard Jannin, son of Claude.” They replanted the site and at first the fruit was blended into the House’s other wines, however they found that the warmer microclimate – surrounded by buildings – produced a distinctive wine, and they decided to bottle it separately. The first vintage was 1979, released in 1986 – at a time when a single variety, single site wine was pioneering. Aged for minimum a decade on its lees, it is only made in certain vintages where the quality allows.  To date, the vintages of Clos du Mesnil produced are: 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1985, 1986, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1992, 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2008 and 2009.  Krug Clos d’Ambonnay: Pure Pinot Noir from a single 0.68-hectare plot, Clos d’Ambonnay is Krug’s other single-vineyard vintage wine. Henri and Rémi found this site on the edge of the village of Ambonnay, on the southeastern slope of the Montagne de Reims, in 1991, managing to purchase it in 1994. Like Clos du Mesnil, the site is a walled vineyard, with the walls dating back to 1766, although vines weren’t planted until the 20th century. The first vintage of the Blanc de Noirs was produced in 1995 and released in 2007. As with Clos du Mesnil, it sees long lees ageing (minimum a decade) and is only made where vintage conditions allow. Given the size of the vineyard, Clos d’Ambonnay is particularly rare.  To date, the vintages produced of Clos d’Ambonnay are: 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2002, 2006 and 2008.  Krug Clos d’Ambonnay Rosé: The first vintage of Krug’s Clos d’Ambonnay Rosé is set to be released in autumn 2025, the 2008 vintage. The first new cuvée since the House launched Clos d’Ambonnay, the wine is a rosé from the same single vineyard, including 15% still red wine in the blend.  Krug Vintage: The other wine conceived by founder Joseph Krug, Cuvée No 2, was a vintage wine that the House still produces today. It is only made in vintages deemed worthy by the House and spends over 10 years on its lees prior to disgorgement.  Recent vintages produced of Krug vintage are: 1988, 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2008 and 2011.  Krug Collection: In the 1980s, Krug introduced its Collection – a late-disgorged release of more mature wines, normally offered around 25 years after the vintage. These wines have been kept in the House’s cellars, ageing in perfect conditions. Releases to date include: 1981, 1982, 1985, 1988, 1989, 1990 and 1995.  What is Private Cuvée?  Private Cuvée was the previous name for Grande Cuvée, the House’s non-vintage wine, labelled as such from 1862 to 1978. Champagne expert Richard Juhlin notes that the style shifted with the name change, with Grande Cuvée a little lighter more Chardonnay-driven and more multi-faceted, however Private Cuvée was closer to a vintage wine in style with more weight. “The style from the 20’s to the 60’s is strikingly constant and if you find a bottle with a good level and with a price tag you can handle, it is a chance you must not miss,” he writes of Private Cuvée.  How much Krug Champagne is made?  Production for the House is kept firmly under wraps, however estimates suggest around 425,000 bottles are made each year.  What is Krug ID?  This six-digit code features on the back label of every bottle of Krug and allows the drinker to find out about their specific bottle of, with the first three digits indicating the quarter and year of disgorgement. You can look up the ID on the House’s website or app to find the blend, oldest and youngest wines, tasting notes, food and music pairing suggestions. The Krug ID was introduced in 2011, so only appears on bottles released after that date.  Does Krug own vineyards?  Krug’s expertise was historically winemaking and blending, and always operated as a négociant, as was the norm for the Grandes Marques in Champagne. Krug bought fruit from carefully selected sites to make their wines, but Henri and Rémi purchased the House’s first vineyards in 1971 – including the now famous Clos du Mesnil.  Today Krug owns 21 hectares of vines, representing around 20% of their production, supplementing this with purchased fruit. Krug sources its Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Meunier from the villages of Ambonnay, Aÿ, Le Mesnil-sur-Oger and Trépail. All their contracts are for specific parcels, many based on generations-long relationships, with their oldest contract dating back to 1876.  Krug has been increasingly focused on sustainability, not using any herbicides or pesticides in its own vineyards and the estate vineyards are certified organic as of the 2024 vintage.  Who makes Krug?  As with any winery, there is a large team involved in producing Krug – including the growers supplying fruit and those in the winery at Krug. Eric Lebel was the longtime cellarmaster, from 1999 to 2019, handing over to Julie Cavil who worked alongside Lebel for 13 years before taking the reins at the start of 2020.  When it comes to deciding on the blends, there is a tasting committee, led by Cavil and usually with Olivier Krug. The committee meets every day between the end of harvest and March, tasting 15 samples each day (a strict maximum to ensure their judgement isn’t impacted by palate fatigue). Over the period, they aim to taste all 400 samples two or three times in total. Each taster has to describe each sample with just a single word, which cannot be duplicated by any other taster – something that Cavil feels helps give a better overall picture of the wines.  How is Krug made?  As already mentioned, all Krug’s base wines are fermented in old oak. They use 205-litre barrels, averaging 20 years in age, often retired at around 40 years. They do not block malolactic fermentation but do not encourage it, so some wines do go through malolactic fermentation. Post fermentation, the wines are transferred to stainless steel tank (they are not aged in wood, as at Henri Giraud, for example). The blends are decided by the House’s Tasting Committee (led by Cellar Master Julie Cavil) between the end of harvest and April, before being bottled and spending minimum seven years on their lees (10 years for the vintage wines).  Where is Krug made?  For almost two centuries, the wines were made at Krug’s historic premises in Reims, however as of 2024 the winemaking has moved to its new Joseph winery, just next to Clos d’Ambonnay.   What’s the deal with Krug and Burning Man?  Krug caused some controversy when it shot a marketing campaign at the Burning Man festival at Black Rock in Nevada in 2011. The shoot and brand were denounced by the Burning Man organisation for not complying with its principles, commercialising the festival and community.  Why is Krug’s bottle shaped differently?  Krug’s distinctive narrow-necked bottle was introduced in 1978, at the same time as it changed the name of Private Cuvée to Grande Cuvée. The House previously used standard Champagne bottles. Beyond making Krug’s bottles even more distinctive, the narrow neck is intended to reduce oxygen exchange over the ageing process.  How does Krug age?  Krug is renowned for its ageing potential – with all the House’s wines, including the non-vintage cuvées, designed to evolve in bottle. Champagne expert Essi Avellan MW notes: “All Krugs benefit from ageing. Five years after release, they tend to have opened up beautifully, showing more expression and a beautifully harmonious nature. Grand Cuvées are a real delight some 10 to 15 years after release, often at the peak of their expression. The vintages are all long-lived; thereafter it depends on the vintage (and the individual bottle, of course) as to how they age. When well kept, all should age for at least 15 years post-release, and the best for several decades.”  Explore all Krug listings, including the new releases of Grande Cuvée and Rosé, or read more about Champagne and sparkling wine 

Krug is a name with reach far beyond wine lovers, the gold label and iconic bottle shape immediately recognisable. As the latest editions of Grande Cuvée and Rosé are released, we have compiled an insider’s guide to this legendary Champagne house and its wines

Everything you need to know about Krug Champagne – the luxury House and its iconic Grande Cuvee, Rose, Clos du Mesnil, Clos d’Ambonnay and vintage wines

Your essential guide to Krug Champagne 

Everything you need to know about Krug 

It’s not every day that you get to taste wines made over half a century ago – but earlier this month I got to trace CVNE’s flagship Imperial Gran Reserva all the way back to the 1947 vintage. Victor Urrutia, the fifth generation of his family to take the helm of this legendary Rioja producer, put together a tasting of what he called “the dirty dozen” – lining up 12 vintages of Imperial. The wines were chosen to show how the wine speaks across a range of vintages – not just the most famous, but the hot, the cold, the mighty and the mediocre.  CVNE has been making wine in Rioja Alta since 1879, so – even going back to 1947 – this tasting offered just a snapshot of its history. Imperial was created in the early 20th century (1917 is the earliest vintage Urrutia himself has tasted), conceived as “super Rioja”, Urrutia explained. The idea was to make the best wine possible, regardless of its commercial potential, at a time when Rioja didn’t have the prestige of today. Around 50,000 bottles are produced, but – importantly – Imperial isn’t made in every vintage, with the quality of the fruit in some years not meeting CVNE’s stringent standards (there was no 2003, 2006 or 2013, for example, and there won’t be a 2023 either).  For Urrutia, the goal with Imperial now is to reflect each vintage, and fine-tune the wine rather than look for revolution. The early vintages are their benchmark and inspiration. Across the vintages, however, Urrutia points to a “churchy” nose – something he finds is distinctly Imperial and reminiscent of the winery.  It’s easy, perhaps, to forget how well Rioja ages – and not just over a decade or two, but over half a century. The oldest vintage in this tasting, the 1947, was undoubtedly the star – a wine that has retained its freshness, with delicate aromatics and a beautifully long, pure, resolved palate. The entire flight impressed – with the quality of Imperial shining through. Some of Rioja’s legendary vintages featured (the 1970 and 1959, which sit alongside the likes of 1982 and 1964 in the history books), but my personal favourites were the aforementioned 1947, the still compact 2004 (named Wine Spectator’s Wine of the Year in 2013), the brooding 2011 and pretty, elegant 2018.   The Imperial vineyards  The fruit for Imperial Gran Reserva comes from CVNE’s best vineyards, all over 40 years in age and almost all bush vines, yielding around 4,000kg/ha (equivalent to circa 25hl/ha or less than 1.5 tons/acre). The parcels all sit close to the Cantabrian mountains, at around 500-600 metres’ altitude, and on poor but cool soils (clay and limestone) – lending the wines great freshness, even in hot and dry years, explains longtime Technical Director María Larrea.  The village of Villalba de Rioja has been the backbone of the wine since its conception. This village was where the Real de Asúa brothers (who founded CVNE) first bought vineyards, four kilometres from Haro. The vineyards are steep and south-facing, exposed to the winds and some of the vines therefore have to be trellised (cordón Royat), but it brings acidity and freshness to the wine – something that is essential for its ageing potential. Parcels in the villages of Briones and Torremontalbo were added later, in the 1960s. Briones has richer soils, gentle slopes and a warmer climate, giving structure and body to the wine, while Torremontalbo has steep, stony slopes with calcareous soils and a significant diurnal shift, adding minerality and finesse to the blend.  The Imperial blend  The blend has shifted over the years, with the wine originally around 40% Garnacha and 40% Tempranillo, with the remaining 20% Graciano and Mazuelo. The old vineyards were field blends, with the varieties interplanted and harvested together, meaning mixed ripeness levels – something that arguably brought balance and complexity to the wines, even if some of the fruit wouldn’t have been ripe. Nowadays, each variety is planted separately at CVNE – allowing them more control and precision, harvesting each grape at the perfect moment and crafting a blend in the winery.  There was a move away from Garnacha in the 1970s, with more and more Tempranillo planted instead. Garnacha was less appreciated, seen as a workhorse, an impression that was only reenforced when lesser, high-yielding clones were planted in the 1980s and 1990s. As Larrea also noted, Garnacha is much more prone to coulure and millerandage (poor flowering and fruit-set), which may have been another factor in its decline. There was also a time, Urrutia explained, when Bordeaux was the reference point for fine wine, and they looked to imitate the region, favouring Tempranillo for its darker colour versus the more thin-skinned and therefore pale Grenache. Today, the blend is dominated by Tempranillo (with the 2017 and 2018 Imperial both 85% Tempranillo), but Grenache is undergoing a revival across Rioja and – provided they can have the right clonal material and/or older vineyards – it may contribute more to the blend in time.  The proportion of Graciano and Mazuelo has been reduced slightly, but Larrea emphasises how important the two grapes are in the face of climate change. Mazuelo (aka Carignan/Cariñena) provides structure and colour, while Graciano contributes acidity and aromatic complexity.  The winemaking  Although she joined CVNE in 1991, María Larrea took over the winemaking for Imperial with the 2005 vintage, following on from Basilio Izquierdo, who had been running things for over 30 years (since 1973). Before Izquierdo came Ezequiel García, known as “El Brujo” (“The Wizard”), winemaker for CVNE for over three decades (he returned briefly in 2014 to recreate their legendary white, Monopole).  Across the three winemakers and almost 70 years, surprisingly little has changed. The winemaking here remains extremely traditional, although technology has allowed the team to monitor the wines more closely, and for better winery hygiene, as in most regions. Fermentation remains indigenous, although it’s no longer spontaneous – the wines have been inoculated with a selected strain of their indigenous yeast since the early 2010s (with some experiments in the 1990s). Traditionally fermentation was in concrete tank, however this moved to oak in the 1990s, with one lone vintage (1994) fermented in stainless steel when the vats hadn’t arrived in time.  The wines used to be stored in barrel and only bottled when they were sold, so some older vintages of Imperial spent over a decade in barrel, while today the wine normally stays in barrel for between two and three years. (The bottling dates for each of the vintages is included below – the 1947 wasn’t bottled until 1960!) Originally the oak was all American, simply because that is what they had access to via their historic trade routes, and the barrels were kept for decades (Larrea remembers using 40-year-old barrels when she arrived in the 1990s). CVNE gradually started introducing French oak in the 1980s, with around 30% French oak used in the 1990s and around 60-70% today, with the remainder American.   The wines: tasting eight decades of CVNE Imperial  A note on the bottles themselves: older vintages are in green glass, however they moved to brown glass around 10-15 years ago.  2018 Imperial Gran Reserva: This was a real highlight of the vertical. It is very youthful still, fruit-forward, yet with amazing finesse and delicacy. The nose is precise with dainty aromatics of spice, graphite and florals alongside the crystalline fruit. The palate is juicy and lithe, pure, silken and fresh with savoury tobacco and dried red berries filling the mouth-watering finish. Beautiful and very open, even now. Fermented in oak, 14% alcohol and bottled July 2021.  2017 Imperial Gran Reserva: Frosts swept across much of Europe in late April in 2017, although the rest of the season was relatively warm, producing a tiny crop of concentrated fruit. It’s a drastically different wine to the 2018, yet still with great freshness and a floral lift alongside ripe, sweet red fruit. The palate is tight, much less approachable than the 2018, with compact tannins, a bite of crunchy acidity and a grip of firm tannins, while smoky tones that fill the finish. Decant to enjoy now, but this will be even better with a couple more years in bottle. Fermented in oak, 14% alcohol and bottled July 2020.  2015 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 2015 Imperial is dark and intense, layered with rich bramble fruit, cedar, tobacco, spice and something meaty – a hint of biltong, perhaps. The palate echoes the concentration of the nose, with chewy tannins and a line of acidity that cuts through its intensity. Powerful, almost stern, with more dried fruit coming out with air, the finish is long and savoury, with a touch of red miso. Fermented in oak, 14.5% alcohol and bottled June 2018.  2011 Imperial Gran Reserva: Another standout in the vertical, the 2011 Imperial offers a dark and pure nose, still surprisingly primary with black cherry and cassis fruit, lifted by sweet spicy perfume. The palate is silken and pure, still so youthful, flowing across the tongue, framed by firm but integrated tannins. It’s concentrated and long, with floral aromatics dancing on the juicy finish. Hard to resist with great balance. Fermented in oak, 13.5% alcohol and bottled July 2014.  2009 Imperial Gran Reserva: This is a very serious Imperial now at a lovely stage of maturity – with savoury undergrowth and spicy notes sitting alongside the vibrant dark berry fruit. The palate is intense yet with a softness to it, despite the chewy framework of tannins. It’s juicy and expressive, with smoky, spicy, tobacco notes playing on the finish, and just the slightest hint of leather starting to appear. Fermented in oak, 13.8% alcohol and bottled January 2013.  2004 Imperial Gran Reserva: From “a textbook vintage” in CVNE CEO Victor Urrutia’s words, the 2004 is shining. Pencil shavings and bacon complement ripe, dark fruit. The palate is tight and compact, yet with a juiciness that elongates the whole thing, with acidity that drives through to the long finish. The tannins are supple and soft, integrated with the fruit, but still offer a grip on the finish. Bright and effortlessly balanced. Fermented in oak, 13.8% alcohol and bottled October 2008.  1994 Imperial Gran Reserva: This is an intriguing vintage of Imperial, the only one ever to have been fermented in stainless steel as they were switching from cement to wood, but the new vats didn’t arrive in time for the vintage. It was also served at the wedding of Spain’s Crown Prince, who later became King Felipe VI. After the 2004, this marks a shift towards wines dominated by tertiary notes, although there’s still plenty of fruit here. The nose is spicy with mushroom and undergrowth alongside incense and leathery tones. The palate is laden with umami – with fresh leather and dried berry fruit – as well as dried strawberries, supple tannins and refreshing acidity. Fermented in stainless steel, 13.16% alcohol and bottled June 1998.  1980 Imperial Gran Reserva: As CEO Victor Urrutia said, 1980 was “a shit vintage” – and has always been in the shadow of 1981 and 1982. Tasting the wine today, that’s probably fair – however it’s still an impressive wine. The nose has a distinctly herbal, menthol edge to the sweet fruit – macerated strawberries, with a balsamic hint. The tannins still offer bite, while the fruit shifts to darker, more bramble tones towards the finish. Fermented in concrete, 13.4% alcohol and bottled May 1985.  1970 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 1970 vintage was hot and produced powerful wines – earning it a reputation as one of Rioja’s finest vintages. After over 50 years, the wine is intensely savoury – combining soy, marmite and barnyard tones with intense, dark fruit. With air, the wine offers layers of spice (almost reminiscent of paprika), bacon frazzles and smoked almonds, complementing the concentrated core of fruit. It’s intense yet balanced, with bright acidity that keeps everything fresh and fills the long finish. Fermented in concrete, 12.97% alcohol and bottled March 1975.  1968 Imperial Gran Reserva: From a more difficult vintage, the 1968 Imperial has a charming nose that seamlessly combines savoury and sweet – with earthy richness that sits alongside incense-inflected berry fruit and a pleasing herbal note. The palate is elegant and vibrant, with plenty of fruit still driving through its core, while more savoury, smoky notes dominate the finish. Fermented in concrete, 12.7% alcohol and bottled April 1974.  1959 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 1959 vintage is another of Rioja’s most lauded, although I suspect this bottle was not showing its best. There’s a plushness and intensity to the palate, with a sharp drive of acidity, while the nose is dominated by leather, black liquorice and barnyard. Fermented in concrete, 13% alcohol and bottled February 1968.  1947 Imperial Gran Reserva: An amazing wine to tasted, the 1947 CVNE Imperial has a reputation – one that this bottle more than lived up to. Coffee and tobacco notes with bright fruit – ripe red cherry and raspberry, as well as florals, incense, black tea and sage, alongside smoky perfume. It’s long and fresh on the palate, seamless and fully resolved but pure and persistent, with a Bovril edge to the finish which is vibrant and long. Gorgeous now – drink it while you have the chance. Fermented in concrete, 12.4% alcohol and bottled August 1960.  Explore all CVNE listings, including a range of back-vintages of Imperial Gran Reserva, or read more Editorial 

Earlier this month, CVNE hosted a once-in-a-lifetime tasting of their Imperial Gran Reserva. Sophie Thorpe explores what makes the wine so special and how it has evolved over eight decades 

Exploring CVNE’s flagship Gran Reserva Rioja, Imperial, back to 1947 at a once-in-a-lifetime tasting with CEO Victor Urrutia 

Tasting CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva Rioja 2018-1947 

An icon through the ages: CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva 

Wine journalists are jaded folk – spoilt by too many impressive tastings, lunches and dinners. But when Champagne Louis Roederer invites you to an event celebrating 50 years of Cristal Rosé, few refuse. Cristal Rosé is, as Chef de Cave Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon told us, still “a hidden gem” and the rarest cuvée Roederer produces. It’s not often shown, and even visitors to the estate don’t get to taste the wine.  While Cristal – Champagne’s first prestige cuvée – was created in 1876, its pink sibling was born almost a century later. It was Jean-Claude Rouzaud, current CEO Frédéric Rouzaud’s father, who created the wine, aged 32. He had been managing the company’s vineyards and took over the winemaking in 1974.  “His great vision was to put the vines back in the centre of the creative process,” explains seventh-generation Frédéric Rouzaud. For Roederer, site and farming have long been key to what they do (long operating both as a grower and négociant), but Jean-Claude’s move from vineyard to cellar pushed this further, allowing for – as Lécaillon put it – “a creative and constant dialogue between the vineyard and cellar”.  The same year that he started leading the cellar team, Jean-Claude decided to make a rosé version of Cristal. Almost all rosé Champagne was – and is – made by blending a still red wine in with the base white wines. Jean-Claude, however, wanted to use co-fermentation to keep the wine in the style of Cristal, a decision that Lécaillon says was key, making the wine more ethereal, precise and “Pinot-y”, with a juicier texture.  The wine was built around parcels of Pinot Noir in the Bonottes area of Aÿ, which Lécaillon describes as the “Musigny” of Champagne. In his mind, the Pinot Noir from these plots offers a “special tannic complexity” – tannins that are more saline, integrated and aromatic; the Pinot Noir here is, he says, “effortlessly perfect” and the heart of Cristal Rosé. These three vineyards (Bonotte Pierre Robert, Gargeotte and Côte du Moulin) had been used for Cristal since the 1870s, and more recently became the source for Pinot Noir material for their vine nursery – with 150 different massal selections taken from the plots – long recognised for their quality.  The three original Pinot Noir plots are now being replanted and – while the vines mature – another site in Aÿ, La Villers, a mid-slope parcel at higher altitude, is currently being used in the blend (from the 2018 vintage). It is set to form part of the wine long-term, its cooler position thought to be of particular benefit with climate change. Complementing the 55% Pinot Noir is Chardonnay from two sites – Pierre Vaudon in Avize (bringing more power and richness) and Montmartin in Le Mesnil (lending length, salinity and a chalky minerality).  The first two vintages (1974 and 1975) were more experimental, as Jean-Claude figured the wine and style out, but the third attempt in 1976 produced something special – with sufficient phenolic ripeness to produce a rosé truly worthy of the Cristal name. Even now, 48 years later, that wine is singing – combining savoury rye and brown miso notes with pear tarte tatin and an earthy power. While it had a flurry of three vintages at the start of its life, just 25 vintages of Cristal Rosé have been produced to date. The wine needs a year where not only the quality of fruit is outstanding, but the Pinot Noir and Chardonnay ripen at the same time – allowing for their co-fermentation – something that is relatively rare.  Only made with vines that are minimum 20 years old, yields are low for Champagne (at 35-40hl/ha).  The Pinot Noir is destemmed, crushed and left to macerate. Earlier vintages saw this happen over two to four days and at warmer temperatures, but the winemaking has evolved over the years, with a pivotal shift from the 2008 vintage. From 2008. Lécaillon started chilling the Pinot Noir down to -4̊C overnight, prior to de-stemming and crushing the fruit – something which he believes avoids extracting any green character.   The must is then left to cold-soak for between seven and 10 days, with no punch-downs or pump-overs – a true “infusion” (to avoid any microbial spoilage, they cover it with dry ice for the first four days, then use nitrogen). The must isn’t chilled during this time, and the temperature gradually rises to a maximum 8-9̊C. Moving to a cold-soak was inspired by an accident. In the warm 1989 vintage, Lécaillon’s first year at Roederer, they didn’t have a cooling system in the cellar, and the Pinot Noir was left in a reefer – undergoing an inadvertent cold-soak. The resulting wine was so good that it inspired Lécaillon.  Just as the fermentation starts, the must is racked off and blended with the Chardonnay which has been whole-bunch pressed pneumatically (Lécaillon argues the grape’s reductive nature needs a little skin contact to avoid being overly thiol-driven and Sauvignon-esque). Around 20% of the base wine sees oak. After secondary fermentation (under crown cap, something with Lécaillon argues helps preserve precision and terroir versus cork), the wine spends eight years on its lees, developing immense complexity.  “Since 1974, it has been our laboratory of farming, of winemaking,” says Jean-Baptise Lécaillon of the wine. Cristal Rosé was in fact the House’s first cuvée to be farmed biodynamically, and the first biodynamic prestige cuvée in Champagne, from the 2007 vintage. He explains that he is looking for phenolic ripeness, integrated with the salinity of Champagne, seamlessly combining the tannins and acidity; a wine complemented – but not dominated – by bubbles of salt.  The wine is undeniably remarkable. Tasting through a range of vintages from 1976 to the present day, all in magnum (find full tasting notes below), the vibrancy, purity and moreish, saline, minerality of these wines left me speechless. Their ability to age is effortless, with the 1989, for example, still tasting incredibly youthful. Talking about Cristal Rosé’s evolution, Lécaillon explains that he finds the first decade is all about fruit, but then the wines return to their site and soil, becoming wines of place. Conversation strays into weather Champagne today, with global warming, can still make wines that will age as beautifully.  “Champagne is not just about acid; it’s about freshness,” says Lécaillon. He points to the 1976 and 1989 vintages – both incredibly hot years, with the fruit picked at almost 12% potential alcohol and modest acidity levels – and yet the wines are full of freshness. Back then, producers were on holiday throughout August, and the fruit was picked in September (1st for the 1976 and from 5th for the 1989), but with such conditions today they would have harvested in mid-August. It is perhaps, he suggests, a lesson that the region is overreacting to warm conditions – with too many producers chasing acidity, rather than phenolic ripeness. For the skins are, he argues, the key to this sense of freshness, the dry extract that allows the wine to age.   The House has introduced a Cristal Rosé Vinothèque, or late release. To date, there have only been a handful of vintages – the 1995, 1996, 1999 and 2002. The maturation for this wine isn’t set and varies according to the vintage, normally spending longer on its lees, both sur latte (lying down) and sur pointe (upside down), the idea being to build umami complexity in the wine. The sur pointe ageing is unusual, something Lécaillon favours for its more reductive nature, keeping the wine aromatically fresh (the wine is still riddled four times a year in the same position, to agitate the lees and absorb any oxygen). Generally these releases are offered around 15-17 years after the vintage. The dosage is often lower than the original bottling, with the longer lees ageing lending balance without a higher sugar addition. Tasting the 2002 Vinothèque (a wine that feels infantile), Lécaillon says: “Is it better? I don’t know, but it’s another expression.”  I’ve written before about Lécaillon’s tireless approach to wine-growing – constantly looking to learn and evolve, and the week after our dive into Cristal Rosé he was flying to Japan to visit the Fukuoka farm (founded by Masanobu Fukuoka, the author of The One-Straw Revolution and a pioneer of permaculture or “natural” farming). His fight against the “banalisation” of taste continues, as he looks for ever-more ways to enrich the world of Louis Roederer. If the next 50 years of Cristal Rosé is nearly as good as the first, we’ve all got a lot to look forward to.  Five decades of Cristal Rosé: the tasting  2013 Cristal Rosé: A beautiful, late-ripening growing season that provided the last October harvest to date. A wine Chef de Cave Jean-Baptise Lécaillon describes as having “eternal youth” – something that is hard to disagree with after tasting the wine. This is a baby, the nose enticing with delicate floral aromas and bright citrus, not giving too much away. The palate is long and saline, tightly wound, but bursting with bright fruit on the mouthwatering finish, combining lush redcurrant and lemon. Gorgeous. Dosage 7g/l, tasted from magnum.  2012 Cristal Rosé: Lécaillon notes how 2012 was seen as an “easy” vintage on release, riper and richer with a little more Pinot Noir in the blend, but is now entering its second life, with reductive, chalky notes that bring it back to its soils. The wine is beautifully earthy and drastically different to the 2013, with power and intensity. It’s very savoury, a wine that is all about breadth and structure, with wild strawberry and raspberry notes mingling alongside a sea-spray freshness, driving on to a long, mineral finish. Dosage 8g/l, tasted from magnum.  2008 Cristal Rosé: This was the first fully organic vintage for the entire Roederer estate, and marks the start of a new era for Cristal Rosé with its cool “infusion” technique for the Pinot Noir. Paired with the 1995 vintage, the two wines are windows into two completely different worlds of Cristal. With the copper tone of a sunset, it’s a wine of muscle. It’s almost haughty, with length, power and elegance – showing off its flawless structure, with a zesty citrus drive complementing its austerity. The finish is long and saline. It will be incredible to taste this in 20 years’ time. Dosage 8g/l, tasted from magnum.  1995 Cristal Rosé: This vintage was one of the last to see the Pinot Noir soaked at 20-24̊C. It is, in Lécaillon’s mind, the “same terroir, but a different story” versus more modern iterations of the wine. The wine glows golden in the glass – the colour of the sun just as it breaks the horizon. It’s incredibly open, the aromatics constantly shifting to reveal new layers. There’s a touch of mushroom or truffle, but with layers of rich, almost tropical, fruit behind – think peach, mango, peach tea and the bite of pomegranate, with caramel sweetness, but still a saline twist to the finish. A wine of weight and depth. Dosage 12g/l, tasted from magnum.  1989 Cristal Rosé: This was a very warm vintage, harvested from 5th September, and the wine technically doesn’t have high acidity – yet is a wine of impressive freshness. Grilled hazelnuts edge a nose of candied orange peel and pomegranate, and a coffee note that emerges with air. There’s a liveliness to the palate here, even over three decades on, with a gorgeous freshness and creaminess to the mousse. The fruit on the palate is lush, with generous mouth-watering peach and a taut, mineral backbone. It’s amazing how young this tastes still. Dosage 12g/l, tasted from magnum.  1976 Cristal Rosé: Despite coming from another warm vintage (with a very hot, dry August – and harvested from 1st September), Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon notes the freshness on the 1976 vintage, and how it seems to have never become too evolved. It’s much more savoury than the 1976, with rye bread and brown miso sitting alongside caramelised pears, tarte tatin and a hint of Oloroso Sherry. The palate is a rush of fine bubbles, fresh and with a citrus bite but a savoury framework behind. A remarkable wine. Dosage 10g/l, tasted from magnum.  2002 Cristal Rosé Vinothèque: This was disgorged in 2019, spending 11 years on lees sur latte, and then another five sur pointe, followed by an additional four years’ post-disgorgement ageing prior to release. This wine is so tightly coiled, a wine not yet revealing everything it has to offer – although you can see the incredible structure. It’s so vibrant, with energy and a lushness as it drives toward a seemingly never-ending finish. It’s gorgeous, layered with mandarin, grapefruit pith, chalky minerality and smoked salt, lingering on the soft, saline tail of the mouthwatering finish. Dosage 8g/l, tasted from magnum.    The releases of Cristal Rosé to date: 1974, 1975, 1976, 1978, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1985, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1995, 1996, 1999, 2000, 2002, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2012, 2013 and 2014  Browse all current listings from Champagne Louis Roederer or read more Editorial 

This year marks the 50th birthday of Cristal Rosé, Champagne Louis Roederer’s rarest wine. Sophie Thorpe caught up with CEO Frédéric Rouzaud and Chef de Cave Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon about this very special prestige cuvée and tastes through five decades of the wine

As Champagne Louis Roederer celebrates the 50th birthday of Cristal Rose, we talk to Jean-Baptiste Lecaillon and Frederic Rouzaud 

Celebrating 50 years of Cristal Rose Champagne

Five decades of Cristal Rosé

The grey horse stretches its neck out towards me, curling its lip towards my outreached palm, before nuzzling my pocket, in search perhaps of a potential snack. Its head is the size of my torso, its hooves the size of my head, with the entire beautiful beast weighing circa one ton, I’m told. You can sense the power of its immense muscled mass. Nearby, Adelaide Bonnefond, a petite 20-something is calling to the rest of her troupe of friendly giants. Balthazar – the aforementioned grey – is “a real lazybones”, Baudoin can be a bit fast and over-eager, while Olive is a horse of remarkable patience. “Each one has its own character,” Bonnefond says.  We’re in a field a stone’s throw from Ch. Pontet-Canet, where the property’s 10 horses spend their weekends and holidays. This Pauillac Fifth Growth is one of a handful of estates around the region, and indeed the world, that has returned to using horses in the vineyard – in lieu of modern machinery. Unusually, they have brought this operation in house – with their own stables and a five-strong team dedicated to grooming, handling and working the horses, led by Bonnefond.  “I have no idea,” says Mathieu Bessonet – the property’s Technical Director – when I ask how much it adds to their bills. “It’s not important for us… it’s a philosophy.” Herbicides were banned long ago at the estate, and they’ve been farming organically since 2004, certified organic and biodynamic from 2010 (the first Classed Growth to achieve the latter), with horses first introduced in 2008. They’re just one form of livestock you’ll find on the property. When I arrive, a drift of pigs is penned on the front lawn, tasked with munching on the invasive weed, common couch or quackgrass – but there are cattle and donkeys too. Collectively, they consume 60 tons of hay, three tons of barley and 600 kilos of lucerne (organic, of course) – much of which will end up back between the vines.  “A lot of money goes into taking good care of this place – what is in fact our tool for production,” says Bessonet. “The property is over 300 years old, so we’re just passing through. If I spend 20 years here, it’s a long time – but it’s only 3% of the history of Pontet-Canet. We have to take care of this place to be able to pass it on.” And working with horses is just one way in which they aim to do this, reducing soil compaction, allowing water, air and microbes to move through the soil. They can be more precise with their work and – most importantly – break fewer vines. A stunning number of vines are knocked out of place by tractors, something that is considered a natural consequence of modern farming – but not one that this estate is willing to accept.  “Wine, it’s made by the roots of the vines,” says Bessonet. As vines age, their roots creep further down into the soil and Pontet-Canet has some of the oldest vineyards in the Médoc, averaging 55 years in age. And it is the age of their vines, Bessonet feels, that “allows us to express the terroir”, as well as tempering climatic extremes (a growing concern with climate change). While it wasn’t a key reason for the shift back in 2008, using horses also allows them to reduce their carbon footprint – both by using fewer fossil fuels and increasing the carbon-holding capacity of their vineyards, something that is at the forefront of producers’ minds today.  The switch from tractor to horse has changed the way they farm more than can be measured in analytical results, however. “They are not little machines; working the vines with horses, we really become one with the vines,” says Bonnefond. The way you interact with an animal versus a machine is totally different, and she feels that as a result they are much more reactive, more aware of their work and able to stop at any moment. And, as Bessonet notes, even those that have worked at the property for 10 or 15 years can’t help but smile when the horses pass by. As any good manager knows, a happy team will pay endless dividends.  Back in 2008, they started with just two horses, but that number has grown to 10 today. They have a combination of breeds – Percheron and Comtois largely today, although they’ve had Bretons in the past. Percherons are larger, and they’ve been moving more towards Comtois, favouring the slightly smaller and even more gentle breed that hails from the Jura. All are draft horses, historically used in war and agriculture – weighing around double that of the daintier breeds you might see eventing or show-jumping.  Bessonet’s grandmother was, he tells me, almost insulted when he told her they were using horses – seeing it as a step backwards; but, as he and Bonnefond explain, the work is totally different to that of generations past. They might not be powered by electricity, but modern technology and know-how is being used to refine the way they work and the implements they use. Over the years, they’ve developed lots of tools themselves, and worked with a local business to craft others – a slow process that can only be tackled by those with a truly long-term vision.  They buy horses when they’re around three or four years old, so they’ve been broken in and have started their training but can be finished and finessed in-house (“They know the commands, but they’re still young so don’t necessarily listen,” explains Bessonet. “They’re teenagers!”). They’re unsurprisingly picky about the breeders they work with, and ensuring that the training received in their formative years is up to scratch. By the time the process is finished, the moment the plough touches the trunk of a vine, a horse will know to stop instantly, not even needing a human command, avoiding any significant damage. They have a mini faux vineyard with a handful of short rows lined with posts (but no vines) on the estate, a sort of school where they can train younger horses and use at the start of the season, spending half a day so the animals can get back to the pace of work.  Monday to Friday, the horses are at work, stabled next to the winery (with stalls crafted from old barrels). Each horse will work for half a day (sometimes longer if the tools they’re pulling are sufficiently light), before being walked back to the stables to allow for active recovery – evacuating lactic acid in their legs, something that is essential to maintain their health. With the time to groom, harness and unharness, wash down, muck out and feed the horses, each will work around three hours or so a day. Bonnefond’s team will take one horse out in the morning, before going back out with a different one in the afternoon. Alongside their work, the horses are lunged (moved in a circle around a handler, on a long lead rein) – working both on commands and their flexibility. “To change their minds too, seeing something other than the vines” explains Bonnefond.  There are around 10 passes per row a year, four or five to work the soils and around five others – spraying to protect pruning wounds (to prevent grapevine trunk diseases), making holes for planting new vines, spraying horsetail to control mildew pressure, as well as the 500 and 501 preparations (biodynamic sprays). Today, around half of the property’s 81 hectares is worked by horse – and the team is always working to do more, but Bessonet is unsure if 100% is a realistic goal. Copper sulphate – the main spray used in organic and biodynamic viticulture – is spread by tractor, not being something they’d want to expose the horses to (nor put gas masks on them, as was done during the Second World War).   The work is, inevitably, seasonal – and they’re turned out to pasture at weekends and during quiet periods, with lunging to keep them sharp. As soon as véraison takes place (the grapes changing in colour from green to red), “It’s holiday time for the horses,” says Bonnefond, laughing. At that point the grapes become too fragile and could be knocked by the horses, breaking the skins and damaging the fruit.   All being well, the horses work until they’re 18 or 20 years in age, and then Pontet-Canet finds them a home to live out their old age. Retirement can, in fact, be the hardest stage for these work-horses, explains Bonnefond. “They’re used to seeing everyone every day,” she says. One horse, Turbo, kept waiting at the gates, ready to go to work, for well over a month after he’d left the estate, struggling to adapt to his new, restful way of life.  Bonnefond had never worked in agriculture before arriving at Pontet-Canet, having been at an equestrian centre, and her team has similarly varied backgrounds (one used to train trotters and one worked with circus horses, for example). They’ve each got their favourites in Pontet-Canet’s herd, she confesses (hers is a handsome bay who is especially energetic), but they all work with each of the horses, to keep it interesting for the animals, and so that no horse gets too used to any particular handler.  It's certainly not light work – for Bonnefond and her team at least. Days are long and the work is physically demanding, but seeing Bonnefond in the field with the horses, her dainty frame at odds with the gigantic draft horses surrounding her, it’s clear that she loves it. Having a team like this in-house is something few estates can afford, but it’s reflective – as Bessonet says – of the philosophy at Pontet-Canet. Their special band of gravel terrace in the Médoc, shared with the likes of Mouton Rothschild, Lafite Rothschild and Cos d’Estournel – properties that represent the pinnacle of Cabernet Sauvignon around the world, deserves to be protected and preserved in every way possible.  Explore all current listings of Pontet-Canet or read more about Bordeaux  

Behind the winery at Ch. Pontet-Canet, you’ll find a row of stables. In the first of our series taking you behind the scenes in Bordeaux, we dive into how the beautiful draft horses that live here are key to the philosophy at the leading Pauillac estate

Horses are key to the philosophy at leading Bordeaux wine estate Pontet-Canet: we caught up with the team in Pauillac to find out more

Taking the reins at Ch. Pontet-Canet

Driving through Napa and Sonoma, the land still bears the scars of 2020. The wildfires that raged through the region have left a long-lasting mark, whether it’s lengthy reconstruction efforts or the stark, charred tree trunks that cover the mountains. But it’s more than that. To an outsider, the fires feel intangible, terrifying yet somehow conceptual. Talking to those that lived through them, however, makes you instantly realise quite how petrifying that season was. The trauma of those flames is still smouldering away.  In 2017, fires hit Northern California on 8th October, however most producers had already harvested. Indeed, the fire even crossed the Kistler property, but their vines helped act as a firebreak. Two years later the Kincade fire swept through Sonoma County at the end of October. But in 2020, the first fires arrived earlier. The LNU Lightning Complex started with what is known as the Hennessey fire on 17th August. Sparked by lightning after thunderstorms, the complex was a weave of 250 different fires that collectively raged through almost 150,000 hectares of the region. The damage was enormous: 1,491 buildings were destroyed and six people lost their lives. While the fire did diminish in size, it wasn’t entirely extinguished until 2nd October, almost a month and a half after it started.  Before the Lightning Complex had fully subsided, the Glass Fire attacked. The blaze started on 27th September, east of St Helena near the Silverado Trail, spreading north to Calistoga and then south and west, towards Santa Rosa. It burned until 20th October, encompassing over 27,000 hectares and taking over 1,500 buildings with it, including numerous wineries. It cut through Eisele Vineyard, across 90 acres of hillside and forcing them to rip up 1,000 vines. Fortunately they’d already picked all their fruit (finishing their harvest three days before the fire broke out, on 24th September). And this was all in the midst of Covid-19.  Wildfires aren’t new in Northern California, but they’re certainly more prevalent than ever before. Indeed, as Cory Empting – Director of Winegrowing at Promontory, Harlan and Bond – tells me, the region’s indigenous people, the Wappo, used to describe autumn as “smoky mountains”.  Paul Hobbs – who has been making wine in “the Valley” (as the locals would say) since the late 1970s – remembers a fire in the 1980s that burned its way along the Silverado Trail. “All it took was a gust of wind,” he says – and one flame turned into something uncontrollable in the blink of an eye. He remembers climbing up on a roof to see the sobering effects of the fire.  Perhaps partly due to this early exposure, fires have always been at the forefront of his mind when picking a site – avoiding rugged, dry areas like Diamond Mountain or Calistoga. And he is exacting with forest management of the sites he works – even on our wander around his Goldrock Estate vineyard, he notices some saplings that are troubling him, and calls over his vineyard manager to take a look, conscious to reduce the risk as much as possible. And he’s deservedly cautious. The 2017 vintage was his first working with Cleary Estate out in Freestone-Occidental, and he paid almost $2 million for fruit that he couldn’t use. The fire itself is one challenge, however vines are natural firebreaks so don’t tend to suffer much direct damage (although the heat from a blaze can sometimes scorch vines). The real threat, however, is in the air – smoke. But the science of smoke taint is complex, and poorly understood. Producers can send samples to laboratories to be tested for the compounds responsible for the taint (guaiacol and 4-methylguaiacol) but the exact level of perception isn’t known. These compounds also naturally occur in some varieties, eg Syrah, and come from oak barrels (in particular the toasting process).  Of course the impact of smoke is dependent on proximity to the fire, the intensity of the smoke, elevation and the wind. Hobbs explained how in 2020 much of the smoke from the Glass Fire stayed north for several days, but then the wind shifted and sent it south to the Bay Area. As smoke travels, and ages, the volatile compounds also degrade, so there is also a significant difference between the impact of “fresh” smoke, versus what Hobbs describes as “atmospheric” smoke. The latter may look bad, but it’s unlikely to hold significant taint, whereas if you’ve got fresh smoke, it’s “game over”.   Lots of producers do micro-ferments to look for smoke taint, testing to see if it’s worth the expense of picking the fruit and making the wine – however that’s also not a sure-fire way to know if you have smoke taint. The nature of these compounds means that they can lurk, undetectable in a wine, and emerge in bottle as hydrolysis occurs. “That’s why it’s so insidious,” Hobbs says.  If you’ve got smoke-tainted fruit, the options are limited. The compounds are concentrated in the skins, so the aim is generally to minimise skin contact. Indeed, some producers made rosé in 2020, having picked earlier, with higher acidity than normal. Otherwise you can use reverse osmosis or spinning cone (both expensive processes that are used for de-alcoholisation), or carbon fining – or a combination of all of the above – to try and strip out the smoky flavour. The result, as Mark De Vere MW at Robert Mondavi said of trials they’d done, it generally didn’t work, but if it did, “It took so much else out.” (Robert Mondavi ended up making almost no 2020 wine.)  *  Read anything about 2020 and there is a cacophony of opinion. “Everyone handled the vintage differently,” Cate Kistler of Occidental told me. They picked on 18th August, not in response to the fire, but because that was when the first fruit was ripe. They didn’t do any micro-ferments or send samples to labs (“We’re not data-crunching people,” Kistler says). The cost of picking was, for them, “a drop in the bucket” in comparison to farming the vineyards the rest of the year, so they tried to do what they could.  “It was going to be either Occidental, or nothing,” she said with a shrug. They took their time, committing to making every decision as if it was a normal year, finishing on 6th September just as the Labor Day heatwave hit. They didn’t use everything they picked, but they made all five of their single-vineyard wines – and the 2020s we tasted are glorious.   Some, like Colgin, didn’t make any wine at all, while many producers made around 40% less (such as Williams Selyem and Peter Michael). Many of the 2020s that will be released were picked before the fires struck. Cathy Corison had all her fruit safely in the winery more than two weeks before the Glass Fire hit, but the challenge was to keep the smoke out of the winery. She bought industrial grade air filters to shield her ferments. “They’re beautiful,” she says with a quietly proud smile.  At Dalla Valle, Maya Dalla Valle doesn’t pretend that it was an easy year, but she’s pleased with the wines they made (all with fruit picked before the Glass Fire). As ever, these are wines that speak of their year – which wasn’t just the fires, but a hot, dry year that (along with a block that was being re-grafted) cut their crop to a mere 2,700 cases in total. At Dominus, they did micro-ferments after the Lightning complex, and had picked their last row of fruit on the morning the Glass Fire broke out.  Steve Matthiasson – the leading viticulturalist who also has his eponymous label with his wife Jill – told me how it was set to be “an epic season” before the fires hit. He highlighted how the smoke meant there was less UV light reaching the grapes, and that meant the fruit wasn’t as phenolically ripe. They pick early, so had started harvest 10 days before the Glass Fire broke out. The Cabernet Sauvignon in their Phoenix vineyard was still out, but they managed to pick it the morning after the fire broke out, before the smoke was able to take effect.  Most who picked early are in agreement that the hot, dry conditions were in their favour. Promontory saw only eight inches of rain, versus the 30 of a normal year. But that hydric stress helped them – it meant the crop was small and the vines shifted to ripening the fruit earlier, so even though they picked on 22nd August they had no pyrazines. As Will Harlan says, in some ways, “The stars aligned”.  The 2017 vintage might have prompted people to start thinking about climate change, but 2020 was a real wake-up call for the region. It prompted Martin Reyes MW to try and create a community around climate action. Eventually, working alongside Anna Brittain, he founded Napa RISE (standing for Resilience Innovation Sustainability Empowerment), a climate and wine symposium that first took place in 2022 (with the 2023 symposium currently underway). It’s early days, but they’re “trying to build into the DNA [of Napa RISE] this notion of action”. He’s keen to avoid a conference focused on discussing concepts, but an industry convention that drives change.  One part of that conversation is inevitably fire – and a session last week focused on forestry management. “The relationship with fire we have is complicated – but it can be a healthy relationship,” Reyes tells me.   Controlled burning has long been a part of life for indigenous peoples – both in North America and Australia, where wildfires have now become a threat. In the US, controlled burning was officially banned in 1911 when the Weeks Act was introduced, but California is gradually realising the need for its reintroduction.  “Agroforestry was happening before conservation took it off the table,” Empting (of Domain W. Harlan) tells me. He talks about how when the previously evicted Miwok people were allowed to return to Yosemite, they were horrified by what they saw – where “conservation” had destroyed the ecosystems. For native peoples, seasonal work like controlled burns was a way of life – seen as their responsibility to the land. But it was a responsibility that colonialism robbed from them, and didn’t take on.  At the Pepperwood Preserve, native peoples do controlled burns. Empting visited to explore the practice and see if it’s something they could take up as part of their stewardship of the land. The challenge today is the paperwork – and politics. Permits are difficult to obtain, the fire department is reluctant and has to be involved, and then there are the neighbours to contend with.  Hobbs highlights that it’s not just that there aren’t enough controlled burns, but that manmade structures have taken over swathes of land – and they burn hotter, leading fires to rage in less predictable ways.  Of course, as with 2017, the 2020s are already being marred by rumour and reputation of a smoke-tainted year. The reality is so much more complex – and, although I haven’t tasted enough to make pronouncements on the vintage, there are some brilliant wines. Of course you’ll need to choose carefully, but for top producers there is nothing to be gained by releasing wine that is anything less than flawless.  While the fires have left scars, the land’s capacity for renewal is remarkable – with vibrant vegetation flourishing in amongst the scorched trees. The 2020 vintage wasn’t the first to see such challenges and it won’t be the last. The soils can recover, and so can the people, but a sustainable way to manage these threats is essential to long-term survival. Read more about California or browse all California listings

Wildfires have become a yearly occurrence for Napa and Sonoma – but what is their impact, and how can producers handle the effects? Sophie Thorpe spoke to some of Northern California’s leading producers to investigate the issue

Talking to Napa and Sonoma’s top producers about wildfires and the 2020 vintage – Paul Hobbs, Harlan, Kistler, Occidental, Promontory, Mondavi and more

Wildfires and the 2020 vintage in California

The way the wind blows

Wine, though the most intimate of pleasures, lends itself to the most expansive of texts. We drink wine most often – tastings aside – in pairings of two, or in lonesome but agreeable solitude, and, its narcotic pleasure being felt internally, we feel its effects as we feel a fever: almost secretly, in shivers. Though wine is like sex in its intimacy, unlike sex, the form in which we fetishise wine – our vine erotica – is not hushed and illicit but encyclopedic. On the shelves of any wine drinker, there are likely to be catalogues, dictionaries organised by region, old Parker buying guides some 600 pages long that somehow, though dated, can’t be discarded.  Wine seems singular among human pleasures in this. We don’t, as a rule, rush from reading a poem to great anthologies of poetry, or add to the savour of seeing a play by reading a big atlas of dramatic literature – not, at least, after we graduate from school. Sports fans, it’s true, like big books of statistics, but then sports-watching is a social act in the first instance – the more people in the stands, the merrier the occasion. With wine, we like the macro with our micro: with a solitary glass in hand, we look, in print, over the next hill, or the current vintage, at the vineyard across the way, or the vintage yet to come. It’s part of the pleasure the glass provides. The reasons for this micro and macro turn are, on reflection, commercial and artisanal as much as aesthetic. The business of wine needs a big picture of its domain, its resources, and its potential market – scale sets the stage for commerce. The makers of wine like to place themselves on a broader map of where wine is and what it’s made with. The great Bordeaux classification of 1855 is not just the noblest public monument to a beverage ever attempted, but a model of market-making and even market price-fixing. Once a hierarchy of growths has been established, it is easy to slot in the price tags. But there is a truth of taste beneath the ordering of value. With wine, we know that what we are experiencing is, however singular, still an intersection of opposed forces – as the peerless wine writer Jancis Robinson MW says of her first glass of Chambolle-Musigny 1959; “I knew at once that there was something in the glass that was sensually delicious but that it was also made, produced, and therefore suggested a history of intellect and discernment.” The pleasure of wine is the crossing of a place, a grape and a people; and so, we turn to the big books to frame the small pleasures.  What distinguishes wine from even a good glass of ale or a local brew is the specificity of the pleasure set against the scale of the system that made it – one that historically embraces the planet. It’s a First Growth, or a domaine Burgundy, or a Ridge Zinfandel or a New Zealand Pinot Noir made to a Burgundy model by American wine makers … the more we know, the more we’re free to feel. Most sensory pleasures are specific to the point of being illicit – aside from the bemused fetishist, romance is a spontaneous pleasure, often aided, to be sure, by a systematic wine. Wine is premeditated; we choose a bottle, let it ripen, and break it open. Even casual table drinking has a tale to tell, a journey to trace on a map. These thoughts are brought to mind in contemplation of Wine Grapes, the monosyllabically titled but unprecedentedly expansive dictionary of grape varieties grown to be crushed and fermented on this green planet. Authored by Robinson, along with Julia Harding MW and the geneticist Dr José Vouillamoz, it marks an epoch – several epochs – in our understanding of wine, from both a professional planet-straddling and an amateur glass-in-hand perspective. A book of its time (published in 2012), it was made possible, in part, by a revolution in the DNA analysis of wine grapes to help discover their origins and histories.  The DNA profiling of wine grapes only began in 1993, and the first ‘paternity test’ successfully concluded in 1997 – a mere few days ago by historical perspective – with specialists, Dr Vouillamoz among them, drawing astonishing Darwinian lines among seemingly unrelated grapes. Zinfandel, it has been discovered in the last 40 years, is not only the Siamese twin of Primitivo, but its Croatian Siamese twin. In proper Darwinian fashion, the book tells us, “It looks increasingly as though an enormous proportion of the grapes we know today are members of a few key families.”  The leading families of wine, Pinot and Nebbiolo and the rest, like the leading houses of Westeros, jostle and engage in incestuous inter-breeding as they move towards dominance. As Jancis Robinson admits, the quest for the origins of grapes can become surprisingly emotional. “The Zin quest is so … heated. There was a Zinfandel conference in Croatia, with all the great Zin makers, even Joel ‘King of Zin’ Peterson from Ravenswood, and we all had to present our various things about Zinfandel. There was a small cohort of people from Montenegro who reckoned that their variety – whose name is unpronounceable – was the true progenitor of modern Zinfandel, not the Croatian one. It became so … Balkan! And you know what? They may be right!” Wine Grapes is of its time in another sense as well, marking the moment when we have started to think of wine not solely in terms of region, but much more in terms of variety, with the semi-mystical term ‘terroir’ acting as a kind of Holy Spirit between them. Thinking ‘grape’ more than ‘place’ releases our imaginations. The wholesome instructive pleasures of the book, to which we’ll come, shrink beside the unwholesome, guilty pleasures of turning the pages to meet the failures among grapes – the near-misses, the long-forgotten and forlorn lost toys – which please more than the patterns of primacy. The pleasure of reading about the grapes whose juice we do drink is nothing compared to reading about those we don’t. In dictionaries, oddities and parentheses fascinate us more than the major entries. No one turns to the dictionary to study ‘and’; we go to study ‘antediluvian’. So, turning these pages, flipping through the P’s on our way to encounter the great Pinot families, we come upon the lesser gods, even the little misshapen gnomes and dwarves of the wine world, and we delight in meeting them. (A fascination added to by the forthright sub-heads the editors provide.) On our way to Burgundy and Pinot Noir, we also meet Pinotin, a ‘recent obscure Swiss hybrid’ which edges into Pionnier, ‘a minor but complex, cold-hardy American hybrid used in blends in Québec’, and, of course, Pinotage ‘South Africa’s very own cross, both loved and despised’, which leads us on to Pugnitello and even Pukhliakovsky (a Russian variety ‘with erratic yields producing light wines’) and even unto Pules – ‘a minor Albanian white’. Radiating out from five pages on the major Merlot, we bump into Merseguera, ‘an uninspiring variety’ from Spain, and Merzifon Karasi, and Merzling, dismissed as a ‘very minor disease-resistant German hybrid’. Why these lost or obscure kinds of grapes bring so much delight with them is a fascinating question. It has in part to do with our general appetite for oddities and obscurities, which once produced ‘freak shows’ and still makes us fascinated with archaic musical instruments: we are curious to hear the sackbut because we want to know what led to the trombone. It is also the virtuous case that variety is the safeguard of continuity. In an age of ever-decreasing biodiversity with just a few varieties taking the place of many possibilities, one Quixotic California winemaker, driving through the fields of Cabernet and Chardonnay, dismissed them all – with a wave of the hand – as “chocolate and vanilla, chocolate and vanilla”.  The health of the planet is safeguarded by the persistence of so many kinds. It is also because the existence of these minor yet still thriving varieties gives us a satisfying picture of adaptation, the central biological act. Each of these grapes has found a home in the world. It may not be much of a home, but then neither, face the facts, is ours. We identify with the unknown grape. We are all more like a very minor disease-resistant German, or a cold-hardy Québec hybrid, than we are something noble and complicated. Few of us are bottles of Burgundy; we can all identify as minor Albanian whites. In conversation, Jancis Robinson, sheltering at home near Kings Cross in London, a home with a view of a graveyard (though a cheerful one she assures an interviewer) – talks of the wine almanac with the blunt enthusiasm that marks her writing. Robinson, in addition to her obvious honours and credentials, is a rare thing in the wine world, or any world: a writer who writes with equal parts brio and expertise. She explains the origins of Wine Grapes. “What happened was that one of the co-authors, Dr José Vouillamoz, who had been at University of California, Davis, felt that he needed to earn more of a living, and came back to Switzerland and got a job working on Alpine botanicals. But he didn’t want to lose his relationship with wine, and he came to me and said that he’d like to collaborate on a book about grape varieties. I’d already written one in 1986, based on our very fractional knowledge then.  Over lunch, I took along Julia Harding, a wine writer who works on my website. She’s extremely punctilious.” (Robinson, punctilious herself, says this with such emphasis that the listener feels that, with Harding, we must be talking about new frontiers, not to say dimensions, in punctiliousness.) “She had exactly the right sort of brain for a project like this. José suggested that we focus on the 10 or 12 most planted grape varieties to help simplify it. I thought that that book didn’t sound interesting enough. I waited until we were quite far down a bottle of Valpolicella and said, ‘I think our book should be about every single grape variety we can find.’ He gulped and said, ‘Then that’s what we shall do!’” The idea of creating a ‘perfect map’ of a subject is one of the itches that govern modern life. John James Audubon set out to describe not the major but every bird and beast in North America, and that’s what he did. Similar ‘almanacs of everything’ fill our botanical and anthropological shelves. It is an ambition so tied to modernity that in the mid-19th century, Lewis Carroll perfectly satirised it in his novel, Sylvie & Bruno, where two mad professors talk about their dream of making a map that would be on a one-to-one relation to the actual world – utterly perfect, if impossible to unroll. “I loved the scale of the thing,” Robinson says of her perfect map. “So, we carved things up: José did all the DNA stuff and history because he had good access to it, Julia, bless her, did the footwork – how much of each grape is planted where – while trying to taste as many as possible, too! And I wrote the entries on the best-known varieties, and the introduction and read every single word.  As with any dictionary, we used what came before: we went through appellation lists, with all of the varieties allowed, some of them almost extinct. A nice little detail of the book is that we persuaded the publisher that it should have some colour plates, and we were particularly keen to include the plates from the world’s first oenological book, L’Ampélographie: Traité Général de Viticulture, of 1901 … just out of copyright!” She pauses. “Of course,” she adds reflectively, “it was José, naturally, who discovered that Pinot and Syrah are related.” The offhand nature of her mention can’t conceal the significance of the remark. Of all the discoveries offered in the book, this is perhaps, for the amateur wine drinker, the most exemplary and astonishing. Painstakingly tracing the DNA heritage of the varieties, these two noble houses, Syrah and Pinot – the grapes of the Rhône Valley and those of Burgundy, the heart of Côte-Rôtie and the soul of Chambertin – are unified as cousins. This happened not through willed cultivation but in the natural evolutionary way: through variation and adaptation. Initially, the elegance of Pinot Noir was transformed through the usual evolutionary pressures of place and mutations, into the earthy pleasures of Syrah.  Chance mutation and lucky planting turned one grape into its near opposite. (‘Cross-fertilisation’, we’re told, ‘was common until the early 20th century because several grape varieties were often intermixed in the vineyards, facilitating natural crossings between distinct grape varieties’.) The phylloxera epidemic in France from the 1860s on – though it did not destroy as much as is sometimes thought – acted as a kind of sieve or filter of grape varieties, a sort of extinction event in large-scale natural history, forcing hard choices and making obscure varieties less desirable to save by root grafting with New World vines.   One virtue of the book is to propose, in effect, a new order of wines by celebrating ‘secondary’ grape varieties. “For me, among the obscure wines, something about as well-known as Cinsault stands out – it can make such lovely wines,” Robinson says. “There’s been such a sea change as the century turned. Everybody once wanted to make fruit bombs to one of three standard recipes. Then in this century, higher acidity, lighter wines are finally revaluing, and so Cinsault comes into its own. “Sometimes I come across a grape that isn’t well known but that’s so obviously superior. There’s Aglianico – the name suggests it’s Greek, though no Greek variety has ever been found and you only get it in Southern Italy. Perfect for late ripeness, and not for cool climates – and now it has travelled to Australia, where they’re desperate for hot weather varieties.  The whole array of Portuguese and Greek grape varieties are so fantastic! And so individual. And I love that after a dalliance with international varieties, both countries are now celebrating their own. There’s another white grape, an Iberian variety that’s stunning, and, again, I’m not sure it’s yet been planted much: Godello! It’s a bit crass to say it makes wines that taste like Montrachet, if a little more terroir-y and mineral … but it does. I could drink Cinsault for red and Godello for white into the next century. “There’s such a gap nowadays,” Robinson goes on, “between the Napa Cab thing, and these young people who are buying unknown grape varieties that sell for a fraction of the price, that are really good. Such a lot has happened in the field of recuperating old vines, some so obscure that they don’t even have a name. Miguel Torres, the scion of that great company in northeast Spain became very interested in grapes.  At first, he said, ‘Hey Dad, we need the posh varieties, Cabernet and Chardonnay’ – and made all these wines which did well in the Judgement of Paris. But, with time, he realised that it made more sense to concentrate on the indigenous varieties. He’s been engaged for 30 years, putting classified ads in the local press – ‘If you know of a wine grape that you can’t identify, let us know of it, and – if we think we can propagate out – we’ll do micro-vinification.’ He’s actually rescued Catalan varieties that were on the brink of disappearing; I think he found 30 varieties, and recuperated eight for micro-vinification with sufficient character to give them a new lease of life. And much the same thing has been happening all over Italy. If we published the book today, we’d be up to at least 1,500 kinds of grapes.” The great sorting question of our time, of course, is the question of climate change and its effects on wine cultivation. Robinson is cautiously hopeful about Burgundy. “I was lucky enough to go there and spend some time. The 2020 harvest is the earliest ever, at least since the 14th century. But, whereas the 2003 vintage, that legendary hot summer in France, produced wines that were pretty bizarre, the 2019s seem as fresh as a daisy, with pure fruit. I’m no plant biologist, but the vines seem to be getting used to the conditions … or the winemakers are. They’re not extracting as heavily, but, given that, there’s no sign of added acidity (it’s routinely added in the southern hemisphere), the acidity is coming from the grapes as well. Even some real old Burgundy hands, when you ask why the wines are so fresh, say, ‘I really don’t know.’” About the Southern Rhône, though, she is more pessimistic. “They’re not helping themselves in the Southern Rhône: too many are trying to make concentrated, high alcohol, 16% wines. And maybe consultants are too powerful down there – one consultant can be responsible for 20 or 30 labels, and so you’re going to have 20 or 30 wines that reflect that.” It’s here, though, that the knowledge of grapes, and our possession of this specialist dictionary, seems particularly valuable. If wine is to save itself from the vagaries of climate change, it will probably be through the introduction and new use of ‘marginal’ or forgotten ‘heirloom’ grapes. Only recently, France’s Institut National de l’Origine et de la Qualité (INAO) officially approved six new varieties: four red grapes – Arinarnoa, Castes, Marselan, and Touriga Nacional; and two whites – Alvarinho and Liliorila – all described as ‘well-adapted to alleviate hydric stress associated with temperature increases and shorter growing cycles’, potential saviours of the region against the villain of global warming. All of them, of course, are charted and explicated in Wine Grapes.

In the end, the great strange truth of wine is the truth of life: a thousand vectors press down on us at once – place, history, time, temperature, luck and breeding – and somehow in the intersection we find, or make, our pleasures. The question of type and variation was very different before Darwin who wrote, oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) almost simultaneously with the great classification of Bordeaux, publishing On the Origin of Species in 1859.  (Oddly because his theory would have been true in any other time; not so oddly because the urge to map the world, for the ‘almanac of everything’, was typical of mid-19th century confidence, as Carroll’s satire suggests.) Before Darwin, who loved wine, the fundamental view of the world was that the superintending categories, species and varieties, were the fixed things in the world. Everyone took it for granted that the ‘kind’ the ‘essence’, was the real thing and all the little variants merely particular shades away from it. A grape was a better or worse instance of its variety. Grapes, like apes, were of one fixed sort. Darwin’s great overriding insight was that only particulars exist, and that species and superintending categories are the labile and ever-changing kinds. Every kind of living thing came from somewhere weird and is on its way to somewhere weirder, with a brief stopover at being the thing it is now. The elegance of Pinot Noir is a close cousin of the earthiness of Syrah, one state is simply a moment in the life of the other, and each are moments in the life of the surging, unfixable whole. Wine, braiding through the planet and only coming to rest on a name for a moment in one place, is a bit of scientific epistemology in your glass, the truth of the particular made potable. It’s a fine destiny for a simple pleasure. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One Photography by Gavin Bond; floral set design by Studio Lupine

Essayist and author Adam Gopnik takes a look at the world of wine through the lens of seminal wine-lover’s bible, Wine Grapes, and talks to one of its three co-authors, Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

Adam Gopnik talks to Wine Grapes co-author Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

FONDATA: Pleasure in the detail

Pleasure in the detail

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