I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

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 

“Right, Richard, what do you think of this?” Gus Paterson, a second-generation whisky blender, said to his son, then aged eight, thrusting a glass in front of his nose. The young Richard – destined to become one of the world’s foremost blenders – had just entered a whisky warehouse in Glasgow for the first time.  “I still remember the bustle of the city,” Richard tells me, almost 65 years later. “He unlocked these doors, and we walked into his world. It was dark and dingy. The smell – of maderised wine and whisky – it’s something you never forget.” But as for the glass in front of him, he didn’t know what to say – a response that earnt him a slap round the back of the head from his father. “Pay attention. Swirl it around. Say hello. Is it as heavy as your grandmother? Light as your mother? Sweet as a chocolate bar? Dry as the dust on the floor?” Suddenly, the young Richard Paterson got it – he was hooked. Skip to the current day and the Master Blender – after 50 years at Whyte & Mackay (the company behind the likes of Dalmore, Jura, Fettercairn and Tamnavulin) and 55 in the whisky industry – has just been awarded an OBE in the New Year’s Honours. “I haven’t quite got my head around it yet,” he says. Talking to me via Zoom, Paterson is a character that refuses to be diminished by a screen. Slickly dressed in a suit and scarlet tie, the showman in him leaps across the WiFi connection, with moments of Mrs-Doubtfire-esque comedy in our conversation, his grandiose moustache dancing beneath one of Scotch whisky’s most famous noses (at one point insured for £1.6 million). Whisky was the family’s trade, his grandfather having established a blending, bottling and broking business in Glasgow in 1933. Richard, however, was determined to prove himself when he joined the industry in 1966. After a battle with his MD at the time, he persuaded them to fund his Wine and Spirit Education Trust courses. He travelled the world to visit vineyards and get to grips with wine – an exploration of flavour that laid the foundation for his work pioneering and experimenting with wine-cask finishes. His skill of blending, choosing the perfect barrel and knowing when it is at its best, is unparalleled. When I ask him how he does it, he tells me that it’s key first to know the style of your single malt – to recognise its personality and character, and then be able to see whether a particular cask will enhance its beauty. “You need to make sure you give it the right clothes,” he explains. Each year he checks in on the casks at Dalmore, tasting hundreds in a day, working through six a minute, nosing each one in an almost trance-like state to, in his words, say hello. It’s only, however, after adding a little hot water and leaving the spirit at room temperature and humidity, allowing each spirit to wake up, that, he says, you get to see what it’s really like. “How are you? Ah, yes, you’ve decided to come away… You’re beautiful.. hmm... You’re a bit of a bitch… and you’re a bit of a bum,” Paterson says, miming his way through an imaginary flight of samples on screen. While there are many elements in determining the style of a whisky – the barley, yeast, distillation time, shape of the still, cut-off times, reduction, the warehouse and more – for Paterson, “the cask is king”. The barrels that hold a whisky can represent up to 80% of the final style – and when you get it right, it’s like nothing else. He tells me about one of the most memorable spirits he’s tasted, a 62-year-old Dalmore of his own making. “Dave Broom [the famous whisky writer] was with me,” Paterson says. “We wanted to make sure that the particular aged Sherry Oloroso casks were going to give us the right quality. A bit like when you cut a pork pie – with the meat evenly distributed. When we nosed it… all those flavours came together in perfect harmony. It really, truly reflected an aged icon.”  Whiskies of this ilk fetch enormous sums, with a bottle of the aforementioned dram (one of only 12 released by the distillery in 2002) selling for £91,650 at auction a few years ago. Paterson seems somewhat baffled by the prices, but mostly hopes it doesn’t put people off drinking the bottles. “You mustn’t sit and look at it; it’s for sharing. The memories that you get – you never forget that,” he says. “And – with whisky – you can always put the cork back.” Over five decades at Whyte & Mackay, he established Dalmore as one of the world’s finest and most collectable single malts; but last year announced he’s taking a step back (working 100 days a year, largely dedicated to Dalmore) to focus on a new project, and the reason for our conversation. Wolfcraig is a brand new distillery and, with Paterson joining a team of serious pedigree, it’s one of the most exciting projects the Scotch whisky world has seen.  With demand for fine single malts higher than ever before, there are over 30 new distilleries at some stage of opening – and no shortage of demand for a man with the skill and sheer brand strength of Richard Paterson. So, of the many offers he’s received over the years, why did the master blender decide to take the plunge with Wolfcraig? In short, he explains – he’s never seen a project with the long-term commitment, capital and combined experience. The team includes Dr Alan Rutherford OBE (former Production Director at Diageo, Master of the Quaich and previous President of the Malt Distillers Association of Scotland), Ian Macmillan (a Master Distiller, also a Master of the Quaich and a member of the Worshipful Company of Distillers), Iain Lochhead (former UK Bacardi Operations Director, and another Master of the Quaich) and Michael Lunn – whom Paterson worked under for 17 years at Whyte & Mackay. For Paterson, it’s a unique opportunity to create a new Highland single malt from scratch, and he’s confident they’ll craft “something special”. The plan is to use a double ball still, with the reflux creating a gutsy, muscular profile, while of course remaining true to the Highland style.
Only the finest wood will be used, and Paterson expects to use Sherry casks to add softness to the spirit. Construction of the £15 million distillery is scheduled to start in summer this year, with a restaurant, bar, private tasting room and extensive visitor centre planned. The distillery has the capacity to produce 1.5 million litres, but production will be strictly limited, with the focus firmly on quality over quantity, and no spirit released until it’s absolutely ready. In 25 years, Paterson expects it to be one of the top whiskies in the world. He grins, his excitement about the possibilities uncontainable: “We’re gonna put our money where our mouth is.” Find out more about Wolfcraig, browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial 

Richard “the Nose” Paterson has been crafting The Dalmore for Whyte & Mackay for half a century. But now he’s launching a new project, Wolfcraig – a Highland distillery that has the industry awhirl. We caught up with the larger-than-life character to find out more

The Dalmore Master Blender Richard Paterson on his new project, Wolfcraig, a Highland distillery that has the industry awhirl. 

The Dalmore's Master Blender Richard Paterson

On the nose: Richard Paterson

When it comes to whisky, the conversation has long been dominated by maturation – on how long the liquid spends slumbering in which cask, on how big the cask is and what it held before, whether a Sherry butt, wine barrique, first-fill Bourbon barrel or the fashionable mizunara. Recently, there’s been an increased focus on the base product, with producers such as Waterford’s Mark Reynier championing single-site, single-barley, terroir-driven whiskies (and rums, with his Renegade project). But, somehow, there’s a tendency to skip on by the magic that happens in between: distillation.  While grain whisky is column distilled, malt whisky is almost exclusively distilled in copper pot stills – indeed, it’s a legal requisite for Scotch whisky. Crafting these copper beauties is an art – and one that depends on a handful of specialists. Kentucky has Vendome, Germany has Kothe and CARL, Italy has Frilli and Scotland has Forsyths. The equipment these coppersmiths produce lays the foundation the DNA of its new-make.  To the untrained eye, these onion-shaped pieces of kit look almost identical, but the size and shape is distinct to each distillery – defining its style. As distilleries expand and increase production, they don’t buy a bigger still – but commission exact replicas of their existing still(s), with every dent and dimple carefully recreated. Macallan, famously, replaced all its stills when building its new state-of-the-art distillery in 2018, asking Forsyths to create 36 stills that were identical to those it had previously used.  Although there have been attempts to use other metals, copper has long been favoured for distilling – originally for its pliability, making it easy to work and shape. But by the early 20th century, it was apparent that copper had other benefits – stripping the spirit of impurities. As the vapour rises through the still, it reacts with the copper, capturing sulphur, cyanides, carbonates and acids, meaning the liquid that is eventually collected is purer. Coppersmiths play on this purifying effect to create a range of stills, for the longer the vapour spends in contact with the copper, the lighter the spirit you’ll produce. Take Glenmorangie’s tall, 17-feet-high stills which produce a very light spirit, and compare them to the small, squat stills and typically heavy spirit of the Macallan. Of course it’s not quite as simple as that. As well as the ratio of copper to liquid, the speed of distillation, the shape of the still, the size of the neck, the level of reflux, the angle of the lyne arm and venting of stills all have an impact.  Rothes-based Forsyths has been hammering copper into shape for Scotland’s leading distillers for over 150 years. Richard Forsyth OBE (who has now passed management of the business to his son, Richard Jr) was the third generation of his family to run the coppersmiths. The frank, self-effacing Scot remembers working in his father’s workshop aged 15, “I knew this is what I wanted to do… I found it fascinating.” And after 55 years, his eye still twinkles when he talks about the arch of a still’s swan neck, the art of wielding a planishing hammer and the characters that make the industry so interesting.   He joined the family business in 1967 – at what happened to be a pivotal moment for the industry. During the Second World War, the whisky business ground to a halt – and with it the need for stills. In the 1950s and ’60s, however, the industry grew rapidly – too rapidly, it turned out. What was a golden era turned into a whisky lake, with many distilleries soon mothballed. Forsyths – for whom 99% of its business was servicing the whisky industry – had to find something else to pay the bills, and it was up to Richard to find that something else. They branched out first into paper, then stainless steel and – by the late 1990s – oil and gas. Although coppersmithing remained the foundation and heart of the business, these other disciplines became the main money-makers until the early 2010s, when whisky’s current boomtime set in. Today, Forsyths maintains over half of the pot stills in Scotland. For a wash still (distilleries that double-distil have wash and spirits stills, first distilling the wash into “low wines” and then distilling the “low wines” into new-make spirit), the head, neck and condenser wears out in eight to 10 years, while the pot itself may last 25. Add to that developing new stills for the thriving industry – as well as their expansion into rum, Bourbon and tequila – and the company’s not short of work.   Although there is clear resistance to change with an industry that is entrenched in tradition, things have shifted, slowly but surely, over the years. And there have been two significant changes over the last century that have transformed the Scotch whisky world: the firing of stills and the nature of condensers.  When shell-and-tube condensers were invented in the 1880s, as an alternative to old-fashioned worm tubs, it took time for producers to be persuaded. Although shell-and-tube condensers are significantly more efficient and take up much less space, they are completely different – with the copper surface area at least 20 times larger, something which has a key impact on the spirit. To this day some producers (15 to be exact – including Craigellachie, Mortlach, Glen Elgin and Springbank, the latter only for their wash still) retain their worm tubs, valuing the heavier, richer, more complex (and in some instances, even meaty, savoury) spirit character.   Traditionally stills were direct-fired – heated by flames fed by peat, coal or gas. “It’s dirty, messy, difficult to handle – and to control,” Forsyth tells me. A push for safety and efficiency saw producers switch to using steam in the 1970s. But some argue that this shift wasn’t for the better. Fire created a less consistent heat, with hot spots that would burn the wash and promote Maillard reactions (the same reaction that takes place when you brown meat, or during the bottle-ageing of Champagne or other traditional-method sparkling wine) – adding nutty, roasted notes that build complexity, or so proponents would argue. Glenfarclas is known for having briefly dallied with steam before returning to direct-firing, along with the likes of Macallan, Glenfiddich and Springbank.  As the whiskies of this pre-modernisation era – Scotch’s so-called “golden age” – become increasingly coveted, distilleries (both new and old) are looking to recreate these practices. Along with traditional floor maltings, producers like Glen Garioch (owned by Suntory) and Dunphail are investing in direct-firing. (Although, with worm tubs no longer produced, new distilleries have little choice regarding shell-and-tube condensers.)  However they are fired, given their custom nature, copper pot stills don’t come cheap. Much of the work continues to be done by hand, hammering to strengthen and finish the copper. Stills can range from 5,000 to 50,000 litres in capacity, but an average 15,000-litre still and its condenser will require between 1,800 and 2,000 manhours, and set you back around £250,000. And that price has only increased recently, thanks to rising energy and material costs – with a copper shortage proving challenging for Forsyths, a business that is the UK’s second-biggest buyer of the metal.  With the distinct nature of stills and their impact on spirit, plenty of new producers will ask for copies of a particular distillery’s stills – wishing to emanate their style of spirit. Forsyth tells me how one Japanese customer requested a pair each of Macallan, Glenlivet and Glenrothes stills. While of course there are many problems with this imitation game, there’s also no guarantee – as Forsyth tells me – that the same equipment will have the same results, especially when not run with the same wash, in the same way, by the same people. And, of course, a company like Forsyths isn’t going to give away Macallan’s proprietary designs, for example. As such, they’ll recreate something similar, but ensure it’s tweaked so no two distilleries have exactly the same design.   But how much impact do stills really have on the final spirit? Despite his half-century in the trade, Forsyth is quick to suggest, “I don’t think a lowly coppersmith can talk too much about that.” He’s clear that you need good equipment to make good spirit, but it’s one factor in amongst everything else – the barley, water and fermentation times, for example. And how a still is used is as important as its shape or size, with both the speed of distillation and the all-important cuts – dividing the heart from the foreshots and feints. Forsyth firmly believes that good wood is “the single biggest effect in a bottle eight, 10 or 12 years later”. There’s little use having a good base spirit if it’s ruined by a decade in bad oak – but good oak also can’t salvage bad spirit.  Forsyth has seen it all during his 55 years in the whisky business – and has been forced to be as malleable as the metal his family has worked for generations to survive the booms and busts. Despite the challenges, the coppersmith is as enchanted by his trade as when he first picked up a hammer in his father’s workshop. The industry will doubtless continue to ebb and flow, but with a spirit that takes decades to produce, the pace of change is reassuringly gentle. “It almost goes as slow as the running of the spirit,” Forsyth says whimsically. The still room remains the beating heart of distilleries – the basis of a producer’s fingerprint, all thanks to the careful hammering of the artful coppersmith.  Browse all current Scotch whisky listings or read more about spirits  

There’s something romantic about the bulbous sheen of a copper pot still. These behemoths glimmer with the promise of fine spirit – but it’s rare that we talk about what happens within. Sophie Thorpe sat down with Richard Forsyth OBE of Scotland’s leading coppersmiths, Forsyths, to find out more 

Cult coppersmiths Forsyths on the art of crafting copper pot stills for the biggest names in Scotch whisky – and how they define a distillery’s spirit style

How copper pot stills define whisky styles

Copper craft: the art of the still

Our team spent several weeks exploring the 2023 vintage in Burgundy – visiting, tasting and talking to a range of producers up and down the Côte d’Or. Here, we offer a run-down of the year by producer, from north to south, reporting on how each fared and our pick of their range this year

A run-down of the Burgundy 2023 vintage wines en primeur by producer: from Fourrier to Lafon via Bernstein, Lamarche, Lambrays, Duroche and Hudelot-Noellat 

Burgundy 2023 vintage by producer 

Burgundy 2023: by producer

It’s no secret that Scotch whisky is dominated by two giants – Diageo and Pernod Ricard, who represent 60% of the market, with three other big players taking the next 20%. That leaves a mere 20% for those who have the wallets and mettle to fight over the rest – but that’s an increasing number of people. There are currently over 30 single malt distilleries at some stage of opening.  “I think it’s a bit of a worry to be honest,” Mark Reynier, Renegade Spirits founder and CEO, says. Reynier has been behind three of the most talked-about distillery projects in the past 20 years – the resurrection of Islay powerhouse Bruichladdich in 2000, the renovation of a former Diageo brewery into Irish single malt distillery Waterford in 2015 and the construction of Renegade rum distillery in Grenada from scratch in 2020. All three have a dogged focus on terroir and have not been without their struggles. “Superficially it does look easy - but it sure as hell isn’t,” he says. “With Bruichladdich we almost went bust twice. With the best will in the world and two-distillery experience I got it wrong with Renegade and almost went bust last September.”  In Reynier’s view, many of those opening distilleries are driven by romantic ideas and the desire to make a quick buck – from landowners looking to monetise estates to “crooks” who “promise fortunes to be made”. Few, however, have the knowledge, business nous or money to back up their ambitions.  Wolfcraig – a new distillery in Stirling – is one of the industry’s most interesting projects, largely thanks to the experience of the team involved. While neither of the founders Jamie Lunn or John Moore had worked in whisky before (coming, respectively, from construction and finance), Jamie Lunn’s father is former Whyte & Mackay chairman and chief executive Michael Lunn – and happened to be eager for a new project. It hasn’t been plain sailing though: the team had a false start with an ill-fated attempt to take a controlling stake of an existing distillery. Downhearted but not defeated, they made the decision to go it alone. Moore and Lunn have assembled a first-rate team with over 200 years’ experience. Master Blender Richard Paterson OBE was the most recent addition to the roster – which Jamie Lunn affectionately refers to as “the Harlem globetrotters of whisky” – including Dr Alan Rutherford OBE (former Production Director at Diageo, Master of the Quaich and previous President of the Malt Distillers Association of Scotland), Ian Macmillan (a Master Distiller, also a Master of the Quaich and a member of the Worshipful Company of Distillers) and Iain Lochhead (former UK Bacardi Operations Director, and another Master of the Quaich). But even with a team of such pedigree, it hasn’t been easy. “It was three and a half years of pain,” Moore says. Every decision has been driven by an unwavering mission to produce a truly special liquid, considerable industry experience and business acumen. Stirling, for example, was chosen not just for its infrastructure, but its accessibility – within an hour’s drive of 70% of the Scottish population. The team ensured they were fully funded and have consciously built a brand – and decided on the style of spirit they’ll be making – before physically breaking ground. “Out of all the new whisky distilleries,” Moore says, “very few of them are designing their own unique spirit and they have not put any thought into why they have a particular shape of still.” Wolfcraig, by contrast, is having their still handmade by Forsyths, with a distinctive double-ball design to produce a more muscular, full-bodied spirit. It’s not just new players and mavericks behind the trend though, with some of whisky’s most historic names being given a new lease of life. Halewood International, for example, is bringing malt whisky distilling back to the heart of the Scottish drinks industry in the Port of Leith, Edinburgh, for the first time in 100 years with the John Crabbie Distillery.  Today, the name John Crabbie might be synonymous with ginger wine, but he was an independent bottler, single malt producer and recognised blender in the 19th century. For the team here, creating something new brings great freedom. “One of the key parts of our distillery is its versatility,” Global Dark Spirits Manager Andy Wallace says. “Because of the type of distillery we have, we can change our new make spirit and we can be very adaptable. That flexibility, put in the hands of somebody who knows what they are doing, like our Master Blender Dr Kirstie McCallum – a chemist with an excellent palate – and we’re going to experiment.”   Experimentation with different casks is high on the agenda. In addition to PX and Oloroso casks, the team is looking at how Manzanilla might work and playing around with other wine cask finishes.   Prior to joining Halewood, Wallace spent six years at William Grant & Sons, the home of Balvenie and Glenfiddich since 1887. “They are beautiful, incredible distilleries in a beautiful part of the world,” Wallace says, “but they come with their own inherent limitations… some people will see them as being a bit aspirational and not for them.” In his view, building something from scratch – even with a history like Crabbie’s – means they don’t have to produce a certain type of product. “What we want to do is bring new people into the category and allow people to drink differently,” he explains. Free from the burden of a legacy, a new distillery can be more agile. This can, however, be a catch-22. In a quest to stand apart, rather than play the old boys at their centuries-perfected game, innovation – if not managed in a considered, well-financed, way – can end in tears. “A lot of people have got rather carried away with the romance and [they] don’t really understand the consequences and the costs, and the durability that you need,” Mark Reynier explains.  “And above all you need a unique proposition. Just to be another distillery isn’t enough. The distilling bit is the easy bit. I think this is what’s going to be the downfall for a lot of people. The maturation and the time and cost is the crunch. And then you have got to bring it to market.” Wallace agrees. “You must have a long-term plan for selling your product because you have got a several-year timeline before you can launch anything in the first place,” he says. “One of the big challenges for whisky companies is predicting demand. If you have to predict how much 12-year-old product you’re going to sell on day one, that is a really difficult challenge.”   This was one of the many reasons Wolfcraig was determined to be fully funded from the get-go. “A lot of new whisky distilleries are just living hand-to-mouth and raising money year-on-year and that is emotionally draining,” Moore says. “But, also more importantly, it takes time away from the business when you are constantly fundraising.” It’s no small amount of money required, either. While you might be able to start a gin distillery with £50,000, whisky is a different beast. “Even the small craft distilleries, you’re talking several million pounds to set up,” Moore explains. “Our overall investment will be close on £20million… So, it’s not something you go into lightly.” “Running a distillery is an expensive business,” Reynier adds. “Just when you most need the revenue to get into the market, that is when you are least likely to have it. You are building in a lag period. You have created this brand over a decade, but you don’t actually have enough stock maturing to satisfy the sales that you have created or are creating. So, you have got to plan forward.” Waterford is a distillation of everything Reynier got wrong at Bruichladdich and everything he felt he wasn’t able to do because of a “lack of resource, lack of desire perhaps, tradition getting in the way, and the lack of logistics”. “We had a war chest because we knew that to do it properly, we had to be able to insulate ourselves financially to be able to buy ourselves the time to do it properly, with proper, premium-quality barley, single-farm distillations for uniqueness and for complexity,” Reynier explains. “Practised at Bruichladdich, perfected here.” Ultimately, once you get past the business and branding, it’s the quality of the liquid that will sort the wheat from the chaff. “We need to achieve the same core things any distillery does,” Wallace says. “We want to make genuinely brilliant drams that people will enjoy in years to come.” Browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial 

As demand for single malt whisky continues to soar, the number of distilleries – big and small – preparing to fling open their doors increases at a bullish rate. Holly Motion talks to a few of the industry’s newest names to see if everything is as rosy as it seems

Investigating the sharp rise in the number of single malt whisky distilleries with Waterford, Wolfcraig and John Crabbie. 

Distilling dreams

The 2023 vintage was rare for Burgundy – offering both quantity and quality. But it isn’t quite that simple, with an atypical growing season, almost too much fruit, and a less homogenous crop. We report on the vintage and its wines – the best of which are remarkable

The 2023 vintage was rare for Burgundy – offering both quantity and quality. We report on the growing season and the wines it produced

Burgundy 2023 vintage overview

Burgundy 2023: vintage overview

Domaine Ricard

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

This is the current estimated market value for this item.

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

Updates all unlisted wines to current market price.

Set all at market

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

My cellar

Name

Net price

New portfolio available

New portfolio

You do not have any invoices at this time.

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

On sale

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

Overview

shows any items that are currently awaiting user action.

Pending

This is the dynamic market price of the item with trading margin removed.

This is the amount of profit you will receive if your listing sells.

Pre-authorised payments enable automatic transactions on your behalf, ensuring seamless and hassle-free payments. This allows recurring charges, subscriptions, or scheduled payments to be processed without manual approval each time.

The number of cases you wish to place on sale

Your catalogue item will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Your catalogue items will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Before you request delivery, you can adjust the quantity for each item in your selection below.

*Market price is dynamic and may change. At time of sale a 10% trading fee will be deducted from the final sale price.

Total market price*

The fixed custom price you wish to sell each item for.

Split into {caseSize} individual {bottleSize}cl bottles.

Title

shows all the items you currently store with us. These items can be sold.

Available for sale — items stored with {name} eligible to be listed on the marketplace.

Profile

This item is at FINE+RARE, available for storage, transfer or delivery.
 Most UK deliveries can be made within 3-5 working days, with next day delivery for London;
 an exact date will be available when arranging delivery.
 International deliveries have longer lead-times, please contact us for details.

This item is at FINE+RARE HOME Hong Kong, available for delivery or local pickup. Most Hong Kong deliveries can be made within 3 working days, an exact date will be available when arranging delivery. International deliveries have longer lead-times, please contact us for details.

Wines sold en primeur will be released from the producer after bottling, typically 18 months after the so-called campaign ends. Your wine will then be stored by FINE+RARE in a bonded warehouse until you decide to take delivery.

We will source this item at the guaranteed price from our network of suppliers and arrange expedited shipment to FINE+RARE.
 The lead-time depends on many variables, but 2-4 weeks is typical for expedited sourcing.
 Once your order is confirmed, we'll keep you updated on its ETA.
 Every item is checked on arrival by our expert team, with photographs available on request (please note that charges may apply).

We will source this item at the guaranteed price from our network of suppliers and arrange shipment to FINE+RARE.
 The lead-time depends on many variables, but 6-12 weeks is an average estimate.
 Once your order is confirmed, we'll keep you updated on its ETA.
 Every item is checked on arrival by our expert team, with photographs available on request (please note that charges may apply).

Domaine Ricard

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