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

Chris Phelps never really meant to start his own winery. But fate had other plans.  Wine had always been part of life, just in the background. Growing up in Livermore, east of San Francisco, Phelps’s parents would buy a ton of grapes from Napa or Sonoma, and make wine each year for themselves. Phelps even dug out a cellar by hand for them as a teenager. Nevertheless, when he set off for UC Davis, it wasn’t to study wine, but medicine. To pay for university, he took a job as a firefighter in Idaho (“kind of scary but super fun,” he tells me). By chance, he met a wine-geek friend, one who eventually convinced him to switch from pre-med to oenology. At Davis, he happened upon Alain Bertrand – one of the first scientists to use gas chromatography to delineate the different aromatic compounds in wine. The Frenchman didn’t speak much English, and Phelps spoke French – so they ended up becoming friends. Bertrand suggested Phelps attend the University of Bordeaux for a year after graduation. There, Phelps tells me, everything “started to fall into place”. Until then, wine had been intellectually interesting – but, during his time in France, it became much more.   There, another professor pushed him to apply for an internship – just in time for the 1982 harvest, a vintage that would turn out to be legendary. He already had offers from both Ch. Simon (Barsac) and Ch. Beauregard, but then was given the opportunity to interview with JP Moueix (of Pétrus). Unusually Christian Moueix insisted on joining the interview himself, alongside winemaker Jean-Claude Berrouet, and promptly gave him the job. The confident young American, however, said he’d think about it – and set off for a holiday in the south of France with his fiancée. Little did he know that Moueix had just bought a swathe of vineyard in Napa – and was planning for the future.  A few weeks later, Phelps was in Nice and bought three postcards from the Chagall museum – ready to make his decision about the three possible roads that lay ahead of him. He decided to take the position at Moueix, posted his rejections and acceptance, and carried on with his holiday. But, as harvest time approached, Phelps hadn’t heard anything back. He called Berrouet – only to find out that the French postal service had let him down, and the job at Pétrus had been given to someone else. It seemed like his luck had run out, but Berrouet said he might have another idea and would call him back in a few days.   While Berrouet couldn’t offer him anything as prestigious as Pétrus, he found Phelps a job at Ch. des Laurets in Puisseguin-Saint-Emilion – but he wouldn’t just be an intern, he’d be running everything. It was, Phelps said, a “trial by fire”, especially given his only hands-on experience to date had been six months at Louis Martini. He worked non-stop with just one cellar hand to help during the day, and managed to make it through the season.   When the wines were safely in barrel, he went to dinner at Christian Moueix’s house – where, sipping Champagne in the library, Moueix told Phelps about his plans for his Napa project, Dominus – and asked if he’d be the winemaker. “Of course, I said no,” Phelps tells me – recalling how the Frenchman opposite visibly sputtered at the American’s cheek (again). Phelps said he needed more money to live in Napa (and support his bride-to-be) – and more experience. Amazingly, Moueix agreed to let him start from 1984, given the 1983 vintage was set to be just a handful of experimental barrels, and to a pay rise. Off Phelps went, working around California and wintering at Pétrus before returning to lead the team at Dominus.   “We figured it out as we went along,” Phelps says, looking back on the early days of what is now one of Napa’s most prestigious estates. Today they might have the iconic Herzog & De Meuron winery, but things were much more rustic at the beginning – with a small team and little infrastructure. Phelps eventually moved on, joining Caymus in 1996 – but it’s what started happening after-hours, around his day job, that is interesting.  In 1990, Phelps met Larry Bettinelli at a Christian men’s retreat, and hit it off. It was only when they met up for lunch later that they realised they were both in the wine business, with Bettinelli a fifth-generation farmer who was growing grapes. Bettinelli wanted his vineyards to be the best in the valley – but he needed feedback on the fruit so that he could adapt his viticulture. He and Phelps hatched a plan: each year, Bettinelli would give Phelps a ton of fruit, trialling different clones, rootstocks, vine spacing and trellising, harvest methods, and Phelps would make a wine with it. The project was purely intellectual, so the two families drunk the wine themselves, and it also started being used as the altar wine at Phelps’s church (a much higher-grade communion offering than most). For two decades, they kept making tiny batches of their first-class “homebrew”, and Bettinelli became one of the valley’s best growers, working with an increasing number of sites around Napa.  Destiny seemed to abandon all subtlety in 2005. Phelps was hiking through the Sierra Nevada, leading a Scouts expedition, when they were struck by lightning. Two of the group died and Phelps was knocked unconscious. Unsurprisingly, it shook Phelps to the core. “Life is our most precious gift,” he says, “and if we use wine appropriately, it can enhance our lives.”  Two years later, Phelps was on top of a tank that had just been filled with crushed fruit from a relatively new Bettinelli site – and the smell was intoxicating. Following pure impulse, Phelps asked if he could – rather unconventionally – buy the tank’s contents, and Bettinelli said yes. Ad Vivum – inspired by the Latin “vinum” for wine and “vivere” to live, combined with “ad” which translates as “to” or “towards” – was born.  The vineyard was Sleeping Lady (previously Reese), the southernmost vineyard in Yountville, at the foot of the Mayacamas and on the southern end of the valley’s famous bench. There’s a flow of underground water that feeds a creek, with sufficient clay under the gravel and sand to retain water during the dry summer – and has, in Phelps’s words, a “beautiful ability” to self-regulate. Various other producers work with the vineyard, but his two blocks (representing a mere 1.5 acres) are right at the top of the vineyard, below a steep slope that aids the flow of cool air through the site at night. For him there was something special about these plots – producing fruit and wine with what Phelps describes as a “grace note”; it’s a whisper of something that takes the wine to the next level.  In a good year, production for Ad Vivum is 450 cases – but Phelps isn’t looking to grow. He makes one wine, from one site – and that’s the way he wants it to be. The wine is undoubtedly informed by his Franco-American roots, with an elegance, freshness and savoury structure that complements the plush Napa style. As he says, “I try to build wines that speak for themselves.”  Phelps’s – and Ad Vivum’s – story is one of happenstance. Or is it? With a man as devout as Phelps, it seems hard for anyone to believe it’s all an accident – and as Phelps himself says, looking back, it feels perhaps like it’s all part of a master plan.  Explore all current listings of Ad Vivum or read more about California 

Ad Vivum is a boutique Napa project from Chris Phelps. Sophie Thorpe spoke to him about how twists of fate saw him go from aspiring medic to star winemaker at the likes of Dominus, Caymus – and now his own label

Ad Vivum is a boutique Napa wine label from Chris Phelps. We spoke to the ex Dominus and Caymus winemaker about his journey – and its twists of fate

Discover Chris Phelps’s wine Ad Vivum, Napa

Divine intervention: Ad Vivum

Bordeaux’s white wines don’t often make it into the limelight and Ch. Margaux is one of the few top estates – beyond the borders of Graves and Pessac-Léognan – to make a white that is as highly rated, and collected, as its red.  Last year, lovers of its famous Pavillon Blanc were rewarded with the news of an addition to the First Growth’s range: a second white wine, known as Pavillon Blanc Second Vin.  From the 2004 vintage, the team became increasingly selective with the fruit that made it into Pavillon Blanc, and from 2008 only a third or maximum half of the Sauvignon Blanc they harvest was being bottled. The team started occasionally bottling a barrel or two of a possible second wine, with the final result often poured for the harvest team. They rapidly realised, however, that the quality was good enough to deserve much more than internal consumption.  The wine is a true second selection and therefore sees exactly the same winemaking and attention as Pavillon Blanc proper. Pure Sauvignon Blanc, it spends around nine months in barrel, with circa 25% new wood, and half the barrels larger demi-muids, and some bâtonnage at the start of the wine’s maturation. One of the most important stages is the pressing, which is done extremely gently, stopping as soon as the pH rises by 0.10, and meaning they only manage to get around 50cl of juice per kilo of grapes.  While the first release came from the smallest white vintage on record for the property (2022), the new release – set for Thursday 16th January – comes from the 2023 vintage, the highest yield on record since 1988 (although still an extremely modest 37hl/ha at Ch. Margaux).  We covered the conditions of 2023 extensively in our report on the year, but – as with 2023 in Burgundy – there was a heatwave as the harvest arrived. The team at Ch. Margaux stops picking as soon as the mercury hits 32°C – meaning that the pickers would start work as soon as it was light enough, but have to stop as early as 10.30am on some days. With the hot weather, the sugar levels started to creep up rapidly; but the Sauvignon Blanc was all picked between 23rd and 30th August – early enough to retain plenty of freshness.  More approachable than its big sibling Pavillon Blanc, Pavillon Blanc Second Vin is nevertheless a wine with serious ageing capacity – and one that offers a taste of the property’s masterful expression of Sauvignon Blanc at a very appealing price. It’s a stunning wine – a unique expression of Bordeaux Blanc from this top estate – and one that we can’t recommend highly enough. 2023 Pavillon Blanc Second Vin  The nose is beautifully expressive, with fresh pear, chalk, lime juice and grapefruit pith. On the palate, the wine is long and taut – yet with a waxy texture that might lead you to believe there’s some Semillon in the blend. This is pure Sauvignon Blanc, however – pure and vibrant, green-fruited yet not at all green. Forget cat’s pea and any grassy, herbaceous tones: this is a wine about tension and freshness, with hints of jasmine and honeysuckle. It’s vibrant and bright, with a satisfying bitterness to the long, mouth-watering finish. Already stunning now, this will only get better in bottle – with everything in place to allow it to evolve for 10-15 years. Sensational.  With 13% alcohol and a pH of 3.15, the wine was matured in around 25% new oak. Around 10,000 bottles were produced (versus just 8,000 in 2022).   The 2023 vintage of Pavillon Blanc Second Vin was released on Thursday 16th January 2025 and is available now

Last year saw Ch. Margaux launch the first vintage of a new wine in the First Growth’s line-up: Pavillon Blanc Second Vin. Ahead of the second release, here’s everything you need to know about the wine 

Everything you need to know about the second wine to Pavillon Blanc, Bordeaux First Growth Ch. Margaux’s new white wine, made for the first time in 2022 

Ch. Margaux’s Pavillon Blanc Second Vin 

The new release of Pavillon Blanc Second Vin

Second wines are no longer à la mode. In Bordeaux, these junior siblings – traditionally made with declassified fruit from the Grand Vin – are being rebranded as alternate expressions of a château. While this has fast become a familiar trope among the region’s master marketeers (who wants to suggest that anything is lesser?), for the Guinaudeau family of Ch. Lafleur the idea has become a fundamental part of their philosophy.  “A new cuvée, a new label – that’s marketing,” says Omri Ram – the man at the helm of the Guinaudeau estates today. For the family (who are mentioned repeatedly in our conversation, their involvement and influence is much more than monetary), any new wines must be a new Cru. Literally meaning a “growth”, the term doesn’t translate particularly well, but it’s a wine that should be “from viticulture, terroir, ideology”, Ram says. The inspiration is Burgundy rather than Bordeaux, comparing to Amoureuses or Malconsorts, a site that offers a distinct expression, year in, year out. “A special cuvée that costs 300 bucks – no, thank you,” he laughs. It hasn’t always been the approach at Ch. Lafleur – or more accurately, the “Société Civile du Ch. Lafleur" (the name that encompasses all the Guinaudeau estates). Les Pensées was originally conceived as a second wine, used to ensure the consistency and top quality of the Grand Vin, primarily made with fruit from young vines. But that all shifted in 2000, when they decided to separate out a diagonal 0.7-hectare valley, a strip of clay within the otherwise gravel-dominated Lafleur vineyard. The concept was – and is – to take the same core DNA of Lafleur, their old-vine material – and translate it through the lens of different terroirs. Les Pensées was their first step towards this, but in the early 2000s the Guinaudeau family started thinking about another expression of Lafleur – one on limestone. Little did they know that it would take almost 20 years for this idea to come to fruition.  And so they started looking for a limestone site. But Pomerol is the only place on the Right Bank with absolutely no limestone, and a plot on Saint-Emilion’s plateau (the obvious choice for prime limestone terroir) was a pipedream. In the unlikely scenario that a plot came up for sale, the price would be astronomical (the buyer would, in Ram’s words, need to have “big, big, big, big pockets”, his eyes visibly boggling at the idea). And while Ch. Lafleur might be uttered in the same breath as the likes of Pétrus, Lafite and Margaux, it remains a small, family-run affair. With Saint-Emilion ruled out, the family turned closer to home.  A distant but direct ancestor of the Guinaudeau family established Ch. Grand Village in 1650, and Jacques and Sylvie Guinaudeau reclaimed the Fronsac estate in 1980. Five years later they took charge of Ch. Lafleur, marking the start of this illustrious property’s renaissance. While their reputation has been built on the Pomerol estate, Fronsac has always been home. In fact, Jacques and Sylvie still live at Grand Village today, while their children– and current custodians of the family business –Baptiste and Julie also live on the outskirts of the village.   Although Fronsac might be considered lowly today, in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, its wines commanded higher prices than those of either Saint-Emilion or Pomerol. The Médoc reigned supreme, with its affluence, proximity to the city of Bordeaux and access to transport via the Gironde – but Fronsac, bordered on one side by the Dordogne River and on the other by one of its subsidiaries, Isle, was not far behind. As nearby Libourne developed, this only helped Fronsac and its wines grow in importance. Back then, Ram explains: “You couldn’t cheat. If you didn’t have a great terroir, you wouldn’t be able to make great wine in nine out of 10 years.” Of course, the region fell from grace – and even today you can stumble across abandoned vineyards, no longer bringing in enough income for someone to bother to farm them. But the best wines speak for themselves – Ram and the Lafleur team have tasted bottles back through the 20th century and there are undoubtedly “great, great things” – even up until the 1980s, proving the potential of the region.  That history, combined with the familial ties and a dream of reviving Fronsac’s reputation of yore, made the region the obvious choice.   There were two elements key to creating a new Cru for the Guinaudeau family: firstly, the right site, but secondly having massal selections of their old vines. Lafleur has long championed its particular plantings of Bouchet (a historic name for Cabernet Franc) and Merlot that pre-date clonal selection.  They started a nursery for their heritage clones at Ch. Grand Village – taking cuttings of their most interesting old vines, grafting them onto American rootstocks and then repeating the process. The challenge was cultivating enough vine material for a new site. As this project got underway, the family continued their search for the perfect vineyards – but also decided they needed to test the theory, and see if their vines’ DNA would translate on limestone.  And so G Acte was born – a “beta testing” programme for what would become Les Perrières. They picked limestone-dominant plots at Ch. Grand Village for an experimental series, starting with the 2009 vintage – Acte 1. By Acte 6, 7 and 8 (the 2014, ’15 and ’16 vintages), Ram tells me, they knew that they were onto something special. At the same time, the team continued to search for the right site. Originally they looked to Burgundy for their inspiration, where the illustrious Grands Crus sit neither at the top or bottom of the hill – but in Fronsac the mid-slope only proffered overly rich, fertile soils dominated by clay. Each site they explored brought new disappointment – until they decided to forget about Burgundy. The best wines in Pomerol, Saint-Emilion and even the Médoc all come from a plateau – so they changed tack and started hunting for a site perched up high.  Talking to the region’s older vignerons, they discovered the plateau of Meyney – beneath which lies a warren of quarries, the source of the limestone that was used to build much of Libourne, and the châteaux across the Right Bank. The first soil-pit they dug offered instant promise – with a meagre 20cm or so of topsoil before you were scraping at the mother rock.   Almost a decade after their search had begun, in 2011, they bought the first vineyards – Les Canards and Les Poulains – just seven kilometres from Grand Village, then another parcel the following year. When Ram arrived at the estate in September 2013, he spent his first day working on one of those nascent vineyards. The work required was extensive. These sites had been conventionally farmed, planted with clones selected for quantity rather than quality, so they needed total rehabilitation. They uprooted the vines and rotated various cover crops (herbs, flowers, cereals) to revive the soils over four years – totally reconstituting them, returning organic matter and also, importantly, re-stabilising the soil structure. The whole process took four or five years for each plot, with the first of their new plantings only going in in 2016 (Les Canards). The focus was, at first, on Bouchet from Lafleur, with 20 different selections. In 2017, they planted Les Poulains, with around 25 Bouchet selections, then in 2018 they planted three more clay-rich parcels with Merlot, partly with their own heritage selections, as well as some carefully selected clones that passed muster.  In 2018, they harvested their first crop from 3.5 hectares of vines. The quality of the Bouchet from these “extreme limestone” soils was so distinct that – even when blended with Merlot parcels that had previously been used for G Acte – they bottled it under the new Cru’s name, Les Perrières.  Tasting it in a line-up alongside previous vintages of G Acte, the difference is as extreme as the soils. Later vintages of the experimental series offer a red-fruited crunch, vibrancy and transparency, but the 2018 Perrières shows an instant shift. There’s a step up in purity, precision, concentration and complexity, with a wilder, swarthier fruit character, yet it’s the mineral salinity that shines through, and is echoed in the 2019. These are serious wines that have a clear sense of place.  The 2020 vintage is the first that came exclusively from Perrières vineyards, with none of the G Acte parcels (these are now all being used for Grand Village). As they initially had more Bouchet plantings on these sites, the blend has shifted over time – with the 2020 having 70% Bouchet, 60% in 2021 and a return in 2022 to the 50/50 mix that is the norm for Lafleur and Pensées. While the aim isn’t always to have this varietal mix, the vineyards are planted so that Merlot and Bouchet can be equal – but the blend will be decided on taste.  Bouchet might be Lafleur’s trademark, but the Merlot is an essential component in Ram’s view. Alone, Bouchet is too linear, vertical, intellectual and even borderline austere. Merlot complements this, ensuring it not just makes you think, but leaves you reaching for another glass. “The greatest wines are not just for the mind, but for the heart and stomach too,” Ram says.   It’s still early days for Les Perrières – the soon-to-be-released 2022 will be only its fifth vintage. These vines are still babies by almost any standard, let alone those of Ch. Lafleur. Yet its potential – and path – is already clear. Ram anticipates it will take them around 20 years to get the wine to where they really want it to be, sitting as a true equal to Ch. Lafleur, but he’s confident that it’s just a matter of time.  It's amazing to see the work that has gone into this one wine – both on paper and in the glass. This isn’t just marketing, but a creed for the Société Civile du Ch. Lafleur – and one that it’s hard not to believe in. Your cheat sheet to the Lafleur stable: the Société Civile de Ch. Lafleur unpacked Ch. Lafleur – the property’s most famous wine, seen as the Grand Vin, an expression of the Lafleur DNA on gravel  Les Pensées – now an expression of the Lafleur DNA on clay. Up to and including the 1999 vintage, this was Ch. Lafleur’s second wine, made with fruit mainly from younger vines. From the 2000 vintage, the fruit comes exclusively from a diagonal strip of clay in the Lafleur vineyards, and is a different Cru. (It was labelled as Les Pensées de Lafleur prior to 2018, when the “de Lafleur” was officially dropped.)  Les Perrières – an expression of the Lafleur DNA on limestone, sourced from vineyards in Fronsac. The 2018 and 2019 vintages include some parcels at Ch. Grand Village, however from 2020 the fruit is sourced exclusively from separate sites in Fronsac, on extreme limestone soils on the plateau de Meyney.  Les Champs Libres – an expression of pure Sauvignon Blanc on limestone soils, from specific parcels in Fronsac. The first commercial release was the 2013 vintage.  Ch. Grand Village – a red and white are made under the Fronsac estate’s name, which is also the family home (Jacques and Sylvie Guinaudeau still live there today).  G Acte – made from 2009 to the 2017 vintages inclusive, an experimental series testing the concept of Lafleur on limestone while trying to find the right sites for Les Perrières, made using fruit from limestone-dominant parcels at Ch. Grand Village. The releases are numbered, with 2009 Acte 1 and so on.  Explore all Société Civile du Ch. Lafleur listings or read more about Bordeaux  

Ch. Lafleur is a Pomerol icon. Sophie Thorpe sat down with Omri Ram to talk about the philosophy that has driven the creation of its unique Crus – and the evolution of its newest project, Les Perrières

Sitting down with Lafleur winemaker Omri Ram to explore the philosophy behind the Pomerol property’s different Crus – and how G Acte became Les Perrières

How Lafleur created a new Cru with Les Perrières

From the ground up: the creed at Lafleur

To Kalon. For any Californian winemaker, those two words represent the Holy Grail. This vineyard in Oakville, Napa, is undeniably the region’s most famous. Perched at the foot of the Mayacamas, west of Highway 29, this site has been recognised for producing fine wine since the 19th century. Literally translating as the “highest beauty” or “highest good” from Greek, today To Kalon is home to some of Napa’s oldest vines and best Cabernet Sauvignon. “This is a Grand Cru – a premier property,” Paul Hobbs tells me, a winemaker who has a long history with the site. As a grad student at UC Davis, Hobbs would swipe the second crop from a vineyard on Walnut Drive – what happened to be BV4, Beaulieu Vineyard’s original block of To Kalon. At Mondavi – the largest holder of the hallowed site – he got to walk the rows more legitimately, and used those holdings to build Opus One – the company’s joint venture with Ch. Mouton Rothschild (although the association with the site has generally been played down). Under his own label, he’s been making wine from the Beckstoffer section of the vineyard since 1999 – and his wines, along with those from Schrader, were some of the early bottlings that put the vineyard firmly on the fine wine map, earning high scores – and lots of attention. Indeed, it was a Paul Hobbs wine that made Tor Kenward believe the vineyard was truly special. André Tchelistcheff had spoken to Kenward about BV4, but it was one of Hobbs’s bottlings that made him realise its potential. He started working with Beckstoffer plots from 2005. 
“It’s not visually impressive; it doesn’t have that ‘wow factor’,” Kenward tells me. But start digging below the surface, and you realise that you’re in the “tenderloin of Napa”, with old creek beds that run through the site. It’s an alluvial fan that runs down from the Mayacamas, sitting almost on a bench – with very little elevation. But the soils here are varied, with deep, well-drained gravels that make it perfect for Cabernet Sauvignon.  Andy Erickson – a winemaker whose resume includes Screaming Eagle, Harlan, Dalla Valle, Mayacamas and many more – first worked with the site in 2012, on a single-barrel charity lot for an auction at his children’s school. When Constellation (owners of Mondavi and co-owners of Opus One) called him to give him the chance to work with it again in 2016, he didn’t hesitate. That year, he made the first wine for the To Kalon Vineyard Company – a project that is a revival of the brand created by H.W. Crabb (known variously as Henry Walker, Hiram Walker or Hamilton Walker Crabb) in 1886, the vineyard’s godfather. “Most people know the recent history of the vineyard, and the acclaim of the wines from the past 15-20 years. But the vineyard was known for producing remarkable wines all the way back in the late 19th century. Clearly there is something there,” Erickson says.  But this vineyard is weighed down with controversy – its borders endlessly debated, with producers vying for use of the To Kalon name.  The history of the To Kalon Vineyard It’s impossible to look at To Kalon today without tracing its origins. H.W. Crabb came west from Ohio during the Gold Rush, spending six months digging in the Sierras before settling in Oakville in 1868, buying 240 acres of land at the corner of Highway 29 and Walnut Drive. He planted a wide range of crops, first making wine in 1872 under the name Hermosa Vineyards (“hermosa” meaning “beautiful” in Spanish). In 1881, he acquired another 119 acres from Eliza Yount (whose name lives on in Yountville). On land to the west of his plots, owned by John Davis, he planted additional vines – buying the fruit off Davis to feed his increasing production. In 1886, he gave his company a new name: “To Kalon Vineyard Company” – and the legend was born. Crabb reportedly said, “The name To-Kalon… means the highest beauty, or the highest good, but I try to make it mean the boss vineyard.”
 To Kalon Vineyard Company rapidly became one of the region’s largest – and most well-respected – wine producers. His wines started winning awards at competitions around the world, and he was the first to start selling wine along the East Coast. He had planted a huge range of grapes – around 400 different varieties, including Malvasia, Riesling, Chasselas, Muscat, Refosco and Cabernet Sauvignon, with the latter in particular thriving. In 1889, he bought 168 acres on the hillside to the south, close to where Harlan is now based, although it was never planted with vines during Crabb’s lifetime. In 1891, Crabb bought Davis’s 135 acres (from which he’d already been buying the fruit). In total, Crabb had more than 359 acres.  But his success wasn’t to last – phylloxera arrived in the late 19th century, and recession along with it. In 1898, Crabb sold the 135 acres he’d bought just eight years earlier – and died one year later in 1899. The vines were ripped out, replaced by cherry trees under David Perry Doak in 1911, who in turn purchased another 500 acres of vines from John Benson, south of the border of the original To Kalon (across Oakville Grade Road), which is now all owned by Constellation (used for Mondavi or Opus One). After Crabb’s death, what remained of the To Kalon Vineyard Company was sold to ES Churchill at auction, taken over by his widow Mary Churchill when he died in 1903. Wines continued to be sold under the label until the arrival of Prohibition in 1920. The winery reopened briefly to sell wine in bulk in the 1930s, but the winery building burnt down in 1939. Four years later, Martin Stelling bought most of the property – 337 acres – and replanted. He sold 90 acres to Beaulieu Vineyard (the block that became known as BV4 – and was the plot used by André Tschelistcheff made Georges de Latour Reserve). In 1944, Stelling bought an additional 1,700 acres – the McGill Ranch, which included the parcels owned by Doak (both Crabb’s 1891 parcel and the 500 acres area south of Oakville Grade Road). He named the entire property Tokalon Vineyards, and in 1945 planted Sauvignon Blanc in I Block – the legendary parcel that is today used for Mondavi’s prized, old-vine To Kalon Fumé Blanc.  Tragedy struck again, however, with Stelling killed in a car crash in 1950. The property was once more divided, sold off in pieces by his widow.   
Rosa Mondavi, along with her sons Robert and Peter, purchased 132 hectares in 1962 for the family winery, Charles Krug. After Robert struck out on his own, he bought 12 acres for himself in 1966 (that remained in the Stelling family) – in the northeast corner of the 1968 Crabb parcel, where the Mondavi winery and visitor centre remains today. He bought a further 230 acres in 1968, and then took the Charles Krug section from the rest of his family in 1978. The first time the To Kalon name appeared on a Mondavi label – and the first time since the demise of the To Kalon Vineyard Company – was on the 1986 Fumé Blanc Reserve. The I Block – the Sauvignon Blanc vines planted by Stelling in 1945 – were singled out for the first time in 1995, for the vines’ 50th anniversary. The first red – Mondavi’s To Kalon Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon – appeared with the 1997 vintage. The To Kalon Vineyard’s terroir As already mentioned, To Kalon is largely an alluvial fan that stretches down from the Mayacamas to Highway 29. It is, however, a large piece of land (the exact area depending on where you draw its borders – see below for more on the controversy around this) – and as such the terroir varies considerably. The soils are richer downslope, closer to the Highway; poorer and better-drained higher up (where many – including Hobbs and Kenward – prefer to be). The gravel composition varies with the subtle slope differences and underground water.  “It’s like any cut of meat – there are better parts than others,” Hobbs says. With over 300 original acres (at least), this is a substantial vineyard (for comparison, Clos Vougeot is 125 acres). “It’s great if you have the name To Kalon, but could be pretty average stuff.” The Beckstoffer section is numbered and lettered: A to F, from road to mountain, with A1 south of A2. For Hobbs, he likes the blocks closer to the mountains, and those that aren’t shaded by the huge walnut trees that line Walnut Drive (to the south). Hobbs noted how much warmer Oakville is than Yountville – something he used to notice when driving in the evening home from Oakville to Yountville. The mountains block the sea breezes, meaning that the cooling effect happens, but more slowly. This is partly what makes it such a special place. Tor Kenward similarly prefers some of the middle blocks in B and C, where there are some of the vineyard’s oldest vines, but with lower vigour, as well as the leaner soils closest to the mountains. As for the MacDonald or Horton block: “You could argue it’s every bit as good as Andy’s piece,” Kenward says. It, along with the Detert block, was planted in the 1940s – and in fact those two blocks are now home to some of the valley’s oldest vines. Even closer to the mountains, the gravel content is even higher, and the fruit is picked up to a month earlier than elsewhere in To Kalon. Although until now most of that fruit has been sold to Constellation, there will be opportunity for others to work with it as that contract comes to an end.   
The Beckstoffer plots of To Kalon Andy Beckstoffer bought Beaulieu Vineyard’s block, BV4, in 1993. He’d just lost a prized site – Liparita, on Howell Mountain – when the 89 acres of BV4 came up. He’d worked the site for years and leapt at the opportunity to buy it. “It’s a mystery to me why they sold it,” Paul Hobbs told me, although word on the grapevine was that they needed to liquidate funds – indeed, it was around the same time that Mondavi went public for similar reasons. Phylloxera was once more raging through the region thanks to the widely used, non-resistant AXR rootstock.  The BV4 block was in bad shape when Beckstoffer took it over and he had to replant the entire site. Paul Hobbs was one of the first to use fruit from Beckstoffer’s plots, starting to work with him from 1995/96. “Andy didn’t really realise he had a Grand Cru property,” Hobbs says. Hobbs was given free rein to pick his plots, opting for four or five plots on the western side, furthest from Highway 29. The vineyard produced its first fruit in 1997; 1998 was a difficult year; but in 1999 Hobbs was able to produce his first To Kalon bottling (although it couldn’t say so on the label). “I was loathe to tell people how young it was – but the quality was so good,” Hobbs says, still starry eyed thinking about it. “It was only four years old, but producing stunning wines.” Most fruit is sold on its weight, by the ton, but Andy Beckstoffer created a different model – one that is intricately tied to the vineyard’s name and reputation – and arguably has increased its reputation. Producers who use his fruit pay him 175 times the bottle price per ton, with a ceiling at $50,000/ton; tying the value of the fruit to the value of the final wine. “For producers like me in those days, when I didn’t have the land or ability to buy land, Andy was a saviour of sorts,” Hobbs tells me. “Because I had access to one of the top vineyards in all of Napa. I had to pay – but at least I had access.”
  The To Kalon controversy: how big is it? And is it a brand or a place? Mondavi trademarked the name “To Kalon” in 1988, and “To Kalon Vineyard” in 1994. This gave them the right to use the name on any wine from anywhere – even beyond California – and meant that no one else could use the name, even if they had plots in what was considered the original To Kalon vineyard. The first Beckstoffer bottlings only mentioned the name on the back label; but in 2000, Schrader decided to put it on the front label. The now famous lawsuit commenced. “They shouldn’t have been able to trademark it,” Hobbs tells me. “Anyone from the original To Kalon estate should have the right to the trademark as well.” In 2002, Mondavi sued Schrader for using the name on their Beckstoffer bottling. Countersuing ensued, from both Schrader and Beckstoffer (the latter arguing that Mondavi was misleading clients by using the name for wines made with fruit from beyond the vineyard’s original borders). A settlement – the details of which remain a mystery – was made in 2003, but wines made from the Beckstoffer section can now bear the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon”.  Constellation bought Mondavi in 2004, and then Schrader in 2017. Reportedly attempts were made to trademark “To Kalon Wine Company”, “To Kalon Vineyard Company” and “Rooted in To Kalon” – something, unsurprisingly, that Beckstoffer objected to. The legal battle continues today, with a fight over the naming of To Kalon Creek, and The Vineyard House – owned by Jeremy Nickel, which sits on the 1889 hillside section – arguing for the use of the name as well.  The borders of the vineyard are a constant source of debate – and given the history above, you can see why.  Andy Beckstoffer considers the original To Kalon to be only the parcels bought by Crabb in 1868 and 1881. The 1889 parcel was never planted by Crabb, so most aren’t inclined to include it as “original To Kalon”. The Detert and MacDonald plots, however, aren’t acknowledged by Beckstoffer, but were planted – and, albeit more briefly than other plots, owned by Crabb. Then there’s the “Stelling extension”, the southern section added after Crabb’s death under Martin Stelling, that Mondavi considers part of the original vineyard, but some others do not. Given the sums fruit – and wine – bearing the To Kalon name command, it’s unsurprising that its usage is so disputed.  
To Kalon: what does the wine taste like?  So what makes the wine so special? Why do winemakers fight for the fruit, and consumers for the bottles they produce? Despite the sheer variety of the site, Tor Kenward is adamant that there’s a continuity, with a profile that that site gives Cabernet. He describes it as “wall-to-wall carpeting”, a plushness to the mid-palate, a softness, that means the Cabernet isn’t hard-edged. “There’s something about the ground there,” Andy Erickson agrees. For him, To Kalon has a distinct tannin texture – not as rugged as hillside sites, but richer, with a generosity in the wines. “They are dark, aromatic, but very broad and polished,” he says. “I think the vineyard brings forward many of the complexities of Cabernet Sauvignon, but delivers it in a very approachable and elegant package.” “It’s very identifiable,” Paul Hobbs says. “It’s a structural and textural thing mostly. It’s a freshness to this sort of tannin. It has grip, but it has this uplifting character.” He explains it like a skipping stone – you think you’ve got it, then another wave comes, the wine shifting on the palate. For him, one of the most distinctive things is that Cabernet sings alone here – much better than blended with other varietals. “It didn’t need the help of its brothers,” he says. “It’s a wine that’s at peace with itself… It doesn’t shock you, except in its beauty.”
 Who owns what today in To Kalon? Robert Mondavi: From the original 12 acres, Mondavi now owns 328 acres of To Kalon, including the Stelling extension. Has the rights to use the To Kalon name.  Opus One: The 35-acre Q Block was sold to the joint venture by Mondavi in 1981, with K block acquired in 2008. Although under Constellation’s ownership they could likely use the To Kalon name, Opus One doesn’t trade on this. (To Kalon Vineyard Company uses fruit from Constellation’s holdings, both Opus One and Mondavi plots.) UC Davis: a research block that was key in developing phylloxera-resistant rootstock
Beckstoffer: 89 acres, with fruit sold to a range of producers (currently 23), including Paul Hobbs, Tor Kenward and Schrader. Producers can use the name “Beckstoffer To Kalon” on their labels. MacDonald (sometimes referenced as Horton): Graeme and Alex MacDonald are the current generation, owning 21 acres of the 1891 parcel. When their great-grandparents bought the site in 1954 (along with the Detert plot – see below – from Caroline Stelling, Martin Stelling’s widow) it was planted with cherry trees. Advised by Robert Mondavi, the MacDonalds planted vines. From 1966, they sold grapes to Mondavi – holding some back for personal use from 2004, with the first MacDonald commercial release in 2010 (just 92 cases). Although historically 75% of production here has been sold to Mondavi, I’m led to believe that the contract is coming to a close and won’t be renewed. The MacDonalds can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines currently. Detert: Today owned by Tom Garrett, a cousin of the MacDonalds. This 25-acre plot was bought in 1954, along with the MacDonald parcel – divided between the buyers’ children giving the two plots today. There’s more Cabernet Franc in this section. Most of the fruit is sold to Mondavi (with the contract, as for MacDonald, coming to an end soon), and Detert can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines. The Vineyard House: Many dispute whether or not this is original To Kalon; it’s on the hillside area purchased (but not planted) by Crabb in 1891. This plot is owned by Jeremy Justin Nickel, who is the son of the late Far Niente proprietor Gil Nickel. It’s thought to have first been planted with vines in 1980. They can’t use the To Kalon name on their wines, but have taken court action over the issue.  Wineries with To Kalon bottlings  NB Not all of these will bear the To Kalon name on the label Mondavi Winery, Opus One, To Kalon Vineyard Company, MacDonald, Detert, Alpha Omega, Amici, Alejandro Bulgheroni Estate, AXR, Bacio Divino, B Cellars, Boich Family, Bounty Hunter, Cain Concept, Carter cellars, Ch Boswell, Jacquelynn, Kitchak, Cliff Lede, Morlet, Realm Cellars, Tor Kenward, Paul Hobbs, Schrader Cellars Read more Editorial 

The Napa Valley has many incredible vineyards, but To Kalon undoubtedly sits at the top of the tree. As the To Kalon Vineyard Company releases their latest vintage, Sophie Thorpe delves into the story of this iconic site – from its 19th century origins to the fight to use its hallowed name

Explore the history of To Kalon vineyard – and what makes it such an iconic site today. We spoke to Andy Erickson, Paul Hobbs and Tor Kenward to find out more

The tale of Napa’s iconic To Kalon vineyard

The tale of To Kalon

Lebanon's lost legacy: viticulture Despite being more southerly than the great wine regions of Europe, the Beka'a’s elevated altitude on average around 1000m above sea level – means that it’s a full 10ºC cooler than Lebanon’s Mediterranean coastline. The climate is positively European with wet, often snowy winters and warm, dry summers. It’s very well suited to winemaking, a local craft that dates back millennia. Lebanon itself is geographically situated in the cradle of civilisation. It was here, even before
the Greeks and Romans emerged as dominant cultures in the Mediterranean, and the Canaanites (later known as Phoenicians), peace-loving traders from the Levant, established some of the earliest known well-organised cities: the trading ports of Byblos, Sidon and Tyre. Phoenician culture was at its peak between 1500 and 300BC – a period that saw them explore and dominate the Mediterranean, developing trade routes, setting up outposts and cities as far afield as North Africa (Carthage, now Tunis, Tunisia) and the Iberian peninsula (Gadir, now Cádiz, Spain). The word ‘Phoenician’ directly connects the people of the Levant with both an impressive entrepreneurial spirit and an awe-inspiring work ethic. More precisely, it is an exonym originating from ancient Greek that describes Tyrian purple. This highly prized dye was a major export of the Canaanite port towns, in particular Tyre, hence the name. The labour-intensive production of the colour involved collecting the mucous secretions of thousands of sea snails. 12,000 snails yield a paltry 1.5 grams of dye – which is why it was so highly prized and the clothes it coloured were reserved for royalty. Tyrian purple was not the only ingenious product that the Phoenicians exported. Their legacy also includes the invention of glass-blowing techniques, and the development of the very first abstract (non-figurative) writing system (from which the Greek alphabet was derived) is credited to the Phoenicians and their Canaanite ancestors. It was almost certainly developed primarily to keep records of sales and ultimately function as an essential accounting tool. We also have the Phoenicians to thank for the word ‘Europe’ – which comes from their word ‘Erob’ meaning ‘where the sun sets’. While it is thought that the world’s first-ever wine was made over 8,000 years ago in the Caucasus Mountains between the Black and Caspian Seas to the northeast of the Levant, it was the Phoenicians that produced, exported and made famous the ‘fragrant wines of Lebanon’ mentioned in the Bible’s old testament (Hosea 14:7). And with their grip on Mediterranean trade, they marketed it and exported it along with, crucially, the knowledge of how to make it. The agricultural treatises of Carthaginian writer Mago, (thought to be writing around 350 BC) were among the most important early texts in the history of wine to record ancient knowledge of winemaking and viticulture. It’s important to remember the function of wine in society in Phoenician times. It wasn’t just a drink. It was, rather like the Tyrian purple dye, complicated and labour intensive to make, exceptionally highly prized and valuable and not just because of how it tasted – but because of its effect and function.  Biomolecular Archaeologist Professor Pat McGovern at the University of Pennsylvania Museum is a specialist in fermented beverages and his research reveals more about wine in Phoenician life. “The wines of ancient Lebanon and Syria,” he says, “were much more than a technological marvel. They were the social lubricants to break down barriers, stimulate music and the arts and bring people together. They were the supreme religious symbol for prosperity and well-being, in life as well as death. And they were the medicines for dissolving and dispensing botanicals, to rest the weary, relieve pain and cure disease.” Taking their wine to the Pharoahs of Egypt and further west to Portugal to trade it for local silver and tin, Phoenician winemaking equipment has been discovered in Valepeñas in Spain. As Phoenicians established Cádiz (Spain) as early as 1100BC, it is most likely that Phoenician wines – not Roman wines – were the forerunners to sherry. Perhaps the most enduring legacy of these seafaring traders was, in fact, the propagation of ancestral grapevines from the Levant that ampelographers believe gave rise to several modern grape varieties in Europe. According to research published by the University of California-Davis on the Integrated Viticulture Online Database, the French wine grape Mourvèrde may have first been introduced to the wine region of Catalonia around 500BC. By 64BC, Seleucid Syria and Lebanon had been annexed to the Roman empire by emperor Pompey. Peace and prosperity followed as the people of Byblos, Tyre and Sidon were granted Roman citizenship. Trade boomed and new wealth generated from exports of cedar, pottery, jewellery, perfume, purple dye and wine to Rome, enabled an era of widespread construction and urban development. One of the building projects the Romans invested in at this time was the enhancement of the already millennia-old temple complex at Baalbek in the Beka'a Valley. At a site which the Greeks and the Romans referred to as Heliopolis 'the City of the Sun' (where Phoenician god Ba’al had once been worshipped), the Romans rebuilt and reconsecrated the temples to their gods Jupiter, Venus and Bacchus, gods of wine, fertility, ritual madness, festivity, dance and theatre. The 700-acre site remains, to this day, the largest and best preserved Roman temple complex anywhere in the Empire. How the ancients moved the 800-ton quarried stone blocks that form the base of the temples still baffles the world’s brightest engineers. The temple to Bacchus at Baalbek is a monument to the importance of wine in the region, and the site became a symbol of Lebanon itself in the 1960s, thanks to the cultural impact of the Baalbek International Festival. Established in the mid-1950s, the festival brought celebration, theatre, music and dance back to the site through performances by international music stars and, crucially, nurtured and celebrated home-grown talent, perhaps most famously Fairouz and the Rahbani Brothers who became huge stars in Lebanon and right across the Arab world. Lebanon’s potent winemaking heritage is not lost on the makers of Chateau Musar. Far from it. As well as its vineyards in the Beka'a, the winery also grows vines near Byblos and the Hochar family’s charismatic winemaker, Tarek Sakr, is as passionate about the history of the land as he is about the grapes he grows there. “Byblos has been known since Phoenician times as an exporter of cedar wood and wine,” he enthuses. “Vines were cultivated in the hills surrounding Byblos, fermented in stone vats dug into the landscape. Then, the wine was put in Canaanite jars (these were the predecessor of the Greek amphora – yes, Phoenicians invented these too), sealed with resin to stop oxidation, and taken to the harbour for export.” Tarek also tells of a recently discovered archaeological site in the village of Edde a few kilometres from Byblos. “The site suggests that most of the hills near the city have been growing vines for thousands of years. This makes sense as the place where our nearby vineyards are located, on a hill overlooking Byblos, is called Vines Passage. You can smell the history of winemaking here. This is undoubtedly the birthplace of viticulture.” While he has spent many years planting and tending to its vines as an integral part of the Musar winemaking process, Tarek’s knowledge of and connection to the land and its ancient traditions run even deeper than his many years of experience. The result of a DNA test found that he is genuinely of Phoenician descent. It would seem that when it comes to Lebanon’s unrivalled contribution to the world of wine, we still have much to thank the Phoenicians for. Explore more Editorial 

Most of Chateau Musar’s vines are grown in Lebanon’s Beka'a Valley, a fertile plain about 30km east of Beirut, situated between Mount Lebanon on the west and the Anti-Lebanon mountains to the east. 

Most of Chateau Musar’s vines are grown in Lebanon’s Beka'a Valley. We look into the viticultural legacy of the region and the impact of the cultural heritage

The wines of Lebanon

The wines of Lebanon: a phoenician phenomenon

Alsace – Olivier Humbrecht Food and wine are taken very seriously indeed in Alsace and Olivier has provided a wealth of options to consider. Worth noting, Alsace has more Michelin-starred restaurants than anywhere else in France. Top recommendations for wine lists at reasonable prices in the region are Tavernes lsacienne in Ingersheim and Restaurant de la Gare in Guewenheim. The best for food /wine list combo would be Villa Lalique in Wingen sur Moder, Chambard in Kayserberg. Table du Gourmet (1 Michelin Star) in Riquewihr and Auberge Bouc Bleu in Beblenheim. For a special occasion, don’t miss Aub de l’Ill (€€€) in Illhausern, which is a 2 Michelin Star restaurant. It was in fact a 3 Michelin Star restaurant up until recently but for Olivier it still is very much a 3 Star and worth the visit. 
Burgundy - Christophe Roumier "If you consider Burgundy to be larger than only the Cote de Beaune and Cote de Nuits, then my favourite restaurant is certainly Aux Terrasses in Tournus, which although only one Michelin Star, has a lovely creative cuisine full of energy and based mainly around local produce. The wine list is just perfect, although, like many places, it's full of young vintages. I like this place a lot! Closer to Beaune, one of my favourite restaurants is Hostellerie de Levernois for the high level of its cuisine and its very accomplished wine list. But here the place is a little more fancy." Brunello di Montalcino – Gianlorenzo Neri The most authentic place in Montalcino area is Trattoria Il Pozzo or Il Leccio in Sant'Angelo in Colle (a village in south area of Montalcino). Inside Montalcino village do not miss Il Giglio, Alle Logge di Piazza, and Drogheria Franci. For special fine dining you must try Osticcio. The best wine lists in town are at Il Giglio (you can find very old and rare vintages of Brunello from great wineries) as well as Drogheria Franci (same ownership of Enoteca La Fortezza who have an extensive wine list to choose from). Do not miss "Pinci" with meat sauce or pecorino cheese and pepper (in italian "cacio e pepe"), it is the typical pasta of the area, or "Peposo" which is a braised beef meat cooked in
a Brunello sauce. Santa Barbara – Matt Dees (Jonata & The Hilt) For dinner I would recommend the El Encanto restaurant which has beautiful sweeping views across Santa Barbara city. The food is awesome too. Don’t forget to stop off at the Mercado Ice Cream Parlour too. This place has got to be making some of the best ice cream in California. The Lark is pretty awesome. My personal favourite is Ca’Dario, a sort of no thrills Italian restaurant - the food is really authentic. We also have some of the best Mexican food being made in the US. These restaurants really are some of the jewels of the city. I love El Bagio
but there are loads of great ones to choose from! 
Chablis – Olivier Bailly – Domaine Billaud Simon Too few people make the one hour drive from the Cote d’Or to Chablis; the region is an overlooked culinary hot spot that offers exceptional value compared to the Cote d’Or. Olivier Bailly’s favourite restaurant in Chablis is Au Fil du Zinc for "the precision" of the Japanese Chef. According to Olivier, "he produces very good French cooking with a Japanese influence". Le Syracuse is another restaurant he recommends for the quality-to-price
ratio: "it is excellent!" 
Burgundy - Veronique Drouhin Veronique Drouhin also recommends the Bistrot du Bord de L'Eau in the commune of Livernois (just outside of Beaune). She describes it as “delicious, fairly priced and a lovely location both indoors and outdoors if the weather suits". Another recommendation is the L'Hermitage de Corton, just outside of Beaune, on the way to Aloxe Corton. Again it offers "delicious food at a good price in a beautiful setting... plus
the owners are delightful". If you find yourself in the centre of Beaune, Drouhin recommends Le Carmin, “a one Michelin star restaurant, worthy of the star”. For 'bar and tapas' style evening with friends, her pick is the gastro-bar Maison du Colombier. Another recommendation in Beaune is Le Bistrot des Cocottes: “nice, fun, very good”.

For any true epicurean, a list of top restaurants requires serious deliberation. We asked some of our favourite winemakers from around the world to give their recommendations, including Olivier Humbrecht, Christophe Roumier, Gianlorenzo Neri and more…

Winemakers Olivier Humbrecht, Christophe Roumier, Gianlorenzo Neri and more name their top restaurants

Where winemakers eat, part one

Where winemakers eat: Part one

Saude Creek Vineyards

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