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  

Looking across the dramatic slopes of the Douro Valley, it’s easy to imagine that time has stood still here. While Port is steeped in tradition, however, recent decades have seen it leap into the modern era – with no shortage of diverging opinions about the “right” way to produce Port. Just put a handful of the region’s finest in a room and ask about co-planted or monovarietal vineyards, granite or stainless steel, de-stemmed or whole-bunch fruit, trodden by foot or machine, and feel the temperature rise as the debate unfurls.  There is, however, one element that gets surprisingly little press – the all-important fortification, an element that arguably defines Port, and until relatively recently was out of winemakers’ control. Originally spirit was added to harden the wines for long journeys in ships’ bows, preparing them for long voyages, and only became standard in the 19th century.   Once the fruit has been picked, trodden and starts fermenting, producers add spirit – or aguardente, often colloquially (and erroneously) referred to as “brandy” – to halt fermentation, thereby retaining the natural grape sugars that give Port its signature sweetness. The wine is a mere 5-6% alcohol at this stage, and the fortification brings it up to between 19 and 22%. Given the strength that the wine needs to reach, this spirit represents a massive 20% of the final product. Legally, aguardente must be a grape spirit of 77% – significantly lower in strength than the spirits used for other fortified wines (such as Madeira or Vins Doux Naturels, which use a highly rectified grape spirit of 95-96%). This lower alcoholic strength is key; meaning the spirit is less neutral, and therefore has even more of an impact on the final wine.  This spirit has a rocky history which isn’t free from scandal. After a local shortage, 1904 became known as the “Schnapps vintage” – having been fortified largely with a German spirit made from potato and grain. The 1972, ’73 and ’74 vintages saw industrial alcohol used instead of grape distillate. (Responsibility for this latter fraud fell to a French supplier who duped the unknowing Casa do Douro into buying Yugoslavian spirit.) Besides these occasional lapses, the spirit was mainly made from excess wine in the Douro during 19th and early 20th century, but in 1907 the Portuguese Prime Minister João Franco banned the distillation of wine from the Douro, meaning aguardente had to be found elsewhere. Despite presenting 20% of the wine, the spirit used today is far from local, sourced from far beyond Portuguese borders (often Spain and France).  The key date – however – is 1991. Under the authoritarian Estado Novo regime in the early 1930s, a monopoly on the spirit was established, with its supply state-controlled. This continued for over half a century, via the Casa do Douro, and then from 1976 via the Instituto do Vinho do Porto e Douro or IVDP. The freedom to choose which spirit used was only granted to shippers in 1991 – something that David Guimaraens (Head Winemaker at Taylor Fladgate) argues is one of the most significant changes in Port.  “We had no choice, the spirit quality was very average,” Guimaraens laments of the old days. He returned to Portugal, fresh from studying at Australia’s leading winemaking school Roseworthy, in 1990 – just before the shippers gained the freedom to choose their own spirit. “When you use a very clean, fine spirit, when it is young, your fruitiness comes out much more – making it more appealing in youth, almost entirely because of the quality of the spirit,” he explains. He cites two examples – Taylor’s Vargellas Vinha Velha and Croft’s Sērikos – both wines which are made from 100-year-old vineyards, made as they always have been in granite lagares. It is, he argues, only the spirit that has changed in these Ports.   For Guimaraens, the quality of spirit is most apparent in a vintage Port’s “teenage” phase – between 14 and 19 years of age, when it is starting to lose its fruit but not yet fully developed bottle maturity. This transitional phase is, in his view “much more attractive than it used to be in the past”, meaning Port drinkers are safer opening a bottle at any stage of its life. He points to 2000 as a pivotal vintage, when the quality of spirit started to really improve and produce, in his view, some of the region’s finest wines.  “Spirit has been crucial,” Richard Mayson – writer and author specializing in the wines of Portugal – agrees. “When vinification techniques were experimental – the late 1960s, ‘70s and ‘80s – you can certainly taste the poor quality spirit in the thinner-quality wines.” He explains that this period saw massive emigration and a resulting shortage of feet to tread the region’s harvests. The early autovinifiers used in lieu of the traditional foot-treading simply didn’t result in the same level of extraction – and therefore have, over time, revealed the underlying spirit quality. There are, of course, exceptions – with some great wines made. He, however, like Guimaraens, feels the 2000 vintage marked a real shift in the class of spirit used.  The uptick in the quality of spirit is one of the reasons – along with the quality of the fruit, viticulture and more – that Carlos Agrellos of Quinta do Noval feels the property has been able to declare every vintage since 2011. “It’s extremely important to choose the right one,” Carlos Agrellos of Quinta do Noval explains of the spirit. He is one of a group of 20 companies – including Niepoort – who have, over the past five years, clubbed together to buy spirit. As smaller operatives, grouping together gives them more clout, enabling them to secure higher-quality spirit for their wines – and fair prices. Each May they meet in Gaia, tasting through a selection of spirits sent over by three or four different producers – all of which are scored blind. In 2020, they tasted 20 different spirits that were approved.   The results of the tasting are shared with everyone, then each company will decide which they wish to buy for their wines. The spirits come from southern France, Spain or Portugal. There are two categories of spirit –those distilled from wine and those from wine lees. The two are very different: the former is favoured by most – having more delicate, fruit and floral aromatics; while the latter was only approved for use in 2014, and is usually stronger in flavour. While in general “wine” spirits are generally the best, the spirits from lees can offer additional complexity. “At Noval,” Agrellos explains, “we tend to blend these two and use them for different types of wine, from white Port to Tawny to Vintage Ports.” There’s no fixed blend, and it varies from year to year, but he tends to use both – with higher-grade spirits for Vintage Ports.   Symington and Fladgate – the giants of the Port trade – purchase such large volumes that they buy their spirit independently. Tom Symington – fifth-generation family member and part of the winemaking team – explains that the spirit used to be a wider cut, and today it’s narrower, resulting in a purer spirit. “We focus on the neutrality, the aromas and the way it reacts with the wine,” he says.   Talking to producers about the style of spirit they look for, there is a general consensus that neutrality is desirable – to what extent, however, varies significantly. Agrellos aims for a more neutral, but slightly floral spirit. The most important thing for him, however, is the volume on the palate: he believes that it is this volume and texture of spirit that is most important for vintage Port. “It’s what will hold the wines for years to come,” he says. He values this above and beyond aromatics, while of course looking for something very pure. It’s this texture that leads him to use some wine-lees distillate – which has much more to offer in that regard, as well as its stronger flavour. The wine distillate by contrast tends to be purer in terms of aromatics, and is sometimes even double-distilled.  While Symington uses the same spirit across all their Ports, David Guimaraens looks to use a different style of spirit depending on the style of Port in question. He is clear, however, that it shouldn’t be part of the house style – but a “neutral oenological product”. He chooses to use one batch of spirit across each style for all the houses, not wanting it to be a differentiating factor, or dominate the quality of the fruit. For example, the spirit used for his vintage wines costs twice as much as that for the most entry-level wines – “And you get your return,” he notes.  He blends his own “master spirit”, combining batches sourced mostly from Portugal and France. “In the early days, it wasn’t as simple as using a clean spirit. To get spirit we wanted, we had to get the wines fermented in a particular way,” Guimaraens explains. With an overly neutral spirit, you risk ending up with a lighter Port; but too high a component of higher alcohol and it interferes with the wine’s organoleptic character, subduing the fruit. Too many spirits are made with excess bulk wine – rather than wine that has been fermented with the express purpose of producing spirit.  Dirk Niepoort favours quality and a little bit of character. “The purest, the best, the most harmonious – but not necessarily the most neutral one” is what he looks for, he explains. At the group tastings, his tastes are reportedly well known, with many of his colleagues able to identify the aguardente he will choose. His preferred spirits are finer, lighter, with more precision, but – importantly – also character. He finds that they tend to come from France, often from Cognac, from vineyards specifically planted with the idea of producing a distillate – not just excess wine. “Our grapes are too good for distillation,” Niepoort explains – the best spirits, in his view, are made with grapes from cool climates, with high yields and high acidity. He normally chooses three different spirits, depending on availability and price, with the very best spirit reserved for his top wines. For any organic wines, of course, they require an organic distillate.   While Niepoort admits the quality of spirit has improved, he doesn’t believe that the quality was nearly as bad as some – such as Guimaraens – imply, telling me people are unnecessarily “ferocious” about it. “I think the Port Wine Institute did a fantastic job in selecting huge amounts of spirit. Considering the huge quantity needed, the average quality was extremely high.” It certainly isn’t stopping him drinking fine vintage Ports – such as a bottle of 1963 Noval he had the pleasure of uncorking recently. Nevertheless, he doesn’t deny that it was a significant step not having to buy a mass product, and it has really opened the market.  It’s not as simple as winemakers having total autonomy, however, with a strict approval system via the IVDP to ensure the quality of spirit being used meets their standards. “It’s not only complicated – it’s expensive,” Niepoort says of the process. He’s found it a struggle to get some spirits approved, with, for example, double-distilled spirits harder to get sign-off than column-distilled liquids – a clear source of frustration. While the process is clearly there to control quality, producers aren’t abusing this independence; in general they are spending more money than ever before – making the whole thing, in Niepoort’s view, futile. “We should have some freedom to do what we want,” he says.  Tom Symington feels that it’s more than just the quality of spirit that has improved the quality of Port. He believes other developments have been more significant, particularly emphasising advancements in winemaking (highlighting the introduction of stainless steel as well as robotic lagares) and viticulture, especially monovarietal vineyards which – he considers – allow them to achieve perfect phenolic ripeness, with no green or raisined fruit. It is more than just the equipment, he notes – it’s the know-how gained over time, and most importantly balancing that with tradition.  “Of course the modern young people will tell you that viticulture is much better today,” says Niepoort dismissively. He prefers to work with old-fashioned growers. Over 90% of his vineyards are over 60 years in age and traditional field blends. He feels that the shift to monovarietal vineyards – dedicated only to five of the region’s many indigenous varieties – is, along with a move toward de-stemmed fruit rather than foot-trodden whole bunches, responsible for changing the style of Port. “The wines became fruitier and darker, but at the same time, thinner,” he explains. Niepoort historically didn’t make any Port themselves, and the 1994 vintage was the first they produced in-house. For him, this shift – from the 1970s and ‘80s – for shippers to own vineyards, rather than merely buying wine in, is the greatest advancement in the region.  The Douro Valley has seen a run of top-rated vintages – with universal declarations in 2011, 2016 and 2017, and some shippers declaring 2018 and now 2019 (including Niepoort). The general rule of three declarations per decade looks set to become a thing of the past. How much can this be attributed to aguardente? Relatively little, perhaps, however it’s hard to argue that this liquid – making up a fifth of the final wine – doesn’t have a role – and depending on who you talk to, the heart – to producing the very best Port.   Read more Editorial or browse our range of Port

Port is much more than just wine. “Brandy” or aguardente makes up 20% of every bottle – and some argue that a shift in the quality of this spirit is key to the wines’ superiority in the last 20 years. Sophie Thorpe finds out more about the firewater that defines the Douro’s age-old fortified wines 

Exploring the firewater – “Brandy” or aguardente that makes up 20% of every bottle – which defines the Douro’s age-old fortified Port wines.

Aguardente vinica and its role in Port winemaking

A spirited debate: the tale of Port’s 20%

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

Quality in the Douro Valley has arguably never been higher – with a run of recent vintages universally declared (2011, 2016, 2017). The 2018 vintage was declared by some and, in the last few weeks, Sogevinus and Niepoort have declared 2019. These Ports, however, won’t be ready for years – so what should you be drinking in the meantime?  When to drink vintage Port  Traditionally Port is considered to go through phases: its open, ebullient youth; a sometimes tricky teenage phase; and then – once the wines hit their 20s – the wines open out, becoming more approachable with additional layers of complexity.  While the British palate might be more attuned to mature wines, it’s not true of everywhere. Anthony Symington notes that while the British go for Ports that are 20+ years old, in America, France and Portugal, vintage Ports tend to be drunk around the 10-year-old mark.   “I get a lot of personal enjoyment between four and 12 years of age, when fruit is your main character,” the Fladgate Partnership’s David Guimaraens says. “It’s a magical time to drink vintage Port.” The “teenage” phase – between 14 to 19 years – is a safer time to open bottles than it used to be, he argues, but is inevitably a transitional phase, with the fruit fading and bottle maturity just developing. It is, in his view, worth waiting for the complexity that comes with 20 years in bottle or more.  Which wines to drink now  Such is the quality of recent vintages, Dirk Niepoort even suggests that 2017 and ’15 can be drunk now. For him, however, “Old proper Port is the king of Ports.” With that in mind, he suggests that anything between 1987 and 2011 are currently closed; but savour the 1980, ’82, ’83 and ‘87s. The 1977s are still a bit closed, although he thinks it’s “a great year”. For him, 1970 remains under-valued – a vintage that he rates higher than 1963. It’s a year worth looking out for, he says, particularly because everyone did well – so there’s little risk, whichever producer you are drinking. It’s one of his favourites, an old-fashioned vintage with the emphasis on spice rather than fruit, with fantastic tannins and lots of structure.  Of course some years are better than others. Symington notes that if you can track down 1945s or ‘24s, these legendary vintages are still drinking beautifully now. As for other wines that are at their zenith, he suggests the classic 1963 (“the vintage that saved Port”), ’66 and ’70 – all of which he feels are in their prime. The wines from the ‘80s are just moving from that secondary to tertiary stage – and ’80, ’83 and ’85 are “more concentrated, but beautiful, velvety wines”.   Carlos Agrellos of Quinta do Noval splits wines from the property into pre and post AXA (AXA Millésimes acquired the property in 1993). He personally prefers wines that are around 15-20 years old, feeling the wines benefit from time in bottle; however he also notes how much more drinkable the wines are in their youth today, thanks to advancements in viticulture and winemaking. From the pre-AXA era, he highlights what he deems “iconic wines” – the 1931, the 1963 (“absolutely stunning”) and 1970.  Under AXA’s ownership, he starts with the 1994 – the first vintage released under AXA – feeling that both Noval and Nacional “are showing brilliantly now”. Looking just at Noval, he favours ’97, 2000 (a year of which he’s “really fond”), ’03 and ’07 – the latter which, even though it’s only 13 years old is, in his view, “delicious… with stunning balance”. After that, the 2011 – “It’s a stunner.”  As for Nacional, he suggests uncorking 1931, ’63, ’66, ’70, ’94, ’97 and 2003 – but advises, given the wine’s concentration, to hold anything younger. He emphasises the importance of cellaring the wines properly – best done by purchasing on release.  Guimaraens highlights that single quinta vintage Ports tend to be more approachable and enjoyable in their youth (wines that he notes still offer “incredible value for money”), given they tend to be less structured. Looking at single quintas that can be uncorked earlier with less guilt, he suggests savouring anything back to the 2005s, which all still have beautiful fruit – the 2008s in particular, he notes, are in a beautiful phase. As for classic vintage Ports, Guimaraens favours cooler years in their youth: “The 2016s – classics – are the epitome of purity of fruit,” he explains. The 2017s, by contrast, from a hotter year have harder tannins and warmer fruit which need time to mellow. For mature Ports – those in that “magical place” – he’s drinking mostly 2000s at home, a year that he considers “almost perfection in vintage Port”. Otherwise, drink the 1992s and ‘97s – but be patient with ‘94s; crack on with 2000s and 2007s (another cool year), but leave any 2003s (“a huge year”) tucked away for the foreseeable.   The Port vintages to drink now For a more youthful style: 2007, 2011, 2015, 2016, 2017  Mature wines: 1963, 1966, 1970, 1979, 1980, 1983, 1985, 1987, 1992, 1994, 1997, 2000, 2003  And if you can find them: 1924, 1931, 1945  Browse all Port or read more Editorial

Ahead of St George’s Day – the day on which Port houses traditionally declare a vintage – we caught up with the Douro Valley’s leading producers to find out which vintage Ports you should be uncorking now 

Exploring the top vintage Ports you should be uncorking now with the Douro Valley’s leading producers

Port vintages to drink now

What is Port? Port is a fortified wine made in the Douro Valley in Portugal. Traditionally the wines were shipped along the river to Oporto (also known as Porto), from which the wine takes its name. A huge number of grapes are permitted for Port production, however, there are five main varieties used: Touriga Nacional (widely thought to be the best grape for Port, giving its name to Quinta do Noval’s top wine, Nacional), Tinta Barroca, Touriga Franca (or Touriga Francesa), Tinta Roriz (aka Tempranillo) and Tinto Cão. The vineyards sit on steep, terraced slopes alongside the Douro river. Thanks to these vertiginous slopes, much of the vineyard work has to be done by hand, with little mechanization possible. The further inland you go – moving east from Oporto – the hotter and drier the climate becomes. The vineyard area is divided into three key regions: Baixo Corgo: The coolest and wettest region which produces the lightest wines. Cima Corgo: With lower rainfall and higher temperatures, this is the traditional area for the best Port wines. Douro Superior: Particularly dry and hot, this lesser-planted region nevertheless can produce very high-quality wines. For red wines, the grapes are trodden – traditionally by foot, but also now by machine – and fermentation is cut short by the addition of neutral alcohol (called aguardente), thereby leaving residual sugar in the wine. Styles of Port 
There are two main types of Port – those aged in bottle and those aged in cask. Those
aged in cask are designed to be consumed upon release, while those aged in bottle need time to mature.  Ruby: The most basic, entry-level Port is Ruby. The wine tends to be aged in cask or tank for two to three years. Bottled while youthful, it’s bold and full of primary fruit, with a fiery kick from the spirit. No need to decant. Reserve: A step up from ruby, this wine is normally aged a little longer (again in bulk rather than bottle), perhaps being made with higher-quality fruit, so that it has more complexity than a ruby Port. No decanting necessary. LBV: Late Bottled Vintage Port comes from a single year, but spends more time maturing in cask (rather than bottle). Bottled between four and six years after its harvest, the wines are designed to be consumed long before vintage Port, but offer some of the complexity of the
style. Some wines are filtered and others aren’t, so it may or may not need decanting. Crusted: This style takes its name from the crust, or sediment, it throws while in bottle. A blend of several years, the wine is – like LBVs – aged a little longer in cask before bottling,
and likewise is designed to offer some of the complexity of vintage Port. Decanting is essential Vintage: The finest Ports come from a single vintage. This style accounts for a mere 1% of production, with the wines only made in certain years from the very best fruit. Traditionally vintages are either “declared” by producers (and therefore it is a year where they make a vintage Port) or not (with the official declaration classically announced on St George’s Day, a year and a half or so after the harvest). There are, however, a few years with “split declarations” where some producers chose one year, and others chose another for their vintage wines. While once there were only three or so declarations each decade, climate change has seen an increasing number of years producing fruit worthy of vintage wines, and therefore an increasing number of declarations. The wines tend to spend two or three years in wood, but are aged mostly in bottle. These
wines are built to last – having lots of tannin, flavour and alcohol. Spending decades in bottle, they develop extraordinary complexity. Because of the high tannin level, these wines throw a lot of sediment and it is essential to decant them. Single Quinta: These are vintage wines from single “quinta” or estate (while Vintage Ports are often a blend of estates), often produced in years that are not officially declared.  Tawny: Tawny Ports are aged oxidatively in cask, and thereby gradually losing colour to develop a “tawny” colour, while also developing nutty, dried fruit and caramel aromas. The longer it is aged, the more complexity it has. (The most basic examples are a blend of ruby and white Port to create the appearance of a Tawny, but none of the same flavour complexity.) Tawny Reserves have seen minimum seven years in cask, while many come with an age statement – 10, 20, 30 or Over 40 years old – indicating the average age of the blend.  Colheita is a Tawny from a single vintage, spending minimum seven years in cask prior to release (although it is often longer). They are designed to be consumed soon after bottling (a long time in bottle can in fact negatively impact the wine’s quality) and no decanting is
necessary, although you may want to chill the wine lightly. Given their oxidative nature, Tawnies can often last longer once open than their red counterparts.  White: White Port is mainly made with the Gouveio, Malvasia Fina and Viosinho grapes. Youthful examples can make for an excellent aperitif, sometimes served with tonic and lemon as a cocktail, but you can also find rare aged white Ports, carrying an age statement that – as with Tawny Port – is the average age of the blend. Best Port vintages of the last 50 years: 1970, 1977, 1983, 1985, 1992, 1994, 1997, 2000, 2003, 2007, 2009, 2011, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018 Browse Port or read more Editorial 

Rich, complex and deeply rewarding, at its best Port is one of the most age-worthy styles of wine produced today. Here’s a quick guide to the fortified wine – from the various styles made to the best vintages to buy

Port is one of the most age-worthy styles of wine. Here’s a quick guide to the fortified wine from the various styles made to the best vintages to buy

Everything you need to know about Port wine

Everything you need to know about Port

It’s never easy to pick a favourite vintage for drinking now. But producers’ eyes light up when asked, as they think back to the best bottles – and moments. Of course, it’s all a matter of taste. There are collectors who love very mature wines, while others are much more taken by younger vintages, still with a bit of primary fruit. Winemaking has also changed and – while most top Bordeaux is made for the long run – more modern vintages, with more precise viticulture and vinification, are much more approachable in their youth. 
The youngest vintages to enjoy now: 2017, 2013, 2009 + 2003 
Like many Pomerols, with their opulent fruit profile and rounded tannins, Ch. Lafleur can be enjoyed young, admits Lafleur’s cellarmaster Omri Ram. “But it’s like going to a Pink Floyd concert and leaving after the first 10 minutes. It is brilliant – but you miss so much,” he explains. Lafleur’s other Pomerol wine, Les Pensées, comes from clay soils and it is this that makes the wine that much more accessible at a younger age compared to Lafleur, from gravel soils. Ram believes, however, that the 2013 Lafleur is drinking beautifully now, despite its youth. 
Similarly, on the Left Bank, Léoville Barton’s Damien Sartorius believes that while some vintages are better with 30 years of age (2010 or 2016, say), most, especially the in-between, “off” years are best enjoyed younger – and can offer great value. “I’m very happy drinking a Lynch Bages or Poyferré from 2013 today – they’re lovely wines and it’s a lot cheaper,” he says. 
For Ducru-Beaucaillou’s Bruno Borie, choosing what vintage to drink depends on many factors: “When it’s sunny, I like to drink younger vintages. When it is cold and wintry, I prefer mature vintages, but temperature, air pressure, food, and company all plays a part in identifying what vintage to drink.” He believes even a Ducru as young as 2017 is beautiful to drink now. While he thinks the vintage was written off by the press, it is an elegant vintage and already offers great pleasure with food. Bigger vintages, such as 2010, on the other hand, still require ageing. 
Ch. Margaux, while distinctly elegant, has always been a wine built to last and winemaker Philippe Bascaules wouldn’t touch anything younger than 2009 – even the lighter 2011, ’12 and ’13 vintages, he believes, are too young. But 2009 bucks the trend in terms of its approachability: for Bascaules, it has always been enjoyable. It’s “a great wine with exceptional, very creamy texture, opulence, so powerful but not at all aggressive”, he explains. Ch. Rauzan-Ségla’s Nicolas Audebert’s pick of the younger vintages is 2003. “If 2003s are well done – as in not too much – it is extremely nice to drink. Good terroir combined with slow evolution means after 15 years in bottle it is now showing beautifully. Taste it blind and you wouldn’t think it was a such a warm year,” he suggests.
 
Under-rated and excellent now: 2014, 2012, 2011, 2004, 2001 + 1999 
Most agree that the 2001 vintage was underrated on release, drowned out by the fanfare surrounding both 2000 and 2003. “The 2001 is a very nice vintage to rediscover,” explains Audebert. “It disappeared after the hype of 2000, but it certainly has stood up well to the more celebrated vintages.” Similarly, he believes the 2011 shared a similar fate. “After the release of 2010, 2011 suffered, but it is a very nice, interesting vintage. Not showing off, but is very elegant, a very smart vintage and developing slowly.” 
Like many of the top wines of Bordeaux, you have to be patient with Ch. Lafite-Rothschild. “We make wine for the long run,” says the property’s International Director Jean-Sébastien Philippe. For him, a good vintage is a wine that seems to appear younger, the older it gets. Despite the long-term ageing potential of Lafite, the 2004 is a moderately young wine that he believes is great to enjoy now.  “It has always been very classic, but very closed and therefore underrated. With maturity, it has become an amazing wine to rediscover now,” he says. Bascaules also believes 2004 to be one of the more underrated vintages at Ch. Margaux, again because its sits between the two revered years, 2005 and 2003.  “But it’s much better than people think,” he says. “The tannins are now starting to be soft. It is very concentrated, the nose is very open. It’s very complex.” For Bascaules, the 1999 is another wine that has flown under the radar but is at its best now. “It was a very hot vintage, but not very concentrated. Therefore, the tannins are very ripe and soft, the texture is very resolved, yet the nose is still young,” he explains. 
Ram echoes Bascaules in singing 1999’s praises, with the Grand Vin at Lafleur at its peak. “It is drinking beautifully now, if you can find it, and you will get more pleasure drinking ’99 than the 2000 today. It shows beautiful balance, power versus elegance. Density versus lift. All these contradictions of fine wine show really well in the 1999. The 2000 still behaves like a juvenile in comparison.” 
He also loves 2014: “It’s an underappreciated vintage, but it is the last classical vintage in Bordeaux – charming, elegant, sophisticated.” The 2014 Ch. Canon is a perfect example, drinking beautifully now. He also highlights how successful Saint-Estèphe was that year, with lots of great wines to choose from and well-priced for the quality. For Sartorius, there is a lot of value to be found in 2012: “Léoville Las Cases, Ducru-Beaucaillou, at a very good price – they’re so good and deliver so much,” he says. 

At their peak: 2000, 1996, 1995, 1989, 1986, 1985 + 1983 
For Bascaules, Margaux at 20-30 years old is perfect. “1989 is probably drinking at its optimum today,” he says, “as is 1990. The 1985’s nose is tertiary but there is still fruit too. I like a bit of fruit still in the wine. The 1983 is a great wine and great to drink today.”
The 1983 was a classic vintage throughout the Margaux appellation, and much better than the more revered 1982, believes Audebert: “The 1983 in Margaux is much more interesting, whereas the 1982 is in danger of being over ripe.”  He explains that a ripe vintage and high volumes – at that time – was uncommon, and therefore often not something the era’s winemakers were equipped to handle. He argues that this has resulted in some 1982s from Margaux being a bit tired, producing “tapenade, metallic flavours”, and lacking vibrancy. 
Ram’s favourite vintage ever of Les Pensées has to be the 2000 – he explains it was “the first real blueprint” for the modern Les Pensées, when it switched from being a second wine to being an expression of the clay soils at Lafleur. Combine this with the fact that 2000 was a great vintage and you have a superb wine that is symbolic too. 
The 1986 is Lafite’s pick for drinking now. For Philippe, it shows what the estate is capable of: “It is the vintage that can help you really understand Lafite – the emotion and the precision,” he says. 
Wines for the ages: 1955 + 1964 Ch. Canon, 1916 Ch. Ducru-Beaucaillou 
While many Clarets will reach their 50th birthday, some vintages can last even longer. Nicolas Audebert recently tasted Ch. Canon from 1955 and ’64, two fantastic vintages for the château, which were both still drinking beautifully. Bruno Borie more recently enjoyed a 1916 Ducru-Beaucaillou that was still in form. It is a particularly interesting vintage since it was a wine made only by women, as the men were at war.  A lovely note from the cellar master of the time suggests that “the wine might be too powerful, rich and strong for the trade”. “I’m not sure if the trade would feel the same way these days,” laughs Borie. “At 104 years old, it proves it is important to make wines with sufficient structure to pass 100 years. Even today, the wine still has plenty of character.”


We spoke to some of the region’s leading names – from the likes of Chx Canon , Ducru-Beaucaillou , Lafite-Rothschild , Lafleur and Margaux – to find out which vintages they think are at their best right now.

Chx Canon, Ducru-Beaucaillou, Lafite-Rothschild, Lafleur and Margaux on which Bordeaux vintages are entering their drinking window

Bordeaux wine vintages ready to drink now

Bordeaux vintages to drink now

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

Ch. Haut-Brion is one of the oldest and best-known names in fine wine. The Bordeaux First Growth estate was created by Jean de Pontac, back in 1533, and its wines were among the first to be exported. Records detail 169 bottles of the wine (then as “Hobriono”) served to guests in 1660 by King Charles II. Just a few years later, on 10th April 1663, Samuel Pepys wrote in his diary that he had drunk “a sort of French wine called Ho-Bryan [sic] that hath a good and most particular taste I never met with”.   
While Ch. Haut-Brion is the oldest known estate in Bordeaux to bottle and label its wine as a Grand Cru, bearing both name and terroir – the name “Haut-Brion” has an historic attachment to a fair few other winemaking estates in the Graves region. The name Haut-Brion roughly translates as hillock and refers to the raised gravel hills found in the surrounding vineyards. It is these distinct raised, Günzian gravel soils that have provided such ideal conditions for grape growing over the last 500 years or so – providing the vines with much-needed drainage in Bordeaux’s marshy flatlands. Below the deep gravel lies a bedrock of clay which locks in the moisture, releasing it only when required in the drier summer months. This terroir is the secret behind the vineyards’ historic levels of consistency. 
Other famous châteaux that share the Haut-Brion name are all situated in the Graves region, just south of Bordeaux’s city centre. Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, situated immediately across the road from Ch. Haut-Brion, with neighbouring vineyards, is the most famous, while Ch. les Carmes Haut-Brion is situated just to its north and Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion to its south.
Controversially Ch. Larrivet Haut-Brion is not close to the other properties, but further south, near Ch. Smith Haut Lafitte. The property changed its name from La Rivette to Ch. Haut-Brion Larrivet in 1874, and it was only following a lawsuit, filed by Ch. Haut-Brion in 1949, that the château was forced to change its name to Larrivet Haut-Brion. (Neither Les Carmes de Haut-Brion or Larrivet Haut-Brion have a connection to Ch. Haut-Brion and the wider Clarence Dillon portfolio.) 
Today, Ch. Haut-Brion and neighbouring Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion are the two flagship estates of Domaine Clarence Dillon. Clarence Dillon was an American immigrant, who made his fortune as a financial broker on Wall Street in the 1920s. With French ancestors and a passion for French gastronomy (which included him taking an introductory course at the famous Paris cooking school, Le Cordon Bleu), he spent much of his spare time in France. In 1935, he eventually persuaded the current owner, André Gilbert, to sell him Ch. Haut-Brion, his favourite wine estate, and the property has remained in Dillon the family ever since. 
Clarence Dillon’s granddaughter, Joan Dillon, and her second husband Philippe de Noailles, Duke of Mouchy, expanded their holdings in the region, when they purchased Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion in 1983. It was following this acquisition that some famous neighbouring châteaux were absorbed into the portfolio and some wines discontinued, with the fruit instead used for Haut-Brion or La Mission Haut-Brion. 
The range as it stood in 1983 included the Grand Vins Haut-Brion and Haut-Brion Blanc, La Mission Haut-Brion and their famous white wine, Laville Haut-Brion. In addition to this, Ch. Haut-Brion produced a second red wine called Bahans Haut-Brion and a second white wine called Les Plantiers Haut-Brion. At Ch. La Mission Haut-Brion they produced a second red wine called La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion and also the red wine of Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion. 
In 2008 the fourth generation of the Clarence Dillon family, Prince Robert de Luxembourg took control of the estate, and a flurry of name changes took place, however the fruit sources have remained stable. From the 2008 vintage, Les Plantiers Haut-Brion was renamed La Clarté de Haut-Brion, while Bahans Haut-Brion became Le Clarence de Haut-Brion from the 2007 vintage. Laville Haut-Brion, La Mission’s famed white wine, was returned back to La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc from the 2009 vintage. 
For the Prince, the name changes were mainly a way to simplify the range for collectors. In fact, La Mission’s top white had originally been called La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc when first produced in 1923, however the winery didn’t feel the quality was on a par with the red and so changed the name to Laville Haut-Brion (after the lieu-dit where the white grapes were grown) in the 1930s. Bahans Haut-Brion had also taken its name from its lieu-dit; the name change reflected that it had become a second wine, not a cuvée from a separate vineyard (and paid tribute to Prince Robert’s gread-grandfather). 
Perhaps the biggest casualty in the development of the Haut-Brion properties was the discontinuation of Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion – with the last vintage 2005. Before Clarence Dillon bought the property in 1983, a portion of the grapes of the four-hectare estate went into the Grand Vin of La Mission Haut-Brion, while the rest was bottled as La Tour Haut-Brion.  Clarence Dillon bottled fruit from all four hectares of the property separately for a time, and it gained its own strong following – known for consistently producing memorable, age-worthy wines that defied its relatively low price point. But, in 2005, Domaine Clarence Dillon decided to put all the fruit into the second wine of La Mission Haut-Brion – La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion – and Ch. La Tour Haut-Brion was no more. 
Between the 1950s and 2012, an additional wine – Domaine de la Passion Haut-Brion or Domaine Allary Haut-Brion – was made. The wine has an interesting story, relating to a parcel of vines in the heart of the Haut-Brion vineyard, but owned by the Allary family. The Allary family didn’t make wine, but rented the vines to Haut-Brion, who paid them back by bottling some wine – which otherwise would have been Haut-Brion’s Grand Vin or second wine – under a special label, Domaine de la Passion Haut-Brion.  This was produced from 1954 to 1978. In 1979, EU law forbid the same wine to be bottled under a different label, so between 1979 and 2007, the fruit from these vines went into the second wine of Haut-Brion (then known as Bahans Haut-Brion). From 2008, the Allary family took back control of the vines and produced their own wine. Made by a different winemaking team managed by Stéphane Derenoncourt, the wine was bottled under a new label, Domaine Allary Haut-Brion. This lasted just five vintages until 2012, when Clarence Dillon finally bought the land from the family and the wine was discontinued. 
In 2011, the fourth generation of the Dillon family, Prince Robert de Luxemburg, branched out beyond the Graves region to buy Ch. Tertre Daugay in Saint-Emilion along with the vineyards of neighbouring Ch. l’Arrosée. From the two estates, he created Quintus. Ideally situated next to Ch. Bélair-Monange and Ch. Angélus, the vineyards are situated on a limestone hillock in the south-western end of the Saint-Emilion plateau.  In 2021, Domaine Clarence Dillon bought Ch. Grand Pontet, another 14 hectares of top Saint-Emilion terroir to further expand the Quintus estate. With the viticulture and winemaking at Quintus all under the control of the talented Haut-Brion team, it’s not surprising that Quintus has quickly gained its own following of collectors. Alongside the Grand Vin, a second wine Le Dragon de Quintus (first produced in 2011) and a third wine Saint-Emilion de Quintus (first produced in 2014) are made.

These various lost properties and wines are becoming harder to find, but offer a fascinating way to explore the full DNA of the modern-day Haut-Brion, La Mission Haut-Brion and Quintus. 
Your quick guide to the Haut-Brion wines
 Allary Haut-Brion (Domaine): made between 2008 and 2012 by a separate winemaking team from a parcel of vines in the heart of the Haut-Brion site (which is now owned by Haut-Brion) Bahans Haut-Brion: the second wine of Ch. Haut-Brion, first made in 1976 and renamed Le Clarence de Haut-Brion from the 2007 vintage Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (red) of Ch. Haut-Brion, which dates back to the 16th century Haut-Brion Blanc: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. Haut-Brion, first made in 1916  La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion: La Mission Haut-Brion’s second wine, introduced in 1991 La Clarté de Haut-Brion: the name for the second white wine of Ch. Haut-Brion from the 2008 vintage (previously Les Plantiers Haut-Brion Blanc) La Mission Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (red) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion which has been made since the 16th century La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, first made in 1923 under this name, before being renamed Laville Haut-Brion in the 1930s, and reclaiming its name once more from 2009  La Passion Haut-Brion (Domaine de): a bottling of Haut-Brion or Bahans Haut-Brion under a different label (from 1955 to its last vintage in 1978) La Tour Haut-Brion: a separate property owned by Clarence Dillon since 1983 (last vintage 2005); the fruit is now used for La Mission Haut-Brion’s second wine, La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion Laville Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, renamed la Mission Haut-Brion Blanc in 2009 (as it was originally known when first made, prior to the 1930s) Le Clarence de Haut-Brion: the name for Ch. Haut-Brion’s second (red) wine since the 2007 vintage (previously known as Bahans Haut-Brion) Les Plantiers Haut-Brion Blanc: the second white wine of Ch. Haut-Brion, renamed La Clarté de Haut-Brion from the 2008 vintage Explore all current listings of Ch. Haut-Brion, Ch. La Mission Haut-Brion, Quintus, La Passion Haut-Brion and La Tour Haut-Brion or read more Editorial 

Since the Clarence Dillon family bought Ch. Haut-Brion in 1935 and neighbouring Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and La Tour Haut-Brion 48 years later, the properties have become some of Bordeaux’s most collectable. We explore the genealogy of these illustrious estates – and their lost wines 

Exploring the genealogy of the Bordeaux First Growth Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and its siblings La Tour Haut-Brion

The lost wines of Haut-Brion

Joao Portugal Ramos

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