There are times when you put a question to a winemaker and he puffs out his cheeks and rubs his chin and you know he’s thinking, ‘Journalists.’ When I ask Promontory’s David Cilli what exactly is meant by ‘interpretation of terroir’, he courteously describes the process of trying to get the wine to reflect the character of the land. But he gives the impression my question was like quizzing Monet on how he got his effects. If you don’t get it, you probably won’t. The character of Promontory, on the day I visit, is quite something. It’s early May and the rain, which has been falling steadily all night, has turned to a lashing downpour that has raindrops bouncing six inches off the windscreen. We’re in a jeep piloted by winegrowing director Cory Empting and since turning off the main road we’ve been climbing steadily through dripping stands of oak with pocket-handkerchief vineyards between them. ‘Shall we stay in the car?’ asks Empting. ‘If we could,’ Will Harlan suggests from the back seat. I’m here with Empting, Cilli and Harlan. Bill Harlan has appeared briefly but I don’t see him again until we sit down to taste. He formally handed over control of Harlan Estate, Promontory, Bond and The Mascot in 2021, appointing 37-year-old Will managing director. Cilli (44) arrived in 2012 and is in charge of vineyard and winemaking at Promontory. Promontory is an 840-acre fastness, a deep valley folded into the foothills of Mount Veeder, on the west side of the Napa Valley. From the highway, you think the looming ridge you’re looking at is the edge of Sonoma. But there’s another ridge beyond and between them this interesting domain. It’s remote, even by Napa standards (contrary to opinion, there are plenty of wild spaces in the county). The ultra-refined French Laundry is a couple of miles away but it might be in Wisconsin for all the relevance it has up here. Bill Harlan had come upon it hiking in the 1980s. ‘I used the Carmelite monastery [we’d passed it on the way up] as a base and just started climbing’. There were no vines but he was intrigued by its seclusion. It might be possible vineland for the Napa project he had in mind. In the end, Harlan Estate was founded less than a mile to the north but for 25 years Harlan kept the idea of that parcel tucked under his hat (he never mentioned it, Will says) before it came on the market in 2007 and he snapped it up. "Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir" The owner – the Harlans don’t reveal who that is – had planted 80-odd acres of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was neglected, the vines overgrown. Trees had been felled and never collected. ‘It was a mess,’ Will says. ‘It looked like a logging operation.’ But it is magnificent. Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir. The whole estate is thickly forested, the vines often shaded on three sides. An old drovers’ road, running through the woods, will suddenly open out on a wide vista of vineyard and scree. Everything is deeply, lushly green in the steadily falling spring rain. The geology of the land is unusual, in that it rests on two distinct fault lines and consists of all three soil types that are found in Napa: volcanic, sedimentary and metamorphic. ‘You get all three in the same soil pit,’ Cilli notes. This, combined with the wild variation in aspect and the microclimate of the valley-within-a-valley, gives credence to Harlan’s claims that this part of Napa is like nowhere else in California. When the celebrated soil scientists Claude and Lydia Bourguignon came, they found the experience ‘novel’. Cilli said he fell in love with Promontory at first sight. It reminded him, in part, of his native Tuscany, but it was the wildness that captivated him, ‘I love that character that you can see in the wines.’ He said it was probably ‘the only project that could keep me in the valley.’ You get the impression none of them can quite believe their luck. ‘It somehow redefined what looks beautiful,’ Will says. It also redefined their ideas of winemaking. He goes on: ‘We were used to control. Harlan in the 1990s was obsessed with organisation and uniformity but Promontory was wild.’ The theme of wildness recurs. Harvest times are key to ‘find a way for it to come through,’ Will says. Empting: ‘Pick too late and you lose the ruggedness.’ Ageing, in the magnificent Howard Backen-designed chai, is all in Stockinger Austrian oak barrels ranging in size from 10,000 to 46,000 litres, for up to 36 months. ‘The fine-yet-tight tannins required longer barrel-ageing but [we] didn’t want the wine to be overpowered by new oak’. It’s a constant process of refinement and improvement – ‘we learn something new each season’. Empting: ‘It has blown every expectation out of the water. We were excited and we were scared. We didn’t know what this beast would be. Our learning curve has been very steep, it remains very steep. At least now we’re starting to get our arms around it but at the beginning, it was like: God, we cannot figure this thing out.” "I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness" You have to remember we’re talking about winemaking here, not Wittgenstein. But ‘interpretation of terroir’, if it’s to mean anything at all, should be taken seriously. I’ve seen vineland all over the world – rock-strewn fields in the Andean foothills, rainless Spanish deserts – but I’ve never seen anything like Promontory. Were I to be tasked with bottling the soul of that vineyard, I’d reach for metaphor as well. And so we come to the missing shade of blue. This is the concept propounded by the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, that an idea can be formulated without a previous sensory impression to give rise to it. He asked, Could a shade of blue missing from a spectrum be imagined by an observer? Harlan says (with a smile – he does have a degree in philosophy) that Promontory is the missing shade of red. ‘Until you’ve seen and experienced it, you don’t know that it’s missing. And so for us this was that final piece. The piece that wasn’t there that we had the opportunity to understand and try to translate into the wine.’ The next morning, in gorgeous May sunshine, we gather to taste. It’s almost the same group, though smaller, that did the mighty vertical of Harlan estate from magnum in 2020. Bill Harlan is there (he sweetly thanks the team for allowing him to taste, saying it’s the first full vertical of Promontory he’s ever done), Will, Empting, Cilli and the journalist Elaine Brown. We wonder, at the end, if there is thread that runs through the wines. In my notes the words ‘deceptively light’ recur, as do ‘structure’ and ‘stone’. Reaching for metaphor again, Will Harlan compares the structure of the 2016 to cathedral stone, which has ‘both weight and lightness. It’s intricately carved and light filters through the windows.’ I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness. Will Harlan calls this vintage an ‘inflection point’ and notes how the tannins are the ‘main differentiators’. Yes, agrees Cilli, ‘and because of the character of levity and lift, we have to be precise with the tannins.’ The younger vintages have an astonishing latent energy, tannins under tight rein, aromas bursting, the fruit compacted. Brown and I were struck not by the sophistication of these wines but by their honesty. Brown WhatsApped me later. ‘Promontory is the most transparent to place. The wines are impressively well crafted and elegant while still offering an almost wild or primal complex of flavours.’ "The wines are unmistakeably Californian but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa" ‘How do we take wine from a wilderness and have sophistication?’ Will asked. It’s a great question – with their resources, the Harlans could do anything they liked with Promontory. After all, they have to make a wine that will please their audience. But this was so unexpected. The tasting revealed a keen focus on the land and the vintage. The difference between the years was often marked – the challenge of 2015 for example showed in the wine – yet we could see that common thread running through, even as the wines increased in elegance. And what of Will’s quest for the missing shade of red? The wines are unmistakeably Californian – that splendid 2017 could come from nowhere else – but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa, which is quite a claim, in the world’s most cultivated wine region. Perhaps the last word should go to Bill Harlan, who started the whole thing. He speaks hardly at all during the tasting, his Old Testament face giving little away. At the end of the morning, he talks of his fascination with the ‘ongoing discovery’ of the project. The wines have character, layers and depth, he says, and – by way of praising their authenticity – he notes, ‘You never know what’s coming next.’

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites, with a vertical tasting of 14 vintages revealing the wild beauty, elegance and remarkable evolution of its wines.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites.

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

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

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

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

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

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

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

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

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

Inspired by a Russian, first made by a Hungarian, who was succeeded by a Frenchman and then a German, the winemaking lineage at Masseto has been decidedly international – until now, that is. Since January 2024, the leading Super Tuscan and Ornellaia’s sibling estate has had its first native at the helm: Marco Balsimelli – born in Arezzo, not far from Siena, took the reins from longtime Production Director Axel Heinz.  Balsimelli comes with his own illustrious pedigree, having long been based in Bordeaux, working at Gruaud Larose and, since 2010, alongside the famous Eric Boissenot as a consultant winemaker to many of the region’s leading estates, but the chance to work at Ornellaia and Masseto – iconic names from his Tuscan homeland – was an opportunity he couldn’t turn down.  It was André Tchelistcheff (the Russian-born Napa winemaker) who first suggested to Lodovico Antinori that a particular hill on the Ornellaia estate would be perfect for Merlot. Tchelistcheff was consulting for Antinori, and recognised the potential of the parcel of blue clay – the same soil that is synonymous with Pétrus. Back then, in the 1980s, Merlot was barely planted in Tuscany and remained an unknown quantity in the region, with only Castello di Ama – based further inland in Chianti Classico – having some vines (today used for its flagship L’Apparita). Nevertheless, the Ornellaia team took a chance and planted most of the seven-hectare swathe of clay in 1984 (additional planting took place in 1995).  The first vintage of Merlot from the site was made in 1987: Masseto was born. The name comes from “masso”, Italian for rock, after the large boulder-like clumps of clay that dot the vineyard’s surface. It didn’t take long for the wine to earn international acclaim, with Wine Spectator giving the 2001 vintage 100 points, and its place was cemented in vinous history.  Although Tchelistcheff consulted until 1989, replaced by Michel Rolland from 1991, Hungarian Tibor Gál was the property’s first winemaker. Gál was succeeded by Thomas Duroux (now of Ch. Palmer), who in 2005 passed the baton to Axel Heinz, the German-born winemaker who preceded Balsimelli. The property has changed hands over the years too, with the Mondavi family taking a share in 1999 before buying it outright from Lodovico Antinori, and selling it onto the Frescobaldi family, who took full ownership of Ornellaia and Masseto from 2005.  Much might have changed, but the terroir hasn’t. “It’s a very special site,” Balsimelli tells me. The all-important clay dominates the topsoil, which is only about a metre deep. When it rains, the clay swells, making it near impossible for the vines’ roots to develop. High sodium levels in the soils only accentuate the problem. “For the roots, it’s a battle every day,” he says. It’s that struggle, he feels, that you can taste in the concentrated, high-acid fruit from the site.  The climate is key too, lying just 10 kilometres from the Tyrrhenian Sea. Fresh marine breezes mean the temperature is around 5°C lower than that in central Tuscany, with a drop of circa 15°C from day to night. Combine this with the light reflected off the sea, and you get a long growing season, preserving aromatics and acidity, yet encouraging phenolic ripeness – wines that combine perfume and power. Surrounded by forest, there is a reason that Masseto is run as an entirely separate project to Ornellaia, with its own unique identity – even if it has always shared a winemaker (and, until 2019, a winery) with its sibling estate.  For Balsimelli, the project has provided a fresh challenge. The shift away from a consultant role – no longer offering advice before moving on to the next project, but sitting with each and every decision – adds a new weight of responsibility. “I spend a lot of time thinking about the technical questions and the consequences,” he tells me. Since most of his work with Boissenot had been based on Bordeaux’s Left Bank, focused on Cabernet-driven blends from larger estates, working with a small property, focused on just one variety and various sub-plots is a different sort of jigsaw puzzle. The approach, for him, is much more Burgundian – all about expressing the purity of the site and its blue clay. “You have to be perfect with only one type of soil and one grape variety,” he explains.  The quest for perfection was started long ago at Masseto and today the vines average between 20 and 30 years in age. They’ve also been moving from cordon-trained to bush vines – first trialled in 2008 and something which they have found helps temper the effects of global warming (coping better in dry conditions and shading the fruit from the heat of the sun). Farmed organically since 2012, there has also been a significant focus on encouraging biodiversity across the site, including using cover crops to reduce soil compaction, increase organic matter and retain humidity in the soils.  Balsimelli’s first vintage was 2024, which won’t be released until 2027. But he’s clearly excited by the site, as well as how he can tweak and improve a wine that is already lauded by critics and consumers. “When you taste old vintages of Masseto, you can feel the legacy, taste the terroir,” he says – and that’s exactly what he wants to do moving forward, channelling the Boissenot philosophy: understanding a piece of land and finding the best solution to express it in the glass. For him, that solution will be all about accentuating the wine’s elegance.  He notes how there was – across the world of wine – a trend towards low yield and high levels of maturity in the early 2000s, but his preferred vintages are those that saw more balance. The 2006, for example, is his favourite at the moment – a year with more rainfall, more vigour, and – he feels – more energy as a result. It’s a vintage that he believes is “the key for the future”.  The site is one that can ripen quickly, and he plans to focus on freshness, maybe picking a little earlier, reducing extraction and lowering temperatures for maceration. The 2022 is the vintage set to be released this September – a wine that Balsimelli notes shows just how good the site is – performing even in tricky conditions such as 2022’s hot growing season. It is, he says, “the magic of Massseto”. Magic it may be, but Balsimelli is set on elevating this special estate even further.   Explore all current listings of Masseto or read more Editorial 

Often considered the Pétrus of Italy, Masseto is a wine like no other. Ahead of the new release, we sat down with Marco Balsimelli – the man at the helm today – to talk about the special site and what lies ahead for the Super Tuscan 

Talking to the Super Tuscan’s new Production Director Marco Balsimelli about Masseto, Ornellaia sibling estate and its unique Merlot wines

The magic of Masseto - Marco Balsimelli

The magic of Masseto

The history of Piedmont as a fine wine region and the establishment of Nebbiolo as a single-varietal wine predates the unification of Italy. Yet the region’s rise to international fame as Italy’s finest wine was intrinsically linked to the political role that the Piedmont Kingdom played in the unification of Italy. Nebbiolo as Italy’s first single-varietal wine The decision to move away from the generic field blends more typical of wine production in Italy at the time, to a single varietal Nebbiolo, was the first step towards Barolo gaining prominence. This decision also came about through aristocratic influence by the Piedmont nobility at the height of its power, prior to the unification of Italy in 1861. In the 1830s the Marchesi de Barolo married a French aristocrat who as part of her entourage brought with her a talented French oenologist, who after experimenting with many French varietals in the region quickly identified the potential of the indigenous Nebbiolo as a potential single varietal superstar! This French oenologist started to produce single-varietal Nebbiolo on the Marchesi de Barolo’s vineyards and it wasn’t long before the wines gained a reputation amongst the aristocratic classes. The King of Piedmont contacted the Marchesi requesting to taste this wine made from just Nebbiolo that everyone was talking about. The King became a huge fan of the wines and it wasn’t long before the Marchesi was sending 365 barrels of Nebbiolo
to the King for him and his courts to enjoy throughout the year. From then on Nebbiolo as a single varietal had begun to secure its place in fine wine history. The establishment of Barolo It wasn’t long before the King purchased his own wine estate in Barolo, which now exists under the ownership of Frescabaldi. The Piedmont kingdom was the conquering force in the unification of Italy along with the help of the French army that finally conquered the Spanish rule of Sicily and southern Italy and eventually Rome leaving just the Vatican and the Pope isolated from the rest of the newly
declared unified state of Italy in 1861. Amazingly there was no diplomatic relationship between the Vatican State and the Italian government until Mussolini reached out to them in 1932. The power of the Piedmont kingdom and its role in the unification of Italy meant that Barolo retained its status with the aristocratic elites of Italy and beyond and became known as the premium wine-producing region of the newly declared country. Its prominence and reputation remained ever since. The Barolo region became renowned throughout the country and Nebbiolo took its crown as the king of Italian wine. Barolo following the unification became more and more established with merchants moving in to seize the opportunity of this prestigious and unique Italian wine. At this time, apart from the noble families (Marchesi Di Barolo, Rinaldi, Bourgogno) all the
rest of the Barolo wines were bottled in Alba under merchant’s labels. Alba, much like Bordeaux, became a thriving merchants hub and the wine began to be exported overseas. Barbaresco: the unfortunate struggling sibling to Barolo History is full of cruel twists and the development of Barbaresco for much of the 19th and 20th centuries was a struggle for survival, unlike their more established neighbour Barolo - with its royal seal of approval. Today Barbaresco is being seen very much as Barolo’s equal but its survival is in no doubt down to two central figures of the region Gaja and the Produttori Di Barbaresco. 
The history of Gaja of Barbaresco The history of Gaja is extraordinary and singular in its rise to fame in the region and is a testament to the foresight of Giovanni Gaja and his son and French wife Clothide Rey. The Gaja family were not nobility but farmers, yet they became the first to bottle their own wine in Barbaresco in 1859. This became possible because the family owned a small tavern in the town which catered for the merchants that passed through Barbaresco as it was an active Port, distributing goods. At the tavern, the Gaja family used to make their wine and serve them from jars at the restaurant. At that time all other growers would sell their grapes to merchants in Alba to make wine.  Buoyed by the income of selling their own wines at their tavern Giovanni Gaja in 1859 then decided to bottle his best barrels in bottle (at this time this was often a blend of vintages). But these became the first Barbarescos ever to be bottled as Barbaresco. The family became further governed by quality when Angelo Gaja and his wife Clothide Rey took over from
his father. Their qualitative approach philosophy in a region that at the time was so underdeveloped is extraordinary. The family’s motto – fair, savoir faire, savoir faire faire et faire saviour (Work, knowledge, motivating others to work and passing on knowledge) has not faltered right up until today.  1958 was an important date for the Gaja family because this was recognised in Barolo as a fantastic vintage and it became the first vintage of Barolo to sell for over a 1,000 lira a bottle. The average price at the time for the best producers (such as Renato Ratti) was closer to 300 lira. This 1,000 lira price tag therefore became a big deal and was the beginning of Barolo
becoming recognised internationally as one of the world’s finest and most expensive wines. Yet despite this high price tag of Barolo, Giovanni Gaja was selling his current Barbaresco release at this time for 1,200 lira! This just showed the Barbaresco from Gaja even in those early days was outpricing the best wines of Barolo. The history of the Produttori del Barberesco The history of Barbaresco outside of the extraordinary success of Gaja was a lot less smooth. Through this period the region remained largely unknown for wine production despite successfully growing Nebbiolo like its neighbour Barolo and being home to the region’s best producer Gaja. However, there is another unique and profound development that took place in Barbaresco that also has shaped the region as one of Italy’s finest wine-producing regions for single varietal Nebbiolo that unlike Barolo did not rely on the aristocratic influence for its rise to fame. If anything, Barbaresco’s rise to fame, including Gaja’s development was the success of the
workers of the land rather than nobility. This came in the form of the socialist collective that started to bottle its own wine in Barbaresco under the Produttori Di Barberesco label.  Speaking with Aldo Vacca, today’s chief winemaker at the co-op it was a man called Dominizio Cavazza who was become known as the Father of Barbaresco. He moved to the region when he got a job working as the Director of the Wine School of Alba in 1890.  He immediately saw the potential of Barbaresco as a fine wine region and whilst he had no land, he knew if he could persuade the small landowners to compile their crops, he could make a fine wine that they could bottle and sell themselves rather than selling their crop to
the Alba merchants. By 1894 he had managed to persuade five farmers and two
landowners to contribute the crop and the cooperative was formed. At this time socialism was taking hold in many parts of Europe enabling small landowners to work together to enable them to manage their own produce without relying on the aristocratic landowners. Prior to the Bolshevik revolution in Russia in 1917, these socialist projects in Western Europe were seen as a very positive social development and was transforming the social structure across the region. Initially Cavazza believed that Barbaresco should be incorporated as part of the Barolo District but as Barolo by this time was already well established, thanks to its aristocratic ties, the Barolo producers had no interest in extending their boundaries. This decision in itself was to have a devastating impact on Barbaresco for the next 50 years. Whilst the cooperative became very successful in the early years, the First World War followed by economic hardship and the rise of fascism in Italy which actively shut down cooperatives in Europe, saw the Produttori cease to exist.  It wasn’t until 1954 that the co-operative project was reborn by the local priest – Don Fiorino, who on moving to the region heard about the early success of Cavazza and wanted to rekindle this success. For the priest the cooperative was essential in the survival of the local community that unlike Barolo was decimated by poverty and hardship through the first half of the 20th century. The 1950s saw the industrial boom in Italian cities which saw huge swathes of the countryside deserted as young men and women flocked to the cities for better wages in the automobile and other industries. To encourage people to stay in Barbaresco, Don Fiorino reopened the cooperative promising any landowners who joined him that they would be given fair and
reliable income if they stayed and worked the land. Dom Fiorino’s foresight was to be commended as ever since it opened the co-op has gone from strength to strength. Similar to Gaja, it is due to a strict qualitative approach that has meant this co-op is today producing arguably the world’s finished wines from a cooperative. These days, thanks to Gaja and Produttori, Barbaresco is producing some of Italy’s finest wines. Explore more Editorial 

We look back at the rise of Barolo and its neighbouring sibling Barbaresco's less fortunate, rocky road to fortune.


The historic rise of Nebbiolo

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

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

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

Your essential guide to Krug Champagne 

Everything you need to know about Krug 

The Pont des Arts project was created by Thibault Pontallier (son of Paul Pontallier, the celebrated winemaker of Château Margaux from 1983 to 2015) and Arthur de Villepin, an art curator from Paris. Both Thibault and Arthur come from high-profile backgrounds, with Arthur the son of the former French Prime Minister Dominique de Villepin. Growing up in such a prestigious and privileged environment introduced them both to the world’s most exciting artists, as well as the world’s most successful winemakers. It was this immersion in both the world of fine art and fine wine that spawned the Pont des Arts project.  “My family has been making wine for more than 500 years, and since I was a kid I have always considered winemakers to be amazing artists who are able to transform and sublimate nature into something truly special and emotional,” says Thibault. “My father used to say, ’A good wine gives you pleasure, but a great wine can give you emotion‘, and it is exactly the same for a great music, movie or painting.” Pont des Arts is very much a project to combine these two cultural worlds, producing wines made – and inspired – by artists. “A certain painting will be able to show and express the depth, the power or the finesse of a subject,” explains Thibault, “and wines can do the same thing. It is the perfect metaphor to understand the magic behind a wine.”   The project aims to position the wine as a bespoke creation. Each winemaker involved in the project has produced a wine distinct from their “normal” range, bottled exclusively for Pont des Arts.  It is then down to Thibault and Arthur to identify how the wine resonates with an artist’s work. “Arthur and I went to the artists’ ateliers, and met with the winemakers for each collection, carefully thinking about the association between each painting and each wine, and to ensure the emotions that are evoked when drinking great wine or looking at great art are intrinsically linked.”  The first collection of wines was curated in 2010 and was in fact a collaboration with Thibault and his father Paul Pontallier. They both travelled throughout France to find inspiration from their many winemaking friends around the country. “My father, a few good winemaking friends and I looked for months for the best terroirs and the best grapes, tasting more than 700 different parcels in France to realise this unique project.” The selection process for them was clear from the outset. For each wine they were looking for three main attributes: “Each wine must have a very special perfume, epitomising each appellation, a huge power hidden by elegance, and a fresh lingering finish.”   Following the success of the initial releases, their collaborations with winemakers grew. They started to work with more vignerons who shared their philosophy and whom they wanted to work with. Etienne de Montille, Rodolphe Péters (of Pierre Péters), Château la Conseillante and Nicole Rolet (of Chêne Bleu) have all made special cuvées for them. “The most important thing is that behind each collaboration is a beautiful friendship, a shared vision, love of wine and trust. We work very closely with each winemaker for every collection. Making sure everyone is part of the process and that the art and the wine complement each other perfectly,” says Thibault. “The wines themselves are works of art, so we spend a lot of time deciding on each new creation.”  The success of the project has seen winemakers entrust Pont des Arts with some very special cuvées. Giving the team amazing access to some rare Premier and Grand Cru wines from some of France’s most celebrated terroirs. With such quality the volume unsurprisingly remains very small, each cuvée exceptionally rare and becoming harder to find, “Exactly like the great pieces of art we work with,” explains Thibault. “What I love with this project is to see the excitement of the winemakers we work with, because they can create something unique and different for Pont des Arts, something different from what they were doing in the past. Our aim is to give them freedom and allow the creativity to create something unique and special.”  Perhaps Pont des Arts’s access to some of the world’s finest winemakers and terroirs is not such a surprise given the reputation of Paul Pontallier. Securing artists for the project seems more difficult, particularly with such famous artists as Piet Mondrian. While some of the artists – such as the Spain’s Miguel Barceló and French Chinse Artist Zao Wou-Ki were long-term friends of the Villepin family, for artists like Piet Mondrian, Thibault and Arthur were in touch with the estate throughout the whole process (design, production, labels etc). “They were very happy to help us develop this collection as they liked the initiative behind Pont des Arts.” Thibault is keen to convey “a message with authenticity and passion,” he tells me. “I guess the people we are collaborating with can sense that, which makes everything much easier.”  The Pont des Arts project continues to expand with some of the world’s most exciting contemporary artists and winemakers lining up to take part in new collaborations. One of the latest releases to come from Pont des Arts is a Grand Cru Blanc de Blancs from renowned winemaker Rodolphe Péters of Champagne Pierre Péters with artwork by Miquel Barceló on the label. Look out for this release early next week.  Explore more Editorial

Pont des Arts is a collaboration between artists and winemakers to promote the intricacies of fine wine production through the lens of an artist. We talk to Thibault Pontallier – son of the late Paul Pontallier – about the inspiration behind the project. 

Pont des Arts is a collaboration between artists and winemakers to promote the intricacies of fine wine production through the lens of an artist. 

Pont des Arts, winemaking as an artform 

Pont des Arts: winemaking as an artform 

One hundred years ago, two men, inspired by the Scottish distilling tradition, produced the first Japanese whisky. In the years that have followed, the category’s fortunes – much like its founders’ relationship – have been turbulent.    The story begins in 1923 when pharmaceutical wholesaler turned Spanish wine importer Shinjiro Torii invested his family fortune in building the Yamazaki distillery, against their advice. Torii enlisted the help of wet-behind-the-ears chemist Masataka Taketsuru – who had spent time learning his craft in Scotland – to lead production on their first whisky, Suntory Shirofuda, which was released in 1929. The two men did not see eye to eye and parted ways following the dismal reception of Shirofuda. Taketsuru famously went on to found the other great Japanese whisky producer, Nikka, and their fierce rivalry persisted. This is one of the reasons Japanese distilleries, to this day, blend in-house rather than trade liquid. Despite this rocky start, the Japanese domestic whisky market looked bullish by the late 1930s – Yamazaki’s next whisky (Suntory Kakubin, released in 1937) was more warmly received and Taketsuru successfully re-entered the scene with his first whisky, Nikka Yoichi, in 1940.  Fast forward to the early 1980s and the category was in fine fettle – Suntory and Nikka had both released their first single malt expressions and there was plenty of cause for optimism. But this prosperity sadly did not last as a steep decline in consumption caused the Japanese whisky market to splutter and almost entirely stall, resulting in many distilleries, including Karuizawa, being forced to close their doors. Both Yamazaki and Nikka managed to stay afloat but their output was significantly reduced as the economy and category stagnated, marking a bleak 25-year chapter in Japanese whisky’s history.   When demand was reignited around the mid-to-late 2000s, it largely came from Europe. A perfect storm caused this spike in interest, including wider interest in Japan (think Bill Murray in Lost in Translation), the resurgence of the Highball cocktail (circa 2007) and Suntory’s Yamazaki Single Malt Sherry Cask 2013 being named the world’s best in 2014 – a first for the category. Around this time, the world was also introduced to Ichiro Akuto’s highly collectable Card Series and the lost distilling icon, Karuizawa. “The mad scramble for crumbs on the Japanese whisky scene is something nobody could have predicted,” acclaimed Japanese whisky writer and Ghost Series independent bottler Stefan Van Eycken tells me. “In the space of 10 years, the situation went from being able to buy a whole range of single-cask Japanese whiskies at a big electronics chain for peanuts to bottles not even reaching the shelves of liquor stores anymore. “Even I, who had been exploring the Japanese whisky scene in the ‘dark ages’, couldn’t have predicted that,” he says matter-of-factly. “If I could have, I would have rented a van, bought up all the bottlings that were available for purchase and I could have retired by now.” Yumi Yoshikawa joined the team at Chichibu in 2013 after a two-year stint in Scotland, first working in the Highlander Inn in Craigellachie – which will require little introduction for spirits journalists or enthusiasts – and at the Bruichladdich Distillery on Islay. “People didn’t know the value of aged [Japanese] whisky back then,” Yoshikawa tells me. “Or that Japan had a long whisky history,” she adds. Somebody who was instrumental in educating the world on these two points is Marcin Miller, a man whose fortitude dragged Karuizawa out of obscurity. The genteel and thoroughly entertaining former Whisky Magazine Editor turned drinks entrepreneur, recalls the landscape when he and business partner David Croll first tasted those fateful Karuizawa single casks in the early 2000s.  “The most common complaint [from whisky enthusiasts] at the time would seem to be that it's all very well for me tasting this stuff but we never get to see any where we are in Western Europe or Northern America,” he recalls. So the two men set about changing this by buying the remaining stock from the then-lost Karuizawa, bottling it, and making it available to the masses – with resounding success. It’s a gross misapprehension – held by many – that the duo meandered into a meeting room, tasted a parcel of Karuizawa, bought it on the spot, and bottled it shortly after, grinning like Cheshire cats as the coffers swelled. In truth, it was four and a half years of negotiation and countless sleepless nights during the process. When pallets of casks from the ghost distillery in a nascent whisky market were finally shipped to them, there was no guarantee the wider whisky world would be interested. “Whatever anyone says, it really was not easy…” He trails off, transported to that time, and all the challenges the pair transversed when bringing the mature Japanese whisky from a then-unknown producer to its now almost mythic status.  Miller talks of the “extraordinary, phenomenal effect” Karuizawa had on him. Croll, Miller and acclaimed drinks writer Dave Broom – who has since quite literally written the book on Japanese whisky – initially tasted 69 single-cask Karuizawa samples. “I would have bottled any of those casks,” Miller says, a fond smile warming his face. If it hadn’t been for Croll, who had lived in Japan for 30 years and owned a successful drinks business, Miller says they likely never would have got a foot in the door at Karuizawa – or secured the exclusive distribution rights of the much-lauded Chichibu and Hanyu. “I dare say Karuizawa would have been blended away into big plastic five-litre tubs of supermarket whisky,” Miller says reticently. When Van Eycken moved to Japan around the same time as Miller and Co were negotiating the Karuizawa deal, he hadn’t even realised whisky was being produced there. Japanese whisky consumption and production were at an all-time low and the general feeling, he says, was that the whisky made in Japan was “cheap and good for getting a buzz when going out, but that the good stuff – that you would savour – was Scotch, and Bourbon, to a lesser extent”. The intrepid Van Eycken was taken aback by the quality of the long-aged liquids he sampled on his travels and couldn’t understand why this sentiment wasn’t shared domestically or further afield. When Japanese whisky’s popularity did finally begin to soar, he was perfectly placed to fill the knowledge chasm with his widely acclaimed Nonjatta website and, later, his seminal work Whisky Rising – a fully updated second edition of which came out earlier this year.  “When I wrote the original edition in 2016, there were 14 active distilleries in Japan,” he says. “Fast forward to mid-2022 and there were 41 active distilleries (and even more in the progress of getting ready to distil),” Van Eycken tells me. All of the new distilleries, he says, are attempting to follow the so-called “craft model” with a single pair of pot stills and fairly limited production. The inspiration, of course, being Ichiro Akuto and his incredible accomplishments over the past 15 years at Chichibu. “But not everyone can be an Ichiro – though most new distillers are certainly hoping to be equally successful, if not more, than Ichiro,” he adds. Several of these new distilleries are located in and around the town of Karuizawa. “My personal feeling is that it doesn’t make a lot of sense to try and compete with the legend that is the (old) Karuizawa distillery,” Van Eycken is quick to add. “The liquid that was made there turned out to be something very special, and not only by design. I have had the dubious pleasure of tasting the new-make from the old Karuizawa distillery and it was absolutely foul.  “But during the maturation process, over 20, 30, 40 years, something magical happened. Some of this can be explained, but most of it is a hermetic mystery. We simply cannot know why decades later this harsh spirit transformed into a sublime whisky (in most cases). Even if you wanted to replicate this whisky – or aspects of it – you couldn’t.  “And hoping to match the quality of the (original) Karuizawa whisky… well, it’s good to aim high but it's a bit like naming your kid Roger Federer in the hope that he would turn into a tennis player of the same calibre. Why would you want to put that sort of pressure on the kid?”  Miller is humility personified and doesn’t want to come across as a wizened cynic or, in his words, “boring old fart”, but he’s not confident that all the country’s new distilleries are set for success. “I think people are now trying to replicate the business success but without the foundation of the liquid. They are selling Japanese whisky futures but who knows what the liquid is going to be like because it's not just A + B = C.” There is a cautionary tale in the annals of Scottish whisky distilling that Japanese producers might be wise to heed. Scotch has famously fallen victim to its own success – with booms and busts resulting in whisky lakes, or lochs, that have crippled the industry and forced mass distillery closures. In so faithfully replicating Scotch, there is a real danger Japan will find itself back in the 1980s when the likes of Karuizawa were shuttered. This time, however, there would be many more casualties.      “For the time being, the Japanese whisky scene continues to be marked by an unbridled optimism,” Van Eycken adds. “Distillers price their (invariably young) whiskies very high (compared with similarly established whisky markets around the world) and consumers snap up the bottles regardless of the (sometimes unjustifiably) high prices.”  This price war is one of the reasons Miller et al sold their remaining stock of Karuizawa, which had initially been priced fairly but wasn’t the case when they left the scene. The 1960 Karuizawa, for example, which yielded 41 bottles was released circa 2014 for £12,500. Within a decade, those same bottles were easily reaching $375,000. “That's not a bad return in 10 years,” Miller says caustically. “But that's not why we did it. If that had been our motivation, we'd have just held on to it and had 41 times that.” For those still in the industry – and disciples of it – there is a real push to protect the integrity of Japanese whisky and futureproof it. Yoshikawa picks up the point, outlining that the few have muddied the water for the many: “The rapid publicity and the reputation of Japanese whisky have led to its use of excessive PR strategies, even when this is not in line with the facts of the product.” For these reasons, she is an advocate of more stringent regulations, like the ones announced by the Japan Spirits and Liqueurs Makers Association in 2021 which aims to restrict certain practices – like labelling whisky that isn’t actually from Japan as Japanese whisky – akin to those enshrined and strongly policed in Scotland. But she, like many, thinks these could go further and believe it is important to continue scrutinising the practices of the small and larger players, ensuring there is greater transparency and less “skullduggery”, as Van Eycken puts it. As the ink dries on the past 100 years of Japanese whisky, no one knows what the next century might entail – but there's plenty of excitement. The landscape will undoubtedly change once more, and new giants and legends will likely emerge. For whisky enthusiasts, the challenge – as always – will be pre-empting the plot twists and securing bottles before they become little more than folklore.  Browse all Japanese whisky or read more editorial

As Japanese whisky enters its 100th year, producers are in a mad scramble to build the next legend. Holly Motion assesses whether previous fairytale endings can be repeated – and ponders if those individuals attempting to stand on the shoulders of giants might have a great fall

Exploring the epic story of Japanese whisky – from its genesis, to rebirth and future – as it celebrates its centenary.

100 years of Japanese whisky

A modern epic: 100 years of Japanese whisky

Rocky Pond

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