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  

After a mild winter with no frost or hail, rain set in from March through June. Mildew and coulure appeared early and never fully left. Some growers doubled their treatments as storms repeatedly washed away protection. By the end of the season, rainfall measured around 1,200 millimetres, almost forty percent higher than normal.

 The toll on yields was severe. Many domaines lost between a quarter and forty percent of their whites and, in some cases, as much as seventy percent of their reds. From July onward the sun returned, bringing a steadier rhythm and healthy fruit for what remained. Most harvested between the second and third week of September, with careful sorting both in the vineyard and in the cellar.

 What has emerged is a cooler, finer, more traditional expression of Burgundy. The wines carry modest alcohol, clear acidity and a sense of restraint that will appeal to those who love the region’s classical line and balance. Charles van Canneyt put it best: “It’s not because we had bad weather that we made bad wine.”

 Our early tastings underline that point. At Paul Pernot the whites show vibrant freshness and deep acidity, with Puligny-Montrachet Les Folatières standing out for its tension and grace. At Alvina Pernot the 2024s carry the freshness of 2017 and the accessibility of 2021, but with greater depth and poise. Louis Jadot, facing heavy losses and a demanding season, spoke of “fighting to keep Burgundy affordable” yet produced precise, harmonious wines — including St Aubin En Remilly, one of our favourite plots and a FINE+RARE exclusive which we are proud to secure each year, bottled only in magnum. At Hudelot-Noëllat and Fourrier, volumes are heartbreakingly small but the wines are clear, fragrant and unmistakably from their place.

 Across the market, demand continues to evolve. In the United States the auction scene remains strong as collectors seek drinking vintages in a post-tariff environment. The United Kingdom continues to lead on diversity and value, supported by one of the most sophisticated import and agency networks anywhere. Central Europe, particularly Italy and Switzerland, is expanding steadily as collectors look beyond the classics while still favouring white Burgundy, red Bordeaux and Champagne. Hong Kong remains the fastest-growing market for white wine, with sustained enthusiasm for fine Chardonnay and mature Champagne.
 
How Burgundy En Primeur will birth itself in this context is both uncertain and certainly unlike Bordeaux En Primeur. The growing dominance of white Burgundy, and the combination of rarity, quality, desirability and still real value in parts, mark an emergence that feels above appellation and above trend. Burgundy continues to evolve on its own terms, shaped more by individual growers and their decisions than by collective rhythm. How far that rhythm will carry depends on relevance in a market where even Michelin now questions its own portfolio brand, Robert Parker, and where independent voices such as Jamie Goode, driven by limitless curiosity and free of editorial constraint, continue to test every assumption.

 With Burgundy 2024, scarcity will define the campaign, but so too will authenticity. The wines are shaped by adversity yet carry grace and purity. This is a year that reminds us why Burgundy remains the most human of fine wine regions. Next week we will share our first producer profiles and early tasting notes from across Burgundy. For now, we raise a glass to the growers who weathered the year and to a vintage made not in abundance, but in spirit. 
Written by Patrick O’Connor (CEO), Craig Norton (Managing Director) and Antoine Ninot (Senior Buyer) at FINE+RARE, following a recent visit to Burgundy. Browse all 2024 Burgundy released so far.

Last week we were in Burgundy for a pre-campaign look at the vintage, meeting some of the most significant and representative voices across the region. The conversations were candid. The mood, reflective. Every grower spoke of a year that tested both patience and resilience.

Our early look at Burgundy’s 2024 vintage reveals a year of challenges and quiet beauty — shaped by resilience, balance and authenticity.

A first look at the Burgundy 2024 vintage

Burgundy 2024: first impressions

Some wine regions dance to the beat of their own drum. From the sweeter reds of Ethiopia’s Rift Valley to the soft-styled fizz of Altos de Pinto Bandeira, Arnica Rowan explores far-flung regions with distinctive approaches to growing vines and making wine – almost exclusively for their own people

Arnica Rowan explores wines that don’t make it to the international market – with distinctive styles from Ethiopia, Brazil, Thailand and beyond

Discover the wines of Ethiopia, Brazil and beyond

Not for export

“The only thing more fun than drinking wine is buying wine,” says Allan Frischman, our new Vice President of Global Client Reserves, arching an eyebrow and laughing. He should know – he’s been working in the wine business since the early 1990s, with the vast majority of that spent sourcing, studying, authenticating and selling fine wine collections for a leading auction house. As of this month, he’ll be working to develop our network of reservists and their portfolios – allowing our clients to both sell and buy even more than before, giving us – and you – access to the world’s finest (and deepest) cellars. Beyond this, he’ll be finessing local pricing for each market we work in and helping manage clients’ wine storage – a job for which he is uniquely qualified. Frischman grew up in New Jersey and never planned to get into wine – but he took a part-time job at college (“to pay for beer”, he confesses) in a wine shop. The shop’s storage system was divided by country and region, with a warren-like basement that he needed to navigate, finding the right bin for new stocks. Reading about the different appellations, and using his staff discount to buy the odd bottle, got him interested – but it was a bottle of 1975 Ch. Talbot, tasted at Mary Ewing-Mulligan MW’s International Wine Center that hooked him: “At that point, I knew that this is what I wanted to do.”  The economics graduate was working at Manhattan’s Morell & Co. when, in 1994, the laws changed. For the first time since Prohibition, wine auctions were permitted to take place in New York State. “I didn’t know anything at all about auctions,” says Frischman – but it didn’t stop him jumping headfirst into something new, organising the state’s first commercial wine auction since 1920. “I didn’t know if we were going to get 10 bidders or 1,000,” he tells me. He shouldn’t have worried, for that auction was met with such enthusiasm that he walked away from the event on cloud nine, confident that he had found his calling.  In the 30 years since, he’s seen the auction business transformed. The 1994 law change created a new hub for wine’s secondary market, with New York rapidly becoming a rival for its traditional heartland in London – and the Big Apple rapidly added its own signature. Until then, auctions were staid affairs, dominated by trade buyers with little action beyond the raising of paddles in muted crowds – in Frischman’s words, “something dreary that dragged on for 10 hours”.  But Zachys – one of the auction houses that popped up in New York – added American flair, a touch of Broadway jazz hands to turn auctions into events, gathering bidders at round tables with great food and wine. Traditionalists said it wouldn’t work – but they were wrong. No longer were auctions purely a way to buy wine, they became fun – they became a place for wine lovers to gather, eat, drink and be seen. Higher attendance meant more bids, higher hammer prices – and more consignments that in turn brought more business, and a shift from trade to individuals.  The late 2000s brought challenges. “The Dow Jones was tumbling and it looked like the world was about to collapse,” Frischman tells me, looking back at the worldwide recession. “It was terrifying and of course people stopped buying wine.” But as Frischman rapidly learnt, people were waiting for the bottom of the market – and then they started buying again. At the same time, Hong Kong abolished import duty on wine (initially halved in 2007 and removed entirely in 2008) – and, like New York in 1994, instantly became a new centre for the wine trade. “The Asian market evolved almost over days,” remarks Frischman. “It became extremely sophisticated very quickly.” American auction houses started opening offices in Hong Kong. “For a few years, Hong Kong was just chewing up all the wine and the big hammer prices were all [there].”  The most recent shift in the world of auctioneering has been the advent of real-time, online bidding – one forced by the Covid-19 pandemic. “There was a perception that it would discourage people to show up in the sale room and would also discourage people from leaving bids in advance,” Frischman says, explaining why the industry was perhaps a little slow to embrace the online sphere. Interestingly, however, he anticipates that before online bidding was introduced, maybe only 10% of lots went to bidders physically in the room. With consumers stranded at home, and the technology already up to scratch, online auctions rocketed – and opened the market to an even broader range of consumers, with bidding wars between wine lovers in Brazil, Singapore, London, New York, Hong Kong and beyond now the norm.  As auction houses realised that online auctions worked, the need for events and associated spend dropped – and the auction style established by Zachys in the 1990s has become significantly less common. You might argue that this also heralds the end of the auctioneer – but even online companies have retained the compère, the familiar patter still something that bidders want.   It isn’t just where and how wine was selling, but which wines were selling that has evolved. In the mid-1990s and early 2000s, Frischman notes how the US market centred on Napa’s cult Cabernets, along with wines from the likes Williams Selyem, Ravenswood and, of course, Bordeaux’s top names. “[There was] across the board demand for Bordeaux,” Frischman tells me, “but you couldn’t give Burgundy away.” Of course, that’s all changed now – and Burgundy, despite its extremely limited supply, has become the darling of the fine wine scene. As prices have soared for the Côte d’Or’s top wines, wine lovers have started looking elsewhere, to Italy (Barolo, Barbaresco and some Brunello), Madeira (especially older vintages) and the Northern Rhône (Côte-Rôtie, Cornas and Saint-Joseph) – but none have the liquidity of Bordeaux. “They [the Bordelais] don’t get enough credit for the sheer, mind-boggling amount of great wine they’re able to put out every year,” says Frischman.  Over the years, Frischman has become an expert authenticator – the sort of knowledge that can only be gained by handling immense volumes of fine wine, working closely with producers and getting up close and personal with the rarest bottles. In 2006, he went to check over some wines that had been sent to the auction house he then worked for by a young Asian collector. The consignment was significant, worth millions of dollars – but even from across the room, Frischman knew that the wines didn’t look right. Closer inspection only confirmed that the wines looked like fakes – and the auction house turned them away, sending them back to the collector, then a new name on the scene, Rudy Kurniawan. A couple of years later, he got a call from the FBI’s Jim Wynn, asking if he would be an expert witness in a wine fraud case against Kurniawan, who had – by that point – become prolific. “I inspected, I don’t know, 40 bankers boxes of stuff that they’d gotten from his home, stamps for corks, fake labels, fake import strips – all kinds of stuff,” he says. In a warehouse in Queens, he studied the evidence – “going through bottle after bottle after bottle and writing a report about why I thought that they were fake”. It was – and still is – the biggest wine forgery case to have ever taken place, and Frischman, along with fellow authentication expert Michael Egan, was essential to proving Kurniawan’s guilt.  Wine authentication has become an essential component of wine collecting, and a key reason to work with trusted merchants. There are people who suggest that as much as 10% of wine on the secondary market is fake, but – in Frischman’s view, having handled fine wine for over 30 years – “That’s a substantial overestimate.” Despite such claims, forgery has only become more sophisticated, and it’s important, he says, to work with someone who knows what they’re looking at. “You want someone who is experienced to look at the bottle and who is empowered to say, ‘I don’t like it – we’re not offering it.’” There’s a big difference, he explains, between being convinced something is fake, and being convinced something is real – and you always want the person checking wines you’re buying to be in the latter camp.  The wine business is a people business – and he’s been lucky to spend three decades getting to know the world’s foremost collectors, spending time rustling through cellars, lugging his fair share of cases in and out of vans, and cradling bottles of elusive vintages and cuvées. Beyond this privilege, he’s often found himself on the receiving end of collectors’ generosity – recognising a fellow enthusiast’s passion. When I ask him if there’s a bottle that stands out, beyond the 1975 Talbot that was his hook into the industry, his eyes mist over. It was, he tells me, on a trip to Tokyo, at a remarkable dinner that included some incredible wines, including the fabled 1947 Cheval Blanc. But it was a bottle of 1978 La Romanée-Conti from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti that stole the show: it was “breathtaking, magical”, he says. “I was practically brought to tears.” Until that moment, he’d never necessarily understood why collectors kept this prized cuvée, and didn’t sell it to fund their La Tâche or Romanée-Saint-Vivant – but this bottle made him realise just why people don’t. “This wine was perfect,” he says.  It’s easy, perhaps, to imagine the auctioneering world is over-run with wine investors, but that’s far from what Frischman has found. “The vast majority, regardless of what they say they’re doing, are buying to drink,” he says. On paper, that may not make sense – after all, who needs 30,000 bottles of wine? But that, as Frischman and any wine obsessive knows, is the collector’s mentality – and, deciding to sell, despite owning more wine than could possibly be consumed in a lifetime, is much harder than buying another case or 10.  When Frischman first started auctioning wine, he recalls talking to his father, who wondered if there was enough fine wine to sustain a career. The beauty, Frischman, now knows, is that there’s a new vintage every year – beyond that, and as he’s seen over the past 30 years, the wine world is constantly shifting, with an ever-expanding range of regions and producers. And he’s evolving with the industry, making a move of his own and bringing his expertise to FINE+RARE. We can’t wait to see what he’ll do. Whether you’re looking to buy, sell or anything else, contact Allan Frischman directly at allan.frischman@frw.co.uk

After two decades at one of the world’s leading auction houses, Allan Frischman has joined our team, as Vice President of Global Client Reserves. We caught up with him to dive into the world of auctioneering, his 30 years in the business and his new role

After two decades at one of the USA’s leading auction houses, auctioneer and wine authentication expert Allan Frischman has joined our team

Introducing Allan Frischman

Hammer time: Allan Frischman

Matthew Fioretti is not everyone’s cup of tea. The man at the helm of Cerbaiona doesn’t mince his words – and he’s got firm views on, well, I suspect pretty much everything. But he’s also unwaveringly honest, with a frank approach that is enjoyably refreshing – and rather unusual in the fine wine arena. He’s got a vision and story, one that he wants to tell, but it’s not one that’s been spun by a PR agency; it’s his. Fioretti has long been involved in the world of wine, running an import business in the US (Summa Vitis), which focused largely on Italian wine. He moved to Italy in 2004, and shut down the Summa Vitis operation in 2009 as he set his sights on making wine himself. After a few false starts, he heard that Diego Molinari – the longtime owner of Cerbaiona – was looking to retire. Along with a group of investors (the most significant of which is the American collector Gary Rieschel), Fioretti purchased the property in 2015, reportedly for €5.8 million. Molinari was in his 80s and it was clear that – while the site itself was exceptional – the property was run down and needed work. As we reported a few years ago, he promptly embarked on a radical project to restore the property and unexpectedly decided to declassify the 2014 and 2015 vintages to Rosso di Montalcino, only releasing the first Fioretti-era Brunello in 2021, with the 2016 vintage – the first to be made entirely by the new team.  Now, almost a decade later, he’s starting to be able to realise his vision for the estate – as we discovered on a visit earlier this year, with problems that “aren’t easy to solve”. The challenge, he explains, has been evolving from an “artisan” to an “atelier”. Under Molinari, the property developed a legendary reputation, but the operation was rudimentary – a traditional, family business, doing things the way they had always been done. Fioretti wants to bring the estate into the modern era, elevating the terroir with technical precision to craft wines that continue the Cerbaiona legacy. It is, he says, “a transition I wasn’t expecting to make”, but one that he feels is essential to safeguard Cerbaiona’s future. The distinction between artisan and atelier is a nuanced one – but one that comes down to an emphasis on craft rather than art, with a commitment to consistency, for which precision and hygiene in the winery are key, as well as a high level of technical knowledge. He confesses that he had envisaged having a more hands-off approach in the winery, having imported a lot of natural wines in his previous career, but has rapidly realised that top-level winemaking is full of “necessary compromises” (diving into issues like the fault quercetin). As a craft, winemaking can’t just be subject to the “whims of the producer”, as he suggests is the artisanal way. “I prefer to work more meticulously,” he explains. The American talks at pace, flitting from TS Eliot and the concept of “the pure critic” to Albertolli and neoclassicism, in amongst technical detail about fining and filtering. The estate is closed to visitors, deliberately to avoid distraction from what Fioretti wants to be spending his time on – making wine. As he whizzes us round the winery, our heads spinning as we try to absorb every detail, he talks us through exactly how he’s bringing new exactitude to the operation. The vineyards have all been replanted and a steep-sloped olive grove replaced with vines, all with selected rootstocks and clones sourced from France’s Guillaume nursery, to give them the best possible raw material. Once seen as too labour-intensive to farm, he’s convinced the ex-olive grove might just be the best site on the property. The rustic old stables and granary that acted as the cellar and winery have been carefully renovated, with water and drainage installed throughout, and the equipment all updated. Importantly, Fioretti has added a full in-house laboratory – something that is exceedingly rare for a property of this size, let alone Italy where the high-tech approach is far from the norm. The fruit is now all chilled after harvest, de-stemmed and cold-soaked, using inert gas to protect the must. While he used upright wooden tanks for fermentation for his first five vintages, Fioretti switched to stainless steel to allow for better hygiene and temperature control (preferring a maximum 26̊C), as well as allowing him to programme them for automated punch-downs and pump-overs. He’s started co-inoculating for primary and malolactic fermentation, meaning the wines go into barrel very clean – and can be sulphured right away. These are tweaks, minor modernisations, but one of the most significant changes Foretti is making is the time the wine spends in wood. While Molinari favoured four-plus years in 500-litre tonneaux, Fioretti has gradually started bottling the wine earlier and uses a combination of 350-litre barrels and 15-hectolitre casks. “Even two years [the appellation minimum] in wood is too long,” he says – before quickly acknowledging that such a view is far from accepted, and he cannot legally reduce it any further. The various consorzios may not like it, but it’s a view that is increasingly common among younger producers in Italy, who are frustrated by minimum oak-ageing requirements and their contrast with the wines today’s consumers want to drink. As Fioretti says, however, “The notion of wood is very delicate.” And while he’d rather be able to age his wine in other vessels during their first two years of life, he acknowledges that élevage in oak has a beneficial impact on the chemistry of wine – aiding stability. With such a beloved wine, it might seem controversial to change anything – especially the way it’s made, but that hasn’t stopped Fioretti. Looking back at older vintages from the estate, even the legendary 100-point 2010, he is sometimes underwhelmed, feeling that there’s much greater potential. Part of his plan to reflect that potential is bottling earlier, allowing the fruit to shine through and give the wine better balance – something he feels is key for ageing potential. He’s also keen to make sure the wine is moderate in alcohol with maximum 14 or 14.2%, even in the warmest years. And most importantly, he says, good wine has to be delicious. Having tasted the 2019 and 2021 with Fioretti – the results so far really are. There’s a vibrancy and purity that makes them irresistible, while not sacrificing the structure that will allow these wines to go the distance. Alongside Cerbaiona, Fioretti has also created the M.L. Fioretti label, one he describes as “part garagiste, part petit château”. He was keen to explore indigenous grapes, which “are part of the family – but not all thoroughbreds”, as well as plots of Bordeaux varietals (grapes with undeniable pedigree) – provided they’re planted in the right place. The Casaglia Colorino is bright and spicy, while the San Vito (sadly the last vintage of which is 2021) is a beautifully lush and vibrant Merlot. These are fascinating wines that allow Fioretti to experiment more – outside the constrictions of the Brunello di Montalcino appellation. Controversially, Fioretti has declared Cerbaiona a “No Scores Zone”, echoing the sentiment of Teobaldo Cappellano that numerical ratings are divisive, at best – and don’t do justice to the craft of winemaking. In his notes on the 2018 vintage, Fioretti wrote: “This is another vintage for the connoisseur, that true lover of wine and the vine. So be it if the ‘collector’ misses out.” Feathers might be ruffled by such remarks, but the motivation here is clear: an earnest passion for wine. It’s something that shines through in our conversation – and in the wines he’s making. You won’t find ratings online for new vintages of Cerbaiona, but one thing’s for sure: you’ll want them in your cellar. Explore all current Cerbaiona and M.L. Fioretti listings, or read more about Italy

Until now, you won’t have seen reviews for Cerbaiona under Matthew Fioretti. As the first scores appear for the latest releases, they are best kept in context: the focus remains firmly on craft and technical precision. In 2024, we spoke with the American leading change at the estate. 

It’s all change at the cult Brunello di Montalcino winery Cerbaiona since Matthew Fioretti took over in 2015. We sat down with him to find out more.

Change at Cerbaiona – Matthew Fioretti

Change at Cerbaiona: Matthew Fioretti

Navigating the world of whisky sometimes requires a compass. This glossary aims to untangle some of the most common terms that trip people up when it comes to the production and enjoyment of whisky

A guide for all the commonly used and misunderstood terms in the world of whisky. You’ll find everything you need to know when purchasing and enjoying whisky.

A comprehensive guide to whisky terms

Whisky glossary

It is little wonder there has been a veritable tequila gold rush, after celebrity-backed brands have sold in excess of $1bn, and the category continued to report double-digit growth during a global pandemic. This growth wasn’t just at the entry level – as some might expect – as online sales of reposado, añejo and extra añejo soared in tequila’s biggest market, the US. The thirst for premium-and-above tequila falls to 163 certified tequila-producing companies and 8,000 agave producers, which is not as easily sated as some might think when your agricultural product takes years to mature in the ground and in barrel. While category growth is undeniably cause for celebration, artisanal producers like Clase Azul are struggling to meet demand. Production is so time and labour-intensive that, with increasing popularity, Clase Azul is considering an allocation model in the UK, as already employed in other markets. The brand’s distinctive hand-painted decanters take two weeks to produce, made by local artisans from the Mazahuas, in the town of Santa María Canchesdá. Before bottling, the organic, non-genetically modified Blue Weber agave takes nine years before it can be harvested, 72 hours to cook, and the Reposado and Añejo are both aged in ex-Bourbon casks for eight months and 25 months, respectively. Clase Azul Ultra – their top tequila – is aged between five and seven years in ex-Sherry casks, making it a popular choice for whisky lovers. Founder Arturo Lomeli is adamant he doesn’t want to streamline any of this process and compromise on quality. “In terms of the quality," Chantal Serrano (Prestige Account Manager for Spirit Cartel, the company's UK distributor) explains, "if you really want to have real agave quality with all the certifications – organic, non-genetically modified – there’s going to be a point when you are limited.” Clase Azul already has a Mezcal offering that is made from wild, 12-to -15-year-old Cenizo agave which can only be harvested once a year. The Cenizo is slowly roasted using firewood and volcanic rock, then milled by hand using an axe. Next it is fermented using stone piles with red oak and double-distilled using an alembic copper still known as El Viejo.   Premium-and-above tequila has been reporting double-digit growth for the past five years, but some still do not afford it the respect it’s due, according to Serrano. “I think if you told some of the biggest producers of Cognac that you were going to shot it, then I think they will be scandalised. Tequila might not have been aged in a barrel for as long as some whiskies, but the plant had to mature at least on average for five to seven years and, for some producers, like Clase Azul, it is nine years, so appreciate that.”  It is increasingly difficult for producers to have this conversation with consumers when some companies are being forced to cut corners to meet the seemingly unquenchable thirst for all things agave. The use of diffusers to process, in many cases raw, agave piñas so the sugars can be fermented and distilled more quickly has become a popular way of circumventing the challenges. While diffusers are undeniably effective in extracting the potential fermentable sugars – 99% to the traditional brick oven and tahona method’s 70% – the change in flavour profile is not always a favourable one.   “The only objective is to extract as much sugar as they can from the agave,” Serrano laments. “And I can sort of understand why they do it because there is such a huge demand… but you then sacrifice quality.   “Unmatured agave or very young agave is being used in the production of these diffusers. Even some chemicals will be used sometimes. Because of the whole process, certain bitter flavours will be there that ideally need to be removed so you potentially even add some flavours to make it feel like it was a real product.”  For Serrano, the two products are like day and night. “You cannot compare [diffuser products] to a product that has been aged for many years. The producer took the financial risk of having that capital sitting there and waiting for it. It takes a lot of time to create a good product, but that is also the beauty about it.”   The involvement of celebrities in the industry has done wonders, shining a light on the category – but it can also confuse consumers, according to Serrano. “Because Clase Azul is a luxury product, a lot of people think we are just focused on the marketing and the image,” she says. But the company is focused on much more than branding, with a clear commitment to its community.  Clase Azul was set up by Guadalajara-native Arturo Lomeli after he identified a gap in the market for a higher-end tequila to be sipped and savoured, much like a whisky or Cognac. Lomeli favoured the fruitier, sweeter and floral notes a Highland tequila imparts versus the typically peppery, spicy and vegetal notes from the valley (Lowlands). As such, he set up shop in Jésus María, a small town near Arandas – one of the highest points in the Jalisco highlands.  Clase Azul is in esteemed company with a Positive Luxury Butterfly Mark for its sustainable efforts. Glenmorangie, Macallan, Château d'Yquem and other luxury drinks brands boast the same. In addition to reducing its plastic and water use, the decanter can be upcycled, and Clase Azul tries to work with fair labour providers and sub-contractors. “Clase Azul try and implement all these measures with the same aim of giving something back and being a bit more responsible as a brand,” Serrano adds.   Sustainability has become increasingly important as drinkers increasingly consider a brand’s environmental impact as part of their buying decision. While this is something that is encouraged by many producers, it can lead to some slightly less robust claims in the industry, according to Serrano.   “It can be frustrating because some brands might say, ‘Oh we do give back to our community or a charity, or we do one specific action and they think look at us we do a lot of sustainability,’” Serrano says. “Whereas, for me, Clase Azul really embodies these values. Arturo Lomeli, from the start, wanted to give something and be sustainable. It was not just a trend and he thought ‘let me do it’. He’s been doing it almost from the beginning with the brand.”  The demand for aged, sustainable tequila is clear and Clase Azul is well positioned to go toe-to-toe with anybody in a battle of style versus substance.   Discover more about Clase Azul or read more Editorial 

In a world filled with big brands, Clase Azul is a tequila producer looking to do things differently. Holly Motion finds out why the artisan brand is determined for tradition to trump trends

Exploring how the highly collectable artisan tequila Clase Azul is doing things differently by honouring tradition rather than following trends.

Exploring artisan tequila producer Clase Azul  

Authentic agave: Clase Azul

If you journey to the northernmost prefecture of Japan you will find Hokkaidō. Venture deeper into the Japanese island’s stunning national parks and forests and you’ll find its native quercus crispula – the mystical mizunara. Measuring up to 30 metres in height, with long, curved branches and broad leaves, the Japanese oak tree is undeniably majestic. In recent years, this humble tree, favoured by luxury furniture makers, has become an incredibly highly sought-after commodity in the whisky world for the slightly unusual characteristics of sandalwood, coconut and incense it imparts. It is so desirable, in fact, that a single barrel can easily cost 10 times the amount you’d pay for a standard Sherry cask. If you can get your hands on one at all, that is. Mizunara hasn’t always been as desirable as it is today. In fact, track back 10 to 15 years and very few people had heard of it, let alone deigned to put their beautifully crafted whisky in it. Its popularity neatly coincides with the sudden rise of Japanese whisky and Suntory’s decision to release a whisky that had been aged, albeit fleetingly, in this Japanese oak. What many didn’t realise at the time, and arguably still don’t to this day, is how problematic the mystical mizunara is to cooper, source and use as a maturation vessel. It takes approximately 200 years before a mizunara tree reaches the desired diameter for a cask (70-80cm). It doesn’t grow in a straight line, which makes creating staves a bit of a logistical headache for coopers. It has an extremely high moisture content (mizunara literally translates as water oak), and contains more knots than other woods, which is an issue when trying to make a cask watertight. It is also porous and prone to leakage. It's fair to say that it’s not a natural choice, and historically it wasn’t used in this way. Japanese distillers traditionally used European or American oak to mature their whisky because they were heavily influenced by Scotch traditions. But a shortage of casks during and after World War II forced them to look closer to home, to their native oak tree. Fast forward to today and the number of mizunara-finished whiskies is at an all-time high. As a consequence, mizunara barrels have only become more difficult (and expensive) to source. Andrew Rankin has worked in the whisky industry for 47 years – what he doesn’t know about casks isn’t worth knowing and his connections are enviable. None more so than his relationship with one of the oldest independent cooperages in Japan, from whom he sources a steady supply of mizunara for his new Scottish Highlands distillery Ardross. He describes the Japanese oak as a “fairly recent phenomenon” that was kickstarted by Suntory – a company he knows exceptionally well from his 20-plus years at Morrison Bowmore – where they filled an “absolutely tiny percentage” of Yamazaki into mizunara a decade ago. In the years that have followed, Rankin has been watching the mizunara market closely and is sceptical as to whether there is enough supply to meet demand. “It took me years to persuade Suntory to give us some mizunara casks,” he says. “At that time, I think it was 2010, we got three used mizunara casks and we got three new mizunara casks – and that was it. And it was a one-off. We weren’t getting a regular supply of it.” Even with his connections, Rankin says he doesn’t get a committed volume of mizunara each year because it is dependent on the level of deforestation and the quality of the wood. “We were due to get 20 [barrels] in at the beginning of this year,” he says, “but we still haven’t got them because of selection problems with the wood and shipping problems.” He’s hopeful they’ll arrive before the year is out, but there’s no guarantee. From the people I have spoken to, this lengthy wait is par for the course. East Asia Whisky Company’s Christian Leusder says it takes “approximately three years before you receive a good-quality mizunara barrel”. When you’ve parted with a staggering £8,000 per cask – five times the cost of a standard European or American oak barrel – it can be galling when other producers punt for a mediocre cask, which is only partly made from mizunara or is made from multiple trees, and sell their whisky for a similar price. These, arguably, poorer imitations can be with the buyer within a month or two because they take far less time to cooper and ship. Leusder believes the “massive” difference in cask pricing and considerable delay is worth it to produce something that isn’t just “bandwagon [and] off-the-rack”. Another bone of contention regarding mizunara is the length of time the whisky has spent in barrel, and whether the cask is fully or only partly made from the Japanese oak. Suntory UK Brand Ambassador James Bowker says the Japanese whisky behemoth is “lucky” to have a “relatively consistent, quality supply chain” that has been established over many years. These relationships enable them to fully age whiskies in single casks rather than cask transferring or finishing. “You’ll see this practice across our portfolio where we use mizunara,” he says. “It gives a more rounded, complex, tertiary profile rather than a simple hit of the primary cask notes.” However, Bowker is quick to acknowledge this expensive process which requires a “significant” time investment is not always possible – financially or otherwise – for some producers. Rankin says he really doesn’t know where all these producers are sourcing mizunara casks from because they are, naturally, far more scarce today than they were a decade ago. He is also sceptical about how long some of these whiskies have spent in mizunara and believes it takes at least five years to get any influence from the wood. “At the moment, you could put your whisky in a mizunara cask, roll it about on the floor, and say it is mizunara-cask-finished,” the Master Blender says. “And you probably know, and I probably know, that it is going on.” The people who don’t know, Rankin says, are the end consumers because producers are not currently required to be transparent about this on the label. East Asia Whisky Company’s Leusder picks up the point. “If you look at what Chivas Regal are doing, they are producing a lot of mizunara single malt whiskies which are just finishes and they don’t actually have an age statement so you don’t know how long they’ve been in there,” he says. “And I personally can’t really taste the mizunara out of it.” He continues: “Finishes can be gimmicky. They can go wrong. And they do not always yield the best product.” This is one of the reasons East Asia Whisky Company dips their toe in the mizunara pool but has no intention of fully submerging its feet. Its current Macallan mizunara series stops after the third release. A mizunara-finished Springbank and Bowmore release will follow, and then Leusder says the team might try and get their hands on a younger vintage and decide to age it in mizunara until the 40-to 50-year mark, when it will no longer be a finish. Dr Bill Lumsden, the genius behind Glenmorangie and Ardbeg for the past 26 years, has pioneered experimentation on every aspect of whisky production. It is telling that he has never released a product with mizunara oak in it. He says it is the taste profile, rather than sourcing and porosity, that puts him off the Japanese oak. “If I was to take Glenmorangie new-make spirit – and I’m neither confirming nor denying that I have done this – and mature it in a new heavily-toasted mizunara oak cask for 12 years, at the end of the day, I would have something that would probably taste a little bit bizarre,” he says. Lumsden says he always recalls doing a tasting in conjunction with The Glenlivet Master Distiller Alan Winchester and Suntory Chief Blender Shinji Fukuyo in London when Fukuyo presented a fully mizunara-matured whisky. Lumsden struggles to remember if it was Yamazaki but remembers the taste profile with crystal-clear clarity. He describes it in just two words: “bewilderingly strange”. Coming from a man who invented the Russian-oak matured Ardbeg Kelpie, which he says has elements of “the smell of burning rubber when a car has screeched away”, this is quite the review. Casting an eye to the future, there is little doubt producers will continue to release mizunara-finished whiskies – certainly in the short to mid term. Leusder says he thinks it will always be popular simply because it’s so rare, but predicts there will be a larger and widening gap between high and low quality. “There will be less and less of the high and more and more of the low,” he says, “and the market will be more and more confused as to which is which.” When pushed, Suntory’s Bowker says he absolutely thinks the trend will continue and other categories will start using mizunara. But, he adds with trepidation, that he hopes producers will “respect this special wood and ensure that consumers get to experience it at its best rather than being tempted by more affordable shortcuts as you so often see in this industry”. For the time being, at least, it seems like the mystical mizunara is going to continue to enchant producers and drinkers alike. And, unless things drastically change, the onus will be on the whisky drinker to watch out for the sorcery and find the magical liquid that undoubtedly exists. Browse all spirits or read more Editorial 

Mizunara has everybody spellbound. The Japanese oak – once relatively unknown and troublesome – is now desperately sought-after. Holly Motion speaks to some of the biggest names in the cask industry about what they really think of the mystical wood

Exploring why the Japanese oak mizunara – once relatively unknown and troublesome – is now desperately sought-after in the whisky world

Investigating the rare Japanese oak, mizunara

The mystical mizunara

VinLozano Imports

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

Total market price*

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

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

Title

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VinLozano Imports

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