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

For the aperitif For Domaine Long-Depaquit’s Matthieu Mangenot it is the energy and power of Champagne Brut Nature Les Marnes Blanches from Jeaunaux-Robin, that makes it his choice at Christmas. “I can't say for sure if it is the 100% Chardonnay selection or the very elegant vinification in Burgundy barrel that is this Champagne’s (hidden) tribute to our region but there is absolutely no ‘make up‘ with this Champagne. With no dosage it is a true expression of Chardonnay and terroir. To me, it is the best sparkling to get you ready for Christmas dinner!”  Klaus-Peter Keller (Weingut Keller) and his family love Champagne Bérèche & Fils or Krug, “but we will definitely enjoy some sparkling wines from Germany too!” he adds. Gianlorenzo di Neri from Montalcino’s Casanova di Neri is also choosing something local, with a 2002 Trentodoc – Giulio Ferrari Riserva del Fondatore, as well as a family favourite, Champagne Egly-Ouriet’s Blanc de Noirs. Saskia de Rothschild (Ch. Lafite-Rothschild) breaks the mould and prefers to drink ice-cold Sauternes as an aperitif rather than sparkling wine. She is still toying on whether to go young or old, deciding between a 2017, an 2007 or 1989 from Ch. Rieussec. The whites White Burgundy seems the overwhelmingly popular choice for the Christmas table. Francisco Baettig (Viña Errázuriz, Viñedo Chadwick and Baettig wines) opting for a bottle of Pulingy-Montrachet Les Combettes from Etienne Sauzet. “I love the elegance and balance of this appellation, and the purity of the wines from this producer.” Neri is saving his last bottle of 2005 Bourgogne Blanc by Coche-Dury alongside a 1991 Terlano Rarita, a Pinot Bianco blend released 25 years after it was made, proving the incredible ageing potential of top whites from Alto Adige. Mangenot has also opted for a rarity for the special day – a magnum of 2012 Nuits-Saint-Georges Blanc from Château-Gris (Albert Bichot). Chardonnay accounts for just 2% of the Nuits-Saint-Georges appellation. “The wine has a lot of richness and a beautiful tension due to the altitude of the vineyards,” says Mangenot: he is pairing it with cod fillet and citrus cream. Keller is bucking the trend and unsurprisingly opting for dry Rieslings, specifically from the 1990s, along with an eagerly awaited bottle of 1959 Mosel Piesporter Schubertslay. In 2008, Keller (although based in Rheinhessen) took over 0.7 hectares of this incredibly steep slope in the Mosel and he is using his Christmas dinner to do some research on this Mosel site with some serious bottle age. The reds Keller is not holding back on the reds: he’s got a 1966 Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and a 1991 Clos de la Roche Grand Cru from Hubert Lignier lined up. Gianlorenzo di Neri is also opting for a Clos de la Roche, although his is a 2006 from Armand Rousseau. At the Neri household they love to compare Grand Cru Burgundy with their Brunellos, “It should be amazing to taste our 2006 Tenuta Nuova alongside.” Beyond Brunello and Burgundy, they will also be enjoying some top Nebbiolo, but it’s not an easy choice. “For Barolo we love so many producers, Elio Grasso’s Runcot – 2008 should be delicious now – or possibly Giacosa’s 2007 Barbaresco Asili Riserva.” For Mangenot, “The middle of winter is a good period to open a bottle of sunshine like Cornas Vin Noir 2012 from Domaine du Tunnel (my wife loves it!) – concentration, density, beautiful complexity, silky tannins… And a bunch of aromas that turns your dinner into a summer journey in a convertible car with your nose in the wind!” Beattig is also opting for Northern Rhône Syrah from his favourite producer Pierre Gonon, a Saint-Joseph. “I love the complexity of aromas, the spiciness. The structure of the wine, but at the same time the polished tannins. The mix of freshness, complexity and depth... love it.” At the Rothschild household it will of course be Lafite: “1988 or/and 1996: two absolute favourites of mine these days,” Saskia explains. “The 1988 is pure Lafite, extremely complex and evolving and the ’96, thanks to its perfect balance, is just so easy to drink that you’ll finish the bottle without even noticing it.” Jean-Guillaume Prats (CEO of Domaines Barons de Rothschild Lafite) is staying pretty loyal too, opting for Pomerol’s Ch. l’Evangile 2010. To finish Finally the sweets and fortifieds: there is never a better time to open aged Ports to go with the cheese and desserts of Christmas. For Lafite’s Jean-Guillaume Prats it will be Dow’s 1977 – in his words, “perfection”. Mangenot is also going for Vintage Port: Graham’s Quinta dos Malvedos 2001, “to go with a homemade chocolate mousse, and the rest of the bottle definitely to enjoy slowly by the fire with the family… Fruits, flowers, creamy character, it is a treat for the nose and the palate I wouldn't miss it at any price.” Keller decides on the sweet wines more spontaneously: “One of our favorite combinations is matching 40 and 50-year-old Ausleses with game dishes. It can taste so great. The anticipation is already great.” If fortifieds are not your thing, then take Jean-Sébastien Philippe of Lafite’s recommendation: he’ll be having a glass (or two) of Cognac de Lafite Très Vieille Réserve. He believes it is one of the most astonishing selections of old eaux-de-vies in Cognac. Browse our full range

There’s no better time than Christmas to open a treasured bottle or two. Ahead of the big day, we asked a handful of our favourite winemakers – from Saskia de Rothschild to Klaus-Peter Keller – to tell us what they’ll be uncorking

We find out the special bottles some of our favourite winemakers and distillers are uncorking this Christmas

What winemakers are drinking this Christmas

We arranged a tasting of some of the top picks including Jean Stodden, Klaus Peter Keller, Bernhard Huber and Dr. Heger. The variety on offer just from a handful of these wines showed the incredible potential of the region for top Pinot production. With Pinot’s inherent ability to express terroir we found a huge range in structure and flavor profiles from different single vineyard sites. 

Prior to our mixed case offer of these top producers out next week, the tasting helped us map out the different terroirs in Germany as well as the typical profiles of these top producers. With such rich diversity in soils, climate and clones throughout the Pinot growing regions of Germany, there is plenty to discover, from the cooler climate, slate soils of Ahr to the richer, more opulent Pinots of Baden.  Pinot Noir’s amazing ability to express terroir is the perfect vehicle for the variety and nuance to be had from the top sites in Germany, which are dotted all around the fine wine regions of Germany including Mosel, Ahr, Franken, Rheingau, Rheinhessen, Baden and beyond. In the last 20 years there has been a quality revolution in Germany, specifically with Pinot Noir production, buoyed by the ever-increasing demand for Burgundy and the intrinsic connections the Germans have with their contemporaries in Burgundy.  Many producers have strong links with the Cote d’Or either having worked extensively in the region or from forging long-term friendships with some of the top growers. Between the two regions, there has been a real sharing of knowledge from viticultural to winemaking techniques, exploring the variations and nuance created by the distinct soils and the mix of both German and Burgundian clones being used today in Germany.   The recent trends in Pinot Noir production with a move towards earlier picking, less extraction and a reduction in oak have helped further promote the diversity of styles found throughout the German Pinot regions and allowed the top producers to really shine in recent years. Critics throughout the world have been praising the results coming out from the top producers in Germany. This Pinot Noir Revolution gripping Germany is well worth getting excited about and we are thrilled to be able to offer a range of some of the finest examples.

 Top Pinot Noir producers Jean Stodden – Ahr 
One of the longest-running wineries in Germany, the Jean Stodden estate has been producing wine in Ahr since 1578. The wines are unique thanks to their very specific terroir and incredibly cool climate and this shows in spades throughout their range of wines, producing beguiling ethereal examples that are quite unlike Burgundy but distinctly European. 

This really is cool-climate Pinot, with vineyards located 50km north of Mosel. The wines
only reach ripeness thanks to the steep south-facing slopes grown on slate soils that retain the heat in the vineyard. The Estate has just 6.5 hectares of vineyards. This soil type, steepness and slate soil offer a completely different style of Pinot Noir compared to the Cote d’Or.

On tasting, the wines have an incredible line of acidity running through them, distinctly more marked than Burgundy. There is amazing contrast here too. Tasting the Sonnenburg Grand Cru alongside the Monchberg, these wines have completely different personalities, the Sonnenburg is incredibly linear and focused on the palate with great precision and pitch. The fruit is delicate and uber-fresh – sappy cranberry, wild strawberry and earthy rhubarb flavours. This is one for all the acid heads.

The Monchberg really is outstanding, and certainly worthy of Grand Cru status anywhere in the world. Incredibly compact with tons going on. The spectrum of fruit goes from fresh red fruit right through to meatier, savoury tones. The mid-palate is striking – weighty and viscous yet still has such delicacy and finesse. The length and breadth of the wine is extraordinary and the contrast of the wine shows real terroir in action. This wine is not cheap but its is stunning. 

Both wines have quite a different tone to Burgundy but are full of European etherealism. If you can find it, the Monchberg is one not to miss. World-Class.

 Key wines:     Jean Stodden Spatburgunder Herernberg Grosses Gewachs (GG) Jean Stodden include Hardtberg Spatburgunder GG Mayschoss Monchberg Spatburgunder GG  NeuenahrerSonnenburg Spatburgunder GG What the critics say: 

“From their home village Rech, Stodden's 2016 Recher Herrenberg Spätburgunder GG shows a ruby-garnet color and an aroma of pure, fine slate but warm, ripe fruit. Lush and intense on the palate, this is a full-bodied, quite powerful and intense Pinot with a lingering juiciness and spicy slate flavor. The 2016 is still very young, but its potential is enormous. Tasted during the preview of the GG wines in Wiesbaden in August 2018."
 93 points, Stephan Reinhardt, Wine Advocate “Alexander Stodden's 2016 Neuenahrer Sonnenberg Spätburgunder GG is brighter in color than J.J. Adenauer's Sonnenberg and shows a very ripe, slightly caramelly yet pure and slatey bouquet with remarkable precision. Sweet, round and elegant on the palate, this is an intense and refined Pinot Noir with good concentration, remarkable length
and a tight finish. This 2016 is excellent, but it needs time.”
 91+ points, Stephan Reinhardt, Wine Advocate

 Markus Molitor, Mosel
 Starting from practically nothing in the early 1980s, Markus Molitor has rapidly grown into one of the world's most respected winemakers, with a list of accolades including Rising Star of the Year 1999 from Gault & Millau, Winemaker of the Year 2014 from Falstaff and raft of huge critic scores. He is also the proud owner of over sixty hectares of prime real estate that Mosel Fine Wines – an independent review of Mosel Riesling – describes as a "who's who of Grand Cru between Erden to Bernkastel and the Southern Saar."

Molitor, like all producers in the Mosel, is most well known for his Rieslings, with Pinot Noir just making up 4% of his plantings. However, his top Pinot Noirs are becoming as collectible and as respected as his whites and are rated amongst the finest in the world. He produces seven different Pinot Noir cuvees in total.

"Try the most 'simple' Pinot Noir Molitor is bottling and you are already in the upper class of German Pinot Noir. His three-starred Pinots are mind-blowing and can compete with prestigious Grands Crus from Burgundy.” Stephan Reinhardt, RobertParker.com

 Key wines:        Trarbacher Schlossberg   Brauneberger Klostergarten     Graacher Himmelreich K.P. Keller – Rheinhessen 
 Alongside Egon Muller, Klaus-Peter Keller’s wines are the world's most collected and prized wines coming from Germany, famously quoted by Jancis Robinson his Riesling has been described as the Montrachet of Germany. Whilst his Rieslings initially brought so much international fame to the winery, his Pinot Noirs today also have a strong following. His 16 hectares of vines are predominantly made up of Riesling plantings but he has a Grand Cru site for his Dalsheim Spatburgunder grown on the Burgel Grosses Gewachs site. 

This Grand Cru has a specific shell limestone soil more suitable for Pinot Noir than Riesling
production. Yields are minuscule with each vine reduced to just two bunches of grapes and each individual cluster further halved. Klaus believes this helps to increase the overall acidity allowing him to pick the grapes at full ripeness whilst retaining freshness. His global recognition in a region more famous for high yielding dirt cheap Liebfraumilch, has caused a quality revolution in Rheinhessen, with more producers following in his footsteps. 

The Keller Pinots are genuinely impressive, the wines capture the beguiling Pinot fragrance
and the finesse to the tannins are very close in style to top Burgundy. We tasted the Frauenberg Grand Cru, the last of Keller’s Pinot Noir vineyards to be harvested, being the coolest site and grown at altitude. The wine has tremendous stony minerality, very precise fruit clarity and is not without structure – think Clos de la Roche rather than Chambertin.

 Key wines      
 Dalsheimer Burgel Spatburgunder GG         Frauenberg Spatburgunder GG      Westhofen Morstein Felix Spatburgunder GG What the critics say 
Frauenberg Spatburgunder GG 2013: “From French mass selections planted in 1996 and picked with 35 hectoliters per hectare, the 2013 Frauenberg Spätburgunder trocken GG has a
clear and subtle yet aromatic bouquet of red and dark berries (raspberries, wild blackberries, cassis), along with some flinty/smoky flavors. Intense, concentrated and firm on the palate, this is a full-bodied, powerful and firmly structured Pinot.  It has a velvet texture, ripe and grippy tannins, and a persistently sweet and concentrated flavor of ripe cherries and red fruit jelly in the finish. The wine has more power and body than the Bürge, l but also needs more time to develop. It's from a cooler and windier plot, and always the last Pinot harvested at Keller. The 2013 was aged in used barrels, whereas only the 2012 was still in new barrels until the malolactic fermentation was finished.  92 points, Stephan Reinhardt, Wine Advocate “The 2014 Frauenberg Spätburgunder GG offers a ripe, yet precise, fresh, well-focused and rather coolish Pinot aroma; it shows some very discreet toast and mocha flavors highlighting the wild blackberry and dark cherry aromas. Full-bodied, ripe and concentrated on the palate, this is an intense and juicy, almost charming Pinot Noir from low-yielding vines on limestone
bedrock (21 hectoliters per hectare). The finish is intense and powerful, but well structured due to the stems on which the wine fermented for 21 days.  The finish is almost sweet, due to the ripeness (a word rarely used 30 years ago in the higher altitudes of the Frauenberg), but is also very fresh and precise; whereas the ripe tannins give the required grip and structure. This is a promising wine with delicate fruit flavors, mineral freshness and probably more power than the Bürgel; but at least at this moment, it maybe has less transparency and finesse.  
91-92 points, Stephan Reinhardt, Wine Advocate

 Bernhard Huber, Baden
 Bernhard Huber was seen as the German godfather of Pinot Noir and was one of the most
instrumental vignerons to improve the region's reputation for the varietal. Working extensively with massal selection of clones, 10 – 15 different Pinot clones exist within one vineyard. Huber’s style has always been centred around creating a “nervosity” in his wines. The vineyards share a similar climate and limestone soils of the Cote d’Or. 

The wines are distinctly smoky, meaty with both sweet cherry liqueur notes but also greenness too. The Sommerhalde Grand Cru however is a real step up from the Alte Reben cuvee (made from declassified Grand Cru grapes). Even more impressive was the Bienenberg Grosse Gewachs. You certainly get more weight in these wines from Baden. The wines have rich broad textures on the palate and the tannins more velvety and sturdy than the wines of Keller and Stodden with have more finesse.

 Key wines:     Bernhard Huber Alte Reben Spatburgunder    Bernhard Huber Sommerhalde Spatburgunder GG  Bernhard Huber Malterdinger Bienenberg Spatburgunder “R” 
What the critics say
 "Cherry red and fresh in color, the 2015 Sommerhalde Spätburgunder GG has a pure, very elegant and rather floral bouquet of fresh red fruits. Still a bit reductive on the palate, this is an elegant, silky textured, fresh and fruity Pinot Noir with firm but fine tannins and a long, complex and pretty tight finish with reduced power. It is an impressive wine but the most closed of Huber's 2015 GG Pinot quartet at this early moment. Tasted in Wiesbaden,
August 2017. 
93 points, Stephan Reinhardt, Wine Advocate
 
Bernhard Huber Malterdinger Bienenberg Spatburgundr “R” 2015 – “Julian Huber's 2015 Bienenberg Spätburgunder GG shows a lovely, vital ruby red color and opens a bit reductive still, with a clear, fresh and well-defined bouquet of red fruits, crushed stones and spicy and floral aromas. It is a full-bodied, firm, fresh and finessed Pinot Noir with a serious tannin
structure and persistent vitality. This is a terribly clear and precise Pinot, and the finish is really cleansing and stimulating. Tasted at the "VDP Grosses Gewächs" presentation in Wiesbaden, August 2017.” 
 92 points, Stephan Reinhardt, Wine Advocate 
Weingut Dr. Heger, Baden  
One of the more established domaines in Baden the winery has been in operation since 1935.
Today run by Joachim Heger who was understudy to Helmut Donnhoff, the winery has never been in better shape, producing their unique expression of German Pinot Noir thanks to the distinct volcanic soil found in their two main Grand Cru sites of Winklerberg and Achkarrer Schlossberg.  
The 2015s we tasted were stunning. Whilst perhaps less complex in terms of fragrance at
least at this point, the palate has very fine textured tannins, tremendous finesse - there is so much elegance to these wines and so much freshness, the wines leave your mouth enlivened and salivating. Is this the effect of the volcanic soils? Whilst clearly European in style this is again very different to Pinot Noir from Burgundy but certainly as interesting and ethereal. 

 Key wines:     
 Hausleboden Winklerberg Spatburgunder GG Mimus Winklerberg Spatburgunder      Achkarrer Schlossberg Spatburgunder GG      Vorderer Winklerberg Spatburgunder GG Rudolf Furst, Franken
 These days this prolific estate is run by Paul Furst who has continued to make further improvements in their already world-renowned vineyards, further increasing the planting density and replacing German clone vines with Burgundian clones. The estate comprises 20 hectares in total, of which 13 are planted on the Centrafenberg Vineyard in Burgstadter, one of the most celebrated vineyards in Germany. The site is made up of red sandstone, iron rich soils ideal for Pinot Noir production. He also produces a Pinot Noir on the very steep slopes of Schlossberg. Furst is famous for their tiny yields operating at ruthlessly low production levels in order to maximise quality.

 Key wines:       Centrafenberg Spatburgunder GG         Hundsruck Spatburgunder GG          Klingenberg Schlossberg Spatburgunder GG What the critics say: Weingut Rudolf Furst Hundsruck Spatburgunder GG The 2016 Hundsrück Spätburgunder GG is even more fine and spicy on the nose than the Centgrafenberg. The palate is lush and firm but also concentrated and very elegant, with remarkable finesse and aging potential. This is great German Spätburgunder, and I am looking forward to tasting it again with more time and more wine in my glass. Temporary score. 
94-95 points, Stephan Reinhardt (tasted in Wiesbaden in August 2018) Explore more Editorial 

We have sourced a parcel of some of the finest Pinot Noirs coming out of Germany, a diverse region that is today arguably producing the most exciting Pinot Noirs in Europe, outside of Burgundy. Top examples are world-class and offer both similarities and important differences to the Cote d’Or. 

The finest Pinot Noirs are coming out of Germany, a diverse region that is arguably producing the most exciting Pinot Noirs in Europe, outside of Burgundy. 

Exploring Germany's Pinot Noir

Beyond Burgundy: Exploring Germany's Pinot Noir

Arvine: Switzerland’s hidden treasure Berry colour: white
 Arvine, pearl of the Alps The ultimate Swiss grape variety, Arvine can produce captivating, complex wines of international stature, from dry to sweet. It is native to the Valais, southern Switzerland, where it was mentioned for the first time in 1602. Since the late 19th century, it has often been called Petite Arvine to distinguish it from Grosse Arvine, a completely different and rare local variety. I have not so far been able to uncover Arvine’s parents by DNA testing. It is often said that Arvine was introduced to Switzerland by the Romans. Its name allegedly derived from helvola, a grape variety mentioned by Cato the Elder. I refute this claim for two very simple reasons: firstly, it is impossible to establish botanical identity between the vague descriptions of Latin authors and modern varieties, and secondly, helvola grapes were black-berried. I think instead that its name comes from the local dialect arvena, itself probably derived from the Latin advena, meaning ‘just arrived’. This name could have been given to the variety shortly after its birth (or arrival?) in the Valais. It is a late-ripening variety, with small berries and compact, small bunches. It is quite productive, but prone to wind damage and susceptible to fungal diseases. Arvine covers 218 hectares (539 acres), almost exclusively in the Valais, representing only 1.48% of the country’s vine-bearing area. It produces complex, lively wines that can age well, with aromas of citrus and rhubarb, and a firm structure, as well as a characteristic salinity on the finish. Champions of Arvine In the Valais, several outstanding producers make excellent varietal Arvine wines. For dry wines, I would recommend Cave Benoît Dorsaz in Fully, Valentina Andrei in Saillon, Didier Joris in Chamoson, Cave de l’Orpailleur in Uvrier and Domaine des Muses in Granges, among many others. For the sweet wines, produced from grapes that are naturally left to shrivel on the vine, the undisputed champion is Marie-Thérèse Chappaz in Fully. From her biodynamic vineyards, this icon of Swiss winegrowers crafts some of the best sweet wines in the world, especially from Arvine. Her Petite Arvine Grain Noble is highly sought after, and her otherworldly Arvine Grain par Grain, made exclusively from botrytised berries harvested by hand, berry by berry, is almost impossible to find. Arvine has rarely been planted outside Switzerland. In Italy, it was introduced to the neighbouring Aosta Valley in 1970. In 1992, Angelo Gaja, one of Italy’s most famous wine producers, planted 0.36 hectares in Serralunga (Piedmonte). The result was a disaster, in his words, mainly because of problems with coulure and wind damage. In France, some vine parcels exist in the Languedoc and in the Rhône Valley, where charismatic winemaker Michel Chapoutier planted half a hectare in Tain-l’Hermitage, but he was not convinced by the results and has now abandoned the experiment. Outside Europe, it is produced only in Mendocino, California, by one adventurous producer, Ernest Vineyards, which makes a varietal wine under the Edaphos label.

Dr José Vouillamoz
 
Areni: Armenia’s national treasure Berry colour: BLACK 
History in a bottle Areni is the most important red variety in Armenia. It most likely comes from the village of Areni in Vayots Dzor, at the southeastern end of the county, where the world’s oldest cellar (4000 BC) was discovered in a cave in 2011. Interestingly, the grape remains found at the bottom of the old karas (the traditional clay jars) buried in the cave look very similar to the pips of the modern Areni variety. DNA profiling has failed to identify Areni’s parents, making it an orphan Armenian variety, but it has shown that at least two distinct varieties share the name Areni: Areni Sev (sev means black), the ‘true’ one that has historically been grown in Vayots Dzor, and Areni Seyrak (seyrak means loose, referring to the bunches), sporadically found among Areni Sev vines in old mixed vineyards. Areni Sev is a late-ripening variety with oblong, sometimes ovate, thick-skinned berries. The bunches are medium-sized and dense. It shows good resistance to frost, which means it can be cultivated at high elevations (up to 1,600 metres in Armenia). It is moderately resistant to powdery mildew and susceptible to downy mildew. Areni is exclusively cultivated in Armenia, where it has traditionally been used to make high-quality, age-worthy wines with complex aromas of violets, wisteria, cherries and blackberries, silky tannins and refreshing acidity. Champions of Areni After my first visit to Areni village in 2003, and despite the rudimentary winemaking at the only local winery (Areni Winery, now Hin Winery), I was convinced that Areni was among the most promising grape varieties in the world. In 2012, I met Zorik Gharibian in Izmir (Turkey) at the European Wine Bloggers’ Conference. I was much impressed by his 2010 Karasi Areni Noir, Zorah Wines’ very first vintage after 10 years of trial and error. We became friends and I selfishly helped him find an importer in Switzerland, in order to secure my own supply of his wines, including the mind-blowing high-end cuvée Yeraz. Since then, Zorik and his wife Yeraz have relentlessly promoted Armenian wines all over the world, and Zorah Wines has become one of Armenia’s most respected flagships. Their wines, sourced from ungrafted vineyards between 1,300 and 1,600 metres altitude are partly made in karas, traditional clay jars partly buried underground, ‘cousins’ of the Georgian qvevri. The sad thing is that Armenian-born Eduardo Eurnekian, one of the wealthiest people in Argentina and owner of several airports, including that of Yerevan in Armenia, has founded a winery named Karas Wines, despite not using any karas in the winemaking process. In 2018, judges granted him the exclusive usage of the name Karas, disregarding 6,000 years of shared tradition. Zorik Gharibian has been determinedly fighting against this unfair judgement and he plans to appeal to the country’s Supreme Court. I strongly support him. And I predict that Armenia may well be the ‘next big thing’ in the wine world. Dr José Vouillamoz
 Kydonitsa: Rebirth of an extremely rare grape variety Berry colour: WHITE Rescued in the nick of time Kydonitsa is a survivor, an almost forgotten variety from Lakonía (Laconia) in the southern Pelopónnisos (Peloponnese) in Greece. According to local belief, it was widely cultivated in the medieval period when Lakonía formed part of the Byzantine Empire. It then flourished under brief periods of Venetian rule, before it was threatened with extinction under Ottoman rule, as a result of the bans on alcohol consumption. It had almost disappeared when it was saved from extinction by Yiannis Vatistas and Yorgos Tsimbidi (Monemvasia Winery) in the late 1990s. DNA profiling has not revealed any match or parentage with any other variety, making it a Greek orphan. The medium-sized bunches are relatively loose and elongated. The berries are small and turn golden yellow when ripe. In Greek, the word kυδωνίτσα (kydonitsa) means ‘little quince’, referring to the aroma of both the berry and the wine. The wine also shows notes of lemon, grapefruit, bergamot and mirabelle plum, as well as aromatic herbs. It is elegant, creamy, with crisp acidity and a slightly bitter, orange-peel finish, with a hint of iodine. Kydonitsa is grown exclusively in Lakonía, on the east coast of the Pelopónnisos, near the island of Monemvasia. Champions of Kydonitsa Yorgos Tsimbidi is a visionary. In 1997, while most wineries in the Pelopónnisos were busy planting so-called international grape varieties, he founded Monemvasia Winery in order to revive the historical Malvasia wine in its birthplace. The name Malvasia has been given to a wide range of genetically distinct white-, pink-, grey- and black-skinned varieties which are all particularly well suited to the production of sweet wines. The name is purported to be a corruption of Monemvasia, which means ‘single entrance’ and is the name of a small port situated on a rocky spur in Lakonía. It has been famous since ancient times for its sweet wine made from sun-dried grapes. The earliest mention of the sweet wines of Monemvasia dates back to 1214 in Éfesos (Ephesus, today in Turkey), and in 1278 the Venetians were already importing vinum de Malvasias. The exact identities of the grape varieties making up this sweet wine are still unknown, but Kydonitsa and the appropriately named Monemvasia were probably part of the blend. This is what drove Yorgos Tsimbidi to put all his time and energy into rescuing them, carrying out countless on-farm trials since 1997. He now produces dry varietal wines, as well as the sweet ‘Monemvasia – Malvasia’, a blend of Monemvasia, Kydonitsa, Assyrtiko and Asproudi grapes, dried for approximately two weeks under the sun, in order to revive the ancient tradition. Today, Yorgos runs the winery with his wife Elli and their daughters Marialena, Anastasia and Artemis. I was able to taste a mini-vertical of Kydonitsa during my visit in 2016, which convinced me of the exceptional quality and ageing potential of this resurrected variety. And the rest of the portfolio convinced me that Monemvasia Winery is one of the best in mainland Greece. Dr José Vouillamoz

 Baga: Northern Portuguese red with a simple name and a complex character Berry colour: black 
The rehabilitation of Baga The meaning of Baga may be simple (berry) but the variety is far from it. When it is good, it is breathtakingly beautiful and capable of long ageing. When it is abused, it is acid, mean and lean, with tough tannins. It requires commitment from growers and wine lovers. While it may have originated in Portugal's Dão region, it has found its home in neighbouring Bairrada, where it is the dominant red variety. In 2017 there were 8,258 hectares (20,406 acres), 4% of Portugal’s vineyard area. It’s found mainly in Bairrada but also in Dão, although there it is not authorised in DOP wines. Baga vines are also planted, though far less numerously, in Lisboa, the Tejo and the Douro. The cool, wet, Atlantic-influenced climate of Bairrada is particularly inconvenient for a late-ripening variety with thin skins and prone to botrytis. If its vigour and productivity are not controlled by careful viticulture or the natural balance achieved by older vines in poor soils, there is increased risk of under-ripeness or rot when the September rains arrive. Despite all this, those whose hearts have been captured by the variety have shown it to be as bewitching as Pinot Noir, and as hauntingly complex and long-lived as Nebbiolo. Champions of Baga The variety allows itself to be made in many styles, influenced strongly by the soil (limestone-clay and granite are both prized), the age of the vines and, not least, by the personalities of the winegrowers and their choices in the winery. The most restlessly experimental and determined is Luís Pato, who was prominent among a small group of quality-minded winegrowers who dragged Baga into the spotlight for fine wine after it had languished for so long as a source of bulk reds churned out by the state-controlled co-ops and négociants for much of the 20th century. While there are today, thankfully, too many good winegrowers to mention by name, the Baga Friends display the variety’s wonderful diversity: from the powerful styles aged in oak that become increasingly complex and perfumed with age that are produced by, for example, Luís Pato, Mário Sérgio Alves Nuno at Quinta das Bageiras, François Chasans at Quinta da Vacariça and Paulo Sousa at Sidónio de Sousa; to the lightly stepping, red-fruited, fresh and scented beauties of Filipa Pato and Douro incomer Dirk Niepoort at Quinta de Baixo. Baga can also make very good sparkling wines. Bussaco Palace Hotel has an astonishing collection of very old vintages, blending Baga from Bairrada with Touriga Nacional from Dão. Julia Harding MW 
Kisi: Recently resurrected and scented Georgian white Berry colour: WHITE The resurrection of Kisi Maybe it’s because thin-skinned Kisi is difficult to grow and sensitive to the climate that it was on the verge of extinction at the end of the 20th century, when David Maisuradze made a wine that put the variety firmly back in the spotlight. The highly respected winemaker, then with Telavi Wine Cellar, managed to find just four tonnes of the variety to make a wine, fermented in a stainless-steel tank, that stunned wine lovers with its pure, floral aromas and deep fruit flavours of citrus and pear, richly fruited but dry. This variety didn’t stand much chance in the Soviet era when only a very limited number of varieties were permitted in the interests of volume rather than quality. Kisi was not among them and it survived in family vineyards in just three villages in its homeland of Kakheti, in the Alazani Valley in eastern Georgia in the shadow of the Caucasus Mountains: mainly in Maghraani but also in Argokhi and Pichkhovani. There are currently about 500 hectares (1,235 acres) of Kisi in Georgia, all still in this region. There is currently no DNA evidence to reveal the variety’s parentage but it is not related to Mtsvane Kakhuri or Rkatsiteli, the latter a Soviet favourite. Champions of Kisi In Georgia, ‘classic’ white wines are made in a way familiar to most 21st-century wine drinkers – fermented without the skins, typically in temperature-controlled tanks, occasionally fermented or aged in oak. By contrast, so-called qvevri white wines, sometimes referred to as amber wines because of their typically deep colour, are those vinified in traditional Georgian qvevri, large clay vessels ranging from 700 to 2,000 litres, buried underground so that just the opening is visible. The lightly crushed whole berries, including the skins and seeds, and sometimes even the stems, are fermented together in a qvevri, thus producing a wine with firm, even chewy, tannic texture and a wonderful panoply of flavours derived both from the variety and the winemaking, often ranging from apricots to chamomile. Soon after the appearance of Maisuradze’s revelatory wine, Gogi Dakishvili, a master of these qvevri wines, was able to buy a small amount of Kisi and make a wine in this second style. The cat was out of the bag and growers, including Dakishvili, started to replant when they saw the potential.  Kisi made under both the Dakishvili Family and the Orgo labels reveal all the textural and aromatic complexity of scented varieties made in this way. They are utterly pure, full-bodied wines with intense aromas and flavours that have sufficient structure to be very versatile with food. Qvevri winemaking was recognised as a UNESCO intangible heritage in 2013. While this is the style I particularly enjoy, for anyone who is not a fan of amber wines, there are fine examples that reveal even more of Kisi’s aromatic potential and deep but fresh fruit intensity. These include those from Winiveria and Khareba, and a particularly good off-dry style from Koncho & Co. One of the finest, in this case with light oak influence, is made by Danieli Winery, from vines near Argokhi, one of the three villages which were key to Kisi’s renaissance. Julia Harding MW
 This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One.  Illustration by Sarah Jane Humphrey.

Wine Grapes co-authors, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz, champion five lesser-known grape varieties from the book – and the winemakers that are using them to notable effect.

Wine Grapes co-authors Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz champion five lesser-known grape varieties – and the winemakers using them to notable effect

FONDATA: Raisins d'être

Raisins d'être

I am too disorganised to call myself a collector, but I often find myself thinking about the multiple meanings of collecting. I have a room full of books left unread from one year to the next, whose mute reproach I feel every time I am in their presence. I have half a dozen radios, from Marco Zanuso and Richard Sapper’s folding Brionvega TS502 to a Danish-made Beolit 707 from Bang & Olufsen, with its slide rule tuning device. I have a manual typewriter.  Most of us accumulate such random clutter. These were never possessions that were primarily about being useful – the Brionvega and the Beolit have long since been supplanted by a bluetooth speaker and a smartphone. They represent my membership of the design tribe.  The books carry other layers of meaning. My five years at university are on one shelf. The traces of the eight years I have spent writing a just-completed biography of Boris Iofan – Josef Stalin’s preferred architect – are spelled out in the titles of the books on another shelf. The typewriter was inherited from my father and it serves to remind me of childhood. The closest that I come to having a collection that a serious collector might acknowledge is in my chairs: a Rover chair that Ron Arad salvaged from a car, a Gio Ponti Superlegera, an Eames Lounger, a Harry Bertoia, George Sowden’s Palace chair from the 1983 Memphis collection and a deconstructed armchair designed by Rei Kawakubo. On a larger or smaller scale, humans develop complex relationships with their possessions that can go from the professionalism of full-blown collecting, to the casual significance of a row of junk shop finds on a mantlepiece. They can tell us a lot about ourselves. Marina Warner’s guide to the house in Hampstead, now run as a museum, in which Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life, offers an arresting insight into the significance that collecting had for him. She describes the ranks of ancient bronze, ceramic and marble figures parading across the desk that Freud brought with him to London from Vienna where he no longer felt safe due to Nazi occupation in 1938. Certainly, they are beautiful, and mostly they are precious. Thanks to their association with Freud, even the few that have been established as 20th-century forgeries will have become valuable. Some are almost 4,000 years old and reflect the religious and political practices of the distant past. Others, such as Freud’s art deco cigar case, come less freighted with history. But as Warner says, “they were also tools of thought, the kitchen utensils of his imagination”.   The batterie de cuisine of psychoanalysis included Egyptian coffin masks from the Roman period, Chinese jade and gold brooches, Roman glass, a 2,500-year-old sphinx, sarcophagus lids, Babylonian cylinder seals and Egyptian heart scarabs, as well as a 19th-century neck rest from New Guinea, modern metal porcupines, and Balinese figures. The pieces in pride of place on his desk, placed in apparently random order, were his special favourites, a tiny fraction of his collection that had become permanent fixtures. From time to time, Freud made space for a few new acquisitions to get a look in. “A collection to which there are no new additions is really dead,” he told his biographer Ernest Jones. After a short interval, most of the new things would be moved into the glass-fronted cabinets positioned around his study, where they were placed in more organised groups than those standing on his desk. Greek sculptures went on a shelf together. A cluster of representations of the Egyptian god Horus were grouped on another.  In Freud’s lifetime, the collection was continually changing. Before his move to London, he toured Vienna’s antiquities dealers almost every week on the look-out for new finds. He was ready to exchange pieces for items he could not afford to buy, and was generous in gifting pieces to friends and pupils he thought would appreciate them. Freud also had no qualms about buying items that came on the market in questionable circumstances, in particular, from the unofficial excavations (sometime after 1906) at a Roman fort in Hungary.   Despite the important part it played in his life, Freud wrote very little about collecting. The nearest that he came to spelling out what drove his interest in fragments of ancient sculpture, was when he compared his own exploration of the unconscious minds of his patients to an archaeological excavation of an ancient city. “The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist, must uncover layer after layer of the patient’s psyche before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures.”  Freud was known to share his dining table with choice specimens to act as companions during a meal. “I must always have an object to love”, he confessed to his colleague and rival Carl Jung. When he was writing his book The Interpretation of Dreams in 1895, Freud spent the summer at Schloss Bellevue outside Vienna. He took a selection of what he called “my old grubby gods who take part in the works as paperweights for the manuscripts” with him.  Before Freud left Austria for England in 1938, his desk, his consulting room, and his study at Berggasse 19 were photographed by Edmund Engelman. Engelman’s 150 images helped Freud’s architect son Ernst to transpose the desk and its contents from a dark back room in a Viennese apartment to a sunlit Hampstead villa.  Like most collectors, Freud could never limit himself to a single field. Ronald Lauder the former MoMA chairman, for example, is known for the collection of Viennese modernism that forms the basis for his own museum, the Neue Galerie in New York. He also collects (in depth) in 15 other fields with little apparent connection between them. Lauder is fascinated by the work of the Japanese designer Shiro Kuramata. He has a collection of arms and armour going back to The Crusades, and another of World War Two memorabilia. He owns some of Egon Schiele’s finest works, as well as various 18th-century French artworks. Fellow collector Rolf Fehlbaum (head of Vitra) has one of the largest collections of modern chairs in the world, and gave Frank Gehry his first European commission to design a gallery for it, but he is equally fascinated by toy robots manufactured in Japan since 1937. He calls them tiny kinetic sculptures. Where possible, he acquires their original packaging too. Perhaps the best way to understand the psychology of collecting is to see it as a spectrum. At one end, it is about order and control. In a messy and uncontrollable universe, a collection offers at least a semblance of certainty. A collection of this kind is based on provenance, completeness and authenticity. An over-restored vintage Bugatti is less desirable to a collector than one in original condition.  Every previous owner, every detail of its making forms part of its record. A red Olivetti typewriter designed by Ettore Sottsass that once belonged to David Bowie was sold at Sotheby’s for US$65,000. You can buy one (that hasn’t been owned by Bowie) for US$750, which is still a lot of money for a piece of obsolete technology. Some collectors attempt to make patterns from the things that they acquire or, like jigsaw puzzlers, set out to complete a picture by locating every piece of a set. Some try to document the evolution of a species whether the subject of their interest is biscuit tins or the eggs of a particular type of bird. Some forms of collecting require the active engagement of the collector. Wildflowers need to be picked and dried quickly before they are pressed into a book. Butterfly collectors used macabre methods such as poison jars, or squeezing the thorax, to dispatch their prey without causing so much distress that they risk damaging delicate wings. At the other end of the spectrum, the accumulation of stuff by people who die alone in homes overwhelmed by stacks of ancient newspapers and tins of cat food, is a kind of sickness. It’s a condition that can overwhelm even the most celebrated of artists. In the last 17 years of his life, Andy Warhol filled a succession of cardboard boxes with a seemingly random accumulation of objects: taxi receipts, a vinyl Ramones single signed by Joey Ramone, a piece of an ancient, mummified foot, pastel-coloured corsets and a selection of metal dentures. Every time he had a full box, it was sealed and shipped off to storage in a warehouse in New Jersey. A typical box has 400 objects in it, some have as many as 1,200. Items in them include a piece of Caroline Kennedy’s wedding cake – Warhol seems to have been a regular guest at Kennedy weddings. He showed up 20 minutes after the wedding ceremony for Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger had started, in the company of Grace Jones. He was in black leather, and wearing two wigs; she had on a huge green fur hat.   Warhol’s boxes are a collection of the uncollectable and the uncontrollable, which, thanks to the resources of the Andy Warhol Foundation, has been tamed after six years of work by a dedicated group of archivists and cataloguers. The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh has aestheticised the cardboard boxes. They sit on back-lit shelves in the museum to suggest that this is not a random collection of trash that Warhol never looked at, but, in the view of the museum, is in fact a time-based art piece, comprising at least 500,000 objects that took 30 years to complete. It presents a considerably less impressive sight than British Regency period architect Sir John Soane’s museum. The architect of the Bank of England put as much effort into adapting his Lincoln’s Inn Fields house (and subsequently the two adjoining houses) to display his Hogarth paintings, a sarcophagus and his architectural models, as he did to accumulating the collection itself. The Nobel prize-winning Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, The Museum of Innocence is an eloquent exploration of the hoarding end of the collecting spectrum. What initially appears to be an account of a doomed love affair, quickly reveals itself as an exploration of the meaning of collecting. The story’s main protagonist Kemal starts acquiring things when his relationship with his lover Füsun is going well. When she drops an earring, he finds it and puts it to one side. As Füsun falls out of love with him, Kemal begins an increasingly desperate accumulation of objects that record their relationship. He picks up each of the cigarettes that she smokes. When she has stopped seeing him altogether, Kemal starts hanging around at her parents’ house and stealing pieces of cutlery that she might have used.  What makes Pamuk’s book particularly remarkable is that he acquired a house in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district that had belonged to a Greek merchant in the Ottoman era, and transformed it into a physical Museum of Innocence. It is, of course, very far from innocent; everything inside it is a lovingly created fiction. The first thing that you see once you get inside, is a wall covered with 4,213 cigarette ends, each of them carefully annotated in Pamuk’s neat handwriting, with imaginary details of the time and place they were smoked. The rest of the house is full of equally carefully fabricated objects from cosmetics to movie posters that reflect Pamuk’s vision of the modernising Turkey of the 1970s. “I think getting attached to objects happens in traumatic times and love is a trauma,” Pamuk once said. “Perhaps when they are in trouble, people hoard things.”  When Pamuk gave me a tour of his museum, he told me about meeting Warhol’s archivist, and expressed his reservations about the significance of the boxes in Pittsburgh. “Hoarding objects reaches the level of collecting only when there is a story that unites them,” he said. But that is a novelist criticising another, less narrative art form. While Freud’s desk in Hampstead was always useable, if overcrowded, the desk in fashion designer Paul Smith’s office in Covent Garden is completely overwhelmed with a snowdrift of collected objects that sweeps over an office chair, down onto the floor, and back up to the shelves that line every wall. There are stacks of books and magazines, cameras and mountains of vintage cycling jerseys. There is an i-Mac computer, a gift from Jony Ive that Smith has never used. Computers aren’t Smith’s thing. In any case, it’s too late now, short of purging half the contents of the room: there is no way to get near it. There are toy tin cars, collections of bottles from Moroccan markets, a pink bicycle and a lot of rabbits. “I once said in an interview that seeing a rabbit brings me luck, and they haven’t stopped pouring in ever since,” explains Smith. Collecting began, as did so many things in Smith’s career, with his early enthusiasm for cycling. Growing up in Nottingham in the 1950s, there was a newsagent which occasionally had a copy of L’Equipe, which would portray the heroes of the Tour de France in their yellow jerseys in colour on the cover, but in sepia inside. He bought the magazine, fascinated by the images, even if he couldn’t read it. “I can remember once saying, ‘I really like Jacques Anquetil’ to my father, which baffled him, since none of our family had ever been abroad. I saved my pocket money so that I could upgrade the gears on my bike from Simplex to Campagnolo. The box it came in was as important to me as the gear itself.”  What attracted Smith to the Campagnolo box, along with stamps and matchboxes which he has in large numbers – not just in his office but at his Nottingham HQ where he has an archivist trying to make sense of it all – is the way that designers can say so much in such a tiny space. He showed me a Japanese book of matches produced for a Tokyo nightclub in the 1970s. “It so clearly says it’s ‘contemporary’. You can hear the jazz already.”  Despite the huge assortment of assembled objects, Smith is reluctant to describe himself as a collector. “I just have a large quantity of the same things,” he says, matter of factly. “In my head, a collector is someone who selects an item or a subject. They collect them because they know a lot about them. Maybe I have a little knowledge about cycling jerseys.  In the early 1980s, on my first trips to Japan and India, I just got a bit carried away. I bought lots of Japanese furniture. In India, for some reason, I bought 15 wardrobes, and a piece of furniture that doubled as a staircase with drawers.” Smith had them all sent home on the Trans-Siberian Express.  He suggests that his is a collection that has found him. “Things collect me,” he says. “For some reason I started to be sent things, and they still keep coming.” There is an individual who regularly sends Smith artefacts that come unwrapped but covered in postage stamps. Others send him letters, toys, books and even ancient packets of razor blades. One visitor took careful photographs of his office, and later sent him a precisely detailed model of his office, complete with its chaotic contents. Smith’s London home, where he lives with his wife Pauline, is much calmer. “The house is hers. I do have one room for my stuff, but it’s mostly at the office that I get to look at things.” In 1996, patron of the arts and barrister Jill Ritblat gave the V&A Museum the largest single donation of clothes in its history, more than 1,000 items. There are ski outfits in postmodern pastel shades from the 1980s, and challenging Japanese experiments from Yohji Yamamoto and Issey Miyake, as well as couture from Dior and Saint Laurent. There is work by Alexander McQueen, Biba, Mary Quant, and Christian Lacroix, Emanuel Ungaro and Victor Edelstein, and an evening outfit produced by a dressmaker based on an idea of Ritblat’s own design.  The early days of British fashion from the 1960s are represented by Foale and Tuffin, and Zandra Rhodes, and from the 1980s by Margaret Howell and Katharine Hamnett. There is tailoring from Tommy Nutter and work by Giorgio Armani. It is by no means a complete account of contemporary fashion, but it is certainly extensive, and like the personal wardrobe that it is, combines some very special pieces made for family occasions, with more everyday wear. The connecting thread of Ritblat’s collection is Ritblat herself. These were all pieces that she had bought to wear. They were not chosen like stamps, or old masters, or celadon vases to make a self-conscious collection, but were the result of a continuing sequence of choices over time. Taken together they are a reflection of her life as an English woman of a certain background, at a particular time in the country’s history. “I never saw it as a collection, it was more like my diary, though I have never had time to write a diary. Each piece brings back memories of when I wore it,” says Ritblat. She made her first donation to the V&A at the end of 1996, but kept back the things that she wanted to be able to go on using, and they formed the core of a donation to the Design Museum of another 400 items in 2013. Ritblat is ambivalent about fashion. As a child she was somewhat self-conscious about being dressed by her mother, who had studied fashion herself. She was relieved to be able to assume the camouflage of the complex uniform rituals of an English public school for girls in the 1950s. “I loved my school uniform at Roedean; we were expected to change our clothes four times a day, as chic as anything. Scratchy afternoon dresses, regulation school loafers, very nice blazers and pleated skirts.” As a student barrister, she found herself adopting the formal uniform of the legal profession, but then as a married woman began to build a wardrobe that reflected the life that she was leading. Later, when she was making her own choices, she was early to discover Miuccia Prada. “What you pick out is based on whether it suits you and on the zeitgeist,” she explains. Smith, Heseltine and Ritblat represent three very different approaches to collecting. For Smith, the unruly mountain of things in his office, is, like the collection on Sigmund Freud’s desk, part of the tools of his imagination, a source of imagery and ideas for his work as a designer. It’s also a means of establishing his personality. Heseltine’s garden is an investment of time, resources and creativity in the remaking of a place that speaks to the future using living organisms that will outlive us all. Ritblat’s clothes are a record of the full life of an individual. All of these collections provide insights into unique people, their lives and times. In their different ways all three reflect on the nature of collecting, and its ability to be a creative activity in itself. In a world in which technology threatens to abolish the material world altogether, objects have not lost their allure. Their physical condition marks the passing of time in ways that pixels and code cannot do. Collecting is the means all of us have to create histories of our times, and even more, of ourselves. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two. 

In order to explore the mindset of the collector, Deyan Sudjic shines a light on the collected objects of Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol, and speaks to three British collectors to better understand what it is that makes collecting such a vital part of the human experience.

Exploring the mindset of the collector and why the act is a vital part of the human experience, with a focus on Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

If my wife and I are lolling around on the sofa, sharing a bottle of wine and listening to jazz, I’ll sometimes ask, in tones combining the genial authority of a quizmaster with the tacit menace of a Stasi interrogator, “Who do you think is playing bass?” Or piano. Or drums. If she doesn’t know, I respond with appalled astonishment because it’s so obvious (you only need to hear a couple of notes) that it’s Charlie Haden. Or McCoy Tyner or Max Roach or whoever. When I was studying jazz in the 1980s (by studying I mean getting as stoned as possible with my friends) we’d play records for each other without revealing the identities of the musicians and, in this way, I built up an instinctive database of who sounded like whom. Of course, that’s not all I was doing, back then. I was also swilling gallons of beer and respectable quantities of wine, both of which I consumed with just as much pleasure as I listened to music. The difference is that with wine, I never paid any attention to what I was drinking, where what I was drinking had come from, or what grapes might have gone into it. Still don’t, actually. So, while my wife sometimes doesn’t know who she’s listening to, I rarely know what I’m drinking. Now, if my enjoyment of jazz is enhanced by knowing who I’m hearing, when an album was recorded, how a given version of a tune compares with other versions by different musicians and so on, does it follow that my enjoyment of wine is correspondingly diminished by ignorance and indifference as to its provenance and ingredients? Am I sitting around liking what I like while unable to tell whether what I’m liking is a bottle of Kenny G or vintage Sonny Rollins? To answer this question and address the larger issue, a bit of history is helpful (isn’t it always?). I grew up in a non-drinking household. We knew that other people drank wine with dinner but this was seen as an exotic, middle-class custom, as removed from our own potential experience as the tribal rites featured in National Geographic. No one we knew drank wine except the homemade kind – blackberry, pear, potato etc – that my parents made, stored in the cupboard under the stairs and offered to thirsty relatives who came to visit. Bearing no relation to wine as usually conceived, this beverage was more akin to a potent species of cider. Ah cider! As was the case for all boys of my generation, cider proved such an effective conduit to getting blind drunk that I’ve not been able to face even a sniff of the stuff since a horribly enjoyable first encounter. Same with Cinzano Bianco, but I’ve never turned my back on beer. As part of the general drift into all matters alcoholic, I drank a bit of Liebfraumilch (yum) but didn’t encounter anything like the notion of a ‘good’ wine until I was at Oxford. (The fact that I had to wait till then is a good indicator of the class status of wine in the UK back in the 1970s.) One day a fellow-student at my college offered to sell some bottles of what he pimped as “excellent red wine.” Three of us forked out for six between us. It was great. Sort of peppery tasting. We glugged the lot in one evening and I was violently sick, from my friend’s window, into the lane outside (a reversal of Charles Ryder’s first encounter, in Brideshead Revisited, with Sebastian Flyte who pukes into his room), but I was on my winey way. Most boozing took place in the pub (beer) but, as I gradually got used to drinking wine at dinners and at art openings, an unreliable and poorly projected map of wine awareness began to take shape.  In my early 30s, there was a Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon for which I developed a particular fondness. At three quid a bottle it seemed more appropriate, even then, to cut it down to three syllables: Bulg-Cab-Sauv. Then came the news that the contents of any bottle could be improved by being allowed to breathe. Sometime later, living in Paris, I got wind of a crude truth that you could tell a better wine by how far you could stick your finger in its bottom, in the whatever-it’s-called at the base of the bottle. The further the better was the rule of thumb, so to speak, though why this should be the case I never discovered. These were excellent, easy-to-implement tips but the bigger picture remained blurry. I knew there were regions, different kinds of grape, but I was never sure which was which (Burgundy always sounded like a type of brandy) and I knew enough to know that it wasn’t enough to know that you liked a Merlot, say; you also needed to know what was going on within that species of grape or region, that certain brands and years were better than others. Although a drawing of a château on the label could be a good sign, it was not an infallible one, especially when some high-quality wines began to feature labels that shared an aesthetic with edible marijuana products or t-shirt design. And over all this uncertainty hung a larger cloud of astonishment – a symptom of the world’s fathomless ability to defy logic – generated by the ‘fact’ (I still have trouble accepting it as such) that white wine is not necessarily made from white grapes, nor red from red. Even when we factor in the odd big Tuscan moment in Italy, or Pinot epiphany in New Zealand, my understanding has not advanced significantly in the last 20 years. I know what I like but, as with many things – learning German, for example – I feel I’ve left it too late. Any attempts I make are the equivalent of looking up the occasional word in an online Deutsch-English dictionary. One can often spend one’s way to an enhanced experience, but my natural skinflintery means I prefer my father-in-law’s model, whereby he had knowledged his way to improved enjoyment. He not only serves fantastic wine, without exception, on every occasion; he always serves wine that costs a fraction of how it tastes.  I like this approach but, to borrow the term from London’s taxi drivers, I’ve never done the knowledge. I’m like the new generation of Uber drivers who rely so passively on their phones’ navigation apps that, after years behind the wheel, they still have almost no idea where they’re going. My phone comes in handy too. If I drink a fantastic wine at a friend’s house, I’ll take a picture of the label and, if it’s in stock at a local store, will buy a case. It’s nice being able to repeat a pleasing experience but it’s rarely as nice as I remember it and often not nice in the way that I remembered it. Or, if it’s nice at first, it almost always seems less nice, months later, when I’m down to the last couple of bottles. There are as many moving parts in the world of wine appreciation as there are in and around the mouth.  We have moved, by a combination of association and anatomy, to the potential source of the difficulty, to language. Having failed to acquire home-grown expertise, I am at the mercy of advice from the people who work in wine stores. Overall, I would estimate that this has resulted in a 50% success rate at twice the necessary expenditure. Is this because of shortcomings in their expertise and counsel, or is it due to linguistic failure, to inadequate translations of their knowledge into my preferences? We are told there’s no accounting for taste, which is not true, but it seems there are multiple problems with recounting one’s tastes or satisfying other people’s desires. Compared with sex where you can easily get by with half a dozen verbs and nouns, saying either what you want from a wine – or what it will do for someone else – demands a linguistic dexterity that is almost Joycean. We have all sat entranced as a waiter’s attempts to do justice to the merits of a given wine begin to sound like a libationary remix of Chomsky’s “Colourless green ideas sleep furiously.” But even while allowing for scepticism, incomprehension and constant proximity to parody, I continue to wonder about the extent to which my experience of wine would be enhanced by becoming more articulate in la langue du raisin. ‘Smooth’ is generally considered a good quality (as opposed to ‘rough’) but Kenny G, a purveyor of ‘smooth jazz’, is tacitly at odds with ‘complexity’. I can sort of appreciate complexity in a wine, without any understanding of how that complexity is constituted but – a defining character flaw – am more often conscious of a lack of complexity.  The strange thing is that while wine appreciation is not like a foal’s ability to get up and running straight away, it does find its feet over time. Even if uninformed, un-cultivated and left to fend for itself without any supporting help, it seems one’s tastes in wine not only change; they improve of their own accord. This might be considered a welcome, accidentally ameliorative side-effect of getting older. Or would be were it not for the fact – one I have no trouble accepting – that this improvement manifests itself negatively, as a steadily increasing capacity for dissatisfaction. To put it simply, what might have seemed an excellent wine a few years earlier becomes merely tolerable because of a lack of what may or may not be complexity. The tolerable becomes unacceptable, and the unacceptable becomes vile. My tongue has become more responsive to taste while remaining tied; my discernment is entirely inarticulate. The product, above all else, of laziness, this manifests itself in several unattractive ways. Do women on a date prefer men who take control of the wine menu? (Could this be the civilised residue of what was once a more widespread assumption and acceptance of male domination?) My own dating history leads me to suspect that they might, though the belief that the evening gets off to a bad start – with my saying, “I don’t know anything about wine, you choose” – is more palatable than conceding that it might have more to do with the way it ends (with my saying, “Let’s split the check”) or, come to think of it, with the middle passage (constantly refilling my own glass while droning on, without interruption, about the musical complexity of Ornette Coleman). It’s not just laziness and tightness, there’s also the question of sophistication and refinement. I can eat with chopsticks – I really can! – but have never been able to master the knack of swirling wine round the glass and forensically nosing it. You can do it, I’m sure, but I always feel like I’m engaged in such a blatant affectation that the first flicker of an erotic bond starts to form between my date and the waiter because they can tell that I’m parroting the action without any idea of what I’m attempting to discover, that it’s obvious to anyone watching that my head is entirely filled with a single idea: keep the cost down. In this regard, price, I am pleased to report that limited progress has been made. In my mid-20s, in London, I was sometimes invited to the house of the writer Lisa Appignanesi who was at the centre of London’s intellectual and cultural life. Well-mannered enough not to arrive empty-handed, I’d stop off at the off-licence near her house and pick up the cheapest bottle of discounted plonk on offer. Lisa always accepted this shabby gift graciously (she did everything graciously), while making sure that it never darkened the table. It now seems one of the rudest things one can do, to show up at someone’s house with a crap bottle of wine, though where crapness begins or ends is anyone’s guess. A shitty bottle of wine is always over-priced, is always money wasted. At the opposite end of the scale, my limited experience of drinking very expensive wine has confirmed what I had always expected: that it’s wasted on me. I ooh and ah, naturally and gratefully, but even though I enjoy these $200 bottles I am thinking: well, it’s not 170 bucks better than a 30 dollar bottle. Perhaps from a certain point – $100 upwards? – you have to pay twice that for a tiny percentage improvement in experience. That makes sense. If this were not the case, then a $1,000 bottle would surely bear so little relation to wine that it wouldn’t be wine at all. We now have sufficient linguistic tools available to describe my ideal relationship with wine. When I think of wine, it’s never as a drink or a taste experience but always as part of an occasion, part of a narrative. What I love is going to a dinner at a restaurant with a non-clamorous acoustic (wood and carpet, not metal and concrete) and a limited menu (I hate choosing food), knowing that someone else will take care of ordering the wine which will flow without let or hindrance. The problem at my father-in-law’s is that although the wine is always excellent, there’s never an infinite amount of it. And what I want from wine, above all, is more. That’s the key word in all this. I love talk and the progression of conversation as the wine makes itself felt: the glow of friends’ eyes, the flow of chat. Red wine, reflections of the room and of candlelight in the glasses full of wine. Everything is held together by the wine, even though that wine is less important than the people, the subject, the jokes and laughter. The wonderful remarks become more wonderful as the evening unfolds, until nothing anybody says really makes any sense at all. In the morning I will not remember the details of the wine or the food. What I will remember is the warm glow, the happiness of it all.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine. Photography by Marcus Nilsso.

Writer and critic Geoff Dyer charts his slow journey towards an ever-increasing appreciation of – and reverence for – well-chosen wine.

FONDATA: The Mirth of More

The Mirth of More

Burgundy is a mecca for lovers of fine Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, but, with its litany of producers and vineyards, it can be a tricky region to get to grips with. Here we offer an essential guide to the region – breaking down everything from how vineyards are classified to producers to look out for

Discover everything you need to know about Burgundy: from vineyards and producers to the difference between négociant and domaine or what a Grand Cru is

Your essential guide to Burgundy wine

Your essential guide to Burgundy

Weingut Josef Rosch

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