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  

Wine journalists are jaded folk – spoilt by too many impressive tastings, lunches and dinners. But when Champagne Louis Roederer invites you to an event celebrating 50 years of Cristal Rosé, few refuse. Cristal Rosé is, as Chef de Cave Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon told us, still “a hidden gem” and the rarest cuvée Roederer produces. It’s not often shown, and even visitors to the estate don’t get to taste the wine.  While Cristal – Champagne’s first prestige cuvée – was created in 1876, its pink sibling was born almost a century later. It was Jean-Claude Rouzaud, current CEO Frédéric Rouzaud’s father, who created the wine, aged 32. He had been managing the company’s vineyards and took over the winemaking in 1974.  “His great vision was to put the vines back in the centre of the creative process,” explains seventh-generation Frédéric Rouzaud. For Roederer, site and farming have long been key to what they do (long operating both as a grower and négociant), but Jean-Claude’s move from vineyard to cellar pushed this further, allowing for – as Lécaillon put it – “a creative and constant dialogue between the vineyard and cellar”.  The same year that he started leading the cellar team, Jean-Claude decided to make a rosé version of Cristal. Almost all rosé Champagne was – and is – made by blending a still red wine in with the base white wines. Jean-Claude, however, wanted to use co-fermentation to keep the wine in the style of Cristal, a decision that Lécaillon says was key, making the wine more ethereal, precise and “Pinot-y”, with a juicier texture.  The wine was built around parcels of Pinot Noir in the Bonottes area of Aÿ, which Lécaillon describes as the “Musigny” of Champagne. In his mind, the Pinot Noir from these plots offers a “special tannic complexity” – tannins that are more saline, integrated and aromatic; the Pinot Noir here is, he says, “effortlessly perfect” and the heart of Cristal Rosé. These three vineyards (Bonotte Pierre Robert, Gargeotte and Côte du Moulin) had been used for Cristal since the 1870s, and more recently became the source for Pinot Noir material for their vine nursery – with 150 different massal selections taken from the plots – long recognised for their quality.  The three original Pinot Noir plots are now being replanted and – while the vines mature – another site in Aÿ, La Villers, a mid-slope parcel at higher altitude, is currently being used in the blend (from the 2018 vintage). It is set to form part of the wine long-term, its cooler position thought to be of particular benefit with climate change. Complementing the 55% Pinot Noir is Chardonnay from two sites – Pierre Vaudon in Avize (bringing more power and richness) and Montmartin in Le Mesnil (lending length, salinity and a chalky minerality).  The first two vintages (1974 and 1975) were more experimental, as Jean-Claude figured the wine and style out, but the third attempt in 1976 produced something special – with sufficient phenolic ripeness to produce a rosé truly worthy of the Cristal name. Even now, 48 years later, that wine is singing – combining savoury rye and brown miso notes with pear tarte tatin and an earthy power. While it had a flurry of three vintages at the start of its life, just 25 vintages of Cristal Rosé have been produced to date. The wine needs a year where not only the quality of fruit is outstanding, but the Pinot Noir and Chardonnay ripen at the same time – allowing for their co-fermentation – something that is relatively rare.  Only made with vines that are minimum 20 years old, yields are low for Champagne (at 35-40hl/ha).  The Pinot Noir is destemmed, crushed and left to macerate. Earlier vintages saw this happen over two to four days and at warmer temperatures, but the winemaking has evolved over the years, with a pivotal shift from the 2008 vintage. From 2008. Lécaillon started chilling the Pinot Noir down to -4̊C overnight, prior to de-stemming and crushing the fruit – something which he believes avoids extracting any green character.   The must is then left to cold-soak for between seven and 10 days, with no punch-downs or pump-overs – a true “infusion” (to avoid any microbial spoilage, they cover it with dry ice for the first four days, then use nitrogen). The must isn’t chilled during this time, and the temperature gradually rises to a maximum 8-9̊C. Moving to a cold-soak was inspired by an accident. In the warm 1989 vintage, Lécaillon’s first year at Roederer, they didn’t have a cooling system in the cellar, and the Pinot Noir was left in a reefer – undergoing an inadvertent cold-soak. The resulting wine was so good that it inspired Lécaillon.  Just as the fermentation starts, the must is racked off and blended with the Chardonnay which has been whole-bunch pressed pneumatically (Lécaillon argues the grape’s reductive nature needs a little skin contact to avoid being overly thiol-driven and Sauvignon-esque). Around 20% of the base wine sees oak. After secondary fermentation (under crown cap, something with Lécaillon argues helps preserve precision and terroir versus cork), the wine spends eight years on its lees, developing immense complexity.  “Since 1974, it has been our laboratory of farming, of winemaking,” says Jean-Baptise Lécaillon of the wine. Cristal Rosé was in fact the House’s first cuvée to be farmed biodynamically, and the first biodynamic prestige cuvée in Champagne, from the 2007 vintage. He explains that he is looking for phenolic ripeness, integrated with the salinity of Champagne, seamlessly combining the tannins and acidity; a wine complemented – but not dominated – by bubbles of salt.  The wine is undeniably remarkable. Tasting through a range of vintages from 1976 to the present day, all in magnum (find full tasting notes below), the vibrancy, purity and moreish, saline, minerality of these wines left me speechless. Their ability to age is effortless, with the 1989, for example, still tasting incredibly youthful. Talking about Cristal Rosé’s evolution, Lécaillon explains that he finds the first decade is all about fruit, but then the wines return to their site and soil, becoming wines of place. Conversation strays into weather Champagne today, with global warming, can still make wines that will age as beautifully.  “Champagne is not just about acid; it’s about freshness,” says Lécaillon. He points to the 1976 and 1989 vintages – both incredibly hot years, with the fruit picked at almost 12% potential alcohol and modest acidity levels – and yet the wines are full of freshness. Back then, producers were on holiday throughout August, and the fruit was picked in September (1st for the 1976 and from 5th for the 1989), but with such conditions today they would have harvested in mid-August. It is perhaps, he suggests, a lesson that the region is overreacting to warm conditions – with too many producers chasing acidity, rather than phenolic ripeness. For the skins are, he argues, the key to this sense of freshness, the dry extract that allows the wine to age.   The House has introduced a Cristal Rosé Vinothèque, or late release. To date, there have only been a handful of vintages – the 1995, 1996, 1999 and 2002. The maturation for this wine isn’t set and varies according to the vintage, normally spending longer on its lees, both sur latte (lying down) and sur pointe (upside down), the idea being to build umami complexity in the wine. The sur pointe ageing is unusual, something Lécaillon favours for its more reductive nature, keeping the wine aromatically fresh (the wine is still riddled four times a year in the same position, to agitate the lees and absorb any oxygen). Generally these releases are offered around 15-17 years after the vintage. The dosage is often lower than the original bottling, with the longer lees ageing lending balance without a higher sugar addition. Tasting the 2002 Vinothèque (a wine that feels infantile), Lécaillon says: “Is it better? I don’t know, but it’s another expression.”  I’ve written before about Lécaillon’s tireless approach to wine-growing – constantly looking to learn and evolve, and the week after our dive into Cristal Rosé he was flying to Japan to visit the Fukuoka farm (founded by Masanobu Fukuoka, the author of The One-Straw Revolution and a pioneer of permaculture or “natural” farming). His fight against the “banalisation” of taste continues, as he looks for ever-more ways to enrich the world of Louis Roederer. If the next 50 years of Cristal Rosé is nearly as good as the first, we’ve all got a lot to look forward to.  Five decades of Cristal Rosé: the tasting  2013 Cristal Rosé: A beautiful, late-ripening growing season that provided the last October harvest to date. A wine Chef de Cave Jean-Baptise Lécaillon describes as having “eternal youth” – something that is hard to disagree with after tasting the wine. This is a baby, the nose enticing with delicate floral aromas and bright citrus, not giving too much away. The palate is long and saline, tightly wound, but bursting with bright fruit on the mouthwatering finish, combining lush redcurrant and lemon. Gorgeous. Dosage 7g/l, tasted from magnum.  2012 Cristal Rosé: Lécaillon notes how 2012 was seen as an “easy” vintage on release, riper and richer with a little more Pinot Noir in the blend, but is now entering its second life, with reductive, chalky notes that bring it back to its soils. The wine is beautifully earthy and drastically different to the 2013, with power and intensity. It’s very savoury, a wine that is all about breadth and structure, with wild strawberry and raspberry notes mingling alongside a sea-spray freshness, driving on to a long, mineral finish. Dosage 8g/l, tasted from magnum.  2008 Cristal Rosé: This was the first fully organic vintage for the entire Roederer estate, and marks the start of a new era for Cristal Rosé with its cool “infusion” technique for the Pinot Noir. Paired with the 1995 vintage, the two wines are windows into two completely different worlds of Cristal. With the copper tone of a sunset, it’s a wine of muscle. It’s almost haughty, with length, power and elegance – showing off its flawless structure, with a zesty citrus drive complementing its austerity. The finish is long and saline. It will be incredible to taste this in 20 years’ time. Dosage 8g/l, tasted from magnum.  1995 Cristal Rosé: This vintage was one of the last to see the Pinot Noir soaked at 20-24̊C. It is, in Lécaillon’s mind, the “same terroir, but a different story” versus more modern iterations of the wine. The wine glows golden in the glass – the colour of the sun just as it breaks the horizon. It’s incredibly open, the aromatics constantly shifting to reveal new layers. There’s a touch of mushroom or truffle, but with layers of rich, almost tropical, fruit behind – think peach, mango, peach tea and the bite of pomegranate, with caramel sweetness, but still a saline twist to the finish. A wine of weight and depth. Dosage 12g/l, tasted from magnum.  1989 Cristal Rosé: This was a very warm vintage, harvested from 5th September, and the wine technically doesn’t have high acidity – yet is a wine of impressive freshness. Grilled hazelnuts edge a nose of candied orange peel and pomegranate, and a coffee note that emerges with air. There’s a liveliness to the palate here, even over three decades on, with a gorgeous freshness and creaminess to the mousse. The fruit on the palate is lush, with generous mouth-watering peach and a taut, mineral backbone. It’s amazing how young this tastes still. Dosage 12g/l, tasted from magnum.  1976 Cristal Rosé: Despite coming from another warm vintage (with a very hot, dry August – and harvested from 1st September), Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon notes the freshness on the 1976 vintage, and how it seems to have never become too evolved. It’s much more savoury than the 1976, with rye bread and brown miso sitting alongside caramelised pears, tarte tatin and a hint of Oloroso Sherry. The palate is a rush of fine bubbles, fresh and with a citrus bite but a savoury framework behind. A remarkable wine. Dosage 10g/l, tasted from magnum.  2002 Cristal Rosé Vinothèque: This was disgorged in 2019, spending 11 years on lees sur latte, and then another five sur pointe, followed by an additional four years’ post-disgorgement ageing prior to release. This wine is so tightly coiled, a wine not yet revealing everything it has to offer – although you can see the incredible structure. It’s so vibrant, with energy and a lushness as it drives toward a seemingly never-ending finish. It’s gorgeous, layered with mandarin, grapefruit pith, chalky minerality and smoked salt, lingering on the soft, saline tail of the mouthwatering finish. Dosage 8g/l, tasted from magnum.    The releases of Cristal Rosé to date: 1974, 1975, 1976, 1978, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1985, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1995, 1996, 1999, 2000, 2002, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2012, 2013 and 2014  Browse all current listings from Champagne Louis Roederer or read more Editorial 

This year marks the 50th birthday of Cristal Rosé, Champagne Louis Roederer’s rarest wine. Sophie Thorpe caught up with CEO Frédéric Rouzaud and Chef de Cave Jean-Baptiste Lécaillon about this very special prestige cuvée and tastes through five decades of the wine

As Champagne Louis Roederer celebrates the 50th birthday of Cristal Rose, we talk to Jean-Baptiste Lecaillon and Frederic Rouzaud 

Celebrating 50 years of Cristal Rose Champagne

Five decades of Cristal Rosé

“It’s been an absolute pig of a year,” says Mark Gaskain. It’s September 2024 and we’re reaching the end of what has been a trying growing season across most of Europe – with seemingly never-ending rain. Fortunately, Gaskain knows that such challenges are just part of the job. He’s a farmer, born and bred, now at the helm of his family business, and responsible for growing 70 million apples a year. But in the last decade, he’s added a new strand to the business – after selling a swathe of land to none other than Champagne Taittinger in 2015. That land is now the home of Domaine Evremond – one of the most exciting English wine projects to date.  The story began almost a decade ago. Patrick McGrath – founder and CEO of Hatch Mansfield, which represents Champagne Taittinger in the UK – had been looking at adding an English sparkling wine to the company’s portfolio. It was the early 2010s, and he spied an opportunity with the burgeoning category – but Pierre-Emmanuel Taittinger suggested that, rather than taking on an existing estate, McGrath should create his own, working with Taittinger. Taittinger had embarked on a similar venture in California, creating Domaine Carneros with their US agent, Kobrand, under Pierre-Emmanuel’s uncle, Claude. Together, they decided to take the plunge.  They charged leading English wine specialist Stephen Skelton with helping them find the perfect site – determined to have chalk soils, south/southwest-facing slopes (for maximum sun exposure) at altitudes below 100 metres (with temperatures reducing by 1°C per 100m, anything above this would simply be too cold in England’s marginal climate). Kent – with easy access across to Champagne – was decided on, but it took them 18 months to find the right site. At the same time, the Gaskains were looking at selling some of their land (a foray into soft fruit had proven challenging, and were looking to get back to their core business of apples). The timing was fortuitous and the orchards at Stone Stile Farm – around the village of Chilham, southwest of Canterbury – were perfect. As Alexandre Ponnavoy (Chef de Cave for both Taittinger and Evremond) told me, if a site can grow good fruit – it’s a good indicator for its viticultural potential.  In 2015, the deal was signed and the project launched with great fanfare at Westminster Abbey. Domaine Evremond takes its name from Charles de Saint-Evremond (1614-1703), a Frenchman, essayist and early ambassador for the wines of Champagne – bringing them to the court of Charles II – who is buried in Poets’ Corner. Although Didier Pierson – a grower in Champagne – had made English wine under the Meon Hill label, Taittinger was one of the first major Champagne Houses to invest in England (Pommery had bought vineyards in Hampshire in 2014). Unsurprisingly, press coverage was extensive: the Champenois were coming to make sparkling wine on our home turf – the French naysayers set to eat their hats as the world started facing up to fine English fizz.  Evremond’s first vines went in the ground in 2017, with more added in 2020 (the team set up at the local Premier Inn to tackle the work mid-pandemic) and in 2024. The land here has a layer of alluvial clay over its chalk subsoil which is part of the Paris basin, shared with much of northern France (including Champagne). Around Canterbury, however, there’s more flint in the soil – something that Ponnavoy feels shines through in the wine, giving it a mineral, reductive character. There’s also a definite maritime influence – moderating temperatures, but also bringing ocean breezes from Whitstable, which is just six miles away. For Ponnavoy, it’s the combination of the site’s chalky soils, maritime softness and sea winds – a “contrasting climatology” – that defines the Evremond wines.   Gaskain is deeply involved in the project – his in-depth knowledge of the land an invaluable resource, knowing where potential frost pockets lie, for example, or where the soil might be overly rich for vines. He and his team manage the site day-to-day, guided by Christelle Rinvelle (Taittinger’s Vineyard Director). Currently, they have 62 hectares of vines, split between 45% Chardonnay, 45% Pinot Noir and 10% Meunier. They planted Chardonnay on areas with the thinnest topsoil, allowing its roots almost direct access to the chalky bedrock, while the Pinot Noir and Meunier sit on the more clay/gravel-rich plots.  The vines are widely spaced (5,000 vines per hectare – half the vine density Taittinger uses in Champagne) and trained higher than across the Channel, allowing for better airflow (helping manage disease pressure) and a larger canopy (to aid ripening). While herbicides have never been used on the site and there’s a concerted effort to be sustainable, Gaskain is clear on the limitations of viticulture in Kent: “Organics is madness in this climate,” he tells me – as, perhaps, 2024 proved. While the team has vine-specific sprayers, Gaskain can also draw on his team’s orchard equipment too – a boon when conditions are challenging – and spray the entire site in one (rather long) day.  They harvested tiny quantities of fruit in 2018 and 2019, with the first commercial-sized vintage coming from 2020 (conveniently the grape harvest falls neatly between that of Galas and Braeburns). Early wines were made at nearby Simpsons, and from 2020, they set up in an old concrete barn on the site – with the entire operation run on a generator. In June 2022, they broke ground on a new winery (“We were over budget four weeks after starting,” says McGrath, with a weary smile). The same company that worked on the Channel Tunnel dug out 83,000 tons of chalk (around 2,000 lorry loads) to make way for the three-storey building that stretches 20 metres below ground. Designed by Reims-based architect Giovanni Pace, the idea is for the winery to blend into the landscape – rather than stand on it. It has the capacity to cellar 1.5 million bottles – all without expending any additional energy on cooling, thanks to its natural subterranean chill.   Works were finished in time for the 2024 harvest – a relief undoubtedly for the team. There is something charmingly British, slightly ramshackle and underdog about the operation – despite the very serious money behind it (£17 million invested so far, reportedly). “Everybody’s had to muck in,” says McGrath. He might be Hatch’s CEO and one of the Evremond founders, but he’s also the first to pull on his wellies to help with harvest – and has spent more weekends in the vineyard than anyone else. Vitalie Taittinger has taken over from her father as President of Taittinger, and McGrath’s daughter India is running the commercial side of Evremond – meaning the operation really is a family business, even if it comes with some luxury, Champenois-esque swagger.  With the Taittinger association, of course, expectations are incredibly high – something McGrath is painfully aware of. Talking to Ponnavoy – who is in charge of the winemaking at both Taittinger and Evremond – there’s been something very exciting about creating a project from scratch, even if it has come with some challenges too. He argued to keep the small 2018 harvest for the property only, allowing them to follow the wines in tank over several years, and get to know the site. It was a huge cost, and delayed the first release, but something he felt was crucial.  “It was really important not to do a copy of another sparkling wine, not to produce a… ‘style’,” he says. Their goal, instead, was: “To identify the terroir, to identify the soil, to identify the climate, and reproduce all that in the bottle. To find the Evremond identity.” Inevitably, there’s a temptation to draw comparisons between Taittinger and Evremond, but the team is clear that they are totally separate projects with very different DNA.  Working with English fruit, Ponnavoy felt it was key to manage the potentially biting acidity (and the wine sees full malolactic as a result), but – for him – the greatest challenge was to avoid a bitterness that he finds common in some English wines. Managing the phenolics to avoid this was, for him, therefore essential, while he also focused particularly on the bubble texture – working to get a very fine mousse, something that he believes sets the wine apart from the competition.  In time, Evremond hopes to make 400,000 bottles a year, although there are only 120,000 of its first release. There are plans to add a vintage and rosé cuvée once the vines have matured and they’ve gotten to know the site, but for now they’re only producing the non-vintage Classic Cuvée. Now, a decade after they bought the land, Edition 1 of the Classic Cuvée is set to be released. For a début, it’s an incredible result – perhaps not surprising given the pedigree of the operation. Incredibly fine, taut and layered with oyster-shell, iodine and flint, it’s a wine full of the promise of what Evremond can do.  Domaine Evremond’s Classic Cuvée Edition 1 will be released on Thursday 3rd April: contact your Account Manager to register interest or sign up to be notified here 

A decade ago, Champagne Taittinger did something unexpected: they bought land in Kent. On the eve of the release of the project’s first wine, Sophie Thorpe caught up with the team behind Domaine Evremond about the challenges and triumphs of their English adventure 

Champagne Taittinger bought land in Kent 10 years ago. As the first wine from the project is released, we talk to the team behind Domaine Evremond

Diving into Domaine Evremond – Taittinger’s new English wine

Unearthing Evremond: Taittinger’s new English wine project 

Making Champagne is different. More than any other wine, it’s a long-term game. The region’s cellar masters don’t see the fruits of their labour for years, even decades, depending on the wine; their work closer to that of a master distiller rather than most winemakers.  “It humbles you – you are not the superstar. The superstar is definitely the Champagne,” Elise Losfelt – who took over as Cellar Master at Champagne Charles Heidsieck earlier this year – tells me. She has just done her first blends for the prestigious House, with wines selected by her predecessor, Cyril Brun – and those blends won’t be tasted by the rest of the world for as long as eight years, when it comes to the vintage wine.   With three young children (aged three, four and six), Losfelt’s home life is very much about the here and now, but the world of Champagne gives her the chance to slow down; “Putting myself in a timeline – not just in today,” she explains. Losfelt has big shoes to fill, following in the footsteps of Brun, who arrived at Charles Heidsieck in 2015 and helped steer the House into a new, more prosperous era, including the re-introduction of the property’s Champagne Charlie cuvée. He has since caused a stir in the world of sparkling wine by being the first Champenois ex-pat to move to Italy, taking on a new role at Ferrari (one of the top names in Trento DOC).  Similarly to Brun (who came from Veuve Clicquot), Losfelt arrives from one of the Moët Hennessy properties, Moët & Chandon. Also like Brun, wine runs in her blood – she’s the seventh generation to make wine, with her mother at the helm of the family estate, Ch. de l’Engarran in the Languedoc.   Losfelt spent over a decade at Moët & Chandon, a business which became “a place that feels like family”; but when the phone rang and it was a job offer from Charles Heidsieck… “I had to grab it,” she tells me. Not only has she always loved the Charles Heidsieck Champagnes, but it was over a glass of 1995 Blanc des Millénaires that she and her husband first connected, back in 2014.  For the majority of her time at Moët & Chandon she was the Head of Vinfication, preparing the wines for the cellar master, responsible for much of the winemaking – almost everything but the final blend. It was the scientific side of winemaking that had attracted her originally, but the lure of this unexplored artistic side of the job, combined with her emotional tie to the wines, made the opportunity impossible to resist. It was, as she told me, time to leave her “first family” to take on a new challenge.   For her, Charles Heidsieck stands apart from others for its endless complexity. “It’s a Champagne that doesn’t offer you just one facet, doesn’t offer you just one aroma, or just one characteristic of aromas… it’s everything together,” she explains. While the brief for something like Moët Impérial is to craft a consistent and fresh, vibrant wine, her brief at Charles Heidsieck is for “profoundness”. Even at the non-vintage level, she is looking for wine that would meet many Houses’ vintage standards; the aim is to consistently exceed quality expectations.  Talking about trends in the region today, I enquired whether there were any plans for Charles Heidsieck to follow in the footsteps of Louis Roederer, Krug or Jacquesson – creating numbered non-vintage releases, highlighting the base vintage and variation between years, rather than the consistency historically seen as desirable. There are no plans for imminent changes, but the House has – since the 1990s, under Chef de Cave Daniel Thibaut – had the “mis en cave” date, the year in which the bottle was laid down in the cellar for secondary fermentation to get underway. As for adding tirage or disgorgement dates: “This is a question for me in five years,” Losfelt says, with an unrushed shrug.  For this new Chef de Cave, it is only the beginning – with much to learn, test and try before any changes are made. Losfelt’s job is a little like the now-famous Patek Philippe advert, she tells me; she’s just keeping the seat warm for the next generation, inheriting the work of her predecessors and creating the tools for those that will follow her. As she tells me, “Every step of the way, one choice makes a difference.”  As we await the first releases bearing her fingerprint, there’s no doubt she’ll be working tirelessly to preserve and further Charles Heidsieck’s legacy. “Until it’s tasted, and it's good, I will not rest,” she says, a clear sense of responsibility for the weight on her shoulders. We, like Losfelt, will just have to wait and see.   Explore all current Charles Heidsieck listings, or read more about Champagne

Earlier this year, Champagne Charles Heidsieck announced that Elise Losfelt would be replacing Cyril Brun as Chef de Cave. We sat down with her to talk about her journey and why patience is most certainly a virtue when it comes to crafting fine Champagne

We spoke to Elise Losfelt, the newly crowned Chef de Cave for Champagne Charles Heidsieck, about why patience is a virtue when it comes to making Champagne

Talking to Charles Heidsieck’s Elise Losfelt

A waiting game: Champagne Charles Heidsieck

Highlights of the programme: Daniel Johnnes (right) and Brunello Cucinelli (middle) introduce the programme and present Michel Troisgros (left) as the guest chef of La Paulée in Solomeo. A vertical tasting of Castello di Solomeo, featuring the 2018, 2019, 2020 and 2021 vintages, was led by Michele Baiocco (enologist), Pietro Grelloni (winemaker) and Riccardo Cotarella (consultant winemaker) on the first night. From left to right: Cristian Rimoldi (Champagne Salon and Champagne Delamotte), Olivier Krug (Champagne Krug), Guillaume d'Angerville (Domaine Marquis d'Angerville), Saskia de Rothschild (Château Lafite Rothschild and Château L'Évangile), Brunello Cucinelli, Pierre-Henry Gagey (Maison Louis Jadot), Daniel Johnnes (La Paulée) and Jacky Rigaux (University of Burgundy) at the winery at Castello di Solomeo. View over the vineyards from the winery at Castello di Solomeo, inspired by a Renaissance garden. Sir John Hegarty tasting the 2022 vintages of Château Lafite-Rothschild, Château Duhart-Milon and Château L’Évangile. Brunello Cucinelli's CEOs, Riccardo Stefanelli (left) and Luca Lisandroni (right), at the tasting in the hamlet of Solomeo. Guests are gathering at the Cucinelli Theatre in Solomeo, waiting for the conference to begin. Olivier Krug, sharing how Champagne Krug embodies quality, innovation and a deep respect for tradition, while staying true to its enduring family values. Brunello Cucinelli (left) with Michelin-starred chef Michel Troisgros (right), who traveled from Roanne to Solomeo with his esteemed kitchen team led by César Troisgros. The remarkable lineup for the final dinner (from left to right): 2010 Chevalier-Montrachet, Grand Cru, Les Demoiselles, Maison Louis Jadot (from jéroboam) 1986 Château Cheval Blanc 2017 Volnay, Premier Cru, Clos des Ducs Monopole, Domaine Marquis d’Angerville 1988 Château Lafite Rothschild (from double magnum) 2018 Castello di Solomeo (from magnum) Champagne Krug Rosé 21ème Edition (from magnum) 1988 Château d’Yquem 2013 Champagne Salon Champagne Delamotte Brut (from jéroboam) All images by Enrico Galletti (Brunello Cucinelli).

FINE+RARE, in partnership with Brunello Cucinelli and La Paulée, hosted an exceptional gathering on 13th and 14th of November 2024. This exclusive event, inspired by Burgundy’s traditional end-of-harvest celebration, was held in the breathtaking village of Solomeo, Umbria—home to Brunello Cucinelli.

In November FINE+RARE invited to an exceptional gathering inspired by Burgundy’s traditional end-of-harvest celebration in Solomeo, Umbria.     

Castello di Solomeo Welcomes La Paulée

“First of all, you have to resonate 100% Chardonnay,” declares Alexandre Ponnavoy, Taittinger's Chef de Cave. “Chardonnay that produces precise, mineral, chiseled, complex wines with a lace-like finish and an ability to age is what I’m looking for when selecting the grapes that will become part of the Comtes de Champagne blend.” Chardonnay has always been prominent in the house of Taittinger, typically 40% of their Brut Réserve. But when making a pure Chardonnay Champagne (the most delicate of the Champagne varieties), as a vigneron you have to change your mindset, “You must orient your tasting and see the vintage only through this grape variety,” Alexandre explains. All the grapes for Comtes are sourced from Champagne’s Côte des Blancs, a ridge running 30km north to south with east-facing vineyards, predominantly planted to Chardonnay (95%) and responsible for Champagne’s finest Blanc de Blancs Champagnes. Comtes de Champagne is sourced from all five Grand Cru villages situated on the Côte des Blancs – Avize, Chouilly, Cramant, Mesnil-sur-Oger and Oger, with the main base of the cuvée coming from Taittinger’s house vineyard surrounding the Château de la Marquetterie just south of Epernay.  According to Ponnavoy, each of these Grand Cru villages has distinct features that when blended can create something truly special. He identifies how Avize produces very pure, precise, chiseled, crystalline wines – “no exuberance but a lot of precision and freshness”. Chouilly is quite different: “I often say Chouilly is the most Pinot of Chardonnays! This Cru produces Chardonnays used by us for their structure and aromatic power. These are wines with a beautiful backbone. Cramant gives Chardonnays of great minerality with a slightly iodized, saline hint. Mesnil-sur-Oger offers wines of extreme depth, of beautiful aromatic generosity, with exceptional volume on the palate, with a precise and mineral finish. Oger gives us expressive, structured, fruity, gourmet wines with notes of pear, lemon and slightly honeyed.” After each harvest, each wine from these villages is tasted several times, analysed organoleptically in order for Ponnavoy and his team to predict their ageing and aromatic potential before making the decision on whether they will be selected for Comtes. “Some villages can express themselves better depending on the vintage,” states Ponnavoy. “The distribution of the percentage of these five villages lies in the alchemy to design a timeless wine faithful to its style year after year. What I can say is that the vintages of Avize, (precision), Chouilly (structure) and Mesnil-sur-Oger (depth) are nicely represented in the 2008 vintage.”
 While Alexandre Ponnavoy has a clear idea of what the Comtes de Champagne identity is, something he believes shines through despite the vintage conditions, the style of Comtes de Champagne has changed over the years, in line with trends across the region and the change in climate. The dosage of Comtes up until the 1980s was much higher – typically 15 to 16 g/l, now it is closer to 9g/l. “Of course, the growing maturity of the Champagne grapes has played a role in reducing the dosage,” explains Ponnavoy. But global warming does not explain everything: “Champagne consumption patterns have changed. Champagne tasters accept and seek out more restrained, fresher, less dosed Champagne.” And so Taittinger adapted Comtes’s style in line with those needs. Another change came in the late 1980s when Ponnavoy’s predecessor Loic Dupont re-introduced partial oak-ageing for the Comtes de Champagne. This woody part is today an integral part of the Comtes de Champagne profile. Only a tiny proportion of the wine sees oak (between 5 to 8%) depending on the vintage, but – for Ponnavoy – it is the oak that provides a touch of spice and more importantly helps frame the “aromatic concentration and precision required for ageing”. The 2008 vintage is one of the most celebrated in Champagne. It is in fact one of the few vintages in the last 20 years in which the harvest took place in October. Despite this "late" harvest (even if it was the norm in the 1980s and ’90s), Ponnavoy notes that the grapes retained a lot of acidity as well as concentration from what was an extended growing season. The acid-sugar balance is so important Ponnavoy and his team could see the quality of the grapes at harvest was very promising. “2008 is the perfect expression of our continental climate in Champagne, which is both hot and cool. The Comtes 2008 carries this very contrasting climatology within it, between sun and freshness, as well as the distinct identity of the chalky terroir and the allure and precision you can get from the Côte des Blancs.”   Much has been said and written about the similarity of 2008 to other vintages but Ponnavoy is reticent to compare it directly. For him, this vintage stands on its own and has its own personality. At a push in terms of concentration he compares it to 1996 and for elegance to the 2004. When it comes to the 2008’s drinking window, he believes it all depends on what you want from your Champagne. “The 2008 is ready to be discovered now, appreciated on its thin, elegant, chiselled, dynamic side. However, Comtes de Champagne is certainly produced with the purpose for ageing. I like to taste Champagnes with as much ageing time on the lees as disgorging time. I think it will be interesting to discover or rediscover this 2008 vintage in 10 years or so, at the dawn of 2030!” With fantastic lineage behind it, the 2008 Comtes de Champagne will no doubt be in high demand on release and provide fantastic drinking pleasure for decades to come. 
Explore more Editorial 


Ahead of the 2008 vintage’s release, Taittinger’s Chef de Cave Alexandre Ponnavoy talks us through what defines the house’s much-loved prestige Blanc de Blancs, Comtes de Champagne

Upon 2008 vintage’s release, Taittinger’s Chef de Cave talks us through what defines the house’s much-loved prestige Blanc de Blancs, Comtes de Champagne

Tasting Taittinger Comtes de Champagne 2008

Taittinger Comtes de Champagne 2008: the wait is over

In Sicily, for the feast day of San Giuseppe, they make a soup, a very plain soup of 
chickpeas, fava beans and wheat grains, all soaked and cooked separately before 
being combined with bitter wild greens and perhaps some broken pasta. It is a 
celebration not of poverty but in poverty. The richness of the meal comes from the 
time it takes, the hours of soaking and boiling, of picking leaves in muddy fields. 
The feast day of the patron saint of workers (and the stepfather of God) falls on 
the 19th March, full spring in the Sicilian countryside with the almond trees in 
blossom. San Giuseppe’s soup marks the last use of the previous year’s harvest, 
the last pulses and grains to be taken from the store which the summer’s baking 
heat and the rains of autumn had provided for the coming winter. It is both a soup 
and a celebration, but it is also a sacrifice – a sacrifice of time against an uncertain 
future, time given freely as a kind of guarantee. Cooking of any kind – but especially the lengthy processes of preserving, drying, 
pickling and curing – is really an act of optimism, an assertion that there will be a 
future in which to eat. And the more time and care you put into such a process, the 
more value you get out. For example, the longer a cure or a pickle takes, the longer, 
in general, it will last. In providing food for the future, this sacrifice also makes 
it much more likely that the future it was made for will indeed occur. A practical 
optimism, you could say. A spending of time, not just because you have little else 
to spend, but because it is prudent to do so. For much of the world now, of course, the situation is reversed: we can buy almost 
anything we want at any time we please and have it delivered almost immediately. 
And we seem to be encouraged to spend less time doing things like cooking. 
Time is a commodity, and rather than sacrifice our time, we’re encouraged to 
sacrifice time itself, to take shortcuts. Time is listed in any given recipe, along 
with the rest of the ingredients and equipment: two onions, one stick of celery, 
one carrot, 15 minutes preparation and two hours cooking time, but it is almost 
always consequently manipulated. Everybody knows – once they have followed 
a few recipes – that enough time is never given to cook an onion. ‘Sauté until soft 
and golden, about two minutes,’ writes the chef (or the editor insists so the recipe can fall into the category of ‘quick and easy weeknight suppers’ or ‘fifteen-minute 
meals’ or whatever it is they are currently trying to sell). The fact that nobody ever
sautéed an onion until soft and golden in less than 10 minutes is elided, sacrificed 
to the promise that this dish, now, will not cost too much of your time. Even recipes 
which can never be made quickly – soups, stews, cures – are touted as demanding 
just a little of your time and even less of your attention, your active time. The slow 
braise allows the cook to focus not on cooking, but on other things. To me, this 
is a lost opportunity. Yes, it is nice to know that dinner is safely squared away, 
puttering merrily to itself in a low oven. It is exciting to think that a jar of cabbage 
is slowly transforming into sauerkraut at the back of a dark cupboard. But if all we 
see is the prepared ingredients and the end result, how much do we miss of the 
metamorphosis in-between? Convenience is desirable, but over the last year, time has – for most of us – come at 
less of a premium. Even before that, though, I have always found a certain satisfaction 
in giving my complete attention to whatever I am cooking. This goes without saying for 
the quick and fast – for the doneness of a steak, or pasta, for deep-frying, or grilling 
delicate fish. However, it is also rewarding for the slower processes, for observing the 
slow changing of textures as liquids bubble and reduce.  If, for example, you are making marmalade, you could work out the setting 
temperature and, once the final boil has begun, insert a probe thermometer with 
an alarm set to sound when it reaches the precise temperature: all well and good. 
If, however, there isn’t a thermometer to hand – or, as is often the case, you only 
have one that is in sore need of calibration and therefore useless – you can fall 
back on the finger test your mother may or may not have taught you. Placing a 
stack of saucers in the fridge and – when you think the marmalade is nearly ready 
– spooning a little out onto a cold saucer, you prod the result with your finger to 
see if it wrinkles. What, then, if you don’t have a stack or even a single perfectly 
chilled saucer to hand? Then you have to watch the bubbles rise. 
The point of making marmalade or jam is not simply that you are cooking a liquid 
until it reaches approximately 105˚C, but rather that you are cooking a liquid until 
it becomes capable (as water is not) of reaching that temperature – which means it 
has to become thicker, stronger. The bubbles it creates, at first double the liquid in 
volume (bringing the inevitable worry that your pan is too small) before settling and 
lowering into a dense boil that threatens to catch on the bottom. Once you’ve seen 
it, that transformation is unmistakable, and if you had just stuck a thermometer 
in the pan and got on with something else, you would never have noticed. This 
(admittedly useful and in a working kitchen, essential) piece of technology would 
have removed you from the process, from the facts of cooking. This is true of any kind of technology – it is, by and large, its purpose. I am not necessarily suggesting 
that you replace your oven with a wood-fired stove and monitor the temperature 
with a questing hand (if you can’t hold it in there, it’s hot enough) – although that 
would, I think, be fun. Certainly, anything which makes our lives easier is not to be 
dismissed out of hand, but isn’t it always worth wondering what, at any moment, 
you can afford to lose? 
The point with cooking is that the time put in is not simply lost but rather spent 
or, invested – although sometimes you might not think it – wisely. A six-hour 
braise consumed in less than 30 minutes can seem hardly worth the effort, but 
only if you see the eating of food as the sole reason to cook it. When I think of 
meals I have cooked for other people, for birthdays or holidays or simply for 
the pleasure of company, it is rarely the eating of them – the few minutes of 
attacking a chicken or slurping up pasta or licking grease off fingers – which 
comes immediately to mind but rather their slow build-up. It’s the digging of the 
pit to build the fire that has to die before I bury the lamb, wrapped carefully in 
foil and sackcloth; the careful attendance to a boiling pan of stock, its bubbles 
changing in size and consistency as it gradually reduces into gravy; the oil 
slowly spitting out of a pot of ragù, its surface barely moving as it stews. These 
are the things I remember fondly, the nurturing process of bringing a meal 
together. And these moments aren’t solitary meditations – with any meal there 
is more to be done than just cooking something. There are salads to be made 
and dressings to be whipped, pasta to be rolled, tables to be set, cocktails to be 
mixed, and wine to be poured. The making of a meal is only a chore if you begin 
to do it wishing it were already over. If instead you begin to do it because you 
want to do it, with the end result of ‘something to eat’ as almost a by-product 
of a rewarding activity, then the pleasure you find in it changes. 
Although for most of us, it’s no longer – as it was for the Sicilians celebrating 
San Giuseppe – a matter of life or death. This choice to involve yourself 
purposefully in the everyday act of cooking, and otherwise preparing food, still 
has an air of sacrifice, of time exchanged in the promise of something greater. 
It is, I suppose, literally a sacrifice, as the time you allot to cooking is time 
you could have made available for emails, or exercise, or simply to idly scroll 
through Netflix adding films you will probably never watch to your list. But, as 
is the way of all such propitiatory acts, it is a sacrifice which contains the seeds 
of its desired outcome. What you put in determines what you get out, in the 
straightforward terms of a meal you can eat – but it is also its own reward. You 
know, as you reverently chop, or soak, or simmer, that you are investing your 
time to create something better than good. That whatever you are making will 
have a special richness to it. The richness of chickpeas, or water or gold.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen.

Illustration by Stewart Walton.

Margate-based chef and food writer, Thom Eagle, contemplates the value of spending more, not less, time in the kitchen

FONDATA: Time for Food

Time for Food

Daniel Humm is the iconic chef behind Claridge's new fine-dining establishment, Davies and Brook. His incredible resume includes setting up Manhattan’s Eleven Madison Park, which surely has one of the greatest wine lists in the world. We were thrilled to ask him and Wine Director Cedric Nicaise the following questions: Davies and Brook is your first venture in London. What was the attraction to set up a restaurant here? Daniel Humm: "I’ve always considered London to be a sister city to New York in terms of
its energy and food culture, so I’ve always been drawn to it. I also used to work at Claridge’s over 25 years ago as a commis, way at the beginning of my career. It’s a real full-circle moment to come back to one of the places where it all started for me, especially when I consider how lucky I am to open a restaurant in one of the most highly-regarded grande dame hotels in Europe." 
How does it differ from Eleven Madison Park?  Daniel Humm: "Though there is a lot of influence from Eleven Madison Park to be found
at Davies and Brook, it is definitely its own project with its own personality. We are really influenced by the culture of London and how it is truly a global city, and I am also inspired by my own travels over the past few years.  "We wanted to look at what fine dining is and then try to imagine what it could be – our menu is more flexible and accessible here, with a la carte and tasting menu options. We serve lunch every day and have an all-day bar menu where you can order small dishes throughout the day and into the evening. Being at Claridge’s really inspired us as well – we wanted to create a restaurant that respected and extended the history of one of the world’s most storied hotels." What are the key signature dishes you have brought over to Davies and Brook and what new creations are you most excited about? Daniel Humm: "We of course brought our classic lavender and honey duck dish from Eleven
Madison Park to London, and it has been received really well by guests. Our team in London, led by Chef Dmitri Magi, has done an incredible job making sure that the quality is consistent on both sides of the ocean. I’m really excited to have the opportunity to work within the culinary traditions and with local produce here in the UK." 
You grew up in Switzerland. What were your favourite dishes growing up? Daniel Humm: "I grew up in a place where what we ate was determined by what my mother
found at the market that day. Of course, one dish that has always inspired me
wasn’t really a dish at all – the milk and honey that my mother used to make me before I went to bed every night has inspired so many desserts at all my restaurants and remains one of my favourite flavors." Who has been your biggest influence in your cooking and why? Daniel Humm: "I am lucky to have had many mentors in my career and people who looked
out for me and inspired me. Gerard Rabaey taught me discipline early on in my career and that has had an impact on me my whole life. Many artist friends like Roni Horn, Daniel Turner and Rashid Johnson have inspired me and helped me find my voice and understand my own philosophy about cooking." The wine list at Eleven Madison Square is mind-blowingly epic! How long did it take to collate such a collection? Cedric Nicaise: "Thank you, that means a lot. The cellar at Eleven Madison has been a labour of love since 2006/2007. Before then the restaurant had invested some resources, but nothing like it would moving forward. The one thing that should be noted is that the cellar at EMP has only had three caretakers in that time and at least 2 have had tremendous impact.   First was John Ragan who became the wine director around the same time that Daniel
Humm became the chef. John is the one who started the growth of the list. When he took over the list was a few 100 wines. When he left towards the end of 2011 the wine list had grown to 2500+ wines. He was replaced with Dustin Wilson. Dustin had much less overall growth to do, by the time he was done after 3.5 years the list was at most 4000 wines.  "But Dustin added a cool factor to the list, before him the wines were very classic, Dustin placed an importance on some of the things happening around the wine world, things with a natural bent, “new Spain”. Things like that. He also developed the Northern Rhone section to being a world-class section. I took over for Dustin in May 2015.  My job has been the easiest.   "The list has grown to 5000 wines and I have tried to keep up with the ideals of my predecessors. While also adding my fingerprint.  I have developed white Burgundy the most, but also represented back vintage California Cabernet to a greater degree.  "Red Burgundy has also been fleshed out quite a bit. Overall I have not actively tried to grow the list, even though it has grown, but I have been buying with an eye to the future. Trying to keep wines in the cellar for longer. Hoping to have more wines that are 3-5 years old, instead of just old wine and young wine. I have also, like my predecessors tried to keep a great deal of value on the list.  Right now we have roughly 350 wines under $100."
 Was it always the plan to have such a comprehensive fine wine list? 
Cedric Nicaise: "I don’t think that it was a spoken intention. I know that when Chef Humm took over the kitchen, his goal was to have a world-class restaurant, and part of that was to have a world-class wine list. When the restaurant started speaking openly about being the best in the world, on the wine team we spoke about having the best wine list in the world.  I think we are far from that, but you have to have goals." How important is matching the restaurant dishes with the right wine, or do you see them as separate entities?  
Cedric Nicaise: "I believe that those two ideas are not mutually exclusive. I think that it is very important to have wines that go with the food. And I think we do. But the wine list is not for me, or for Chef Humm, the wine list is for our guests. And if our guests want to drink young Cabernet with their oysters, or white burgundy with their steak, who am I to tell them that they are wrong, even if I thought they were.  "Wine should be egalitarian, and not pretentious. Drink what you like. Ideally, if the wine is good, and the food is good, isn’t that a good pairing? However, if a guest wants us to choose wines to go with their food, its so important to have wines that can do that." What was the lightbulb moment for you with wine – what wine blew your mind? Daniel Humm: "For me, it wasn’t that I had a lightbulb moment – from the early days, wine was always a big part of my life. Wine was always on the table at every meal, and I love that part of the European culture. Because of that, I always find myself drawn to wines that have a sense of place and tradition." 
How important is wine in your life? Would you call yourself a collector? Daniel Humm: "No I am not a collector, but wine is something that I am always thinking about when we are developing a dish or a menu. It’s a central thought to me, what wine does to food and vice versa. That dialogue is so essential to the way that I cook and the way that I eat. Wine is so important because it carries a real sense of place and culture – you can taste the soil, the appellation, everything.  "When you are drinking wine you are informed about a place and a time, like reading a book or eating a meal. There is pleasure there, but also information. I believe that wine is one of the best ways to get to know a place." 
What would be your desert island wine?  Daniel Humm: "Probably a Dauvissat Chablis." Explore more Editorial 

We chat to the man behind one of the world's greatest wine lists (Manhattan’s Eleven Maddison Park) about his new venture at Claridge's, Davies and Brook

Exploring Eleven Madison Park's wine list

In conversation with Eleven Madison Park's Daniel Humm and Cedric Nicaise

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