Many believe Scotch blends are single malt whisky’s poor relation in price, quality and taste profile. In actuality, this could not be further from the truth. It takes great mastery to produce a blend. Some of the most exquisite single malts – that people pay handsomely for – are blended in perfect harmony by some of the most talented whisky makers in the world to create remarkable blended whiskies. And yet, this lesser label seemingly sticks to blended whisky – as it has for decades. The tide does, however, show signs of turning as more collectable and well-aged blended whiskies are appearing on the market. Few people know more about blended Scotch than Colin Scott and Dr Emma Walker. Scott held the title of Chivas Brothers Master Blender for 31 years and today, after a very short-lived retirement, produces superlative blends for remarkable spirits curators The Last Drop Distillers. Walker has also not long stepped into a new role, succeeding Dr Jim Beveridge as Johnnie Walker Master Blender. Dr Walker (no relation to Johnnie) and her trusty team of 12 highly skilled blenders preside over more than 10 million casks of whisky from 30 distilleries across the length and breath of Scotland to create all the Scotch in Diageo’s extensive portfolio. “Because it’s a blending operation, we just call it all blends,” Walker says – adding, with a chuckle, “just to confuse people.” The same team that looks after Diageo’s single malts looks after all its Scotch whisky, including the blends, new releases and highly collectable Cask of Distinction releases. At last count, there are 138 whisky distilleries in Scotland. Of these, 131 are malt distilleries and seven are grain, and Diageo by far and away owns the most at 30. It is Walker’s job to know these distilleries (28 malt and two grain) inside and out to produce all of Diageo’s Scotch whisky bottlings. “Our single malts are amazing. Our single grains are amazing. But so are the blended Scotch whiskies,” she says with unabashed excitement. Walker is three months into her new role at the helm of one of the world’s most formidable blending operations – and is clearly loving every minute, despite being “slightly terrified”. A chemist by trade, she is acutely aware of Johnnie Walker’s legacy as the world’s most foremost whisky blender and she carries this responsibility, that might weigh heavy on others, with a healthy dose of reverence and buckets of zeal. The ebullient Colin Scott has worked in the Scotch whisky industry for almost 50 years, blending some of the world’s most well-known and coveted whiskies for Chivas Brothers. There’s little he hasn’t seen and you sense he’s just as excited by the goings on today as he was as a young whippersnapper in the blending room half a century ago. “It’s interesting that everybody talks about [single] malts rather than blends,” Scott muses. “For the last 100 years, blends have actually dominated global sales – over 90% is blended Scotch and less than 10% is [single] malts.” Scott thinks the reason for this is simple: “People can understand a single malt because it comes from a single distillery. You can go to it, you can see it, you can touch it, and you can feel it. It’s a little bit more sexy than a blend because a blend has anything between three and a 100-plus whiskies in it.” But, what many fail to realise, according to Scott, is the skill required to create these blended whiskies – at all price points. “There is an art to blending. It’s quite a complicated art,” he says wistfully. And an ever-changing one at that. “A lot of people don’t understand that if you take a premium blend, it might have 50 whiskies in the blend one year, the next year it might have 60, the following year it might have 45, the next year might have 48 – so year on year, because of availability within the inventory, the actual number of whiskies in the blend will change. “And it is the art of the blender who brings and rebalances all of those flavours back so the taste experience remains consistent.” Walker picks up the point: “You take these individual great characters and you just bring them together. You’re not doing something that cheapens it. You’re not doing something where you’re trying to bulk things out, you’re trying to bring those different, individual characters together in the best way possible. You’re amplifying rather than cancelling each other out.” Walker is always trying to reach the golden ratio for the desired mouthfeel, texture, aroma, taste and length. When she achieves this, Walker says: “It’s just really exciting. To find these amazing individual things and bring them together, it’s heaven in a glass.” It takes years of experience and skill – passed down from one generation to the next – to achieve this divine state or you’d have to face the wrath of the loyal drinker who knows what should be in that bottle. “You’re always looking for that consistent quality,” Scott explains spiritedly. “Whether it’s standard, premium, super premium or ultra ultra premium. “Working at Chivas, you would use pretty much the same amount of time on a standard blend as a niche blend,” Scott says with great candour, “because you just don’t compromise on quality – it is not part of the game.” Scott has blended at all the levels during his career. His decision to join the Last Drop in 2021 was somewhat serendipitous. Scott and the late Last Drop co-founder Tom Jago were responsible for one of the most successful blends of all time: Chivas 18. The remarkable spirits curators have championed blended whisky since day dot. Founders Jago and long-time friend James Espey OBE initially set out to bottle single malts – because the demand was there at the higher end – but that all changed when the formidable duo were bewitched by a certain 1960 blended Scotch. This became the Last Drop’s inaugural release in 2008 and is said to have been the best whisky Jago ever tasted during his lifetime. Scott is the first to acknowledge that blended whiskies carrying an age statement are an easier sell than those without – his debut for the Last Drop was a very special 50-year-old signature blend. “If you’ve got an age on a product, people know exactly what they are dealing with,” he says matter-of-factly. While the Master Blender does feel there is a groundswell of appreciation for blended whiskies, helped by older bottlings and ever-increasing auction prices, he understands there is work to be done to remove this legacy inferiority association. “People have been drinking blends forever,” Scott explains. “But because it is usually the standard blend, they don’t really consider it special.” He continues: “Many think blends are inferior and the main reason for that was way back in the day, 30, 40, 50 years ago, people regarded grain whisky as an industrial spirit because a grain distillery, even today, makes 10 times the spirit than a malt whisky distillery makes. “Malt whisky distilleries are maybe now making 10 million or 20 million litres a year – the big ones – and a grain distillery produces over 100 million litres. I wouldn’t consider it a cheaper product, because once you have bought the cask and matured the product you’re pretty much talking the same value as a mature malt. “And this concept, that this ‘industrial’ grain spirit was added to the malt just to give volume in the actual blend is basically nonsense,” he says animatedly. Scott ardently believes grain whiskies have a very important role to play from a blender’s point of view because it has its own flavour and character. He explains: “When you taste the grain and add it with malts, it actually promotes and harmonises and brings those sort of heavier flavours of the malts together. “If you change the percentage of the grain in the blend, it will change the balance of the malts and the grains, and change the taste experience of the final blend. It’s not just a case of you just blend the malts and then add the grain for the sake of it to give you volume. You have to put it all together because if you don’t, you get a different product.” Walker seconds this. “Some of the best, most amazing [grain] whiskies I’ve got to try was when I was looking at making the John Walker 50-year-old Masters' Edition with Jim and Maureen and it was just phenomenal.” Her face lights up as she recalls that time and takes a moment to finish her train of thought. “Amazing, amazing grain whiskies,” she says with a smile. “And at those ages, when you taste them, they make your mouth water, they are so luscious, and fruity and it’s just astounding. But when you mix them together with these great individual casks of single malts, you have that lusciousness and that fruitiness but you also have these other flavours coming and mixing together.” A large part of Walker’s new role is extolling the virtues of all Scotch whiskies – grains, malts, blends, single malts and single casks – to the world. A lack of in-person events, which are slowly starting to pepper the calendar again, have presented an additional challenge but you’d be foolish to think anything can stop the new Johnnie Walker Master Blender from spreading the gospel. For Scott, it’s a case of once tasted, never forgotten. “I always feel like a great blend is the blend that has huge complexity but there is no individual flavour or character that dominates from the nose to taste to finish,” Scott tells me. “You take a sip and you smile and you put it down and it just invites you to have another one. Because you think wow, that is something I must taste it again.” With more remarkable blended whiskies to be found than ever before, you feel it won’t be long before the rest of the world is singing from the same hymn sheet. Browse all Scotch or read more Editorial 

Blended Scotch whisky doesn’t always get the respect it deserves. Part of this reason is legacy, part is misinformation. Holly Motion explores why blended whiskies are just as worthy of a place in your spirits collection as single malts

Johnnie Walker’s Dr Emma Walker and The Last Drop’s Colin Scott on why blended Scotch whiskies are as complex and beguiling as single malts.

Exploring the brilliance of blended whisky

Blended whisky: a marriage made in heaven

When Jean-Marc Roulot wandered through the family estate’s cellars one, seemingly ordinary day, he happened upon something unexpected. The vigneron had walked the hallowed paths innumerable times during his legendary father Guy’s life and during the 15 years since his sudden passing in 1982. But there, in a long-forgotten corner of the cellars, lay 12 dusty bottles of apricot liqueur. Jean-Marc knew all about his father’s production of pear and apple brandy, and his family tradition of producing marc de Bourgogne and fine de Bourgogne. The still, which he used and remains in operation today, dates back to 1866 and used to be on wheels so the family could move from village to village. So well-known was this distillation heritage, in fact, that Jean-Marc’s mother used to joke that the still paid for their vineyards. What came as a surprise to the actor-cum-winemaker was the existence of L’Abricot. “I had never seen him make this liqueur,” the 65-year-old says. “It was absolutely delicious and I wanted to try to find this recipe.” This discovery in 2008 set Jean-Marc on a mission to reproduce the liqueur from instinct, as no recipe existed, and increase the estate’s staple of brandies, eaux de vie and liqueurs. In some instances, the winemaker was able to follow recipes and meet with fruit producers to reinstate his father’s relationships. For others, he had to forge his own path. “I wanted to reconnect with that [tradition],” he adds. Jean-Marc says he’s always had a passion for distillation, having learned the skill from his father, and feels it has influenced his winemaking. When distilling, Jean-Marc focuses on two things: purity and authenticity. When asked, he says it is of paramount importance that the end product tastes like the fruit. It seems obvious, perhaps, but this is not always the case with overly saccharine fruit-based liqueurs. In order to achieve these two things, Jean-Marc has reduced the sugar levels over time – from 180g/l sugar 10 years ago to 160g/l in the latest iterations. “Sugar is of course a flattering element in a liqueur, but it can also mask the fruit,” he says. “By lowering the sugar levels, I feel like I'm putting the fruit forward.” From more classic pear and raspberry to the most recent addition, lemon liqueur, Jean-Marc says the fruit choices have largely been emotive. “I chose to make a pear alcohol since my father already made this 40 years ago with fruits from the Hautes Côtes de Beaune,” he says. “He was doing the same thing in a much smaller amount with the raspberry than I am doing. For these two fruits in brandies, it is therefore a family tradition.” The pears are sourced from the same site in the Hautes Côtes de Beaune that his father used, while the apricots (previously from the orchards of Chave) come courtesy of Laurent Combier (of Domaine Combier) in the Rhône. While he used to be able to source them locally, raspberries are now hard to find – and these, along with his lemons, come from further afield (Bulgaria and Sicily, respectively). After finding the bottles of apricot liqueur and working with the fruit in that capacity, the idea occurred to Jean-Marc to ferment them to make brandy as well. He’s also turned his hand to lemon liqueur and doesn’t rule out further fruit experimentation, perhaps with grapefruit. When asked about these fruits in relation to terroir, Jean-Marc says he doesn’t think they can reflect their terroir “as well” or “as faithfully” as grapes. “Perhaps this is due to the size of the plant, the density of planting, the attention we pay to the work of the vineyard and all the care we take around the grape when it comes back to the winery,” he adds. “There is generally a ‘signature’ effect in grapes that I do not find in a fruit like pear for example.”  He does, however, think the distillation process has taught him a considerable amount. “As we are mainly winegrowers, we seem to think that our knowledge on this subject has influenced the work on the still, but I sincerely believe that the precision that distillation requires has influenced us in the other direction, towards our work as a winegrower.” One senses Jean-Marc’s discovery of those 12 unassuming bottles all those years ago had a much greater impact on him than merely influencing his production of superlative wines, and now, his fruit brandies, eaux de vie and liqueurs. Find out more about Domaine Roulot or read more Editorial

Meursault-based Domaine Roulot is one of the finest estates in the Côte de Beaune. But it’s not just grapes that cross the threshold at this domaine. Owner and winemaker Jean-Marc tells us about the family’s fruit-based spirits – and how they’ve influenced his winemaking

The famous Meursault vigneron Domaine Roulot on his family’s other project - the family’s fruit-based spirit

Domaine Roulot Meursault fruit-based spirits

A secret still: Domaine Roulot

Looking out across the Côte d’Or, the astute might notice a few more gaps amongst the rows of vines than normal. Dig a little deeper, listening to nervous murmurs in cellars around the region, and you’ll hear that there’s trouble below the surface – with a once-favoured rootstock the culprit.  We like to imagine the life of a Burgundian vigneron as one of the happiest in the world; a bucolic existence in the vineyards, or else surrounded by casks, vats and bottles of their gorgeous bottles. We rather enjoy the product ourselves – despite the occasional irritations of a corked or otherwise flawed bottle resulting in a failed experience. Still, the only loss is of that specific bottle. Sometimes there can be clouds in a vigneron’s life, storm clouds. A hailstorm might destroy the crop in one sector of a vineyard: that cuvée disappears off the map for a whole year, the vigneron’s work for the season destroyed in a single half hour. Or, though we have not seen this for many years, an entire vintage may be compromised by torrential rain throughout the harvest. It is hard to imagine what it can be like to lose a whole year’s crop in one go, but how much worse must it be when there is an existential threat to the life of the vine itself. Two recent threats have been the disease esca, known as the black goo in some parts of the world, and flavescence dorée. Both can bring rapid mortality to individual vines, but can be treated. Now there is a new and insidious problem to contend with: one of the key rootstocks widely used in Burgundy seems to be giving up on the job. The 161/49C rootstock has been the favourite for a generation here. The C stands for Couderc, specifically Georges Couderc who bred this rootstock as far back as 1888, shortly after it had become apparent that only vines grafted on to American non-vitis vinifera rootstocks could resist the phylloxera beetle. It is a Berlandieri x Riparia cross, designed to be relatively resistant to active limestone (very important in Burgundy), and is not over-productive: indeed, it has been such an obvious choice for producers looking for quality over quantity that it has been exceptionally widely planted in Burgundy of late. But 161/49C is giving up on its job. The failures were first seen in the south and south-west of France, and are now widespread in Burgundy. The damage was mostly done with more recent plantings: which may have given rise to the theory of the rootstock having intrinsically degenerated. However, another explanation has emerged, that the younger vines do not have deep enough root systems to be able to search out underground water, whereas the old vines with established root systems appear to be able to carry on serenely. The story is still unfolding and I doubt that we have all the answers yet. I learn from Pl@ntGrape that 161/49C is theoretically relatively resistant to drought, a view which may very well be changing. Whereas discussions with vignerons a few years ago were based around the assumption that this rootstock which had been so good was suddenly failing, as if it had run out of energy entirely or else the mother plant had contracted some sort of disease, the view most commonly heard is that this rootstock cannot manage the new hotter, drier conditions. In almost every cellar, a question about 161/49C yields a glum response. Yes, we are suffering. At first vignerons pulled out damaged vines and replaced them individually, but when each following year the losses multiplied further, the bullet of ripping out the whole plot has to be bitten – demoralising, expensive and with repercussions for years to come. You need to leave the plot fallow for at least two years (wise old heads say five to seven years) before replanting. The first mini-crop arrives three years later and the vine does not really reach maturity for 20 years. Antoine Jobard is pulling out a plot of Meursault Genevrières that he only planted in 2017. Cyrielle Rousseau adds an additional nuance: a plot of Clos de la Roche recently replanted with three separate clones, all on 161/49C rootstock is suffering much worse in relation to one of the three clones compared to the others. A further headache is that it is not clear what to plant instead. Among its close siblings – other Berlandieri x Riparia crosses – are 420A, 5BB and Teleki 5C which are all now being widely trialled in place of 161/49C: but the worry persists that these too may develop the same issues. Others are looking at 41B – quite widely used in Chablis – which dislikes drought but does not die of it according to Roger Saumaize (Pouilly-Fuissé), or 3309 which is tricky where there is a high active limestone content. François Lumpp in Givry has switched to 363 Montpellier though he noted pithily (and I have cleaned it up a bit!), “When you buy stuff that’s rubbish, you find out too late: whether it’s the cork, the barrel or the cuttings from the nursery.” Solutions will be found: a rootstock that can cope with drought, doesn’t mind a bit of limestone, is later rather than earlier ripening, and allows the vine to deliver fine quality grapes. Auditions are being held now! One thing is sure – smart producers are going to hedge their bets by settling on a mix of different options, to avoid having all their grapes in one basket. Jasper Morris – the man behind Inside Burgundy – is a Master of Wine and leading Burgundy expert, living, working and writing in the region.

Leading Burgundy expert and Inside Burgundy author Jasper Morris MW investigates a rootstock causing trouble in Burgundy

Jasper Morris MW on rootstock in Burgundy

The root of the matter

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

“In more recent times The Glenturret has not been a brand name that is well known in whisky.” While few might refute this, they are not typically the first words you expect to hear from the mouth of the distillery’s Managing Director. “When the new owners took over, it was a unique opportunity to take this old, heritage brand that no one has ever heard of and reposition it without any of the baggage you normally get with repositioning older brands,” John Laurie adds. In 2019, Silvo Denz – owner of Chx Faugères in Saint-Emilion and Lafaurie-Peyraguey in Sauternes – bought a 50% stake in the Highland distillery via his Lalique Group for £15.5m. (Swiss entrepreneur Hansjörg Wyss bought the other 50% for an undisclosed sum.) This marked Denz’s first move into the whisky world and a huge moment for The Glenturret. The deal with The Edrington Group, who own The Macallan and Highland Park, included the distillery, the single malt brand and more than one million litres of maturing stock. In the intervening years, the brand once known as a component in blends and home of The Famous Grouse Experience has been on an oft-used-and-cliched “journey”. The team has grown, acquiring some big names along the way, the core range has been stripped back to basics, and all the fundamentals have been scrutinised. For the first nine months after former The Macallan Whisky Maker Bob Dalgarno joined The Glenturret, he was reportedly nowhere to be seen. After his induction, Dalgarno – chalk in hand and overalls-clad – barricaded himself in the warehouse. The industry legend spent month upon month scrawling on the casks, rolling barrels around and familiarising himself with his new pet project. For the self-professed “farm stock”, the prospect of joining a manually operated distillery after working at The Macallan for 30 years was a real thrill. Dalgarno could experiment and affect change. New contracts with local farmers to run barley trials have been set up and the cask-selection process has been extensively reviewed. He and Distillery Manager Ian Renwick are a formidable team. The duo spent months drilling into the stocks and assessing what worked well and didn’t. After this, two things were taken as read: the quality of the new-make was of utmost importance, and The Glenturret would stay a small, hand-operated distillery. “Other brands will use casks as their dominant flavour profile,” Laurie explains. “We use our new-make spirit. It’s the backbone of The Glenturret. You should be able to nose our new-make spirit and nose it at 30 years old and never lose that character.” The Glenturret new-make spirit is light and quite soft because of the long fermentation and slow distillation methods. In order to preserve this character and avoid railroading it, cask selection is key. This, according to Laurie, has been instrumental in 80% of The Glenturret’s maiden whiskies selling out in the first seven months. “We were really keen not to be the brand that just puts the same liquid in a shiny new bottle and charges a different price point for it,” the Managing Director says. That said, innovation – or, as Laurie prefers it called, experimentation – is high on the agenda at the Highland distillery. “It’s less scientific clean rooms and more overalls and a lot of incredibly long hours and hard work,” Laurie adds. Ostensibly, the culmination of the first stage of this experimentation is the 2020 series of releases, which includes the familiar TripleWood and a scattering of age statements. But look a little harder and the range is an adept exploration of refinement, questioning age, alcohol strength, refill casks and peat. The team has also not shied away from the issue of transparency – something that the whisky world has not always embraced. “We will tell people exactly what’s in our whisky; we won’t hide anything,” Laurie says. “If you want to know how old our non-age statement is then we will tell you. It’s all about the quality of the liquid for us.” In production terms, The Glenturret is considered small batch. As Brand Ambassador Jamie Morrison quaintly puts it, “At roughly 200,000 litres of alcohol per year, that’s a piece of plankton floating in the Pacific in relation to much bigger, more automated distilleries.” For Laurie, balancing genuine scarcity with a territory-by-territory approach will be instrumental to their success. “You want to explain to the consumer that when it sells out, it sells out. There is not going to be another one coming out the back of it. But also managing it to the point where it is not so hard to get that the consumer loses interest,” Laurie says. “We wanted to make sure everywhere we opened up we looked after as we grow. For The Glenturret to really work, it has to be sold in a location where somebody can take the time to tell the customer the story and understand what makes us different. I would rather they didn’t make the sale than make the wrong sale. “This distillery can’t put out any more than 500,000 litres of alcohol unless we started putting on extensions and changing the process completely,” Laurie says. “And there is absolutely no willingness from the ownership all the way down through the team here to do that. So, The Glenturret will reach that 500,000 litres of alcohol production level and stay there.” Morrison picks up the point: “Everything we do is truly small batch and that comes with its own set of challenges in terms of production, but it also makes us quite nimble which means we can afford to do small experimental runs of different barley. We can adjust fermentation times and adjust the run times of the stills quite easily. And that affords us opportunity to effectively have a play round and see what happens.” The words “small batch” and “limited” are often bandied about in the drinks world. In fact, The Glenturret is well-positioned on many fronts when it comes to buzzword bingo, but there is a sincerity in the mission here and a stellar line up of talent which will ultimately let the liquid do the talking. Browse all current Glenturret listings or all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial

When the oldest working distillery in Scotland found a new owner in 2019, many stood back and speculated on how its fortunes might change. Holly Motion speaks to the team about how a new approach has been a barnstorming success


Exploring how Scotland's oldest working distillery, The Glenturret, has gone back to basics and transformed the Highland producer's reputation

Back to basics at The Glenturret

The Glenturret: back to basics

Marco Simonit has become something of a celebrity in the world of wine, but his specialisation – pruning – is not normally considered glamorous. Pruning is often low-paid work left to contract crews. But with his childhood friend Pierpaolo Sirch, he set up the Simonit&Sirch pruning consultancy that now has a team of 20 experts operating all over the wine world.  Partly this is because of the rise in grapevine trunk diseases, which are considered a major threat to viticulture. Simonit’s pruning methods are suddenly in high demand because they have the potential to vastly reduce the risk of trunk diseases. Now, in conjunction with FINE+RARE, he has made his first wines from old vines in Collio. The origins of Marco’s interest in the vine began with his background. "I lived with my grandparents because my father died and my mother worked," he says. "They had a small farm with cows, horses, sheep and goats, and also a small vineyard to make wine for the family’s consumption."  He says that it was a good environment to grow up in, surrounded by nature with a gentle pace of life. His real passion was animals, though – not vines – and he had set his heart on becoming a vet. But after studying agriculture at the local college in Cividale in Friuli, he had to take a job. He began working as the technical adviser for the Consorzio of the Collio DOC in 1988, a role he was to fulfill for a decade, offering guidance to growers on viticulture. "I loved the landscapes, and I loved to observe the trees, plants and hills," he recalls.  Then one day, he started drawing vines. "After work, I would go to the fields, and I drew the vines," says Simonit. "I drew the trunk and the arms and the canes and leaves, and I met the wounds. There were a lot of wounds. I started to think about what it must be like for the vine." Observing the pruning wounds and their effects on the old vines made a big impression on him. He asked a viticulturist if he could pull out an ailing old vine, and when he got permission, he approached one of his friends who was a carpenter. "I asked him if it would be possible to help me make a section through an old vine," Simonit recalls. "He said, this is a strange request. Why do you want to do this? I said I wanted to see inside."  So with the aid of the carpenter, Simonit cut the vine in half. "It wasn’t completely dead but it wasn’t in good health," he says. "It had an extraordinary impact on me: when I saw inside, a big part of the vine was destroyed. A small part of the wood was white (alive), but most of the inside of the trunk and the arm was brown and black, and with fungi. I was shocked." At that time no one in the schools and universities had sectioned vines to look at the consequences of pruning. "I called my professors and I spoke about this, and the professors said, Marco, since the beginning people have always approached pruning the vines in same way, so why are you going crazy taking the trunk and making sections to see what is happening inside? Just do a normal pruning like everyone has always done." None of the professors he spoke to were interested in his ideas. But he decided to carry on.  His growing obsession with old vines led him to start travelling, initially around Italy, and then further afield. He saw a similar pattern everywhere. "In these years the viticulture was changing," he says. "A lot of local training systems, such as pergola in Trentino, tendone in Abruzzo and albarello in Sicilia, were being transformed."  People were turning to more ‘modern’ ways of training vines, such as vertical shoot positioning (VSP), and then after 20 years these new vineyards were starting to lose vines to trunk disease. "The spacing for growing the vines wasn’t enough," he says. "In its natural state, the vine is a creeper, a liana. For sure, it is not easy for the vine to remain in the same position for a lot of time, with domesticated demands, without consequences for its health and longevity." He came back to Collio. "I asked some viticulturists if it would be possible for me to try to change the approach of the pruning in modern vineyards. I wanted to change the approach to pruning because the consequences were terrible. The response was they said they didn’t really understand what I wanted to do, but they let me try. In the beginning of 1990 I started to introduce a new technical approach to pruning and shoot thinning by myself in different places in Friuli." Simonit didn’t have a program, and at the time hadn’t heard of Guyot-Poussard pruning, which is an old system that’s somewhat similar to the technique he developed himself. Over a ten-year period he tried to find new solutions, observing old vines and applying different approaches. After this period of experimentation, he thought he had something worthwhile, and he began to approach professors and viticulturists, only to meet with disinterest. Attilio Scienza, professor of viticulture at Milan University, was the exception, though. "Scienza said to me, it is interesting what you do," he recalls.   "Scienza was impressed with my work and started to speak about it with important producers in Italy, such as Bellavista and Ferrari," says Simonit. "And in Schiopetto we built our campus, our laboratory. In Schiopetto today it is possible to see and touch the last 30 years of my work." This was the early 2000s, and although Simonit was starting to get his first consulting gigs, he wasn’t sure that pruning was going to be his professional future.  "But I thought: I believe in this. I had a passion for vines and wanted to help reduce the risks from bad pruning. And I thought, maybe the top wineries in Italy might be interested in my new approach for pruning and shoot thinning. I tried to call these guys and show them what I was doing in the campus of Schiopetto. One day I was in my car, and I looked up Angelo Gaja’s number. I thought this guy might be interested because the wines are expensive and high quality. Maybe he would be interested to keep his heritage vines." "I called and asked the secretary whether I could speak with Angelo." He was stunned to be put through to him. "I told him that I’d worked in a lot of vineyards over the last five years to find a new solution for pruning and shoot thinning, and I asked him if he was interested in coming to Friuli to see it in action.  He said yes, and two weeks later he came along with his entire team from Piemonte and Tuscany to Friuli. They were really impressed, and a few weeks later I had contracts with Angelo Gaja, Ferrari and Bellavista." This was in 2003, and Simonit finally began to see that this was going to be his future. He took his approach all over Italy, working with some of the top estates, including Frescobaldi, Planeta, Tasca d’Almerita, Feudo di San Gregorio and Ornellaia.  What is different about the Simonit approach?  There is no recipe because vineyards, regions and training systems are all different. But there are two main principles. The first is that the sap flow of the vine has to be respected, and pruning cuts are made with this in mind. The second is what Simonit describes as ‘ramification’. "One of the big principles for respecting vines is independent of the training system you use, or the variety," he says.  "It is ramification. You first build the trunk (the first structure), then the arms (the second structure). It is like a chronology. You need to build a chronology of wood." He points out that the vine is naturally a creeper, and that pruning should respect this as much as possible. "Our principle rule is ramification. Build a chronology of live wood: first floor, second floor, third floor and so on."  So, for example, with a double Guyot, the canes chosen on each side of the vine should be furthest from the head each time, with the replacement spur the outside cane, and the cuts should always be made on the upper branch. When a cut is made, it should be of young wood only – one or two years old. And the cut should not be made flush to the trunk, because there is always what is called a ‘cone of dessication’, roughly equal to one-and-a-half times the diameter of the cut, where the wood left dies back. This can interfere with the sap flow and make the vine susceptible to trunk disease.  But respecting the sap flow isn’t always key. "Not all the varieties suffer if you don’t respect the sap flow," says Simonit. "Some varieties are very sensitive, like Sauvignon Blanc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc and Sangiovese. Others don’t suffer a lot. For example, Nebbiolo and Semillon. I work for Château d’Yquem. They called me because the Sauvignon Blanc is being destroyed by trunk disease after 20 years. The Semillon is not: it has super energy and lives a long time, because the genetics are different." "But always respect the ramification. If you think about the albarello in Primitivo in Puglia, they grow up vertically. The arms of the Primitivo grow up vertically. It isn’t possible to respect the sap flow. For other examples of alberello training with different varieties, such as Moscato d’Alexandria, to follow the sap flow is necessary. We need to find solutions for each variety in each terroir: it’s not always possible to take the same approach." Bordeaux came calling A big moment for Simonit was when he was contacted by the late Denis Dubourdieu in 2011. "Denis called me from Bordeaux, because with the Guyot Médocaine, after years and years, there wasn’t enough space for the canes. They wanted to know what to do." If canes are taken from the outside each time, after a while the vines grow out along the row, and when the planting is close, they run out of space.  In Bordeaux, their solution was to take a shoot from inside, close to the head, and then lay that down after cutting the old arm off. Often, this would result in fatal trunk disease. "They destroyed a lot of vines this way, trying to regain the space and reduce the risk of congestion of canes overlapping," says Simonit. "This was a disaster for the Médoc and all the double Guyots in the world, because the big wounds destroyed the vines." "We started with a new approach in the Médoc, introducing the spur in the sap flow, building the chronology, preparing new exits for two or three years in the way of the sap flow, and then cutting the big arm, far away from the position of the new spur. This is one of the smart solutions when you have lost a lot of spacing. But this problem is particularly present when the distance between the vines was not enough in the first place when they were planted." Simonit now has many prestigious clients in Bordeaux. The dangers of high-density planting High-density planting is very popular these days, but it is causing problems because the vines are planted too close to allow for sustainable pruning approaches. "The risk is that if you don’t have the idea of the vine architecture at the beginning for the next 50 or 60 years, it becomes a problem. I see this problem all over the world, not only in the double Guyot, but also in Bourgogne and Champagne and Provence: everywhere. The big problem is people and space: people are scared to leave space for vines. Then to create space they use pruning, and it is a disaster." "In the past in Bordeaux, particularly in the Médoc, the Cabernet Sauvignon was planted further apart. Now we find Cabernet Sauvignon vines planted 80cm apart. We need to think about this for the future sustainability of vines and vineyards. We need to speak about the space. If we build vineyards for the next generation we need to think about the spacing." One idea that Simonit has adopted from Dubourdieu was ‘curetage’. Dubourdieu gifted Simonit with a book: this was René Lafon’s 1921 title Modifications à apporter à la taille de la vigne des Charentes, taille Guyot-Poussart mixte et double: l'apoplexie, traitement préventif (méthode Poussard), traitement curative.  This book described the experiments on pruning carried out by Eugène Poussard, a viticulturist in the Charentes area. Poussard is responsible for the vine pruning system called ‘Guyot Poussard’, which is very similar to Simonit’s system. But he also treated affected vines using ‘curetage’, cutting away affected wood. "More than 150 years ago this man was trying to do some surgery on the vines with rudimentary tools," says Simonit. "Denis asked me to go to Sancerre, because he knew that a lot of older viticulturists had used small chainsaws to open the vines and clean the wood affected by fungi, and the vines survived." They headed to the Loire and visited different vineyards. Sancerre has been particularly badly hit because Sauvignon Blanc is very susceptible. "We shared experiences with François Dal [another pruning expert who works for Sicavac, the regional technical body], and he was also interested in working with chainsaws. We tried doing this surgery in the wineries of Denis Dubourdieu, like Château Reynon, Doisy-Daëne and Floridène. In 2014 we began teaching others how to do this." As soon as the first foliar symptoms are seen, then any soft wood that has been infected by the fungi is cut out of the trunk. The infected wood produces toxins, and once it is taken out, the vine usually recovers.   FINE+RARE x Simonit&Sirch Now, for the first time, Simonit has begun making wine from old vines, in conjunction with FINE+RARE. "On my trips and jobs around the world, I met a lot of old vines, and sometimes these vines are not vinified separately," he says. Making small parcels of wine appeals to him. "It is a ways of speaking to people about the importance of old vines for increasing the identity of wines, speaking about vineyard sustainability, and thinking about the relation between humans and vines." He adds, "I wanted to make wines that speak about this philosophy." "Patrick O’Connor [of FINE+RARE] and I share a mutual friend, and he knew about my idea," says Simonit. "One day Patrick called me to ask me if it’s possible to organise a meeting because he was interested in this old vines project. He was very excited about the idea, and he proposed starting this project in Friuli, where my heart is." "He asked me which varieties were most interesting for me. I chose Sauvignon because I love it, and it is very difficult to have old vine Sauvignon because of trunk disease. Many of the vineyards have vines of different ages, because after 25 years the original vines often begin dying, and people co-plant with new vines. Then they make wine with all the vines – young and old – together. Also, I chose Chardonnay: in Colli Orientali we have the oldest Chardonnay in Friuli, 80 years old. And after I chose Friulano, which is 50 years old." Winemaking is in the hands of Christian Patat, an old friend of Simonit’s. "Twenty years ago we started with a small project but it stopped because we were both so busy. So when FINE+RARE and I began working, I spoke to Christian seeing if he could make the wines. He married the owner of Ronco de Gnemiz, and he makes the wines there. This guy has an approach to wine that’s close to mine – we like the same sort of wines. Our goal was to make two or three barrels of each variety." This is Marco’s first wine project. "I have never thought about making wine before. Now I’d like to expand this project to other Italian regions, and also other countries, with a small production focusing only on old vines." "It is a unique approach because we try to vinify with just the oldest vines. In the Chardonnay project, for example, we don’t use all the vines. Part of the vineyard is 80 years old. We pick only the grapes from the original old vines to make this wine from. These wines speak about the relationship between humans and vines, sustainability, the importance of the age of the vine, the importance of terroir." Tasting notes The wines are called L’Età Più Bella (With Age Comes Beauty), and will be released as a mixed case of three separate cuvées – a Chardonnay, a Friuliano and a Sauvignon Blanc. L’Età Più Bella Sauvignon 2018 - Collio, Italy "13% alcohol. Lean, taut and chiselled, this is a bright lemony Sauvignon with good acidity and some fine herbal hints. It’s quite compact and mineral with precision and focus, finishing quite taut. Stylish stuff." L’Età Più Bella Friulano 2018 - Friuli Colli Orientali, Italy "14% alcohol. There’s good density here with taut pear, apple and lemon fruit, as well as a touch of richness on the mid-palate. This has a lovely focus, combining some richer notes with good acidity and a long, mineral, subtly nutty finish. Beguiling and elegant. " L’Età Più Bella Chardonnay 2018 - Friuli Colli Orientali, Italy "13% alcohol. Hazelnut, spice, honey and citrus on the nose. The palate has fresh fruit with an appealing cedary, woody, spicy undercurrent. Citrus, pear and white peach, with a warm spicy finish. Lovely intensity here, with good fruit purity." Explore more Editorial 

Self-confessed wine anorak Jamie Goode explores Marco Simonit’s rise to fame – from his formative years with his grandparents in Friuli, to the establishment of his successful pruning consultancy Simonit&Sirch – and the ideologies that have influenced his first wines made from old vines in Collio

Wine anorak Jamie Goode explores Marco Simonit’s rise to fame with his Friuli wine estate and tastes L’Età Più Bella Chardonnay, Sauvignon and Fruiliano  

'Wine Anorak' Jamie Goode speaks to Marco Simonit

'Wine Anorak' Jamie Goode meets Marco Simonit

Bordeaux 2020 was a vigneron’s vintage, a year in which strategic choices were key to success. Here we delve into how each of the main appellations on both the Left and Right Banks fared in this remarkable year.

Delving into how each of the main Bordeaux appellations on both the Left and Right Banks fared in this remarkable 2020 vintage.

Commune-by-commune guide to Bordeaux 2020  

Bordeaux 2020: breaking it down

Wine, though the most intimate of pleasures, lends itself to the most expansive of texts. We drink wine most often – tastings aside – in pairings of two, or in lonesome but agreeable solitude, and, its narcotic pleasure being felt internally, we feel its effects as we feel a fever: almost secretly, in shivers. Though wine is like sex in its intimacy, unlike sex, the form in which we fetishise wine – our vine erotica – is not hushed and illicit but encyclopedic. On the shelves of any wine drinker, there are likely to be catalogues, dictionaries organised by region, old Parker buying guides some 600 pages long that somehow, though dated, can’t be discarded.  Wine seems singular among human pleasures in this. We don’t, as a rule, rush from reading a poem to great anthologies of poetry, or add to the savour of seeing a play by reading a big atlas of dramatic literature – not, at least, after we graduate from school. Sports fans, it’s true, like big books of statistics, but then sports-watching is a social act in the first instance – the more people in the stands, the merrier the occasion. With wine, we like the macro with our micro: with a solitary glass in hand, we look, in print, over the next hill, or the current vintage, at the vineyard across the way, or the vintage yet to come. It’s part of the pleasure the glass provides. The reasons for this micro and macro turn are, on reflection, commercial and artisanal as much as aesthetic. The business of wine needs a big picture of its domain, its resources, and its potential market – scale sets the stage for commerce. The makers of wine like to place themselves on a broader map of where wine is and what it’s made with. The great Bordeaux classification of 1855 is not just the noblest public monument to a beverage ever attempted, but a model of market-making and even market price-fixing. Once a hierarchy of growths has been established, it is easy to slot in the price tags. But there is a truth of taste beneath the ordering of value. With wine, we know that what we are experiencing is, however singular, still an intersection of opposed forces – as the peerless wine writer Jancis Robinson MW says of her first glass of Chambolle-Musigny 1959; “I knew at once that there was something in the glass that was sensually delicious but that it was also made, produced, and therefore suggested a history of intellect and discernment.” The pleasure of wine is the crossing of a place, a grape and a people; and so, we turn to the big books to frame the small pleasures.  What distinguishes wine from even a good glass of ale or a local brew is the specificity of the pleasure set against the scale of the system that made it – one that historically embraces the planet. It’s a First Growth, or a domaine Burgundy, or a Ridge Zinfandel or a New Zealand Pinot Noir made to a Burgundy model by American wine makers … the more we know, the more we’re free to feel. Most sensory pleasures are specific to the point of being illicit – aside from the bemused fetishist, romance is a spontaneous pleasure, often aided, to be sure, by a systematic wine. Wine is premeditated; we choose a bottle, let it ripen, and break it open. Even casual table drinking has a tale to tell, a journey to trace on a map. These thoughts are brought to mind in contemplation of Wine Grapes, the monosyllabically titled but unprecedentedly expansive dictionary of grape varieties grown to be crushed and fermented on this green planet. Authored by Robinson, along with Julia Harding MW and the geneticist Dr José Vouillamoz, it marks an epoch – several epochs – in our understanding of wine, from both a professional planet-straddling and an amateur glass-in-hand perspective. A book of its time (published in 2012), it was made possible, in part, by a revolution in the DNA analysis of wine grapes to help discover their origins and histories.  The DNA profiling of wine grapes only began in 1993, and the first ‘paternity test’ successfully concluded in 1997 – a mere few days ago by historical perspective – with specialists, Dr Vouillamoz among them, drawing astonishing Darwinian lines among seemingly unrelated grapes. Zinfandel, it has been discovered in the last 40 years, is not only the Siamese twin of Primitivo, but its Croatian Siamese twin. In proper Darwinian fashion, the book tells us, “It looks increasingly as though an enormous proportion of the grapes we know today are members of a few key families.”  The leading families of wine, Pinot and Nebbiolo and the rest, like the leading houses of Westeros, jostle and engage in incestuous inter-breeding as they move towards dominance. As Jancis Robinson admits, the quest for the origins of grapes can become surprisingly emotional. “The Zin quest is so … heated. There was a Zinfandel conference in Croatia, with all the great Zin makers, even Joel ‘King of Zin’ Peterson from Ravenswood, and we all had to present our various things about Zinfandel. There was a small cohort of people from Montenegro who reckoned that their variety – whose name is unpronounceable – was the true progenitor of modern Zinfandel, not the Croatian one. It became so … Balkan! And you know what? They may be right!” Wine Grapes is of its time in another sense as well, marking the moment when we have started to think of wine not solely in terms of region, but much more in terms of variety, with the semi-mystical term ‘terroir’ acting as a kind of Holy Spirit between them. Thinking ‘grape’ more than ‘place’ releases our imaginations. The wholesome instructive pleasures of the book, to which we’ll come, shrink beside the unwholesome, guilty pleasures of turning the pages to meet the failures among grapes – the near-misses, the long-forgotten and forlorn lost toys – which please more than the patterns of primacy. The pleasure of reading about the grapes whose juice we do drink is nothing compared to reading about those we don’t. In dictionaries, oddities and parentheses fascinate us more than the major entries. No one turns to the dictionary to study ‘and’; we go to study ‘antediluvian’. So, turning these pages, flipping through the P’s on our way to encounter the great Pinot families, we come upon the lesser gods, even the little misshapen gnomes and dwarves of the wine world, and we delight in meeting them. (A fascination added to by the forthright sub-heads the editors provide.) On our way to Burgundy and Pinot Noir, we also meet Pinotin, a ‘recent obscure Swiss hybrid’ which edges into Pionnier, ‘a minor but complex, cold-hardy American hybrid used in blends in Québec’, and, of course, Pinotage ‘South Africa’s very own cross, both loved and despised’, which leads us on to Pugnitello and even Pukhliakovsky (a Russian variety ‘with erratic yields producing light wines’) and even unto Pules – ‘a minor Albanian white’. Radiating out from five pages on the major Merlot, we bump into Merseguera, ‘an uninspiring variety’ from Spain, and Merzifon Karasi, and Merzling, dismissed as a ‘very minor disease-resistant German hybrid’. Why these lost or obscure kinds of grapes bring so much delight with them is a fascinating question. It has in part to do with our general appetite for oddities and obscurities, which once produced ‘freak shows’ and still makes us fascinated with archaic musical instruments: we are curious to hear the sackbut because we want to know what led to the trombone. It is also the virtuous case that variety is the safeguard of continuity. In an age of ever-decreasing biodiversity with just a few varieties taking the place of many possibilities, one Quixotic California winemaker, driving through the fields of Cabernet and Chardonnay, dismissed them all – with a wave of the hand – as “chocolate and vanilla, chocolate and vanilla”.  The health of the planet is safeguarded by the persistence of so many kinds. It is also because the existence of these minor yet still thriving varieties gives us a satisfying picture of adaptation, the central biological act. Each of these grapes has found a home in the world. It may not be much of a home, but then neither, face the facts, is ours. We identify with the unknown grape. We are all more like a very minor disease-resistant German, or a cold-hardy Québec hybrid, than we are something noble and complicated. Few of us are bottles of Burgundy; we can all identify as minor Albanian whites. In conversation, Jancis Robinson, sheltering at home near Kings Cross in London, a home with a view of a graveyard (though a cheerful one she assures an interviewer) – talks of the wine almanac with the blunt enthusiasm that marks her writing. Robinson, in addition to her obvious honours and credentials, is a rare thing in the wine world, or any world: a writer who writes with equal parts brio and expertise. She explains the origins of Wine Grapes. “What happened was that one of the co-authors, Dr José Vouillamoz, who had been at University of California, Davis, felt that he needed to earn more of a living, and came back to Switzerland and got a job working on Alpine botanicals. But he didn’t want to lose his relationship with wine, and he came to me and said that he’d like to collaborate on a book about grape varieties. I’d already written one in 1986, based on our very fractional knowledge then.  Over lunch, I took along Julia Harding, a wine writer who works on my website. She’s extremely punctilious.” (Robinson, punctilious herself, says this with such emphasis that the listener feels that, with Harding, we must be talking about new frontiers, not to say dimensions, in punctiliousness.) “She had exactly the right sort of brain for a project like this. José suggested that we focus on the 10 or 12 most planted grape varieties to help simplify it. I thought that that book didn’t sound interesting enough. I waited until we were quite far down a bottle of Valpolicella and said, ‘I think our book should be about every single grape variety we can find.’ He gulped and said, ‘Then that’s what we shall do!’” The idea of creating a ‘perfect map’ of a subject is one of the itches that govern modern life. John James Audubon set out to describe not the major but every bird and beast in North America, and that’s what he did. Similar ‘almanacs of everything’ fill our botanical and anthropological shelves. It is an ambition so tied to modernity that in the mid-19th century, Lewis Carroll perfectly satirised it in his novel, Sylvie & Bruno, where two mad professors talk about their dream of making a map that would be on a one-to-one relation to the actual world – utterly perfect, if impossible to unroll. “I loved the scale of the thing,” Robinson says of her perfect map. “So, we carved things up: José did all the DNA stuff and history because he had good access to it, Julia, bless her, did the footwork – how much of each grape is planted where – while trying to taste as many as possible, too! And I wrote the entries on the best-known varieties, and the introduction and read every single word.  As with any dictionary, we used what came before: we went through appellation lists, with all of the varieties allowed, some of them almost extinct. A nice little detail of the book is that we persuaded the publisher that it should have some colour plates, and we were particularly keen to include the plates from the world’s first oenological book, L’Ampélographie: Traité Général de Viticulture, of 1901 … just out of copyright!” She pauses. “Of course,” she adds reflectively, “it was José, naturally, who discovered that Pinot and Syrah are related.” The offhand nature of her mention can’t conceal the significance of the remark. Of all the discoveries offered in the book, this is perhaps, for the amateur wine drinker, the most exemplary and astonishing. Painstakingly tracing the DNA heritage of the varieties, these two noble houses, Syrah and Pinot – the grapes of the Rhône Valley and those of Burgundy, the heart of Côte-Rôtie and the soul of Chambertin – are unified as cousins. This happened not through willed cultivation but in the natural evolutionary way: through variation and adaptation. Initially, the elegance of Pinot Noir was transformed through the usual evolutionary pressures of place and mutations, into the earthy pleasures of Syrah.  Chance mutation and lucky planting turned one grape into its near opposite. (‘Cross-fertilisation’, we’re told, ‘was common until the early 20th century because several grape varieties were often intermixed in the vineyards, facilitating natural crossings between distinct grape varieties’.) The phylloxera epidemic in France from the 1860s on – though it did not destroy as much as is sometimes thought – acted as a kind of sieve or filter of grape varieties, a sort of extinction event in large-scale natural history, forcing hard choices and making obscure varieties less desirable to save by root grafting with New World vines.   One virtue of the book is to propose, in effect, a new order of wines by celebrating ‘secondary’ grape varieties. “For me, among the obscure wines, something about as well-known as Cinsault stands out – it can make such lovely wines,” Robinson says. “There’s been such a sea change as the century turned. Everybody once wanted to make fruit bombs to one of three standard recipes. Then in this century, higher acidity, lighter wines are finally revaluing, and so Cinsault comes into its own. “Sometimes I come across a grape that isn’t well known but that’s so obviously superior. There’s Aglianico – the name suggests it’s Greek, though no Greek variety has ever been found and you only get it in Southern Italy. Perfect for late ripeness, and not for cool climates – and now it has travelled to Australia, where they’re desperate for hot weather varieties.  The whole array of Portuguese and Greek grape varieties are so fantastic! And so individual. And I love that after a dalliance with international varieties, both countries are now celebrating their own. There’s another white grape, an Iberian variety that’s stunning, and, again, I’m not sure it’s yet been planted much: Godello! It’s a bit crass to say it makes wines that taste like Montrachet, if a little more terroir-y and mineral … but it does. I could drink Cinsault for red and Godello for white into the next century. “There’s such a gap nowadays,” Robinson goes on, “between the Napa Cab thing, and these young people who are buying unknown grape varieties that sell for a fraction of the price, that are really good. Such a lot has happened in the field of recuperating old vines, some so obscure that they don’t even have a name. Miguel Torres, the scion of that great company in northeast Spain became very interested in grapes.  At first, he said, ‘Hey Dad, we need the posh varieties, Cabernet and Chardonnay’ – and made all these wines which did well in the Judgement of Paris. But, with time, he realised that it made more sense to concentrate on the indigenous varieties. He’s been engaged for 30 years, putting classified ads in the local press – ‘If you know of a wine grape that you can’t identify, let us know of it, and – if we think we can propagate out – we’ll do micro-vinification.’ He’s actually rescued Catalan varieties that were on the brink of disappearing; I think he found 30 varieties, and recuperated eight for micro-vinification with sufficient character to give them a new lease of life. And much the same thing has been happening all over Italy. If we published the book today, we’d be up to at least 1,500 kinds of grapes.” The great sorting question of our time, of course, is the question of climate change and its effects on wine cultivation. Robinson is cautiously hopeful about Burgundy. “I was lucky enough to go there and spend some time. The 2020 harvest is the earliest ever, at least since the 14th century. But, whereas the 2003 vintage, that legendary hot summer in France, produced wines that were pretty bizarre, the 2019s seem as fresh as a daisy, with pure fruit. I’m no plant biologist, but the vines seem to be getting used to the conditions … or the winemakers are. They’re not extracting as heavily, but, given that, there’s no sign of added acidity (it’s routinely added in the southern hemisphere), the acidity is coming from the grapes as well. Even some real old Burgundy hands, when you ask why the wines are so fresh, say, ‘I really don’t know.’” About the Southern Rhône, though, she is more pessimistic. “They’re not helping themselves in the Southern Rhône: too many are trying to make concentrated, high alcohol, 16% wines. And maybe consultants are too powerful down there – one consultant can be responsible for 20 or 30 labels, and so you’re going to have 20 or 30 wines that reflect that.” It’s here, though, that the knowledge of grapes, and our possession of this specialist dictionary, seems particularly valuable. If wine is to save itself from the vagaries of climate change, it will probably be through the introduction and new use of ‘marginal’ or forgotten ‘heirloom’ grapes. Only recently, France’s Institut National de l’Origine et de la Qualité (INAO) officially approved six new varieties: four red grapes – Arinarnoa, Castes, Marselan, and Touriga Nacional; and two whites – Alvarinho and Liliorila – all described as ‘well-adapted to alleviate hydric stress associated with temperature increases and shorter growing cycles’, potential saviours of the region against the villain of global warming. All of them, of course, are charted and explicated in Wine Grapes.

In the end, the great strange truth of wine is the truth of life: a thousand vectors press down on us at once – place, history, time, temperature, luck and breeding – and somehow in the intersection we find, or make, our pleasures. The question of type and variation was very different before Darwin who wrote, oddly (or perhaps not so oddly) almost simultaneously with the great classification of Bordeaux, publishing On the Origin of Species in 1859.  (Oddly because his theory would have been true in any other time; not so oddly because the urge to map the world, for the ‘almanac of everything’, was typical of mid-19th century confidence, as Carroll’s satire suggests.) Before Darwin, who loved wine, the fundamental view of the world was that the superintending categories, species and varieties, were the fixed things in the world. Everyone took it for granted that the ‘kind’ the ‘essence’, was the real thing and all the little variants merely particular shades away from it. A grape was a better or worse instance of its variety. Grapes, like apes, were of one fixed sort. Darwin’s great overriding insight was that only particulars exist, and that species and superintending categories are the labile and ever-changing kinds. Every kind of living thing came from somewhere weird and is on its way to somewhere weirder, with a brief stopover at being the thing it is now. The elegance of Pinot Noir is a close cousin of the earthiness of Syrah, one state is simply a moment in the life of the other, and each are moments in the life of the surging, unfixable whole. Wine, braiding through the planet and only coming to rest on a name for a moment in one place, is a bit of scientific epistemology in your glass, the truth of the particular made potable. It’s a fine destiny for a simple pleasure. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One Photography by Gavin Bond; floral set design by Studio Lupine

Essayist and author Adam Gopnik takes a look at the world of wine through the lens of seminal wine-lover’s bible, Wine Grapes, and talks to one of its three co-authors, Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

Adam Gopnik talks to Wine Grapes co-author Jancis Robinson MW about the joy of discovering long-forgotten indigenous grape varieties

FONDATA: Pleasure in the detail

Pleasure in the detail

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