Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

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  

Xiao-Li Meng, Whipple V. N. Jones Professor of Statistics at Harvard and Founding Editor-in-Chief of Harvard Data Science Review, was inspired by a student to combine wine and statistics—leading to insights far beyond what they ever expected.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Seeking simplicity in statistics, complexity in wine, and everything else in fortune cookies 

Inside Burgundy – Jasper Morris MW  Côte de Beaune  Jasper Morris MW’s first assessment of Burgundy 2024 reveals a vintage of extreme adversity yet unexpected classical poise, particularly for whites. An “exceptionally wet year,” marked by poor flowering, mildew pressure, and limited sunshine, made 2024 one of the most challenging recent seasons. Conditions worsened moving north, with the Hill of Corton and northern Beaune hardest hit, while mid-slope vineyards benefited from better drainage and earlier flowering. Harvest was tightly compressed between 12–16 September.  Despite the difficulties, Morris calls 2024 “much more applicable” as a return to classic Burgundy than 2021, especially for whites, where quality is “relatively homogenous” and characterful. He found wines defined by citrus, fresh apple, and, at their best, “rapier-like acidity” and tension. These whites will be “accessible early,” though he warns buyers to avoid those lacking backbone and energy.  Reds are more mixed and occasionally fragile, yet the finest examples show charm and harmony. Morris highlights “aromatic pinots that could make you smile at first sniff,” with unusually refined tannins, aided by a return to a classical 100-day ripening cycle. Village wines and well-managed premiers crus represent the sweet spot of the vintage.  Chablis  Chablis faced the harshest conditions in 2024: floods, frost, hail, and relentless rain, with total rainfall reaching 634 mm and many organic producers harvesting below 10 hl/ha. Some, like Guillaume Vrignaud, “made hardly any wine and sold it off.” Morris expected “green… ugly and flawed” wines but found most were sound and “less fragile than their 2021 counterparts.” While few are truly great, many show classic Chablis character—crisp, defined, with “crushed oyster shell” notes. Best for short- to medium-term drinking, 2024 in Chablis demonstrates resilience and surprising drinkability after a punishing season.  Côte de Nuits  In the Côte de Nuits, Morris sees 2024 as a vintage of delicacy rather than power. Harvest ran 12–16 September, with Nuits-St-Georges hit hard by rain and further north affected by uneven conditions and hail. Losses came mostly from coulure rather than mildew, especially around Gevrey-Chambertin. Whole-bunch fermentation and reduced stem use were key, and while some wines need time to integrate, many show light, perfumed character. “If you like dark coloured powerful wines… there is nothing here for you,” notes Morris. Only 2% of wines achieve top accolades, making careful selection essential.  Explore Jasper Morris MW’s reports, notes and scores on his site (subscribers only)  Vinous – Neal Martin  Neal Martin portrays 2024 as a season of extremes, where relentless rain, frost, and mildew tested every winemaker. Flowering was uneven, yields sharply reduced (Pinot Noir suffered most) and frost damaged parcels from Marsannay to Clos de Vougeot. As one winemaker reflected, “Each day in the vineyard felt like a battle,” capturing the relentlessness of the season. Tiny harvests demanded meticulous vineyard work and careful vinification, with whole-bunch decisions critical: “2024 was not a vintage to play recklessly with stems.”  A sunny, warm August offered salvation, allowing grapes to reach phenolic ripeness. Martin notes it “enabled some to capture the brightness and freshness of vibrant red fruit where Pinot Noir reaches its apex” and lent Chardonnays “razor-sharp tension and delineation.” Whites show energy and mineral clarity, while reds are delicate, transparent, and expressive rather than powerful.  Despite the challenges, skill and perseverance triumphed. Careful vineyard management and thoughtful vinification produced wines of elegance, freshness, and charm. As Martin concludes, “The bottom line is that 2024 is an endlessly fascinating vintage that will enamour the small number who imbibe the fruits of much labour.”  Explore Neal Martin’s reports, notes and scores on the Vinous site (subscribers only)  Burghound – Allen Meadows  Allen Meadows’ Burghound report describes 2024 in the Côte de Nuits as a vintage of extreme difficulty and delicate character. Following “rain, rain, and yet more rain,” growers faced poor flowering, rampant mildew, and historically tiny yields, with clusters sometimes reduced to 15–20 berries. Meadows notes that “the variability in 2024 is that of 2023 squared,” making disease control, rigorous sorting, and careful vinification essential to preserving quality.  Despite the challenges, the best wines are “ultra-fresh, wonderfully energetic, impeccably well-balanced and the most transparent reds we’ve seen since 2010.” Alcohol levels are modest, around 12.5–13%, enhancing clarity and finesse rather than weight or power. Harvest ran from 16–21 September, slightly later than the traditional 100-day rule, allowing vines to achieve ripeness amid persistent rainfall.  Vinification emphasized restraint: light extraction, reduced stem use, and careful temperature control preserved purity and avoided harsh tannins. Minor faults, mostly reduction from copper or sulfur sprays or slight volatile acidity, rarely detract. Meadows notes some wines are “too skinny or too lean,” but the best display crystalline transparency that “puts the intrinsic terroir on parade.”  Most wines suit mid-term cellaring: villages and premiers crus are approachable in 4–8 years, while top grands crus can age 10–15. Stylistically, 2024 reds are elegant and energetic, rewarding careful selection in a year of extreme variability.  Explore Allen Meadows’ reports, notes and scores on the Burghound site (subscribers only) Jancis Robinson – Jancis Robinson Jancis Robinson MW sums up 2024 as “nightmare… misery… exhausting… unremittingly grim,” with “gruesome” final yields. Heavy rain and unusually low temperatures during flowering severely damaged Pinot Noir, particularly in the Côte d’Or, while Chardonnay fared slightly better. Many vignerons abandoned organic viticulture for systemic sprays to save their crops. Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey achieved “respectable, but most unusual for 2024” yields of 35–40 hl/ha only by switching early.  Losses were severe: reds down up to 80%, whites about 30%. Robinson notes that “the cool summer meant acidities were high, and successful reds could be described as pretty, but never concentrated,” with pale color and barely perceptible tannins. Late August brought some warmth, raising sugar levels, though many producers still had to chaptalise. She warns this is “a vintage to drink relatively early,” emphasizing elegance over opulence, fragility over power.  Cellar work was complicated by tiny harvests. Half-full tanks increased the risk of oxidation or stuck fermentations. Oak use was moderated, though some grands crus required up to 50% new barrels to fill them. Extraction and whole-bunch fermentation were carefully managed, with co-fermentation across parcels common.  Despite the challenges, Robinson highlights successful producers including Bertrand Bachelet, Yvon Clerget, Comte Armand, Philippe Colin, Sérafin, and Joseph Drouhin. Regions south of the Côte d’Or fared better, producing more generous, sophisticated wines. She frames 2024 as “a triumph of resilience over nature,” rewarding careful selection and precision in the cellar.  Explore Jancis Robinson's reports, notes and scores on her site (subscribers only) Jancis Robinson – Matthew Hayes  Matthew Hayes describes 2024 as a vintage “all over the shop,” marked by extreme scarcity, mildew pressure, and uneven quality across the Côte d’Or. Some estates, like the newly launched Domaine Henri Rebourseau, produced nothing, while others managed only tiny parcels. Yet Hayes notes, “producers actually had some wine; the second relief was that these had turned out better than feared.” Quality varies by village, vineyard, and even row, making careful selection essential.  The season was relentlessly difficult. Pinot Noir struggled with coulure, millerandage, and mildew, while Chardonnay fared slightly better thanks to earlier flowering. Organic producers faced doubled labor and costs, with some switching to synthetic sprays to save their harvests. Final yields were punishingly low, with red grape losses up to 85%. Harvest began in mid-September, balancing ripeness with botrytis and powdery mildew risks.  Winemaking focused on tiny lots, cautious extraction, and moderate oak. Reds are elegant, medium-bodied, and dominated by red fruit, while whites show precise acidity and finesse. Hayes notes, “This is not the Pinot Noir we have recently come to expect.”  Scarcity keeps prices high, yet the best wines are balanced and surprisingly drinkable. As Hayes concludes, “The bottom line is that 2024 is an endlessly fascinating vintage that will enamour the small number who imbibe the fruits of much labour.”  Explore Matthew Haye’s reports, notes and scores on the Jancis Robinson site (subscribers only) Decanter – Charles Curtis MW Pommard & Volnay 2024: Early-drinking Pinot Noir   Charles Curtis MW highlights Pommard and Volnay as the standouts in 2024, a vintage where Pinot Noir struggled across Burgundy. The northern Côte de Beaune largely avoided the worst rain and mildew, producing wines with the lush, supple fruit the region is known for. Pommard ranges from firm and tannic to approachable, while Volnay shows silky, expressive character.  Yields were exceptionally low: Paul Zinetti of Comte Armand recorded just 15 hl/ha, and Paul Négrerie of Château de Pommard 14 hl/ha. Careful extraction was key to avoid green tannins, producing wines of elegance over ripeness. Frédéric Lafarge notes that Volnay’s 2024 shows purity and terroir expression, comparing it favorably to 2021: “2024 showed more finesse and complexity due to the longer vegetative cycle.” Overall, the vintage is lighter than usual, suited to earlier drinking, though the best wines from top producers can age five to ten years.  Best Value Burgundy 2024 Wines   Finding value in 2024 requires a selective approach, as low prices rarely coincide with scarce wines. Curtis recommends starting with regional appellations, particularly the Hautes-Côtes of Nuits and Beaune, where top performers include Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Nuits Les Dames Huguette (Dufouleur) and Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Beaune blanc (Guiton).  Further south, the Côte Chalonnaise offers excellent options, with Maison Chanzy (Bouzeron), Domaine Belleville (Rully), Château de Chamirey (Mercurey), and Domaine du Cellier aux Moines and Domaine Stéphane Aladame (Givry/Montagny) standing out. Curtis also praises the Mâconnais for Chardonnay, noting “bright acidity, fresh fruit, and solid structure,” with Pouilly-Fuissé in particular shining.  In short, 2024 may be small in volume, but careful exploration of Pommard, Volnay, the Hautes-Côtes, southern Burgundy, and the Mâconnais reveals wines that combine quality, typicity, and attractive drinking windows.  Explore Charles Curtis MW’s reports, notes and scores on the Decanter site (subscribers only) Wine Advocate – Kristaps Karklins
 Kristaps Karklins portrays 2024 in Chablis as a season of extreme attrition, marked by frost, hail and what he calls “historic mildew pressure—among the highest ever recorded.” Yields dropped by “60% to 70% on average,” with some estates losing entire crus, including Dauvissat’s Séchet, Montée de Tonnerre and Les Clos. By late August, rainfall had reached “around 600 millimeters, compared with the average 380,” making healthy fruit scarce and rigorous sorting decisive. Growers who waited to harvest were rewarded with “greater texture and mid-palate amplitude,” while early picking risked under-ripeness and dilution.  Despite the hardships, barrel tastings reveal notable successes. The finest 2024s are “classical Chablis,” defined by tension, clarity and site transparency, and approachable earlier than most vintages. While they cannot rival the concentration of 2023 or 2022, Karklins suggests they may delight purists more than a random selection of riper years. “No one would call 2024 a historic vintage,” he concludes, yet among the best producers the wines are “unmistakably, even nostalgically Chablisien,” rewarding careful selection with freshness, character and authenticity.  Explore Kristaps Karklins reports on the Wine Advocate site (subscribers only) Wine Advocate – William Kelley In a shorter spotlight on Verget and Domaine Guffens-Heynen, William Kelley describes 2024 as wetter and more overcast season following the warmth of 2022 and 2023, though mercifully spared the frost damage that scarred 2021 and 2016. Volumes are reduced, but quality is “solid,” and some wines “transcend the vintage,” reaching levels of maturity that are unusual for such a challenging year. Jean-Marie Guffens likens the domaine’s 2024s to 1998, a vintage that performed better in the Mâconnais than in the Côte de Beaune.  The true stars for Domaine Guffens-Heynen, however, are the bottled 2023s. Kelley ranks 2023 alongside 2020 as one of the finest vintages for domaine in the last 10 to 15 years and among the best of Guffens’s career. If the 2020s are “almost neoclassical” in style, the 2023s are more flamboyant, setting up a compelling contrast between two outstanding expressions of the domaine that will invite comparison for decades to come.  Explore William Kelley’s reports, notes and scores on the Wine Advocate site (subscribers only) Discover and shop the releases from this year's vintage or read the rest of our coverage of Burgundy 2024 here

The critics are starting to declare their verdict on the 2024 vintage. Here’s your crib-sheet to what the leading names, including Jasper Morris MW, Neal Martin, Allen Meadows, Jancis Robinson, William Kelley and more are saying about the latest Burgundy vintage.

Discover expert insights on Burgundy’s 2024 vintage from the top industry critics. Your essential guide to the latest vintage verdicts.

Burgundy 2024 – what the critics are saying

Burgundy 2024: the critics’ verdict

Sitting plum in the middle of the Côte d’Or, the hill of Corton is hard to miss. Its wines, especially the whites, however, are all too often overlooked. We sat down with some of the region’s leading producers to explore the pedigree and potential of this site and its powerful, long-lasting wines

Discover the pedigree and potential of the hill of Corton’s whites – the fine Chardonnay from Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Exploring Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Corton-Charlemagne: the Grand Cru of the future?  

Maylis Marcenat does not fit the stereotype for a Bordeaux producer. Lively, down-to-earth and humble, she’s as unstuffy as they come. She is the fourth generation of her family to run Clos de Sarpe – a small Grand Cru Classé Saint-Emilion estate that has long gone under the radar.  The history of Clos de Sarpe  The Clos de Sarpe name first appeared in 1897, given by a Monsieur A. Ducarpe to his property on the Sarpe plateau. Baron Henri du Foussat de Bogeron bought the vineyard in 1905, merging it with the vines of nearby Badette to create Ch. Haut-Sarpe. Jean Beyney bought Clos de Sarpe in 1923 and revived the original name. His son, Yvan Beyney, took over in 1952, who in turn passed the property to his son Jean-Guy Beyney in 1986. Jean-Guy still owns the estate today but retired in 2021, handing it over to Marcenat, who is his niece. (Jean-Guy has a son, Charles, who gives his name to the property’s second wine and will inherit Clos de Sarpe eventually but isn’t interested in running it day to day.)  The style of the Clos de Sarpe wines through the ages  The style and winemaking have evolved over time – with each generation putting their own stamp on the wines. In the early days, the wine was all whole-bunch fermented, with long macerations (40 to 50 days) and spent several years in concrete tank before bottling. Indeed, under Yvan, this continued. He only sold wine to those who could store the wine properly, and as such some wines spent extended periods of time in tank – the 1966 was in concrete for 10 years, for example. Yvan looked for purity of fruit, picking comparatively late (he was always proud to say he picked at the same time as Figeac, Marcenat says) and didn’t ever use oak. The wines were hard in their youth, needing time to soften, yet having great stability from their long élevage.  Under Marcenat’s uncle, who arrived in 1986, things started to change – with the late 1990s a pivotal moment. Jean-Guy favours powerful wines and reduced the amount of time the wines spent in tank, introducing de-stemming (gradually, from 1997, at first all done by hand) and oak barrels – with the élevage shifting from all concrete to 100% new oak between 1997 and 1999. He hired Michel Rolland to consult from 1998, and reduced yields – cropping a maximum 25hl/ha.  In 2005, Jean-Guy introduced a mechanical destemmer and densimetric sorting  – both of which contributed to a significant shift in quality, and everything has been destemmed since 2010, to encourage a rounder tannin profile in youth. In 2012, the property was granted Grand Cru Classé status – recognising their efforts. Marcenat joined the team officially in 2014, bringing her own vision, pushing for further change from 2016 and finally taking full control in 2021.  Clos de Sarpe today  The Clos de Sarpe vineyards cover 3.68 hectares, all in one block on the Sarpe plateau and south/southeast facing, just a kilometre from the village of Saint-Emilion itself and close to both TrotteVieille and Troplong Mondot, as well as Sansonnet and Haut-Sarpe.  The topsoil is thin here – with just 20cm in places – and lies over limestone bedrock, which contributes to the very high acidity of the wines (normally with a low pH of 3.2-3.4). Over half of the vineyard is between 60 and 80 years old, with the oldest Cabernet Franc now over 100 years in age, planted by Marcenat’s great-great-uncle in 1923.   The vine age combines with the limestone bedrock to help this site weather hot, dry conditions – a particular boon as the climate shifts. The limestone acts like a sponge, holding water, and the roots reach deep into the bedrock, accessing these reserves. Yields are naturally low given the age of the vines, and recent vintages have seen some tiny yields but Marcenat aims for around 35hl/ha in a good year (more than under her uncle and the Rolland influence).  To preserve the age of the vineyard, Marcenat is gradually starting to replant the site. As part of this project, she has added a little more Cabernet Franc, as well as a tiny portion of Petit Verdot. Previously 85% Merlot and 15% Cabernet Franc, today the vineyard comprises 78% Merlot, 20% Cabernet Franc and 2% Petit Verdot.   The family has always worked organically, with no pesticides or herbicides ever used, but the vineyard has been officially certified since the 2020 vintage – something that is of particular importance to Marcenat. For her, the work is all done in the vineyard rather than the winery and the philosophy very Burgundian, with everything kept as simple as possible.  The team is tiny and Marcenat does almost everything herself, supported by Frank Bartolomucci. Today the fruit is all picked by hand, chilled overnight, destemmed and then density-sorted. Each parcel is vinified separately, with most fermented in the concrete tanks that have been used since the 1950s, however the oldest Cabernet Franc is fermented in a 600-litre new oak barrel. She only uses indigenous yeast so fermentations are slow, at least 10 days generally. Maceration times are long, with the wine normally spending around 40, and up to 50 days on the skins, depending on the vintage, but with very gentle extraction. Malolactic fermentation can be challenging with the low pH, so she routinely has to inoculate to force this through (malolactic is essential for wine stability, particularly for wine intended for long ageing).  The portion of new oak has been toned down, with Marcenat ageing the wine for a year in around 70% new oak, with the rest in second-fill barrels (and occasionally some concrete if required). It is then blended together and aged in concrete for around six months prior to bottling without filtration. The oak is all 228-litre Burgundian barrels (versus Bordeaux’s traditional 225 litres), largely Tronçais oak from the cooper Taransaud. Marcenat feels Burgundian barrels pair better with the wine, liking the thicker staves and longer seasoning (30 months versus the 24 that is the norm for Bordeaux).  The Clos de Sarpe wines today  Clos de Sarpe makes two wines: the eponymous Grand Vin and a second wine, Charles de Sarpe, which was introduced in 1997, named after Charles Beyney – Jean-Guy’s son and Marcenat’s cousin. Up to and including the 2015 vintage, the second wine was a saignée of the Grand Vin, used to increase the concentration of the Grand Vin. Since then, it has only been made in certain vintages when there is enough fruit to make a second wine – such as 2019 and 2023.  While most producers will talk about the freshness in their wines coming from the Cabernet Franc, for Marcenat it is the Merlot that brings the acidity, while the Cabernet Franc provides the wine’s structure.  Tasting Clos de Sarpe back to the 1960s, the site’s freshness shines through consistently, as well as a distinctive earthy minerality. The purity of a wine like the 1966 is extraordinary – and it’s holding up beautifully today. You can still see traces of the immense structure the 1975 and 1988 must have had in their youth – providing a gentle grip today alongside their savoury intensity. While the wines were significantly more powerful in style in the late 1990s and 2000s, that power feels balanced today, the 100% new oak integrated and unobtrusive – and the 2001 a particular standout. The 2010 and 2015 vintages of Charles de Sarpe are beautiful wines, with a softer feel and elegance – juice that would be worthy of many Grands Vins.   These wines might once have been known for their power and punch, but Marcenat has tweaked the style, leaning into the natural freshness of the site. She looks for silky tannins and a purity that makes the wines more approachable in youth. It is, she will tell you, very simply the wine she likes and wants to make. Tasting the wines en primeur since she took over suggests that only good things lie ahead here. With each vintage, Marcenat’s imprint on the wines feels clearer and quality belies the growing season’s conditions, testament to both her talent and the terroir.  A note on the Clos de Sarpe labels  As you can see in the line-up for this tasting (below), the labels have changed over the years. The oldest wines made under Yvan Beyney bear a very traditional label, which changed in 1986 to have a blue border when Jean-Guy (Marcenat’s uncle) took over. When the style of wine shifted in the 1990s, Jean-Guy changed the label again (from the 1998 vintage) to one with a gold foil border. The current label was introduced in 2012 when the property achieved Grand Cru Classé status.   The vertical tasting: Clos de Sarpe 1966-2015  2015 Charles de Sarpe: Maylis Marcenat recalls the 2015 harvest vividly – as it took place around the same time that she gave birth to her twin daughters. It was the last vintage in which the second wine was produced as a saignée of the Grand Vin, echoing its proportions of 85% Merlot and 15% Cabernet Franc, and effectively a less powerful version, aged in 50% new oak and 50% one-year-old oak. The wine is still lithe and vibrant, offering bright red berries on the nose. The palate displays more savoury tones, with macerated red plum and a fine chalky coating of tannins, cut by bright acidity that drives through to a mouthwatering finish. This is in a beautiful spot now.   2015 Clos de Sarpe: The typical blend of 85% Merlot and 15% Cabernet Franc (as with every vintage shown in this vertical), the 2015 Clos de Sarpe was aged in 100% new oak. As you might guess from the élevage and the power of the vintage, this is not a shy and retiring wine – yet Clos de Sarpe’s trademark acidity drives through its core and balances the wine’s intensity. It still feels youthful, packed with dark cherry fruit on the compact nose, that gradually offers sweeter, scented tones with time in the glass. There’s a solidity to the palate – with a mass of rich, concentrated fruit, yet there’s a juiciness here to that makes it mouthwatering, with a sweet plumpness. It’s round and full, with a firm grip of tannin on the finish. Decant to enjoy now, with plenty of air, but this will unfurl over the next decade and beyond.  2010 Charles de Sarpe: The 2010 vintage was the first in which the fruit was all destemmed at Clos de Sarpe. Tasting the second wine with winemaker Maylis Marcenat, she can’t help but wonder why her uncle didn’t put such gorgeous juice into the Grand Vin. It’s a supple, beautiful example of mature Saint-Emilion now – the nose subtle, shifting between sweet fruit, lifted florals and black truffle complexity. The palate is long and balanced, beautifully resolved, seamless and soft, still with mouthwatering freshness and an earthy mineral edge to the long finish. Lovely.  2001 Clos de Sarpe: This was a standout in our vertical – and a wine that holds a special place for Marcenat. As she told us, “For me, it’s better than 2000 – with more freshness, more balance, more everything.” The 100% new oak is integrated, with the nose now showing plenty of tertiary complexity: iron, sousbois and a subtle leafiness mingles with the still fresh, soft strawberry fruit. There’s a transparency here, yet still plenty of concentration – the palate still lithe with soft, plummy red fruit and high juicy acidity that supports the fruit and fills the long finish, complemented by an earthy note. Superb.  1998 Clos de Sarpe: This was one of the first vintages to be aged in oak, seeing 80% new wood for its élevage. It was a great vintage for the Right Bank – as is clear from this wine. The 1998 Clos de Sarpe is beautifully mature, with savoury, leathery aromas and darker bramble fruit versus the more red-fruited 2001 shown alongside. The palate has a savoury iron seam, the tannins still offering a satisfying chewy grip to frame the juicy hedgerow fruit. This blossomed in the glass, revealing further complexity and vibrancy. Long, balanced and very impressive.  1988 Clos de Sarpe: The 1988 vintage offered few challenges and is a fairly classic year. It comes from the era when Clos de Sarpe was all whole-bunch fermented and saw no oak (aged only in concrete) – as with the two vintages below. There was a slight mustiness to this wine at first, but gradually the wine revealed its true character, with sweet, dried fruit and intense, savoury notes – an umami richness reminiscent of marmite. There is still surprising structure and power here, although the wine isn’t quite as concentrated as the 1998, for example. The acidity keeps things fresh, with the scent of truffle and undergrowth lingering on the finish.  1975 Clos de Sarpe: This was recorked in 2020. The 1975 vintage produced some particularly tannic wines – and you can still feel the structure of the year here, with a phenolic grip that frames the palate. The nose is intensely savoury, appealing to lovers of old-school Bordeaux with barnyard and horse leather, gradually revealing a herbal lift – something almost menthol-like. Although this is firmly tertiary in profile, there’s still vibrancy to the palate, with soft waves of fruit and an iron-edged finish.  1966 Clos de Sarpe: Some older vintages of Clos de Sarpe spent extended periods of time in tank before bottling – as is the case with this 1966, which stayed in concrete for almost 10 years. It was recorked in 2019 and is an amazing wine that is singing today. The nose still offers surprising fruit purity – soft, cooked plum and deeper bramble fruit, as well as savoury sousbois and – with time in the glass – liquorice and an almost marmite intensity. It’s ripe and vibrant, with amazing freshness on the palate, the tannins are seamlessly integrated with the sweet fruit. Long, supple and balanced, a beautiful wine to drink now.     Explore all current listings of Clos de Sarpe or read more about Bordeaux 

Few people have heard of Ch. Clos de Sarpe – and even fewer have followed its evolution in recent years. We sat down with Maylis Marcenat – the fourth generation of her family to run the 3.7-hectare estate – to taste through a vertical and explore the site’s identity through the ages 

Exploring the evolution of this tiny Saint-Emilion estate through a six-decade vertical tasting of the wines with winemaker Maylis Marcenat 

Tasting through six decades of Ch. Clos de Sarpe 

Six decades of Clos de Sarpe 

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

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

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

Your essential guide to Krug Champagne 

Everything you need to know about Krug 

When it comes to whisky, the conversation has long been dominated by maturation – on how long the liquid spends slumbering in which cask, on how big the cask is and what it held before, whether a Sherry butt, wine barrique, first-fill Bourbon barrel or the fashionable mizunara. Recently, there’s been an increased focus on the base product, with producers such as Waterford’s Mark Reynier championing single-site, single-barley, terroir-driven whiskies (and rums, with his Renegade project). But, somehow, there’s a tendency to skip on by the magic that happens in between: distillation.  While grain whisky is column distilled, malt whisky is almost exclusively distilled in copper pot stills – indeed, it’s a legal requisite for Scotch whisky. Crafting these copper beauties is an art – and one that depends on a handful of specialists. Kentucky has Vendome, Germany has Kothe and CARL, Italy has Frilli and Scotland has Forsyths. The equipment these coppersmiths produce lays the foundation the DNA of its new-make.  To the untrained eye, these onion-shaped pieces of kit look almost identical, but the size and shape is distinct to each distillery – defining its style. As distilleries expand and increase production, they don’t buy a bigger still – but commission exact replicas of their existing still(s), with every dent and dimple carefully recreated. Macallan, famously, replaced all its stills when building its new state-of-the-art distillery in 2018, asking Forsyths to create 36 stills that were identical to those it had previously used.  Although there have been attempts to use other metals, copper has long been favoured for distilling – originally for its pliability, making it easy to work and shape. But by the early 20th century, it was apparent that copper had other benefits – stripping the spirit of impurities. As the vapour rises through the still, it reacts with the copper, capturing sulphur, cyanides, carbonates and acids, meaning the liquid that is eventually collected is purer. Coppersmiths play on this purifying effect to create a range of stills, for the longer the vapour spends in contact with the copper, the lighter the spirit you’ll produce. Take Glenmorangie’s tall, 17-feet-high stills which produce a very light spirit, and compare them to the small, squat stills and typically heavy spirit of the Macallan. Of course it’s not quite as simple as that. As well as the ratio of copper to liquid, the speed of distillation, the shape of the still, the size of the neck, the level of reflux, the angle of the lyne arm and venting of stills all have an impact.  Rothes-based Forsyths has been hammering copper into shape for Scotland’s leading distillers for over 150 years. Richard Forsyth OBE (who has now passed management of the business to his son, Richard Jr) was the third generation of his family to run the coppersmiths. The frank, self-effacing Scot remembers working in his father’s workshop aged 15, “I knew this is what I wanted to do… I found it fascinating.” And after 55 years, his eye still twinkles when he talks about the arch of a still’s swan neck, the art of wielding a planishing hammer and the characters that make the industry so interesting.   He joined the family business in 1967 – at what happened to be a pivotal moment for the industry. During the Second World War, the whisky business ground to a halt – and with it the need for stills. In the 1950s and ’60s, however, the industry grew rapidly – too rapidly, it turned out. What was a golden era turned into a whisky lake, with many distilleries soon mothballed. Forsyths – for whom 99% of its business was servicing the whisky industry – had to find something else to pay the bills, and it was up to Richard to find that something else. They branched out first into paper, then stainless steel and – by the late 1990s – oil and gas. Although coppersmithing remained the foundation and heart of the business, these other disciplines became the main money-makers until the early 2010s, when whisky’s current boomtime set in. Today, Forsyths maintains over half of the pot stills in Scotland. For a wash still (distilleries that double-distil have wash and spirits stills, first distilling the wash into “low wines” and then distilling the “low wines” into new-make spirit), the head, neck and condenser wears out in eight to 10 years, while the pot itself may last 25. Add to that developing new stills for the thriving industry – as well as their expansion into rum, Bourbon and tequila – and the company’s not short of work.   Although there is clear resistance to change with an industry that is entrenched in tradition, things have shifted, slowly but surely, over the years. And there have been two significant changes over the last century that have transformed the Scotch whisky world: the firing of stills and the nature of condensers.  When shell-and-tube condensers were invented in the 1880s, as an alternative to old-fashioned worm tubs, it took time for producers to be persuaded. Although shell-and-tube condensers are significantly more efficient and take up much less space, they are completely different – with the copper surface area at least 20 times larger, something which has a key impact on the spirit. To this day some producers (15 to be exact – including Craigellachie, Mortlach, Glen Elgin and Springbank, the latter only for their wash still) retain their worm tubs, valuing the heavier, richer, more complex (and in some instances, even meaty, savoury) spirit character.   Traditionally stills were direct-fired – heated by flames fed by peat, coal or gas. “It’s dirty, messy, difficult to handle – and to control,” Forsyth tells me. A push for safety and efficiency saw producers switch to using steam in the 1970s. But some argue that this shift wasn’t for the better. Fire created a less consistent heat, with hot spots that would burn the wash and promote Maillard reactions (the same reaction that takes place when you brown meat, or during the bottle-ageing of Champagne or other traditional-method sparkling wine) – adding nutty, roasted notes that build complexity, or so proponents would argue. Glenfarclas is known for having briefly dallied with steam before returning to direct-firing, along with the likes of Macallan, Glenfiddich and Springbank.  As the whiskies of this pre-modernisation era – Scotch’s so-called “golden age” – become increasingly coveted, distilleries (both new and old) are looking to recreate these practices. Along with traditional floor maltings, producers like Glen Garioch (owned by Suntory) and Dunphail are investing in direct-firing. (Although, with worm tubs no longer produced, new distilleries have little choice regarding shell-and-tube condensers.)  However they are fired, given their custom nature, copper pot stills don’t come cheap. Much of the work continues to be done by hand, hammering to strengthen and finish the copper. Stills can range from 5,000 to 50,000 litres in capacity, but an average 15,000-litre still and its condenser will require between 1,800 and 2,000 manhours, and set you back around £250,000. And that price has only increased recently, thanks to rising energy and material costs – with a copper shortage proving challenging for Forsyths, a business that is the UK’s second-biggest buyer of the metal.  With the distinct nature of stills and their impact on spirit, plenty of new producers will ask for copies of a particular distillery’s stills – wishing to emanate their style of spirit. Forsyth tells me how one Japanese customer requested a pair each of Macallan, Glenlivet and Glenrothes stills. While of course there are many problems with this imitation game, there’s also no guarantee – as Forsyth tells me – that the same equipment will have the same results, especially when not run with the same wash, in the same way, by the same people. And, of course, a company like Forsyths isn’t going to give away Macallan’s proprietary designs, for example. As such, they’ll recreate something similar, but ensure it’s tweaked so no two distilleries have exactly the same design.   But how much impact do stills really have on the final spirit? Despite his half-century in the trade, Forsyth is quick to suggest, “I don’t think a lowly coppersmith can talk too much about that.” He’s clear that you need good equipment to make good spirit, but it’s one factor in amongst everything else – the barley, water and fermentation times, for example. And how a still is used is as important as its shape or size, with both the speed of distillation and the all-important cuts – dividing the heart from the foreshots and feints. Forsyth firmly believes that good wood is “the single biggest effect in a bottle eight, 10 or 12 years later”. There’s little use having a good base spirit if it’s ruined by a decade in bad oak – but good oak also can’t salvage bad spirit.  Forsyth has seen it all during his 55 years in the whisky business – and has been forced to be as malleable as the metal his family has worked for generations to survive the booms and busts. Despite the challenges, the coppersmith is as enchanted by his trade as when he first picked up a hammer in his father’s workshop. The industry will doubtless continue to ebb and flow, but with a spirit that takes decades to produce, the pace of change is reassuringly gentle. “It almost goes as slow as the running of the spirit,” Forsyth says whimsically. The still room remains the beating heart of distilleries – the basis of a producer’s fingerprint, all thanks to the careful hammering of the artful coppersmith.  Browse all current Scotch whisky listings or read more about spirits  

There’s something romantic about the bulbous sheen of a copper pot still. These behemoths glimmer with the promise of fine spirit – but it’s rare that we talk about what happens within. Sophie Thorpe sat down with Richard Forsyth OBE of Scotland’s leading coppersmiths, Forsyths, to find out more 

Cult coppersmiths Forsyths on the art of crafting copper pot stills for the biggest names in Scotch whisky – and how they define a distillery’s spirit style

How copper pot stills define whisky styles

Copper craft: the art of the still

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