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

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

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

Talking to Charles Heidsieck’s Elise Losfelt

A waiting game: Champagne Charles Heidsieck

Last year, the great and the good gathered at the ancestral home of the legendary Gordon family (of William Grant & Sons). A hearty dram was poured for the world’s foremost drinks authorities and they were asked to name the liquid within. So far, so normal in the Scotch whisky world. What happened next is quite unusual. Not one of the experts – with decades of experience and dozens of book credits to their name – could so much as hazard a guess.   The answer to the seemingly simple but dastardly question dumfounded them all. The as-yet-unidentified liquid was a single grain Scotch whisky that had slumbered in a lone Sherry butt for 53 years. Now almost jet-black in colour, the single grain had taken on incredible, rich notes of dried fruits, roasted coffee, and muscovado toffee – and it was indistinguishable from a greatly aged single malt.   The Cask Trials, which is the name given to this highly unusual liquid that left some of the finest palates awestruck and not-so-secretly hoping for a bottle in their gift bag, is just one of the panoply of independently bottled House of Hazelwood releases from the Gordon family’s private Scotch whisky archives.   Somewhat surprisingly, you won’t find a single malt among them. These rare whiskies, which have been amassed over the past 100 years by the owners of Glenfiddich and The Balvenie, were released to the public for the first time in 2022 in two, painfully scarce, collections. The Charles Gordon Collection (all priced above £3,000 per bottle and aged for at least 40 years), and the Legacy Collection (priced between £950 and £2,000 a bottle) are all well-aged blended Scotch, blended grain and blended malt whiskies that have been matured in the most novel ways.   “Bringing old, expensive and unusual blended whiskies to the market is slightly counterintuitive,” House of Hazelwood Director Jonathan Gibson – who was instrumental in creating the range – candidly tells me. “It's not overly common within the industry.”  It’s also not overly common within the industry to bottle liquids of this age and provenance with playful names such as "Blended at Birth", "Sunshine on Speyside" and "The Old Confectioner’s", in understated packaging at these price points.  The liquids are undeniably scarce (once they’re gone, there really is no more) and old (few are under 40 years of age, and the oldest tops 50 years), but they are undeniably unusual and at odds with the highly successful formulaic approach others have followed of encasing precious liquids in highly ornate, priceless vessels that weigh more than a small child.    “They're not concept releases,” Gibson explains. “Everything is driven by the whisky. The packaging is quite straightforward. It's a nice bottle and it's classically engraved but we haven’t collaborated with the hottest designer. The idea is really just to give the whisky room, provide a platform, without overshadowing it,” he adds.   “Over the past 10-15 years – and it's no bad thing at all – you can see a lot more old age-statement single malts coming onto the market,” Gibson says, “And typically they're very straightforward in terms of their naming. It's distillery name, plus age statement equals a certain financial value.  “The naming of these releases is slightly playful, but actually if you look at them one by one, they're very straightforward. It's not quite a Ronseal, ‘it does exactly what it says on the tin’ approach, but it's not too far away from that. If you said ‘Blended at Birth’, it could be seen as quite playful but it's also quite descriptive and the same for ‘The First Drop’ and ‘Sunshine on Speyside’,” he explains.   It's clear Gibson, who has been involved in the project since the start, has genuine affection for the whiskies and the stories each one has to tell. He and the team are custodians of historical artefacts that the Gordon family have not parted with for the best part of a century.  “The First Drop”, for example, is named as such because it is the first liquid to run from the stills at the Gordon family’s Girvan grain distillery on Christmas day in 1964. This is the first and last time it can be purchased. “There's a real emotional tie from the family to these whiskies,” Gibson explains. “For the current family members, it's their dad who laid down these whiskies and he's not around anymore.  “I think it's actually quite difficult for the family to let some of these whiskies go, even though there's a begrudging acceptance that they can't drink such quantities and it was time they cut the cord and let these whiskies go out into the world.”  “There's a general principle that we're following where the whisky is ready to go when it's ready,” Gibson explains, “so we're not chasing down a 60-year-old age statement just so that we can put a big 60 on the bottle.”   It has been a pleasant surprise for all those involved to witness the reception the House of Hazelwood whiskies have received from an occasionally prickly and vocal audience.    “Sunshine on Speyside had an amazing response and it's one of the least expensive whiskies within our range,” Gibson says delightedly.   “It was selected because of its character and its flavour, and named because it has this amazing mango/ pineapple popsicle fruit character that transports you to sunshine and the Caribbean. It's one of those ones where everyone instantly agreed that it had to go into the first collection.   “I thought that everyone would be drawn to the oldest whisky at tastings but actually, this whisky captured the imagination of a lot of the writers and the trade.”   It’s hard to emphasise quite how unusual these whiskies are, as most releases – old or new – are described in hyperbolic terms.   “Blended at Birth”, which was released as part of the first collection, is a blend of malt and grain whisky that was married and matured as new-make spirit. Today, it is against the Scotch Whisky Regulations’ technical file to produce a whisky in this way, as you now have to age the malt and grain whisky components for a minimum of three years separately before blending them, so any liquids of this ilk on the market are painfully scarce.   “Unusual” and “esoteric” aren’t always necessarily loaded with positive connotations – you might take a sip of said liquid, politely smile and then return to something slightly less unusual and more palatable – but these whiskies have incredible balance and depth of flavour, in part because they are blends and not single malt whiskies.    “These old grains in particular are just unbelievable in terms of the flavour,” Gibson says with unfettered joy. “At a younger age, grain whisky is quite neutral in character but once you're past 30 years, if it's aged well, grain whisky has a luscious, delicious quality which adds so much to the final profile of the Scotch.    “The variation in style is enormous,” he continues. “I thought I understood old grain whisky but on exploring the inventory further you see these amazing grains that you didn't really know you could get.”   These whiskies wouldn’t have existed if it wasn’t for the foresight of the Gordon family  – and two brothers, in particular, who changed the company’s stars during the mid-20th century. The young Charles and Sandy Gordon brought much-needed vim and vigour to what could be a bit of a staid industry in the late 1950s. The pair famously refused to kowtow to demands from their grain whisky supplier – instead pulling the contract and setting up their own grain distillery, Girvan, in the 1960s. Charles – or Charlie as he was known – even forwent the comfort of his own home and instead lived in a caravan on-site during the build, riding a bicycle to stealthily check on the workers’ progress. His unconventional methods clearly paid off as the sizeable distillery (which still stands today) was built in a record nine-month period.  During their tenure, the duo also interrogated every aspect of whisky-making from distillation to maturation, resulting in the bold decision to employ an on-site coppersmith and cooper – which are still in situ at many of the William Grant distilleries today – to give the family more control. They were a formidable pair and the business arguably wouldn’t have survived some of the challenging periods in Scotch whisky’s history had it not been for their fortitude.     “There's something about family ownership that means you have a bit more luxury to maybe indulge some of your creative whims,” Gibson says with a wry smile. “This independence enabled them to explore ideas that might have been hard for others to justify to their board of shareholders.”  When other producers would have been forced to make very difficult decisions in order to survive those darker years, the larger, independent William Grant would have been slightly more insulated. Out of curiosity alone, they would have been able to hold on to barrels of maturing liquid and see how they developed over time.  These are the barrels that the House of Hazelwood team – and by extension us – now have access to. Each one has an incredible story – and an even better depth of flavour. With eight releases each year as a minimum – and the suggestion of some partnership releases to come as well – there is an audience, who count the great and the good among their numbers, desperate to venture into this unexplored and curious realm of blended Scotch whisky.  Explore all current listings of House of Hazelwood, browse all whisky or read more Editorial 

Few Scotch whisky releases have incited as much fervour and intrigue as the House of Hazelwood’s independent bottlings from the Grant family’s private cask library. We caught up with Jonathan Gibson to discover why this emporium of curiosities is so tantalisingly unusual

Exploring the success of the independent bottlings from the Gordon family’s extraordinary private collection

The story behind the House of Hazelwood

House of Hazelwood: selling the family jewels

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

Screaming Eagle winemaker Nick Gislason wears many hats – he is also the Technical Director of Lopez Island Community Fireworks and co-founder of Hanabi Lager. FONDATA's Gavin Lucas caught up with the busy man to discuss how these dichotomous ventures have more in common than you might think.

Screaming Eagle's Nick Gislason on winemaking, beer brewing (Hanabi Lager) and designing fireworks (Island Community Fireworks)

FONDATA: Curiosity & Wonder: Magic’s Secret Ingredients 

Curiosity and wonder: magic’s secret ingredients

Jackie Charlier

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Local delivery is free for orders over HK$1,800 (to a single location). For orders below this value, delivery is HK$150 for up to four cases and HK$50 per case thereafter.

Shipping starts from €15 within Italy and €45 to Switzerland and the rest of Europe for up to 48 bottles (75cl). Costs vary by destination. Larger shipments can be quoted on request.

The date shown below is when your order will ship from our local warehouse. Your final delivery date, along with full tracking details, will be provided once our team has processed your request.

You can arrange collection from our Retail store on 22nd Floor, 8 Wyndham Street, Central Hong Kong.
Collection times are between 9:30am-13:00 and 14:00-18:00pm, Monday to Friday. We are closed on public holidays.

You can arranged collection from our warehouse STI INTERNAZIONALE SPA, on Viale del Lavoro, 57, 37051 Bovolone, Verona.
Pick-up hours are between 8:30 AM to 12:30 PM and 1:30 PM to 5:30 PM, Monday to Friday. We are closed on public holidays.

This is the current estimated market value for this item.

Manually set prices will be overwritten. Already listed wines are not affected.

Updates all unlisted wines to current market price.

Set all at market

represents all the wines you currently have in your Portfolio that aren't stored with us. Press the

My cellar

Name

Net price

New portfolio available

New portfolio

You do not have any invoices at this time.

shows all the items from your Portfolio that are currently on the market.

On sale

shows all the items you currently have in your Portfolio. You can perform individual actions on them from this page.

Overview

shows any items that are currently awaiting user action.

Pending

This is the dynamic market price of the item with trading margin removed.

This is the amount of profit you will receive if your listing sells.

Pre-authorised payments enable automatic transactions on your behalf, ensuring seamless and hassle-free payments. This allows recurring charges, subscriptions, or scheduled payments to be processed without manual approval each time.

The number of cases you wish to place on sale

Your catalogue item will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Your catalogue items will be archived. Are you sure you want to continue?

Before you request delivery, you can adjust the quantity for each item in your selection below.

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

Total market price*

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

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

Title

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

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

Profile

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

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

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

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

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

Jackie Charlier

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