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  

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

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

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

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

Old, low-yielding vines. I’ve written that phrase more times than I’d like to confess. But how much does it really mean when it comes to the quality of the wine in your glass? The 2023 vintage in Burgundy (read our full vintage report here) produced generous yields. In farming terms, that’s a good thing: a plentiful crop that restocks the cellars (and coffers). But the sheer volume of fruit (“a wall of grapes”, as Bouchard’s winemaker Frédéric Weber told us) posed its own challenge – and much of our time in the region’s cellars this year was spent diving into how they managed, or controlled, the yield. It seemed fitting, therefore, to address the topic in greater detail.  In the Old World, appellation rules will limit yields, with the yield generally decreasing as you move up the appellation system (see below a table detailing the maximum yields for Burgundy, for example). Of course, this indicates a relationship between yield and quality, implying less is better – and there is no doubt that excessive yields don’t produce fine wine. But how low is too low? There is a fashion for prizing vines that barely manage to ripen a bunch or two, but do they really make better wine than those producing a decent crop? Beyond our obsession with rarity, what are the consequences of less fruit per vine – and therefore, what does more entail? A note on measuring yield Before we get into the weeds of the matter, let’s address how we talk about yield. In the Old World, the most common measurement of yield is hectolitres per hectare (hl/ha), measuring the volume of juice or wine per hectare of vineyard area. In Champagne the standard measure is kilos per hectare and in Italy you may see reference to quintales per hectare (qt/ha or q/ha, with one quintal translating to 100kg), while in the US, producers are more likely to use tons per acre. We’ll dive further into the many variables here, but it’s worth highlighting that vine density isn’t taken into account by any of these measurements. Although a higher number of vines per hectare will generally mean a higher yield across the vineyard, the increased competition will also likely reduce the yield per vine. For this article, we have spoken to producers from a range of regions, but do note that yields are not comparable between varieties or region. Climate – with heat, sunlight and water availability, as well as the varying size of berries and clusters of any given variety, mean that there is no number that can be deemed a global average when it comes to yield. (Do look at this table compiled by the Wine Advocate’s William Kelley, comparing vine density, cluster weight and juice yields for various classic fine wine regions, to give you an idea of the differences between regions.) Given this, “high” and “low” yields aren’t equated to specific numbers here, but the concept discussed more broadly – and arguably more relevantly for those of us drinking wine rather than making it. Bearing all of this in mind, extremely approximate conversions can be made as follows: one tonne per hectare is approximately 7hl/ha, while one ton per acre is around 17.5hl/ha (Oxford Companion to Wine). Yields: how low is too low? “It’s not extreme mythology: low yields produce better quality,” Cerbaiona’s Matthew Fioretti tells me; for him, high yields risk dilution and sanitary problems – and at excessive levels, that is certainly true. But, as Myriad’s Mike Smith told me, the relationship is “not linear”. Mike Dunn (Dunn Vineyards) generally has low yields, but that’s not necessarily about concentration, he explains: it’s simply about how much they can ripen before winter hits. Up on Napa’s Howell Mountain, their poor soils and farming (avoiding irrigation and fertilisation where they can) naturally produce lower yields. He recently changed some of their Cabernet Sauvignon to cane (rather than cordon) pruning and, although they’re getting more fruit off the same vines, there’s been no loss in quality. “It’s all relative,” says Ivan Massonnat at Belargus in Anjou. He points to Saumur with its limestone soils, where producers can crop 45-50hl/ha without a problem, but on the schist soils that lie beneath his vineyards: “Forget about doing much more than 30-35hl/ha,” he says. And even that has proven challenging for him. In the seven vintages he’s produced at the estate, only two have come close to 30hl/ha, with the average around 15hl/ha, simply due to the challenges of each vintage. He’d have loved to crop more – but nature had other ideas, and vignerons have to adapt to the vintage. Massonnat explains how if you farm to produce yields that are overly low, you can end up with fruit that has high technical, or sugar, maturity, but isn’t yet phenolically ripe – leading to unbalanced wines. Smith echoes this, talking specifically about Beckstoffer Dr Crane, one of Napa’s legendary vineyards, which he finds likes to produce more – around five tons an acre (versus four in most of the vineyards he works with). He sees producers cropping to just three tons per acre there, and in warm vintages the fruit ripens too quickly for the phenolics to catch up. Philippe Bascaules – who was first appointed Estate Director at Ch. Margaux in 1990 – offers an interesting perspective, arguing that there’s no direct relationship between yield and quality. In Bordeaux in the 1970s, he tells me, yields were consistently low – 25-30hl/ha, with wines that were inconsistent. As the wines became more popular, with demand from the US in particular for the 1982 vintage, producers started aiming for significantly higher yields and chaptalizing much more. Soon, average yields had doubled to 50-60hl/ha – a level that was unsustainable, especially in challenging vintages such as 1992, ’93 and ’94. Gradually they implemented changes, introducing green-harvesting (in 1986 at Ch. Margaux) and reducing fertilisation levels in the 1990s. Today, he and his team aim for around 45hl/ha, “a good production” in his mind – but a level which also offers insurance against inclement conditions. Lowering yields is something that, for him, has brought greater consistency to both the estate and region across vintages – ensuring they can ripen the crop each year. Deliberately reducing the yield beyond this, however, wouldn’t offer any serious benefit, he says. Similarly, across the Durantou family’s estates on the Right Bank, including Ch. l’Eglise-Clinet, Noëmie Durantou Reilhac targets a yield of circa 42hl/ha. “The vine wants to produce fruit,” she says, “so if the yield is really, really low, something went wrong.” For her, it’s the balance that matters most. With very high yields, the resulting wines will lack concentration (“You cannot make in tanks what nature hasn’t done before,” she says), but equally if the berries are so small that there is barely any juice, you’ll have little but tannins left to work with. And, while hail or frost will reduce your yield, they won’t result in greater concentration. “I think it just comes down to stress,” Dunn tells me. And that’s a common thread for several producers, arguing that vines need to struggle to produce quality. As Sébastien le Golvet – of Champagne Henri Giraud, who works with the poor soils of Aÿ – says, “genii are born of suffering”. Suffering doesn’t always mean lower yields, however: arguably, Dunn says, in high-vigour sites, keeping higher yields will help increase stress, pushing the vine to work harder – and therefore produce higher quality. Elements impacting yield While it’s impossible for us to address every factor that influences yield, it’s worth – relatively briefly – highlighting a few additional influences beyond site (with poorer or richer soils), variety and vintage: Trellising: Trellising – the shape in which a vine is trained – can be used to control yield. At Cerbaiona, Fioretti emphasises how using alberello or bush vines is key to helping contain Sangiovese’s natural vigour. At Tiberio, Cristiana Tiberio’s oldest vines are pergola-trained, with a traditional Abruzzese system that encourages competition but also increases the canopy to aid photosynthesis and ripening. Vine material/rootstock: The material used in a vineyard is integral (as with Quinta do Noval’s Nacional vineyard, see below). Mike Dunn, for example, mentioned how one of his older vineyards was planted on St George rootstock, known for shatter and therefore limiting yields even further. Jean-Marie Fourrier (Domaine Fourrier) argues that the use of selected clones, rather than massal selection, has resulted in higher yields and the need to green harvest, something that he never does – aided further by the age of his vines (see below for more on this). Vine age: There’s no doubt that the element of vine age is conflated with yields and quality, with older vines often producing better fruit – but less of it. As Mike Dunn told me, the wines from his oldest vines are “more intriguing”, but at some point economics comes into play, and the level of production is financially unsustainable. It’s another non-linear relationship, however, as Durantou Reilhac explains: “Some 70-year-old grandmas can run and dance, and others are weaker.” Although most old vines will produce less fruit, she finds it’s far from uniform in her vineyards – and sometimes there will be young vines that produce less. Virus and millerandage: Virused vines will produce lower yields, and as with old vines, will reach a point where they are unsustainable. While on the surface virus is negative, certain producers do value the reduction in yield or slower ripening that is a result of disease – South Africa’s Hamilton Russell being one (with leafroll virus). Quinta do Noval persists with its own-rooted Nacional vineyard, suffering from phylloxera, with the vines slowly dying and yielding tiny volumes, to produce a particularly special and rare Vintage Port. Similarly, millerandage is a condition most commonly a consequence of poor weather at fruit-set, producing grape clusters with unevenly sized grapes, combining larger and smaller (or shot) berries – sometimes referenced as hen-and-chick. While this reduces yield, the phenomenon is sometimes valued for giving increased concentration to wine. Indeed, some particular clones – such as the Mendoza, Wente or Gingin clones of Chardonnay – are valued for their bunches with hen-and-chicks, and Bret Brothers, for example, even makes a special Cuvée Millerandée – with millerandée Chardonnay – from Les Quarts (a Pouilly-Vinzelles site recently awarded Premier Cru status). Cover crops: At Henri Giraud, Sébastien le Golvet feels that cover crops are essential to the quality of their fruit – and the yield. Sewn just before harvest, the cover crops provide competition up until flowering when they roll the grass mix, creating a bed that holds water and offers nitrogen to the soils, acting as a natural fertiliser – in a way both moderating then fuelling the vines’ growth. This is one hint at the extent to which the type of soils and level of organic matter, not to mention water availability, dictated by site and the farming methods, are all key. The previous vintage: There are two theories at play here. Firstly, conditions during what is known as the initiation phase of the vine cycle, which takes place alongside flowering, will dictate the yield of the following vintage. In 2023 in Burgundy for example, one of the factors in yield was that the spring of 2022 offered perfect conditions, laying the groundwork for 2023’s plentiful crop. As Sébastien le Golvet also explained, however, a large crop in one vintage can tire the vines, meaning they have less to give the following year. How wine producers manage yield The vine naturally wants to reproduce, to grow, ripen fruit and spread its seeds. Vignerons are tasked with taming the plant to focus its energies to develop fruit of concentration and complexity that will make fine wine. This is done in many ways, some of which include: Pruning: The first stage to set up the yield in an existing vineyard is pruning, leaving the appropriate number of buds per vine for the season ahead. The timing of this varies according to the producer, from December through to March, with later pruning helping delay the vine cycle, which is sometimes desirable. Alvina Pernot, for example, specifically pruned her vines shortly (ie to offer a lower crop) in 2023 to help the vines recover from the relatively high-yielding 2022 vintage. Lalou Bize-Leroy famously works with very low yields, and emphasises how important pruning is in this (Domaine Leroy harvested just under 30hl/ha in 2023, its highest ever yield – a number which would still be low by many producers’ standards). De-budding or suckering: In spring, producers will de-bud or sucker the vines, removing lateral shoots and providing further control of the potential yield, as well as the spacing and position of the crop. In 2023 in Burgundy, many producers emphasised how important this was. Hugues Pavelot described it as “drastic”, while Philippe Jouan passed through his vines twice. At Bouchard, Frédéric Weber explained how some of the buds produced two or three bunches in 2023 (rather than the normal one), meaning that even with extensive de-budding yields were very high. Green harvesting: Green-harvesting is the most discussed method of yield control, and one that divides producers. We spoke to several Burgundian vignerons who avoid it (Dominique Lafon, Jacques Devauges at Domaine des Lambrays, Philippe Jouan and Jean-Marie Fourrier, to name a few) – some of whom felt that they had no choice but to use the method in 2023, despite their best efforts. The reason against green-harvesting is that the vine will try to compensate, and that it can be avoided with managing the vineyard in other ways. That said, there are many top-tier producers that green-harvest, and feel it is key to the quality they produce (Ch. Margaux, Eglise-Clinet, Georges Noëllat and Olivier Bernstein, to name a few). And it’s not a decision that any take lightly, well aware that they are literally throwing away potential income. At Cerbaiona, Fioretti compares the vines to runners or cyclists – needing to carry as little weight as possible to get over the finish line. With Sangiovese, he finds it’s unavoidable, especially with the presence of “wings” or “shoulders” (smaller separate clusters that sit on the shoulder of the main bunch). The timing is key, and many producers emphasise the importance of green-harvesting early in the season. For Noëmie Durantou Reilhac, she aims to have this done prior to véraison to avoid twisting the stems (which would impact sap flow) and damaging the skins of the remaining bunches. She’ll do a final pass through her vineyards just before harvest, but this is a method of sorting rather than impacting the ripeness of the grapes on the vine. “There’s a certain point where you can reduce fruit, say a month away from picking, but it won’t do anything,” says Myriad’s Mike Smith. Like many producers, he favours green-harvesting mid-véraison to drop anything that is behind, helping even the ripeness of the crop – as Bascaules does at Ch. Margaux. In 2023, several Burgundy producers highlighted having to do multiple passes to reduce the crop – doing what was sometimes referred to as a “pink” or “blue” harvest on top of a green harvest. Canopy management: A vine’s leaves are its engine – responsible for photosynthesis. The larger the canopy, the larger the engine, therefore trimming the vine’s canopy can help lower its vigour, while keeping a larger leaf area can help encourage vigour. This needs to be considered alongside airflow (to avoid disease pressure) and shading of the bunches (which could delay ripening). If the canopy isn’t balanced with the volume of fruit, it can also negatively impact fruit composition – especially the acid make-up and development of colour and phenolics. Ivan Massonnat (Belargus) explained that in 2022 and 2023, for example, he used a high trellis, allowing a larger leaf area, to capture maximum light and photosynthesis to fuel the vines; but in 2022 he did the opposite, wanting to reduce the size of the “sugar machine”. It has, he notes, become common for large canopies to be used alongside low yields, especially by producers in Burgundy, something he feels has gone too far at certain addresses: “You can kill a wine with concentration,” he says. Some argue that trimming the canopy can encourage it to grow further, while others want to retain a large canopy to encourage root growth (Olivier Lamy feels that the vine has the same amount of growth above and below ground, therefore wanting to retain his canopy to the roots to drive deep into the soil). Lamy is one of a cohort of producers using “tressage”, or braiding, to tame the canopy – a technique pioneered by Lalou Bize-Leroy. For her the aim is to avoid cutting the apex (or growing tip) which would otherwise encourage the growth of lateral shoots. Producers such as Charles Lachaux have taken this even further, training vines to a single stake (more common on the steep slopes of Priorat, Côte-Rôtie or the Mosel) and weaving the shoots into distinctive arches.  The relationship between yield and quality is undoubtedly a tricky one – and one that every producer I spoke to feels is deeply complex. We couldn’t touch on everything here (the tiny yields for botrytised sweet wines, for example, or typically higher yields used for sparkling wine), but there’s plenty to consider. While it remains clear that excessive yields can produce dilute wines, with so many variables play, it’s also clear that less isn’t always better. Read more Editorial

Burgundy’s vignerons were blessed with quantity in 2023, but – when it comes to making fine wine – how much is too much? We spoke to a host of top producers to find out if low yields really do mean better quality

Do low yields really mean better quality when it comes to wine? We talk to Ch. Margaux, Cerbaiona, Eglise-Clinet, Belargus, Dunn, Myriad and more to find out

Understanding yield and quality in wine

Yield and quality: is less really more?

2021 Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Nuits, Louis Auguste, Domaine David Duband  
This wine, named in honour of David’s son, Louis Auguste, comes from higher-altitude sites and some of the domaine’s oldest vines (over 55 years in age). In 2021, it’s spicy and lifted – offering a mouthful of pure, crunchy red fruit. It’s fresh and mouth-watering, building to a savoury, smoky finish. Superb value.  


2021 Gevrey-Chambertin, Charles van Canneyt  
This village bottling is an excellent entry point to Charles van Canneyt’s range – especially if you can’t get your hands on any of his Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat wines. The 2021s may be the best vintage to date of his négociant label, with a line-up of elegant and vibrant wines that offer great value. The village Gevrey-Chambertin is a wine of such finesse – with a lifted, perfumed nose. But behind the aromatics, there’s a more serious palate, with persistent, focused fruit, and vivid acidity driving through the core of the wine. The long finish is scented with delicate florals. 


2021 Gevrey-Chambertin, Domaine Duroché  
Because yields were so low in 2021 (due to frost and hail in the north of Gevrey), Duroché’s 2021 village Gevrey includes fruit from Le Clos, Champ, En Vosne and what little survived the hail in Premier Cru Champeaux. All Duroché’s vines are old, and for this cuvée, they were all planted between 1930 and 1986. The nose is perfumed and floral, but it’s the palate that really sings – with a tight energy and ripe, round mouth-feel. A gentle toastiness (with 15% new oak) coats the sweet, red cherry fruit. This vibrates with potential – the finish long, saline and mouth-watering. A brilliant introduction to the Duroché style. 


2021 Savigny-lès-Beaune, Premier Cru, Aux Guettes, Domaine Jean-Marc & Hugues Pavelot  
This vineyard sits just below the forest, with only 30cm top-soil over the hard rock below. The Pavelot plot (a mere 0.35 hectares) shows a totally different side to Savigny – brighter and lighter, with vibrant red fruit and a creaminess (with 25% new oak). The nose is full of raspberry and cranberry, with a welcome, sublime freshness thanks to this more “traditional” vintage. The medium-bodied palate is mineral and elegant, with great tension. The oak is well-integrated, bringing extra weight to the mid-palate, building to a vibrant, long finish. This is a top wine – classic and airy, as Burgundy used to always be. 


2021 Givry, Premier Cru, Clos Marole, Domaine Joblot  
Clos Marole is one of the few survivors from a catastrophic growing season at Domaine Joblot, with yields slashed by 50%. But – even if there’s not very much of it – the wine is superb. You’re instantly struck with vibrant, fresh red fruit, blackberry and crushed strawberry – possibly thanks to the old vines (on average 40 years old). The oak (35% new) needs a little more time to integrate fully, but is well-judged. Relatively light-bodied, the palate is driven by great acidity and silky tannins. The finish is long and suave. Enjoy this delicious wine young, but it has everything to keep for a decade or more.  


2021 Morey-Saint-Denis, Premier Cru, Clos des Ormes, Domaine George Lignier  
Domaine Georges Lignier is the largest owner in Clos des Ormes, with almost two hectares of the Premier Cru, all on calcaire comblanchien. The nose is pretty and perfumed with sweet spice notes courtesy of the oak (around 25% new). The fruit is bright and crunchy, yet there’s a darker, more brooding aspect on show – with a powdery tannic structure adding texture to the pure, long palate. An impressive result in the vintage.  


2021 Coteaux Bourguignons, L’Eclos des Abeilles, Domaine de Bellene  
Nicolas Potel only made 6,000 bottles of this wine in 2021 (instead of 20,000 normally) – yet it’s once again excellent for what is “just” a Coteaux Bourguignons, rivalling some top village appellations. The fruit for this great-value cuvée comes from cooler vineyards on the limits of the Bourgogne appellation in Nantoux (where the vines are 80 years old), Saint-Romain and Nuits-Saint-Georges, classified as Coteaux Bourguignons (an appellation more often associated with reds). The wine is mainly Chardonnay, however there’s a sprinkling of Aligoté adding extra zip.  The nose is honeyed, fresh and mineral, with the palate crisp at first, with clean acidity and superb balance. It rounds out with toasted almond and citrus, building to a long finish that brings a generous dimension of complexity to the wine. It is almost ready to drink now. A superb effort from Potel.  
  
2021 Puligny-Montrachet, La Rue aux Vaches, Alvina Pernot  
This was a particular highlight of our tasting – offering a very different style to Clos des Noyers Brets. Versus the soft purity of Clos des Noyers Brets, this is both more mineral and with a riper core of fruit – juicy white peach and apple, but with a bright, zesty green edge to it, and the very slightest hint of toast. The texture is richer and creamier, offering a pleasingly round yet beautifully elegant mouthful. Long and nuanced finish. This was bottled exclusively in magnum – with just 146 produced.   


2021 Saint-Aubin, Premier Cru, En Remilly, Louis Jadot 
In 2021, there is just one barrel of this Premier Cru – and it’s exclusively available from FINE+RARE. Pithy with flinty, mineral tones that complement an almost orange-zest lift. Behind the citrus and minerals though, there’s a core of fresh, white-peach fruit and toasty, spicy oak that lingers on the finish. The concentrated core is balanced by vibrant acidity, with that creaminess rounding out the lithe palate. Delicious.  


2021 Chablis, Grand Cru, Les Blanchots, Domaine Long-Depaquit  
Domaine Long-Depaquit has 1.66 hectares of this cool Grand Cru. They managed to make just 20% of a normal crop in 2021, the region’s yields drastically reduced by cruel April frosts. This was a particular highlight of our tasting – with an intense, taut, lime-and-lemon profile. Although the fruit verges on lean, there’s a brightness to the wine too. Notes of chalk, oyster shell and Granny smith apple are complemented by a creamy, round character. The finish is long and zesty – classic, pinpoint Chablis. 
 Browse all available Burgundy or read more about the vintage 


The grandest names in the Côte d’Or might be the most desirable – but there’s much more to the region beyond the very top appellations. Here we highlight 10 of the wines that we think offer the best value in 2021 

Discover the 10 best-value wines from our tastings of the Burgundy 2021 vintage so far – from up and down the Cote d’Or

The best-value wines in Burgundy 2021

Burgundy 2021: top-value buys

Burgundy expert Jasper Morris MW has had his finger on the region’s wine pulse for several decades. Especially for FONDATA, he profiles eight domaines to watch, producers that are bringing vital energy and fresh winemaking talent to the celebrated wine region 

Jasper Morris MW on eight of Burgundy’s most exciting domaines – including Eleni & Edouard Vocoret, Chantereves, Alvina Pernot and more 

The new Burgundians – Jasper Morris MW 

The new Burgundians

2022 Vosne-Romanée, Premier Cru, Les Beaumonts, Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat This Premier Cru was an absolute standout of our tasting at Domaine Hudelot-Noëllat this year. The pretty nose combines star anise spice, floral lift and crushed rock. Powerfully mineral with such a suave, elegant palate, there is amazing delicacy to the almost smoky, savoury tannin structure, framing the pure, bright fruit. Pinpoint and precise, yet with a mouth-watering lushness, this is a very special wine in 2022. 2022 Vosne-Romanée, Premier Cru, Les Suchots, Nicole Lamarche Nicole Lamarche has 0.22 hectares at the southern end of this Premier Cru, close to Romanée Saint-Vivant, with vines that average 45 to 50 years in age. It is, as Nicole herself described it, “100% seduction”. The nose is sensuous, with sweet, plump berries, baking spice and iris florals, luring you in. On the palate, the delicacy and finesse is astounding. The bright acidity drives the wine, giving tension, yet there’s a luxurious nature the fruit that rolls around the mouth, a touch more generous than her other Vosne Premier Cru Les Chaumes. The tannins are rich, almost savoury, with a pure-rock character. Remarkable. 2022 Gevrey-Chambertin, Premier Cru, Lavaut Saint-Jacques, Domaine Duroché Duroché has 1.2 hectares of this cool, higher-altitude Premier Cru, with vines planted between 1923 and 1980, which is always the last to be picked. The 2022 is an absolute highlight of our tasting at this domaine, the cool site thriving in the warmth of the vintage. There’s instant gratification with an expressive nose layered with red and blue berry fruit and pepper spice. On the palate, it expands, bursting with juicy blueberries, smoky tones and black liquorice. It’s richly fruited, savoury and fresh, with a mineral line and chalky tannins that frame the mouth-watering fruit. Delicious. There’s around 15% whole-bunch this year. 2022 Chambertin, Grand Cru, Jean-Marie Fourrier As with Fourrier’s Latricières-Chambertin, this old-vine plot (a stately 70 years) is up against the Route des Grands Crus. The nose is instantly intoxicating with a violet perfume and depth of dark fruit that soars from the glass. The palate is concentrated, laden with sweet fruit, yet driven with remarkable finesse and freshness. Persistent and pure, with a weightless quality, this is another great wine from Jean-Marie.
 2022 Bâtard-Montrachet, Grand Cru, Domaine Faiveley Faiveley has a plot of 0.35 hectares here. The 2022 is an exceptional wine – with a nose that is waxy, chalky and creamy – but beneath these savoury and mineral aromas there is a wine of such density and fullness. There is layer upon layer of flavour here, working through from mineral tones, citrus and yellow-fleshed peach, grilled almonds, honeysuckle and creamy intensity. It flirts with fatness, the rich fruit rolling around the mouth luxuriously, yet there’s a pithy bite that brings it back from the edge – giving tension as the acidity drives on to a bright, sherbet-edged finish. 2022 Gevrey-Chambertin, Premier Cru, Les Goulots, Domaine Heresztyn-Mazzini This cool vineyard is at the top of the village, just north of Combe aux Moines and sitting above Champeaux. In 2022, it’s one of the most charming wines in Heresztyn-Mazzini’s line-up. They used 50% whole-bunch this year to bring more delicacy. It opens with sweet, ripe red fruit on the nose, but the palate is much more serious. The fruit is elegant and suave, with a brightness and transparency. The crushed raspberry and tart cherry is complemented by white-pepper spice and the fine-grained grip of chalky tannins. This site’s cooler position clearly thrived in 2022 – superb. 2022 Chambolle-Musigny, Premier Cru, Les Feusselottes, Maxime Cheurlin Noëllat This négoce bottling from Maxime Cheurlin (of Domaine Georges Noëllat) shone at our tasting – one of the finest Chambolles we tasted anywhere, in fact. The nose offers classic Chambolle perfume – a scented bouquet and bright, dainty, detailed berry fruit. On the palate, it manages to be both creamy and crunchy, with a sappy, mouth-watering freshness and intensely mineral backbone that drives on to the long, saline finish. Five barrels were produced. 2022 Marsannay, Au Champ Salomon, Domaine Charles Audoin Cyril Audoin and his father constantly debate which of Champ Salomon and Favières is the better plot in Marsannay. They’re both extremely impressive in 2022, although the Champ Salomon is offering more at this youthful stage. The nose is creamy, scented and sweet, enticing with plump strawberry and raspberry, then there’s a rush of juicy bright fruit that fills the palate – powerful, expansive, dark yet bright and crunchy berry fruit. There’s a pleasingly bitter, hickory-smoke edge, along with lifted peony and violet tones. Lush, juicy and hard to resist. 2022 Le Montrachet, Grand Cru, Remoissenet Père & Fils Remoissenet’s Montrachet is always a favourite of ours and it’s no different in 2022. The nose offers grilled almonds, acacia honey and gunflint – just hinting at what is to come. The palate is remarkably concentrated, layered with swathes of peachy fruit and lemon pith, with a zesty, flinty power. It’s immensely ripe and full, but still beautifully elegant, with freshness that balances the wine’s concentration. A wine that deserves time and will only get better in bottle. It’s all in one-year-old oak this year. 2022 Griotte Chambertin, Grand Cru, Charles van Canneyt From the smallest of the Chambertin Grands Crus, this is the pièce de resistance of Charles van Canneyt’s line-up in 2022. From a plot of vines that are over 80 years old, this is graceful, ethereal, sensual and persistent. It is absolutely complete, with notes of spice, bright red fruit, a touch of sweetness and something minty. There’s no doubt that this is a big wine – as a Grand Cru should be – but it’s medium-bodied, round and fresh with fine-grained tannins, and a long, suave finish full of raspberry and strawberry fruit. This is still young but what a wine – give it a decade before you crack a bottle, if you can resist. Four barrels were produced. 2022 Chablis, Grand Cru, Moutonne, Domaine Long-Depaquit, Albert Bichot In 2022, Domaine Long-Depaquit’s monopole Grand Cru captures the balance of the vintage. It is the most mineral-driven cuvée in the range, with an elegant nose than ranges from lemon zest to white blossom, over a layer of wet crushed rock. On the palate, the wine reveals superb concentration, and is much broader and richer structure than the nose suggests. A backbone of acidity drives towards a beautiful finish full of tension, with hints of salinity that makes you salivate. It will need a few years before it shows its potential. Unfortunately, a large part of the vineyard (the lowest part, neighbouring Fèvre) is being replanted and volumes this year are therefore smaller than we’d have liked. It is nonetheless a fantastic showing – and is undoubtedly our favourite Grand Cru from Long Depaquit in 2022. Drink 2028-2040. 2022 Puligny-Montrachet, La Rue aux Vaches, Alvina Pernot From a village parcel just below Les Pucelles and Clos des Meix, this is always so different to Clos des Noyers Brets – with fleshier fruit. It’s playful on the nose, with different facets and fruits emerging with air. It’s broader on the palate, revealing its proximity to Premier Cru territory. A fantastic showing, it’s the best edition of this wine to date. With only a barrel produced, it’s bottled exclusively in magnum.

The 2022 vintage in the Côte d’Or produced some wonderful wines – delicate, pretty and transparent Pinot Noir and concentrated, vibrant Chardonnay that will appeal to classic Burgundy-lovers. Of all the wines we’ve tasted so far, these are our favourites

Discover our top wines tasted from the Burgundy 2022 vintage so far – from up and down the Cote d’Or

Our favourite wines from Burgundy 2022

Burgundy 2022: our favourites

Domaine Paul Pernot is synonymous with the appellation of Puligny-Montrachet. For the last 30 years the estate – alongside Domaine Leflaive and Domaine de Montille (previously Château de Puligny-Montrachet) – has been one of the largest shareholders in the appellation, playing a significant role in maintaining its reputation for complex, expansive, mineral-tinged Chardonnay.  Paul Pernot created his estate in the early 1950s, initially with 11 hectares, although at the time not all of it was planted to vines. It was only in the 1950s, with the invention of modern tractors, that the hard limestone rock could be penetrated for the first time, enabling more of the appellation to be planted with vines and Pernot’s acreage increased. By the early 1990s, the estate had increased its holdings to 20 hectares, including plots in the Grands Crus of Bâtard-Montrachet and Bienvenues-Bâtard-Montrachet.  Puligny – with its 230 hectares of vineyards – is considerably smaller than its neighbouring appellations, Meursault and Chassagne-Montrachet, with notably fewer vignerons fortunate to own vines in this prestigious appellation. Domaine Paul Pernot, thanks to its relative size, is therefore in an enviable position, with its production in high demand from the main négociants of Burgundy and beyond.  The estate has historically sold significant volumes, most notably to Joseph Drouhin, while keeping the cream of their crop for themselves, typically just 40% of their production. It was this that prompted Alvina Pernot to establish her own label. “My husband Philippe and I have been wanting to make our own wine for several years. As the family estate sells part of the harvest to the negociants, it seemed logical for us to start recovering part of it.”  Alvina Pernot, (granddaughter of Paul Pernot), a young vigneron born and raised in Puligny Montrachet, grew up close to the family estate, as her father and uncle managed the domaine throughout her childhood. Despite branching out on her own, Alvina Pernot still works at the family estate, managing the commercial and administrative part of the business (allocations, customer tastings, logistics, management, etc). Until last year she was also involved in the winemaking, but this year she was not able to be there as much. “Now we have reached a point where my husband and I must be completely focused on our own wines at vinification.” The quick-ripening season of 2019 made that ever clearer, as there was a rush to get the grapes picked to retain the taut traits typical of her wines.  Growing up under the guidance of such a prestigious Puligny estate was no doubt insightful for Alvina. The most important thing she learned from her father and grandfather she explains “is that exemplary work in the vineyard allows for high quality raw material. From then on, we have all the cards in our hands to make the best wine possible.” Despite the similarities in their viticultural practices, there are notable differences in the winery. “When we started, we didn't want to make a copy and paste of the domaine, but rather try to produce a wine in our image: reflecting our own vision of wine. We love the domaine wines and share the same passion of the profession, but we also love the idea of creating something for ourselves and trying new things.”  “With the smaller production levels, an extra attention to detail becomes possible,” says Alvina. She opts to hand harvest in small crates as opposed to the traditional large containers, better protecting the grapes against oxidation. During the all-important pressing stage, Alvina opts for the more traditional vertical press, rather than the more widely used modern horizontal pneumatic presses. According to Alvina, the traditional vertical presses have a distinct qualitative advantage despite losing 15 - 20% more juice than modern presses. “It reduces oxidation, provides a greater purity of juice with naturally higher acidity and therefore freshness.”  The Alvina Pernot wines have longer ageing on the lees too, right up until bottling – 11 months. In the future Alvina hopes to extend her control of élevage further, with a soon-to-be-built new winery in Puligny, allowing her, when necessary, to age the wine on the lees even longer. She and Philippe hope to have the winery up and running by the 2021 harvest.  How each of these bespoke adjustments affect the final result in bottle is an interesting experiment to explore. No doubt the wines from Domaine Paul Pernot and Alvina Pernot are distinctly different. Paul Pernot grapes are typically picked a few days later than Alvina’s on the same site, with a style very much focused on concentration and richness. Alvina’s methodology is more focused on purity and tension. To taste the wines side by side is a fascinating contrast of Puligny’s potential.  The must-try wines from each Pernot  Domaine Paul Pernot: Puligny-Montrachet, Premier Cru, Les Folatières  The historic sites Domaine Paul Pernot retains for itself is arguably some of the most prized in Puligny. The estate is lucky enough to own vines in both the Grands Crus of Bienvenues-Bâtard Montrachet and Bâtard-Montrachet, yet it is the Premier Cru Les Folatières that Alvina believes shows the Paul Pernot domaine at its best, the most representative rendition of the Folatières terroirs. “We are the largest owner of this appellation (three hectares) and the positioning of our plots (Clos des Folatières, Peux-Bois and Folatières) within the vineyard allows us to have a wine that is a true representation of the cru.”  Alvina Pernot: Meursault, Premier Cru, La Pièce sous le Bois  Alvina Pernot’s wines come from a selection of her favoured sites, belonging to the Paul Pernot estate as well as an additional site in the Puligny-Montrachet lieu-dit of Noyers Bret. Three of the Alvina Pernot Premier Cru cuvées – La Pièce sous le Bois, Les Chalumaux and Champ Gain – are at some of the highest altitudes in the Puligny and Meursault appellations. While Alvina admits it is difficult to generalise, these higher-altitude vineyards produce wines that are less opulent and more tense. There is however a noticeable difference in the Premier Cru La Pièce sous le Bois in Meursault. While the altitude brings distinct freshness, the soil is not the same limestone rock of Puligny. It is a thicker clay more typical of Meursault. Despite the altitude, the wine therefore has weight and power, but with an added freshness unusual for lower sites in Meursault and showcases the brilliant contrast of power and vibrancy Alvina brings to the appellation.  Discover more about Alvina Pernot or read more Editorial 

The Pernot family has been making wine in Puligny-Montrachet since the 1950s – but today Alvina Pernot is striking out to forge a reputation of her own. We talked to her about the decision to break away from the family domaine, and how her wines differ from those of her father  

Alvina Pernot's family has been making wine in Puligny-Montrachet since the 1950s – but today she is striking out on her own. She tells us how and why

The Pernots of Puligny

The Pernots of Puligny: a family divided by tradition and modernity

Ernst Bretz

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