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  

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

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

Exploring Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Corton-Charlemagne: the Grand Cru of the future?  

Long ago, we wrenched grapevines from their natural habitat. Enthusiastic creepers, their shoots and tendrils are designed to cling onto whatever they can as they grow; winding themselves around trees or other plants in the wild. But we dragged vines out of the forest and forced them into rigid trellises, taming their wayward growth to produce a crop that served our purpose. Now, however, there’s a movement to re-integrate trees and plants into viticulture.  Cheval Blanc is one of the most famous proponents of agroforestry, which is a key part of its manifesto on a modern approach to viticulture. Augustin Fromageot – who now works full time at Anjou’s Domaine Belargus – was one of the team involved in the project, planting over 4,000 trees at the estate in two years. Until then, Fromageot – a trained geologist – had been working in South America, largely in cocoa and coffee, but the vine was calling. The team converted the estate into a laboratory of sorts – experimenting with different ways to integrate trees, within rows, replacing rows, in copses and borders or any other way you can imagine planting them alongside vines, all set to be followed in scientific programmes to track what works and what doesn’t. Now he’s doing a similar thing at Belargus, managing their extensive nature reserve and working to increase biodiversity on the estate – working to manage the landscape, as he sees it.  It’s an oversimplification to suggest that vines have gone directly from wild creepers to industrialised monocultures. Historically, farming was poly-cultural, a smallholding contained everything a family needed – and vines often formed part of that. Pergola trellising, for example, allowed for other crops to be planted beneath, while trees being used as a living trellis was not uncommon – often referenced as married vines, the Roman method of arbusta (favoured by Pliny, for example) – and grown alongside each other, culture en hautain, cultura mista or joualle. It’s this latter method, favoured in southwest France a century or so ago, that Cheval Blanc has in part been trialling, with individual trees replacing vines within a row. It looks beautiful, however brings its own complications, limiting mechanisation. It is, as Fromageot, says, a “poetic” way to integrate trees. You’ll still find vines trained up trees in Bolivia, in the Cinti Valley (as for the Jardín Oculto project), although these are ancient examples – and few would plant vines like this today. It’s an impractical way to farm, at the end of the day, one that only worked on a very small scale, but it’s clear that industrialisation has pushed monocultures too far – and agroforestry is one way in which producers are trying to fix the damage done.  Trees are remarkable in many ways, but they can have a huge impact on a vineyard. Their physical presence can influence the microclimate – protecting a vineyard from frost, heat and wind, as well as acting as a physical barrier between neighbouring properties – preventing any unwanted sprays drifting into your vines. They increase biodiversity – providing a habitat for insects and animals, in particular bats, and they absorb carbon dioxide. They reduce soil erosion (with topsoil erosion a major threat to agriculture worldwide) and increase organic matter, which in turn increases soil’s water-holding capacity – a major plus in dry regions. For Fromageot, trees help to create a resilience in the vineyard, reinforcing the vines’ natural defences, and therefore reducing the number of treatments required.   It’s easy to look at such a list and understand the principles at play. Clearly there are benefits for the environment – but what does it mean for the wine in your glass? Well, a lot, potentially. As few as five trees will influence the microclimate in a 100-metre radius; they can reduce the temperature in a parcel by as much as 2-3°C, preserving acidity, lowering alcohol and retaining precision in the aromatics. And, shielding a vineyard from extreme frost or heat, as well as providing better water reserves in the soils, allows for a more consistent yield, all of which is beneficial with climate change – with both more extreme weather conditions and global warming.  Of course, it’s not quite as simple as it sounds. “It teaches us an immense humility,” Fromageot tells me, as I start asking him about the world of agroforestry, and more specifically vitiforestry. He’s more than aware that agroforestry has become a buzzword in wine – it's suddenly very trendy. But there’s a lot of work involved in planting and managing trees. For starters, deciding where and how to plant trees is key. Their ability to influence microclimate can be both good and bad – with the potential to create frost pockets, to increase humidity, reduce airflow and therefore disease pressure. “You need to read the landscape,” Fromageot explains.  You also have to decide what sort of tree to plant, as well as the rootstock, ensuring it will complement viticulture. The first thing Fromageot does when taking on a project is look at all the local nurseries to understand the native varieties. Fruit trees are common, but as he notes, you need to ensure it has a different harvest time to grapes to avoid any conflict – he looks to apples, pears and prunes, in particular, highlighting how challenging peaches and apricots can be. Otherwise, the likes of maple, ash, mulberry, black poplar, hornbeam and linden can all work – essentially trees that share the same type of mycorrhizae (the microorganisms that attach to roots) as vines. You want to avoid anything that might taint your wine, or anything that will inhibit growth – such as walnut trees, which produce a toxic compound, juglone.  Trees have significantly different requirements to vines, needing different equipment and expertise to thrive, with – for example – extensive fertilisation to establish trees, which need richer soils. Trees will – wherever they are planted – occupy space that could otherwise be used for vines, yielding additional crop. And it’s a slow process, with it taking around a decade for trees to start influencing viticulture in a meaningful way, says Fromageot. All of this costs time and money – making agroforestry a luxury that not all producers can afford, although Fromageot feels that trees can be integrated in a different way for producers working at scale.  Alain Canet – an agronomist and specialist in agroforestry – argues that re-introducing trees is crucial for agriculture. “For some soils it is already too late,” he writes. “But for most, we have time to act... In agroecological terms, the transition to trees is the transition to life.”  There are many scientific reasons to favour vitiforestry, but for Fromageot there is a more compelling reason: the landscape fixes people to a geography, to a place, and that – he argues – is essential for making fine wine. Beauty in the landscape you live and work in helps us “find sense in life”, he tells me. Romantic? Maybe. But with the science to back it up, it’s hard not to be persuaded that trees line the way to a more sustainable future – in wine, yes, but in wider agriculture too. 

Agroforestry is the latest trend to take over the world of fine wine – but why? We sat down with Domaine Belargus’s Augustin Fromageot to find out why trees might just be the key to sustainable viticulture 

Agroforestry is the latest trend to take over the world of fine wine – but why? We sat down with Domaine Belargus’s Augustin Fromageot to find out more

Trees and wine: exploring the world of vitiforestry

Putting down roots: the world of vitiforestry 

Bodegas Roda has always strived to be a modern force in Rioja – not dictated by tradition and the region’s strict requirements when it comes to ageing. The estate was founded as recently as 1987, by Mario Rotllánt Solá and Carmen Daurella de Aguilera, who enlisted the help of Rioja expert Agustín Santolaya. Since then it has quickly risen up the ranks and is today regarded as one of the region’s top producers.  From the start, their philosophy has been centred around sourcing the finest clones of Tempranillo. It has proven to be remarkably successful in producing very pure expressions of Rioja, not dominated by oak, but that also age beautifully. These wines are some of Spain’s most exciting, sitting amongst a cohort of producers dedicated to finding the true potential of the country’s indigenous grapes, with old vines and top terroirs. Only made in the best vintages, Cirsion is Bodegas Roda’s top wine – a wine that defies the notion that the best wines should see the longest oak maturation. On the contrary, Roda’s Cirsion sees the shortest time in oak of all its cuvées – just six to eight months, depending on the vintage. The wine was first made as an experiment in 1997, with just 3,000 bottles. The aim was to celebrate Tempranillo’s character by using fruit from only the oldest vines and best clones. Each vine would be individually assessed and picked at optimum ripeness. The result is a wine with seamless tannins and exceptional fruit purity. Cirsion’s appearance on the wine scene challenged the idea that highly concentrated Tempranillo required significant oak ageing to tame its astringent tannins. Roda proved that if the grapes are good enough, the fruit could shine without a cloaking of oak. Despite the shorter time in barrel, tasting through older vintages proves the wines’ ageability. Winemaker Agustín Santolaya remembers at the release of their first vintage that the critics found it so accessible they thought it wouldn’t age well. Tasting the 2004 today is proof they were wrong. The wine is still maturing, full of life and all the more complex for it, as the tertiary notes mingle with beautifully fresh fruit and fragrant heather notes. At the heart of the wine is a core of pristine fruit, something that is retained even with age. It is a wine of great purity and elegance. Tasting through older vintages of Cirsion shows how the balance and quality of fruit in a wine is essential, and sometimes more important than oak ageing, when it comes to producing red wines that will age effortlessly. Bodegas Roda wines 2004 Cirsion There is a real brightness to the 2004 and today it sits firmly in its drinking window, although the overall balance and concentration will see it hold here for some years yet. It has a really inviting nose of red aniseed and dark spice alongside more tertiary moss and forest floor notes. The fruit is on the darker black berry spectrum with vibrant acidity making it feel so lively on the palate. There is lovely volume and weight to the wine, the tannins now fully resolved and melded with the fruit. (100% Tempranillo, 14.5% alcohol) 2009 Cirsion A key principle of Cirsion’s philosophy is to show the imprint of the vintage, the wine made entirely from that vintage – not such a common practice in Rioja. This is abundantly clear when tasting the 2009 and 2010 side by side. As Santolaya admitted, the ‘09 is a lot more tannic and less resolved than both the ’10 and ’04 – likely, he believes, the result of water stress in what was a very warm and dry (Mediterranean) vintage. The ’09 is texturally layered with lots of lovely ripe fruit and still silken, but with a bitter twist on the finish. It is a less typical vintage for Cirsion and, versus the exceptional 2010, a little more ordinary, but still very good. (100% Tempranillo, 14.5% alcohol) 2010 Cirsion The 2010 today is still very youthful – but the balance is fantastic – the tannins are plentiful but silken, the wine full of energy, with mouth-watering acidity and a dense, coiled-spring-like tension to the palate. At 11 years of age, the tertiary flavours are only just beginning to show. It has years ahead of it and will be wonderful to taste with another five years in bottle. The 2010 really captures the Cirsion philosophy of fruit purity above all else. The 2010 has proved to be a great vintage for Roda all round. (100% Tempranillo, 14.5% alcohol) 2018 Cirsion The 2018 is the latest release and while its tannins are nicely ripe and resolute, tasting alongside the 2010, you feel Cirsion (despite its youthful approachability) really benefits from at least five to 10 years in bottle. Its puppy fat stage is still quite oak laden, but again, the refined tannins are impressive and rare to find in Tempranillo of this concentration and richness. It will no doubt blossom with more time in bottle. (90% Tempranillo and 10% Graciano, 14.5% alcohol) Browse all Roda listings or read more Editorial

Bodegas Roda has always done things a bit differently in Rioja. Their prestige cuvée Cirsion is a perfect example, proving the top wines of the region don’t have to be dominated by oak

Exploring how top Rioja doesn't always have to be dominated by oak, with Bodegas Roda and the perfect example of their prestige cuvée Cirsion 

Finding Tempranillo’s true potential

Bordeaux is incredibly varied – with hugely different styles of wine produced across its appellations. Here, we run through everything you really need to know about each of the main subregions – and the best estates in each  

Explore Bordeaux, subregions, their wines and top estates – in Saint-Estephe, Pauillac, Saint-Julien, Margaux, Graves, Pessac-Leognan, Pomerol, Saint-Emilion 

Your guide to Bordeaux’s subregions, wines and top producers

Your guide to Bordeaux’s subregions   

The glitterati of the food world gathered in Antwerp last night to celebrate the World’s 50 Best Restaurants. It’s perhaps no surprise that Copenhagen’s Noma came out on top yet again (with its original location having won four times before, 2010-2012 and 2014). René Redzepi’s iconic New Nordic concept, championing the finest foraged ingredients and the art of fermentation, is rightfully at the top of many gastronomic wish lists.  This year’s list includes eight new entries – including Lido 84 (Gardone Riviera, Italy) which came in at no 15. Other new entries were: Diverxo (no 20 – Madrid, Spain), Burnt Ends (no 34 – Singapore), SingleThread (no 37 – Healdsburg, USA), Florilège (no 39 – Tokyo, Japan), Atomix (no 43 – New York, USA), Nobelhart & Schmutzig (no 45 – Berlin, Germany) and Wolfgat (no 50 – Paternoster, South Africa).  Hong Kong’s The Chairman climbed a massive 31 places to no 10, while two chefs earnt special recognition. Victor Arguinzoniz of Asador Etxebarri (Atxondo, Spain) was named Chefs’ Choice and Will Goldfarb (Room4Dessert – Bali, Indonesia) took home the title of the World’s Best Pastry Chef. Steirereck (Vienna, Austria) won the Art of Hospitality Award and Boragó (Santiago, Chile) was recognised for its sustainability. Spain and the US were confirmed as gourmet hotspots – each having six restaurants in the top 50.   Previous winners of the top spot include El Bulli (2002, 2006-2009), The French Laundry (2003-2004), The Fat Duck (2005), El Celler de Can Roca (2013, 2015), Osteria Francescana (2016, 2018), Eleven Madison Park (2017) and Mirazur (2019).  The list is decided by 1,000 industry experts who vote for the establishments they feel are the best. Voters are given certain freedom, with no strict criteria to consider – and previous winners of the coveted number-one spot are no longer allowed to vote. The 1,000 voters are food writers, critics, chefs, restaurateurs – in short the globe’s most experienced diners. The group is evenly split between male and female, with a panel of 40 members in 26 different regions. Each year, 25% of any panel has to change. The process and results are even independently adjudicated by Deloitte.  The 2021 awards are based on a combination of pre-pandemic votes and more recent updates, depending on restrictions in each region.  The top 10 restaurants in the world 2021  Noma (Copenhagen, Denmark)  Geranium (Copenhagen, Denmark)  Asador Etxebarri (Atxondo, Spain)  Central (Lima, Peru)  Disfrutar (Barcelona, Spain)  Frantzén (Stockholm, Sweden)  Maido (Lima, Peru)  Odette (Singapore)  Pujol (Mexico City, Mexico)  The Chairman (Hong Kong)  Explore the full list here 

After a year off, the 2021 edition of the World’s 50 Best Restaurants has been announced. Here’s a run-down of the year’s biggest winners – and the establishments that should be on any post-pandemic dining hit list 

A rundown of the 2021 World’s 50 Best Restaurants biggest winners – and the establishments that should be on any post-pandemic dining hit list 

The best restaurants in the world right now

Lebanon's lost legacy: viticulture Despite being more southerly than the great wine regions of Europe, the Beka'a’s elevated altitude on average around 1000m above sea level – means that it’s a full 10ºC cooler than Lebanon’s Mediterranean coastline. The climate is positively European with wet, often snowy winters and warm, dry summers. It’s very well suited to winemaking, a local craft that dates back millennia. Lebanon itself is geographically situated in the cradle of civilisation. It was here, even before
the Greeks and Romans emerged as dominant cultures in the Mediterranean, and the Canaanites (later known as Phoenicians), peace-loving traders from the Levant, established some of the earliest known well-organised cities: the trading ports of Byblos, Sidon and Tyre. Phoenician culture was at its peak between 1500 and 300BC – a period that saw them explore and dominate the Mediterranean, developing trade routes, setting up outposts and cities as far afield as North Africa (Carthage, now Tunis, Tunisia) and the Iberian peninsula (Gadir, now Cádiz, Spain). The word ‘Phoenician’ directly connects the people of the Levant with both an impressive entrepreneurial spirit and an awe-inspiring work ethic. More precisely, it is an exonym originating from ancient Greek that describes Tyrian purple. This highly prized dye was a major export of the Canaanite port towns, in particular Tyre, hence the name. The labour-intensive production of the colour involved collecting the mucous secretions of thousands of sea snails. 12,000 snails yield a paltry 1.5 grams of dye – which is why it was so highly prized and the clothes it coloured were reserved for royalty. Tyrian purple was not the only ingenious product that the Phoenicians exported. Their legacy also includes the invention of glass-blowing techniques, and the development of the very first abstract (non-figurative) writing system (from which the Greek alphabet was derived) is credited to the Phoenicians and their Canaanite ancestors. It was almost certainly developed primarily to keep records of sales and ultimately function as an essential accounting tool. We also have the Phoenicians to thank for the word ‘Europe’ – which comes from their word ‘Erob’ meaning ‘where the sun sets’. While it is thought that the world’s first-ever wine was made over 8,000 years ago in the Caucasus Mountains between the Black and Caspian Seas to the northeast of the Levant, it was the Phoenicians that produced, exported and made famous the ‘fragrant wines of Lebanon’ mentioned in the Bible’s old testament (Hosea 14:7). And with their grip on Mediterranean trade, they marketed it and exported it along with, crucially, the knowledge of how to make it. The agricultural treatises of Carthaginian writer Mago, (thought to be writing around 350 BC) were among the most important early texts in the history of wine to record ancient knowledge of winemaking and viticulture. It’s important to remember the function of wine in society in Phoenician times. It wasn’t just a drink. It was, rather like the Tyrian purple dye, complicated and labour intensive to make, exceptionally highly prized and valuable and not just because of how it tasted – but because of its effect and function.  Biomolecular Archaeologist Professor Pat McGovern at the University of Pennsylvania Museum is a specialist in fermented beverages and his research reveals more about wine in Phoenician life. “The wines of ancient Lebanon and Syria,” he says, “were much more than a technological marvel. They were the social lubricants to break down barriers, stimulate music and the arts and bring people together. They were the supreme religious symbol for prosperity and well-being, in life as well as death. And they were the medicines for dissolving and dispensing botanicals, to rest the weary, relieve pain and cure disease.” Taking their wine to the Pharoahs of Egypt and further west to Portugal to trade it for local silver and tin, Phoenician winemaking equipment has been discovered in Valepeñas in Spain. As Phoenicians established Cádiz (Spain) as early as 1100BC, it is most likely that Phoenician wines – not Roman wines – were the forerunners to sherry. Perhaps the most enduring legacy of these seafaring traders was, in fact, the propagation of ancestral grapevines from the Levant that ampelographers believe gave rise to several modern grape varieties in Europe. According to research published by the University of California-Davis on the Integrated Viticulture Online Database, the French wine grape Mourvèrde may have first been introduced to the wine region of Catalonia around 500BC. By 64BC, Seleucid Syria and Lebanon had been annexed to the Roman empire by emperor Pompey. Peace and prosperity followed as the people of Byblos, Tyre and Sidon were granted Roman citizenship. Trade boomed and new wealth generated from exports of cedar, pottery, jewellery, perfume, purple dye and wine to Rome, enabled an era of widespread construction and urban development. One of the building projects the Romans invested in at this time was the enhancement of the already millennia-old temple complex at Baalbek in the Beka'a Valley. At a site which the Greeks and the Romans referred to as Heliopolis 'the City of the Sun' (where Phoenician god Ba’al had once been worshipped), the Romans rebuilt and reconsecrated the temples to their gods Jupiter, Venus and Bacchus, gods of wine, fertility, ritual madness, festivity, dance and theatre. The 700-acre site remains, to this day, the largest and best preserved Roman temple complex anywhere in the Empire. How the ancients moved the 800-ton quarried stone blocks that form the base of the temples still baffles the world’s brightest engineers. The temple to Bacchus at Baalbek is a monument to the importance of wine in the region, and the site became a symbol of Lebanon itself in the 1960s, thanks to the cultural impact of the Baalbek International Festival. Established in the mid-1950s, the festival brought celebration, theatre, music and dance back to the site through performances by international music stars and, crucially, nurtured and celebrated home-grown talent, perhaps most famously Fairouz and the Rahbani Brothers who became huge stars in Lebanon and right across the Arab world. Lebanon’s potent winemaking heritage is not lost on the makers of Chateau Musar. Far from it. As well as its vineyards in the Beka'a, the winery also grows vines near Byblos and the Hochar family’s charismatic winemaker, Tarek Sakr, is as passionate about the history of the land as he is about the grapes he grows there. “Byblos has been known since Phoenician times as an exporter of cedar wood and wine,” he enthuses. “Vines were cultivated in the hills surrounding Byblos, fermented in stone vats dug into the landscape. Then, the wine was put in Canaanite jars (these were the predecessor of the Greek amphora – yes, Phoenicians invented these too), sealed with resin to stop oxidation, and taken to the harbour for export.” Tarek also tells of a recently discovered archaeological site in the village of Edde a few kilometres from Byblos. “The site suggests that most of the hills near the city have been growing vines for thousands of years. This makes sense as the place where our nearby vineyards are located, on a hill overlooking Byblos, is called Vines Passage. You can smell the history of winemaking here. This is undoubtedly the birthplace of viticulture.” While he has spent many years planting and tending to its vines as an integral part of the Musar winemaking process, Tarek’s knowledge of and connection to the land and its ancient traditions run even deeper than his many years of experience. The result of a DNA test found that he is genuinely of Phoenician descent. It would seem that when it comes to Lebanon’s unrivalled contribution to the world of wine, we still have much to thank the Phoenicians for. Explore more Editorial 

Most of Chateau Musar’s vines are grown in Lebanon’s Beka'a Valley, a fertile plain about 30km east of Beirut, situated between Mount Lebanon on the west and the Anti-Lebanon mountains to the east. 

Most of Chateau Musar’s vines are grown in Lebanon’s Beka'a Valley. We look into the viticultural legacy of the region and the impact of the cultural heritage

The wines of Lebanon

The wines of Lebanon: a phoenician phenomenon

Truffles: small, gnarly things. Equally ugly and alluring. Pungently intoxicating. Deliciously rare – and undeniably expensive. Alexandre Dumas described truffle as “the holy of holies”. Rossini called it “the Mozart of mushrooms”. Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin said just the name “awakens erotic and gastronomic ideas”. There’s something magical about the way these funghi lie just out of sight. The elusive treasures lurk beneath an otherwise unassuming forest floor, found only with the help of a specially trained hound. Once unearthed, however, they become the centrepiece to the world’s most expensive dishes, prized by Michelin-starred chefs and gourmands alike. They aren’t just another ingredient, however, there’s theatre to their presentation: the stage set in the kitchen, then served with a flourish tableside. For Rowan Jacobsen, author of the recently published Truffle Hound, one sniff was enough to keep him on the trail for three years. The Vermont-based writer was in Barolo in 2018 and on his way to the table, when he passed a giant white truffle under a glass cloche. Instinctively he lifted the dome: “I didn’t even make it to the table. Such a crazy smell. I was destroyed at the luncheon – I kept thinking about the truffle,” he tells me. That one flare of the nostrils had him hooked, and he’s been following truffle hunters around Europe ever since. His book follows his adventures – discovering “dreamers, schemers, and some extraordinary dogs” along the way. Piedmont is considered the home of the truffle – with the annual fair in Alba (running from October to December) the epicentre of the trade. White truffles (tuber magnatum), as found in Alba, are the crème de la crème of the truffle world – distinctly seasonal, flourishing in the autumn and winter. This brief window of opportunity is key to their appeal. As Donald Edwards, Head Sommelier at La Trompette, says, “What else can you have where the stopwatch of deliciousness is literally ticking by the table?” Of course, not all truffles are created equal. Black truffles are a third or a quarter of the price of white truffles and offer a very different aroma. Jacobsen describes “more pungent, more overwhelming” and “invigorating” scent of white truffle as “garlic, salami, almost gasoline” versus the “comforting, soothing, round” notes of “cured olives, cocoa and hazelnut” that he associates with black truffles. And while there is only one white truffle, there are two types of black truffle: the black winter truffle (or Périgord, tuber melanosporum, now mostly grown in Spain) and the black summer truffle (tuber aestivum, sometimes known as the Burgundy truffle but found all over northern Europe, including southern England). The latter, more widespread breed is not nearly as intense as its winter sibling, meaning more is needed for the same impact. One reason that white truffles carry such a premium is also that they have – so far – proven impervious to cultivation (although scientists in France have recently claimed to have cracked this). The truffle hunters, or trifulau, in Piedmont are therefore unsurprisingly secretive about where they find their treasure. Often speaking only a local dialect, these foragers roam the woods – often under the cover of darkness in search of “white gold”. Their dog will sniff their way to the right spot, pawing the ground and patiently waiting for their master to dig up their bounty. “It’s a billion-dollar industry totally dependent on dogs’ noses,” Jacobsen says, laughing at the absurdity. While the hunters might avoid the limelight, it’s not the case when it comes to their dogs, Jacobsen tells me. The canine connection is taken to the next level when you also depend on a four-legged friend for your livelihood. While pigs were the original snouts charged with sniffing out truffles, hunters switched to dogs in the 17th and 18th centuries. Lagotto Romagnolo is the “traditional” truffle-hunting breed (and comes with an associated premium, given their potential return), but today almost any dog is used. They simply need to be trained and have the right nose for the job. “Good ones are amazing,” Jacobsen tells me. “They can find a truffle 50 yards away in the forest and they just know it’s there.” Trifulau Luigi Rosso has been – along with his dog Danko (aged seven) – sniffing out the good stuff for 30 years. While it might look easy, he says that it’s incredibly difficult and can be dangerous for both hunters and their dogs, traipsing through forests in the dark. It is, however, all worth it for him. “The tranquillity that is in the air while you go for the truffles. The moon, the silence and only the sound of your footsteps on the damp leaves, then the joy of your dog when it finds one…” he tells me. The unique scent of truffle is what drives connoisseurs to seek them out – bidding on the finest examples for extortionate sums. “I feel like they've evolved to hit some deep pleasure receptors in our brains. When they're good you just want to luxuriate in them,” Edwards says. William Lowe MW – the man behind Cambridge Distillery – set about capturing the elusive flavours of truffle in his quest to create a digestif-style gin. The idea was born when looking at the digestif trolley in a Michelin-starred restaurant – and a sommelier who was scornful at the idea of a gin worthy of joining its ranks of fine Cognac and single malt whisky. “If you look at those rare and mature examples, you’ll see that the oxidative maturation process creates these beautiful earthy aromatic profiles sometimes referred to as ‘forest floor’. We wanted to achieve this profile through distillation rather than maturation, and truffles gave us the perfect route to do so,” Lowe says. “It took me a very, very long time. Because truffles are hard to deal with. They are packed full of volatiles, which is to say that truffles smell more than they taste,” the Master Distiller explains. “If you think it through – every time you open a door to a restaurant that is serving truffles, bang you get it straight away. But if you look at the food they serve truffles on and it’s always almost neutral dishes: creamy pasta, mushroom risotto. It’s never on super flavoursome dishes because if it is, you can’t taste the truffle anymore.” The challenge, however, was capturing something that doesn’t want to be caught, and finding the right level of truffle. “With truffle, chefs will normally do one of two things: either they’ll know you know it’s expensive so they’ll use loads of it so you can’t taste anything else for the rest of the meal – or they’ll do the opposite. They know that you know it’s expensive so they use so little that it’s the Emperor’s new clothes – you sort of have to search for it. It takes a genuinely skilled chef to use truffle well. And using it well is when you get all of that amazing aroma but you can still taste the other things.” This was what Lowe was aiming for – but it wasn’t easy. He spent months refining the distillation technique for truffle, but the flavour was only “ok”. He went back to the drawing board and decided that the problem was the truffle he was using – black wouldn’t cut it. “We went straight to Piemonte – white truffles from Alba. Gram for gram, worth more than gold […] and it came out and tasted a lot better than gold does so that’s an easy trade,” says Lowe. For trifulau Rosso, you need at least 10 grams on a dish (whereas, he says dismissively, restaurants will often only use a measly five) – with homemade tagliarini top of his list, although he also suggests trying it on panna cotta. He considers Pelaverga – a rare red variety that’s native to Piedmont – the classic pairing, but otherwise goes for one of the region’s other reds, Barbera, Barbaresco or Barolo. These are undoubtedly the classic pairings, following the simple rule of what grows together goes together. However, Jacobsen or Edwards don’t agree. “It couldn’t be more wrong. It really requires a white. The tannins clash with the aromatics,” Jacobsen says. The truffle specialist opts for Champagne, white Burgundy or cool-climate Californian Chardonnay – even Beaujolais. As for Edwards, he likes something that plays on the delicacy’s textural quality: “They work so well with buttery, umami-laden cheese sauces that I can't not want really classy Chardonnay. I want bâtonnage, I want really expensive but underplayed oak and I want ripeness with a gimlet-eyed stare of terroir behind. Basically, Burgundy, Mornington or the best of the Santa Rita Hills (I'll accept that other places also make perfect wines for this), plus if I can have a few years in bottle to build that sous bois flavour connection then all the better.” At the time of writing, we’re in the midst of the 2021 truffle season – one that has brought eye-watering prices. The hot, dry summer in Piedmont (unlike the wet conditions experienced in northern Europe) has led to a tiny crop – some say the smallest in history, driving prices up. Bloomberg has declared it “The Great White Truffle Crisis”. The white truffle needs such specific conditions that climate change, and – as Rosso tells me – the warmer autumns in Piedmont, pose a serious threat. While we consider Alba the spiritual home of white truffles, today most come from elsewhere. Both Central Italy and Le Marche, but also Romania, Serbia, Croatia and Hungary are all now hotspots for truffle hunting. Many of these regions are benefiting from the shift in climate, now having the ideal conditions to nurture the rare tuber magnatum. As for black truffles, the summer variety can now be found as far north as Sweden, but drought conditions mean that irrigation is becoming essential for existing orchards. Beyond climate, there are other challenges. In Piedmont, there are fewer forests than there once were, with more profitable vineyards replacing woodland (another reason that hunters are looking elsewhere). Also, the local trifulau are – in general – an ageing group. One truffle hunter, Carlo Marenda, has established a non-profit, Save the Truffle, to try and protect the region’s truffle hunting heritage – both by passing on the tradition to younger people and protecting the forests, nurturing the right environment for truffle growth. “It used to be that these forests were very actively used by farmers, peasants – fallen wood for firewood, leaves for animal bedding etc. So forests didn’t have a lot of undergrowth,” Jacobsen explains. “But then the world changed.” With the forest floor not being cleared, decaying matter acidified the soil – something that truffles hate. Truffles thrive in high pH soils, which is why they’re found on beds of limestone. To ensure the forests provide a welcoming home for the tubers, it’s essential they’re managed correctly. While there are certainly challenges to preserving the truffle’s place in Piedmont, the good news for gastronomes is that these tubers aren’t disappearing – just moving. After three years on the trail, Jacobsen is as enchanted by truffles as when he began. But he’s less keen on the hierarchy that comes with them. There are, he says, plenty more species of truffle beyond those currently on the market – but hunters can’t sell them, so keep them for themselves. He hopes the truffle culture will shift to grassroots foraging, rather than “waiters in tuxedos grating your precious morsel over your pasta”. However it reaches your table, it’s clear that the truffle holds a special allure – and the transience of its elusive scent, fading with the seasons, is what keeps us on the hunt. Truffle Hound is out now. Explore more Editorial 

Love them or loathe them, truffles are undoubtedly some of the most majestic ingredients on the planet. But, with a changing climate and an ageing cohort of specialist truffle hunters, the future of this rare delicacy is uncertain. Sophie Thorpe explores

Truffles are undoubtedly some of the most majestic ingredients on the planet. But the future of this rare delicacy is uncertain. Sophie Thorpe explores

Chasing truffles

Brizard Roma

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