If you ever catch the train into Saint-Emilion, you’ll notice that it runs through the heart of the region’s vines. Just behind the station, on the outskirts of the village, lies Ch. Haut-Simard – an unassuming property that just happens to be owned by the Vauthiers – the same family that is behind Ch. Ausone, one of the region’s most famous estates. Over 15 years after the Vauthier family took over the estate, it’s emerging from the shadows – proving just how good a site it is.  Ch. Simard and Haut-Simard – both owned by the Vauthier family today – were once part of the same property, which dates back to the 16th century, named by the Simard family in 1865. When the railway line between Libourne and Bergerac was built in 1870, it ran straight through the vineyards and divided the estate in two. The railway slices across the foot of the slopes of Saint-Emilion, neatly dividing two different terroirs. North of the railway line lies Haut-Simard with more clay and limestone, while the larger Simard lies to the south on sandier soils.   In 1917, the four hectares of the original Haut-Simard were purchased by Leonard and Charlotte Gratadoux. They built a new house and cellar in 1929 – which is still in use today. Claude “Coco” Mazière – Edouard Vauthier’s great-uncle – bought the winery and 10 hectares of vineyard in 1954, the original Haut-Simard and a slice of Simard. Gradually he acquired the rest of the Simard estate and expanded Haut-Simard, with the two estates growing to 50 hectares in total – and, although the two wines were long made separately, from the 1990s Mazière put all the fruit into Ch. Simard.  Great-uncle Coco managed the estates through to his death in 2008. “He passed away almost in his office,” Edouard tells me – emphasising how Mazière worked almost obsessively to the end of his days. When he died, Alain Vauthier – Edouard’s father, who was already responsible for Ch. Ausone, Ch. Moulin Saint-Georges and Ch. de Fonbel – inherited the Simard estate.  “Look at the maps of the soil and look at where Ch. Haut-Simard is, it’s sand, a little bit of clay and a little bit of limestone – it’s a terroir totally suitable for Cabernet Franc,” Edouard explains. “When you dig a little bit, you realise the water table is 10-15 metres below. It’s very deep and very good soil that can produce a great wine.” Indeed, look at the property’s neighbours and you’ll find some illustrious names: Canon-la-Gaffelière, La Gaffelière, Pavie and Larcis-Ducasse are all a stone’s throw away. Haut-Simard may be a mere seven or eight metres above sea-level, but it’s enough to separate it from the flood plain where much of Simard sits.  Realising the potential, Alain decided to separate Simard and Haut-Simard once more (re-introduced from the 2008 vintage) and set about an extensive replanting program for the 10 hectares of Haut-Simard, putting in swathes of high-density (12,600 vines per hectare) Cabernet Franc in 2008, 2009 and 2010. Where the Haut-Simard vines once had around 80-85% Merlot, now 70% of the vineyard is dedicated to Cabernet Franc – focusing on quality rather than quantity.  Little has changed in the winery since it was built in 1929, and the team still uses the original concrete tanks. The fruit is all picked by hand, with density sorting now routinely used, spending around 20 days on skins, with délestage (rack and return) favoured over punch-downs/pump-overs to allow for gentle extraction. Once pressed off, the wine spends around 14 months maturing in around 20-30% one-year-old barrels and the rest in concrete.  As so much of the vineyard was ripped out, volumes were tiny in the Vauthiers’ first few vintages. Fruit from the young vines started being introduced from 2014 and the blend has continued to shift, with the 2022 the first to contain 70% Cabernet Franc. “It changed totally the game,” Edouard says – explaining how they’re finally seeing the fruits of their labours. Even now, only 2,500 cases are produced each year.  For Edouard, the Merlot on sandier parcels brings notes of strawberry, while on limestone it adds liquorice, complementing the Cabernet Franc’s dark fruit and green bell pepper. That dark fruit has built with each vintage as the new plantings come into the blend and vines mature, lending additional texture and structure. The average age in the vineyard is just 15-16 years now, only set to offer more as it matures. This might be a modest wine, but it’s one that has more than enough capacity to age. “I’m sure it will last 15 years with no problem,” says Edouard.   Tasting through a handful of vintages, it’s amazing to see the evolution of the Haut-Simard style -from the more solid 2016 through to the linear, bright, elegant 2022. It’s a wine that has impressed us en primeur for the last couple of years too – punching far above its weight.   Tasting Ch. Haut-Simard  2016 Ch. Haut-Simard: Plummy, sweet and round, this is full-bodied and concentrated, with real density to the fruit on the palate. It’s fresh, with a saline finish, yet there’s a solidity to this, not having the precision, brightness and aromatics of more recent vintages. Blend: 65% Merlot, 35% Cabernet Franc  2018 Ch. Haut-Simard: The nose of the 2018 Haut-Simard is instantly more expressive than the 2016 – combining red fruit and an herbaceous note with a toasty sweetness. It’s more linear on the palate. The intense core of fruit is rich and tightly packed, framed by grainy tannins at this relatively youthful stage. The finish is long and savoury, with a hint of blackcurrant leaf. Blend: 70% Merlot, 30% Cabernet Franc  2019 Ch. Haut-Simard: Floral, lifted and aromatic – the 2019 Haut-Simard is a world away from the previous vintage. Dainty berry fruit – blackcurrants and redcurrants – lead to an elegant, fine-boned palate. It’s precise and juicy, lithe and balanced with fine, chalky tannins. Blend: 60% Cabernet Franc, 40% Merlot  2022 Ch. Haut-Simard: The 2022 is the unashamed star of our mini-vertical of Haut-Simard, and the vintage Edouard Vauthier points to as a fulcrum point for the estate. The nose is sweet and bright, packed with seamless red berry fruit, along with hints of florals and pencil shavings. It is the palate that is so striking, however, driven and long, linear with graphite-etched tannins and mouthwatering acidity. Vibrant, pinpoint and very, very good – especially for the price. Blend: 70% Cabernet Franc, 30% Merlot  2024 Ch. Haut-Simard: The nose is perfumed, with intense cherries and lifted florals. There’s a lush intensity to the palate, with a mineral line that sup ports the fruit and complements the bright acidity. There’s lovely concentration here with fine tannins that provide a fine-boned framework. 12.7% and 3.74pH. Blend: 80% Cabernet Franc, 20% Merlot [tasted en primeur, May 2025]   Explore all current listings of Ch. Haut-Simard or read more about Bordeaux   

The Vauthier family may be most famous for Ch. Ausone, but they own several estates on the Right Bank. Over the last 15 years, Ch. Haut-Simard has seen particular investment. We sat down with Edouard Vauthier to talk about the property’s transformation – one that you can now taste in the glass 

Over the last 15 years, the Vauthier family has invested significantly in Haut-Simard. We sat down with Edouard Vauthier to talk about the evolution underway 

Change at Ch. Haut-Simard – the Vauthier family estate 

Shifting gears at Ch. Haut-Simard   

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

Some of Nicolas Champagneux’s earliest memories are of life in the vines – of the hubbub of harvest with his grandparents. It’s not the hard work that he recalls, it’s “des bons moments de famille” he tells me – the convivial spirit that infused the air. He grew up in the heart of Côte-Rôtie, spending weekends and holidays in his family’s vineyard – a swathe of Les Grandes Places, a prized site in the commune of Verenay, where his great-grandfather planted vines at the start of the 20th century.  Les Grandes Places is an extraordinary site – with the most famous producer arguably Jean-Michel Gérin. In the north of the Côte Brune, in a southwest-facing amphitheatre, this steep site has crumbly mica schist soils, which allow the vines’ roots to drive deep into the bedrock. It’s home to some very old vines – such as the centenarian plantings that Champagneux farms – and produces wines that are beautifully elegant yet with dark, fleshy power. Champagneux has almost two hectares here, having the largest holdings. Nicolas’s uncle André took over running the vineyard after his grandparents, while his father Gérard went to work in a factory. There wasn’t enough money for both brothers to join the family business back then, with Côte-Rôtie not nearly as sought-after as it is today. Other than a couple of barrels for personal consumption, the family didn’t make wine, farming the site and selling almost all the fruit to Guigal, one of the Northern Rhône’s most famous names.  Indeed, beyond the family vineyard, Nicolas spent a lot of time at Guigal – after his father Gérard left life on the factory floor to head up their viticulture team. From 16, Nicolas would work there in his holidays to earn some money. When Champagneux turned 18, he needed to find a job: he was determined not to work in an office and loved being outside, so he ended up becoming a high-wire electrician – working with huge currents of 20,000 volts. “You were never in the same place, each day was different, each task was different – so there was no monotony,” he says. He often finished his day early, and – a farmer born and bred, unaccustomed to the concept of relaxing – would go help in the family vineyard.  When his uncle passed away, there was no one else to take over the domaine – so he stepped up to the plate, keen to ensure his family’s heritage was preserved. He decided to start keeping the fruit and making wine under the family name, wanting to see the year’s efforts captured. He knew how to work the vines but had never dreamt of being a winemaker – but, never one to be put off by a challenge, he learnt on the job. That was 2014, and the wines have rapidly earned him a reputation in the region. The family cellar had the essentials, but the first few vintages were made with the bare minimum – with a new cellar built in 2016 (Yves Cuilleron advised on the project).  Almost a decade after he left the world of pylons, transformers and conductors behind, life might follow an annual cycle, but it’s as un-monotonous as it was before. Nicolas works as a one-man band and values the independence that brings – managing his own time and being his own boss. “There is still a lot to do and each year is different,” he tells me. He hopes his son will join him at some point – he was born in 2009, and his uncle put away a stash of wine from the vintage, some of which is set to be released for its 20th anniversary in 2029.   Climate change is at the forefront of his mind, with harvests now early September and even August versus October under his uncle. Where they used to struggle to get 13% potential alcohol, his wines often sit at 14-14.5%. He’s now working with grass cover, deleafing less and using a little whole bunch in warmer years to preserve freshness in the wines. Otherwise, little has changed in the decade since he started – he continues to work as simply as possible, looking to translate the vines he grew up amongst into wine. And that’s just what he does: the wines are elegant expressions of Les Grandes Places, perfumed and suave, with a fine grip of tannins and an underlying savoury salinity, ageing beautifully – as a mini-vertical of the 2015, 2016 and 2017 vintages showed recently.   The Nicolas Champagneux wines  From his four hectares of vines, Nicolas Champagneux makes three wines: an IGP Vin de Pays des Collines Rhodaniennes La Rémise and two Côte-Rôties, Les Grandes Places and La Dédicace, all made with 100% Syrah.   La Dédicace comes from the younger vines in Les Grandes Places, with a “mere” 40-60 years behind them on average. Around 6,000-7,000 bottles are produced of this “baby” Grandes Places.   Les Grandes Places comes from his oldest vines, averaging a little over 100 years in age, with some planted in 1910. Just 1,500 bottles or so are made of this wine each vintage.  Both the Côte-Rôtie wines are made in exactly the same way, mostly de-stemmed with  little whole-bunch added in warmer vintages and fermented with indigenous yeast, reaching a maximum 28-30°C, and spending around three weeks on skins. The wine then spends 20-24 months in old oak before bottling.  Nicolas Champagneux Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: a vertical tasting  2022 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: This is packed with spicy intensity – clove and cardamom along with a hit of Szechuan pepper. The palate offers a juicy lushness, layered with deep, concentrated dark cherry fruit and a twist of black tapenade, with mouth-coating tannins and all refreshed by a line of vibrant acidity. A baby now, best approached from 2030.  2021 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: A really impressive 2021, poised and powerful, Champagneux’s Les Grandes Places needs air but gradually reveals pepper spice and more delicate, lifted, violet florals. There is, however, power and weight to the palate – more than you might expect from the pretty nose, with a savoury firmness, supple but structured tannins and juicy acidity. It’s dark and brooding, gothic with its haunting florals, with a long, mouth-watering, saline finish. Approach from 2027.  2017 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: The 2017 Les Grandes Places combines delicate florals with a bloody, iron note on the nose, leading on to a palate layered with bramble fruit. The tannins are round, supple and soft-textured, with tangy acidity that cuts through the concentrated fruit, while the long finish is scented with white pepper and parma violets.  2016 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: This 2016 is in a gorgeous place. Heady incense combines with sweet cherry fruit and a touch of smoke on the nose, leading onto a palate that you sink into – the wine soft and supple, with waves of sweet fruit, yet all cut by an intensely saline, savoury edge. Fresh and flawlessly balanced, decant and enjoy now and over a good decade to come.   2015 Côte-Rôtie Les Grandes Places: The sternest of the trio of 2015, 2016 and 2017, this is a powerful and impressive vintage of Les Grandes Places – with all the best characteristics of the year. The wine is dark and broody, compact and amazingly primary still, with black cherry fruit and blackberry filling the nose. On the palate, however, it has amazing purity and intensity, with a crystalline quality to the fruit, plenty of acidity to complement its concentration and the firm tannins. Smoky, saline notes linger in the mouth, with a dusting of petal florals on the finish. Decant if opening now, but this will be even better if you can resist for another few years.  Explore all current listings from Nicolas Champagneux including a range of back-vintages or read more about the Rhône 

It’s almost a decade since Nicolas Champagneux took over his family’s vines and started making wine under his own name – the first generation to do so. We sat down with the vigneron to find out more about his heritage and the journey so far 

How the talented young vigneron in Cote-Rotie has taken his family’s legacy and created a new domaine that is one of the Rhone’s most exciting 

Nicolas Champagneux – building on his birthright 

Nicolas Champagneux: building on his birthright 

The Reynaud wines are the stuff of legend. Utter “Rayas” to a certain crowd and they will swoon. The singular style of this iconic Châteauneuf-du-Pape estate – pale, hauntingly aromatic, almost Burgundian in texture and incredibly long-lived – has a fervent following, a clan of Reynaud obsessives keen to seek out everything that Emmanuel Reynaud touched.  The property’s rustic charm – a far cry from the grandiose buildings of many famous estates – combined with the family’s inclination to shy away from their fame, happier quietly farming their vines, has only fanned the flames. Tucked away in the northern reaches of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Ch. Rayas and its owners are elusive – only making them more sought-after.   There is no shortage of praise for these rare and special wines – whose appeal, given the Reynaud’s minimal-intervention approach, broaches the worlds of fine and natural wine. William Kelley is a loyalist, and is one of several to note how well the property performs in “off-vintages” – where the property’s distinctive profile shines through, above and beyond the vintage and region, revealing their “captivating perfume, sensual textures and eternal youthfulness”. Robert Parker described the 1990 Rayas as “one of the greatest young red wines I have ever tasted”. For Nicolas Grainacher (Vinous), “The substance, finesse and intensity packed into these wines make it hard not to fall in love with them.” Neal Martin (Vinous) perhaps put it most concisely: “God invented wine to drink wines like this.”    The history of the Reynaud empire  In 1880, Albert Reynaud, a notary from Avignon, lost his hearing aged just 45. No longer able to work as a lawyer, he bought an estate in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, in an area called Rayas, where he saw out his days farming vines, apricots and olives. In 1910, his son Louis Reynaud took over running the estate. Louis had studied agriculture in Angers and was particularly interested in viticulture. He uprooted trees to plant new vineyards and bottled the property’s first wine in 1920 – using the name “Rayas”, the name of the forest on their parcel of land. It was the beginning of Rayas as we know it today.  Louis famously added the wording “Premier Grand Cru” to the Rayas labels, a self-pronounced classification of the wine – and notoriously defying the appellation rules (introduced in 1936). Building the property’s reputation and sales, he started expanding the business. Between 1935 and 1938 he bought Ch. des Tours in Vacqueyras, entrusting his son Bertrand with the larger 58-hectare property northeast of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, not far from the town of Orange. Around the same time, he built a new cellar and winery at Rayas, bringing the buildings within the appellation’s boundaries. After the Second World War in 1945, Louis purchased Ch. de Fonsalette, an estate further north of Orange, in Lagarde-Paréol – and, with that, the full suite of Reynaud properties was in place.  By the time Louis passed away in 1978, the Reynaud wines were some of the Rhône’s most famous.  
After his death, his youngest son Jacques took over Rayas and Fonsalette, while Bertrand continued to run Ch. des Tours. With the shift in ownership at Rayas and Fonsalette, quality dipped a little – but soon Jacques was making wines that lived up to the Reynaud name.  The old vines at Rayas, planted on sandy soils, facing north/northeast, surrounded by pine forest, produce wines of exceptional elegance and aromatic finesse, wines with haunting perfume, pale colour and almost Pinot-like delicacy, yet phenomenal persistence and ageability.   Jacques was renowned for being eccentric. A recluse, happiest in the vines and never keen to welcome visitors, he was rumoured to, on occasion, lie in a ditch to avoid journalists or other members of the trade. His aversion to the limelight surely only added to the wines’ allure. He died rather suddenly in 1997, while shoe shopping in Courthézon. Having no children of his own, his nephew Emmanuel – Bertrand’s son, who had been running Ch. des Tours since 1989 – inherited both Rayas and Fonsalette, taking the reins across all three properties.  The transition between Jacques and Emmanuel wasn’t seamless, as Emmanuel renovated the estate and replanted parts of the site, but by the early 2000s quality was once more living up to the Reynaud name. The style has shifted between generations, and while Jacques’s wines were more structured and solid, Emmanuel favoured more sensual, perfumed expressions. Over the last two decades, little has changed across the Reynaud properties – the wines’ mythical status only confirmed with each release. The new generation – Emmanuel’s sons Louis Damien and Benoît – are now continuing the family’s legacy.    The Reynaud philosophy  The approach at Reynaud is old-school – here, tradition reigns. Modern monoculture is not the method – with various crops across the estates, and biodiversity nurtured with swathes of woodland. The vines – all bush vined, many with significant age – are farmed in exactly the way as they’ve always been, organically with minimal inputs, ploughed by horse.  The fruit is all hand-harvested, whole-bunch fermented with indigenous yeast in cement tanks. Since Emmanuel took over, parcels have all been vinified separately. Macerations are gentle, generally under two weeks with a single pump-over a day. Ageing is in large, old oak, with no new wood used anywhere across the properties – indeed the youngest demi-muid or foudre at the estate may well be 30 years in age. Sulphur additions are minimal, with only a small amount at fermentation and a final addition at bottling, with the wines bottled unfined and unfiltered. The method is simplicity at its finest, focused on expressing each site – and the results speak for themselves. The wineries are rustic farm buildings, offering only the basic requirements, with no modern technology employed – and, given the wines produced, not needed.  Grenache is the core of all the Reynaud wines – the grape that thrives in their terroir and is the magic behind Rayas. Beyond Rayas, Cinsault is used to bring elegance and suppleness, while Syrah was long avoided – used only at Ch. de Fonsalette. Louis Reynaud believed the variety belonged in the Northern Rhône, and other than the small portion that made it into the Côtes du Rhône, the rest of the Syrah was sold off in bulk under his reign (often to local restaurants, who used it in their sauces). The Côtes du Rhône Syrah cuvée only introduced under Jacques Reynaud’s tenure, at first sold to the restaurants who had seen its quality in their sauces. There is no Mourvèdre at any of the estates, as Emmanuel Reynaud believed that their soils are too dry for the grape.  The Reynaud wines and estates  The Reynaud family comprises three distinct estates – Rayas, Fonsalette and Ch. des Tours, although Fonsalette doesn’t have its own winery.   Ch. Rayas  Rayas is the original Reynaud estate, purchased in 1880, and takes its name from the climat. In the northern reaches of Châteauneuf-du-Pape lie the 12 hectares of vines, surrounded by 11 hectares of forest. Forget the region’s stereotypical galets roulés or pudding stones, known for their ability to hold heat, Rayas sits on red, iron-rich, sandy soils, over richer clay. The soils are poor and the bush vines planted at low density, with a mere 2,500 vines per hectare – yielding just 10 to 20hl/ha. Significant replanting took place in the 1980s, meaning the vines now average 40 years in age, although there are still some survivors from the 1940s.  The site’s northern exposition combines with the influence of the wooded areas, offering shade and humidity, making for an extended growing season and preserving freshness in the wines. The Reynauds are among the last to harvest, often only picking in October/November, as much as two months after their neighbours. The resulting wines, however, do not speak of intense ripeness – but are all about elegance and finesse.  While Châteauneuf permits 13 red varieties, at Rayas you’ll find only Grenache Noir, with two hectares dedicated to white grapes – Grenache Blanc and Clairette. The Grenache vineyards can be divided into three section: Le Levant, Le Coeur and Le Couchant, each taking its name from its exposure to the sun – respectively as it rises, at its peak and as it sets. Writing for The World of Fine Wine, William Kelley describes the three components of the vineyard thus: “Le Levant is the most floral and ethereal, contributing the wine’s spine; Le Coeur is the most complete, contributing Rayas’s skeleton; and Le Couchant, with its richer, more compote-like fruit tones, brings the fat.”  The fruit is all hand-picked. The Grenache is kept on its stems, the whole bunches crushed before a gentle maceration for maximum two weeks (one pumpover a day) and indigenous-yeast fermentation. The wine is pressed off and aged in old foudre for a little under two years.  The delicacy and finesse of the resulting wine is reminiscent of top Burgundy. Pale in colour, Rayas is deeply aromatic, with haunting floral notes and an ethereal, silken texture that balances the wine’s earthy, savoury intensity. Between 1,200 and 1,500 cases of the flagship Châteauneuf-du-Pape are produced each year. The wines age beautifully and Emmanuel himself recommended waiting 20-25 years before opening a bottle of Rayas to fully experience its evolution.  The white grapes are planted across three parcels in Le Levant, comprising two hectares. The Grenache Blanc was planted in the 1940s, ’50s and ’95, with the Clairette planted in 1986. Fermented in old (80 to 100 years old) foudre, purchased second-hand by Louis Reynaud (Emmanuel’s grandfather), Rayas Blanc is a 50:50 blend of Grenache Blanc and Clairette, aged in old oak for around 11 months. The wine is made in extremely limited volumes, with only 400 or so cases produced each vintage. Rich yet poised, this rare white is immensely fragrant with notes of almond and white flowers, intensely mineral and textured, and can age for at least a decade.  Pignan is sometimes considered a “second wine” at Rayas, but it in fact comes from it own, specific site on the estate, a single two-hectare block surrounded by pine trees on the northern edge of the property with less sandy soils. Also pure Grenache, made in exactly the same way at Rayas, it offers a more immediate and approachable expression of the Rayas style, yet similar perfume, purity and structure – and is still capable of extended ageing. It can, on occasion – and especially in cooler vintages, rival its older sibling, Rayas. Around 650 cases are produced each year.  The Rayas wines are all only released when entering their drinking window, with the reds often only emerging from the estate over a decade after the harvest.  Ch. de Fonsalette  The “latest” addition to the Reynaud galaxy, Ch. de Fonsalette was purchased by Louis Reynaud in 1945. The property is large, covering 120 hectares in total, but with 12 hectares of vines in amongst woodland, farmland and olive groves, north of Orange in Lagarde-Paréol. Today it sits largely within the Côtes du Rhône Villages Massif d’Uchaux appellation (established in 2005), however the wines are all labelled just as Côtes du Rhône. Further north, the microclimate is cooler than at Rayas, and stylistically the wines are more restrained than those of Ch. des Tours, for example, but not as ethereal as those of Rayas.  The soils here are very different to those at Rayas with gravel, sand and red pudding stones. The vineyards are planted to Grenache, Cinsault and Syrah for red grapes, and Grenache Blanc, Clairette and Marsanne for whites. The vines are generally old, with the oldest planted in 1929.  The philosophy in the vineyard and winery is exactly the same as at Rayas – and, as the property doesn’t have a winery of its own, the wines are even made at Rayas. The reds are whole-bunch fermented, with a maximum two-week maceration and one pump-over a day. The wines are aged in a combination of enamel-lined tanks and large, old oak, bottled around a year or so later.   There are three wines in the range at Ch. de Fonsalette. The Côtes du Rhône Rouge is a blend of 50% Grenache, 35% Cinsault and 15% Syrah, the notably high percentage of Cinsault giving the wine particular lift and aromatic finesse – a wine that whispers and draws you in. There is a second red, a Côtes du Rhône Syrah which is 100% Syrah – a structured, dark-fruited wine that offers restrained power and quiet depth. Under Louis Reynaud, this was sold off in bulk, only first bottled under Jacques Reynaud (from 1978) and sold locally, largely to restaurants, before being offered more widely under Emmanuel. The Côtes du Rhône Blanc is a blend of 80% Grenache Blanc, 10% Clairette and 10% Marsanne, producing a textural and complex white with notes of stone fruit and herbs, and a saline undertow.  La Pialade  This wine is a slight anomaly in the Reynaud line-up. Only made in certain vintages, La Pialade Côtes du Rhône is vinified and aged at Rayas, made with declassified parcels from either Rayas or Ch. de Fonsalette. The blend is typically 85% Grenache, 15% Cinsault and 5% Syrah. Produced in tiny volumes, and even rarer given it isn’t made every year, it is often described as an “everyday Rayas” – more open in style, but can match Rayas for its subtlety and delicacy, even if it does not have the same depth.  Ch. des Tours   Purchased by Louis Reynaud in the late 1930s, Ch. des Tours was Emmanuel Reynaud’s home estate – having taken over running the property from his father Bertrand in 1989. As it was entrusted to Bertrand from the beginning, and never managed by Jacques Reynaud, the estate has always stood apart from Ch. Rayas and Ch. de Fonsalette – however all three have fallen under Emmanuel since 1997. Benoît – Emmanuel’s son, who studied oenology in Switzerland – has recently taken the lead at Ch. des Tours, having worked closely alongside his father.  The property gets its name from the towers or tours that frame the château building. Located in Vacqueyras, not far from Orange and northeast of Châteauneuf, it covers 40 hectares, with grains and olives as well as grapes. As it was long run separately, the property has its own winery.  Although the Reynaud philosophy runs through all three estates, the wines at Ch. des Tours are stylistically distinctive, offering more structure, muscle and intensity versus the more subtle, high-toned, perfumed style of Rayas and Fonsalette. The winemaking is largely similar to at Rayas and Fonsalette, with fermentation is concrete and maturation in old oak. Although the red grapes are mostly whole-bunch fermented, this is the only property where small portions are destemmed. The range is more complex at Ch. des Tours with a selection of wines bottled under Ch. des Tours, some under Domaine des Tours and a rosé made under the Parisy label.  There are five wines under the Ch. des Tours label:  Vacqueyras: A blend of 80% Grenache and 20% Syrah, this is a structured and powerful wine made exclusively from the oldest vines on the estate.  Côtes du Rhône Rouge: A blend of 65% Grenache, 20% Syrah and 15% Cinsault, this is a supple, juicy red packed with fruit and spice.   Côtes du Rhône Rouge Grande Réserve: Only made in specific vintages, this is effectively the Vacqueyras declassified when there isn’t sufficient colour – made in 2002, 2014 and 2015.  Côtes du Rhône Blanc: Made in very limited volumes, this white is 100% Grenache Blanc – a floral, textural wine that is worth seeking out.  Côtes du Rhône Blanc Grande Réserve: Only made in certain vintages, this is not a declassified bottling (like its red sibling), but a special bottling of the property’s best Clairette and Grenache Blanc. The 50% Grenache Blanc, 50% Clairette wine was produced in 2003, 2014 and 2015.  The Domaine des Tours label is all sourced from Ch. des Tours however is a slightly separate project, generally offering more accessible wines, almost all labelled as IGP or Vin de Pays. There are four wines under the label:  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Rouge: This is a deeply expressive field blend of Grenache, Counoise, Syrah, Cinsault, Merlot and a host of other varieties.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot: This 100% Merlot comes from the richest, clay soils on the property, producing amore opulent and exuberant wine.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Merlot-Syrah: A blend of Merlot and Syrah, which shifts according to the vintage, is a concentrated wine that combines the generosity of Merlot with the spice of Syrah.  Vin de Pays de Vaucluse Clairette: This 100% Clairette is pure and fresh, driven by minerality.  Under its own label is Les Tours Grenache Blanc – a rich, ripe and generous 100% Grenache Blanc full of stone fruit, bottled under the Vaucluse appellation. The last wine from Ch. des Tours is the Parisy rosé, a dry, delicate Grenache/Cinsault Vin de Table designed for everyday drinking. The labels themselves don’t detail the vintage, with this information only visible on the cardboard case.  Which Reynaud wines are made where? Ch. Rayas, Pignan, Ch. de Fonsalette and Pialade are all made at Rayas Ch. des Tours, Domaine des Tours, Les Tours Grenache Blanc and Parisy are all made at Ch. des Tours  Explore all current listings of the Reynaud wines or read more Editorial 

Few wines have the cult status of Rayas – a wine that stands alone in Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Here, we offer an essential guide to the wines crafted by the Reynaud family in the Rhône – Rayas, of course, but also those of Ch. de Fonsalette and Ch. des Tours 

Everything you need to know about the wines made by Emmanuel Reynaud – Rayas, Pignan, Chateau de Fonsalette, Chateau and Domaine des Tours, and Parisy  

Guide to Rayas, Fonsalette and Des Tours – the Reynaud wines

Everything you need to know about Rayas

“Time is necessary,” Paul-Etienne Defaix tells me. He should know – he is the 16th generation of his family to make wine in Chablis – and, at Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix, time is everything.  Wine has been made at the Domaine du Vieux Château (the property’s historic name, which still features on the labels today) for eight centuries, and under the Defaix family since 1610. Much has changed in Chablis over the past 400 years, however – and today the estate is a last bastion of the Chablis of yore.   Demand for Chablis was booming by the 1970s, and producers reduced the élevage (the time wine spends in barrel or tank), bottling, releasing and selling the wines earlier. These modern wines, often bottled within six to 12 months, were lean and crisp, but for Paul’s father Daniel-Etienne, they were disappointing – lacking the complexity and ageability of wines that spent longer on their lees (the dead yeast cells). Daniel-Etienne decided to do things differently – to return to making wine the way they had in generations past – and the family hasn’t looked back.  Generally, their approach is to let the wine be – waiting, watching and waiting some more. Fermentation is all with indigenous yeast and notably slow, taking up to six months, with malolactic fermentation left to rumble along on its own timescale, only finishing after up to two years. Their Premier Cru wines then spend up to nine years on their fine lees, while for the Grands Crus it can be up to 15 years, kept at a cool 10-12°C.  During the wines’ extended élevage, autolysis takes place – the enzymatic breakdown of the dead yeast cells, or lees. It’s the same process that takes place in Champagne and other traditional-method sparkling wines aged on their lees, and is the key to the Defaix – and once traditional – style of Chablis, giving the wine a rounder mouth-feel, and lending bready, toasty complexity. It is also, for Paul, “key to revealing terroir”. Although the tiny volumes of Defaix’s Grands Crus and Pinot Noir go into oak, most of the wines are aged exclusively in stainless steel, meaning it is only the site and time that you taste in the bottle. Once deemed ready, the wines are bottled and released into the world.  Ageing its wines in stainless steel tank for not months but years, Defaix creates textural, complex wines that are only released as they reach their drinking window. It is a rebellion, Paul tells me, against “a society of rapid consumption”.  Paul is now in charge of the property’s vineyards and winemaking, although his father is still involved in the business. Paul studied in Beaune, getting experience at a handful of estates – largely focused on Pinot Noir – before returning to the family domaine, working his way from the vines to the cellar. As Daniel-Etienne told him, “You need to learn your soil, your vines, then you can make the wine – and then you try to sell it.”  And, although it’s often the style of winemaking that steals headlines at Defaix, the domaine has some remarkable vineyards. The family farms 28 hectares in total. It has two Grand Cru parcels (0.15 hectares in Blanchot and 0.3 hectares in Grenouilles), but it’s the property’s Premiers Crus that have built its reputation – with four hectares each in Côte de Léchet and Vaillons. From these, they produce three wines: their Côte de Léchet, Les Lys and Vaillon. Importantly, the latter is Vaillon, not plural Les Vaillons – their parcel lying in the historic heart of this Premier Cru, prior to its expansion in 1976. Les Lys is a cooler climat within the larger Vaillons, and is often our favourite of the range, while the Côte de Léchet is drastically steep – with a 45% gradient.  The remaining hectares are largely dedicated to the estate’s village Chablis – their Vieilles Vignes. These vines are all over 45 years old, but some are very old – own-rooted, having survived phylloxera and now 145 years in age. When I ask Paul how this half-hectare has managed to survive ungrafted, he pauses, before saying: “I think God prays for these vines.”. They crop a mere 15hl/ha, but produce beautiful fruit (“For my bank, it’s bad; for my wine, it’s perfect!” Paul jokes) – and are now used for massal selection across the estate.  The final piece of the property is a tiny section of Vaillons planted to Pinot Noir, which is bottled as Bourgogne Rouge (as the land is only classified for Chardonnay production). Comprising less than a hectare, these vines too are ancient, planted in 1900, and still on their own roots.  Their spacious cellars are stocked with back-vintages, carefully maturing – a bank of wine that eases the vagaries of each specific growing season, protecting them from dramatic drops in yield – something that is a constant threat in Chablis. Take 2024, a year that was challenging across much of northern Europe with its wet conditions and high disease pressure, but in Chablis also brought hail that devastated huge swathes of vineyard – including Vaillons.  Global warming might have made it easier to ripen grapes in this marginal region, but it’s also made for more extreme conditions – highs and lows that keep producers on their toes. It’s also, arguably, made Chablis a little less Chablis. With riper fruit, the wines are less steely, taut and lean. Harvest dates are inevitably earlier, Paul notes, to preserve acidity and retain Chablisien backbone, but he also emphasises that the fruit requires not just sugar ripeness, but phenolic ripeness – to give dry extract and allow the wines to age. For him, working with old vines and low yields is key – both to phenolic ripeness and to preserving Chablis’s style.  The 2014 vintage – the first that Paul made – has finally just emerged from the cellar, over a decade after it was produced. It’s been a long wait, but delayed gratification is part of life at Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix.   Explore all current listings of Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix – including the 2014 Vaillon – or read more about Burgundy. 

In many ways, time stands still at Chablis’s Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix. As the latest vintage is released, we caught up with Paul-Etienne Defaix – the 16th generation to take the helm at one of the region’s oldest addresses 

Exploring this traditional Chablis estate and its top Premier and Grand Cru wines with 16th generation winemaker Paul-Etienne Defaix

Worth the wait, Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix’s Chablis wine

Worth the wait: the wines of Domaine Daniel-Etienne Defaix   

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?  

The Gin Renaissance, which kickstarted in 1999, showed the world that gin could be more than something that’s mixed with an insipid tonic and served at room temperature with a slice of lemon that has seen better days. For the next decade, the juniper-dominant spirit was unstoppable. At its peak in 2018, new gins were launching faster than you can say botanical and there was seemingly room for all. Until, like most trends, there wasn’t. Rather than the spectacular bubble burst many predicted, there has been a slowing down. There is still a thirst for gin – a whopping 83 million bottles were purchased in the UK alone in 2019 and the category is still in growth (24%), valued at £2.6 billion. But the tide is changing. Of the hundreds launched over the past decade, countless have fallen by the wayside. A handful  – often those with a true point of difference – have become household names.  This innovation has come in many forms and has largely focused on the addition of botanicals and distillates, neglecting the (copper-still-shaped) elephant in the room. “Gin has had a problem that went almost unnoticed for about 250 years,” Cambridge Distillery’s William Lowe MW animatedly tells me. With this declaration, the Master Distiller holds up a miniature replica of a copper pot still and says: “There are six key botanicals that will be in almost every gin you ever taste. And those are: juniper (obviously), coriander, liquorice, orris, citrus and angelica. And there’s a very simple reason for that: two and a half centuries has taught us that they operate really well in this.” He continues, pot still model in hand: “In order for that pot still to work, you have to boil the ethanol at 78.3°C. Water boils at 100°C; so, for distillation to be working, you have to operate between those two parameters. In practice, most of the time you are boiling a liquid around 90°C plus or minus 5°C. The problem with that, is it is really hot. “And if you think about the way a chef would deal with a whole array of different ingredients they have available, there’d be some things they would boil, some things they’d blanch, some things they’d grill, some things they’d cook in an oven at a low heat for a long time or a high heat for a short time, or sometimes a blow torch or sometimes a sous vide or sometimes they just pick, and place, with no heat whatsoever. “A distiller doesn’t have that choice. They have this...” [He holds up the still] “… which runs at around 90°C for an entire day.” When Lowe started the Cambridge Distillery in his front room with his wife Lucy and Labrador Darcy, in 2012, people wrote him off as a kook. His approach of distilling fresh, seasonal botanicals according to their individual needs, rather than all together at extreme temperature, was unheard of. The vacuum still he fashioned is worlds away from the copper pot still in his hand when we speak.  “I can bring the atmospheric pressure down in this unit,” he says with glee, “therefore bringing down the point at which water and ethanol and a combination of those two will boil […] I can literally boil liquids with no heat whatsoever, which starts to sound a bit mad scientist and actually it starts to look a lot more mad scientist. So, what we are able to do, is rather than putting everything into one pot at the same time, we will distil each individual item individually.” In the decade that has followed, Lowe has silenced all his critics. His gins are some of the most highly acclaimed and his distillery is a three-time recipient of the World’s Most Innovative title at the World Beverage Awards. “I’m not innovating here to be different,” he says, “I’ve got no interest in being different. We’re trying to just make things better. And if the optimal approach already existed I’d use it because it would save me a lot of time and energy. Instead, what we do, is we focus on things that have either never been done before or on approaches that have been overlooked by distillers.” These innovations have included the world’s first gin made using solely Japanese flavours, the world’s first gin made out of insects, and the world’s first gin made out of truffles. Lowe has created, and since trademarked, a nine-step approach called a novo-dimensional distillation matrix to extract maximum flavour from his chosen botanicals. He will say two of the variables are temperature and pressure, but the other seven are now a closely guarded secret after gins remarkably similar to his own – but not quite as good, he’s quick to point out – started to appear on the market. Over in Kenya, Procera is a small team adopting another radical approach to produce the first African juniper gin. Distilling legend Roger Jorgensen uses juniperus procera, the native African juniper, and distils it green – as opposed to dried – when it is bright, vegetal and alive. He also uses something other than a traditional copper pot still.  When he was introduced to the 230-litre Müller still, which he affectionately describes as the “Rolls Royce of stills” and his “baby”, Jorgensen says it changed the way he thought about distilling gin – which is quite the claim after a 27-year career in distillation. The Müller still has got infinite controls on it. Instead of a column with bubble plates on it to achieve separation, it’s got 10 metres of 600mm-wide copper plate that spirit and vapour pass over. The column, Jorgensen says, does the work of umpteen plates on another still and gives a seamless separation, driving back dense and heavy flavours, only allowing the brightest ones to come through. Namely, the African juniper.  “The juniper that is used in most gins is harvested and collected at a certain time of year but the highest-quality juniper doesn’t go into distilling,” Procera founder Guy Brennan tells me. “Distilleries are not paying the highest money. The best juniper in the world goes into food and grain stuff. And then you go down a few ranks until you get to the juniper that gets used for distilling.” Procera is the only company using the native African juniper, which Brennan says is “grade one” instead of the “grade three or four” in other gins. It is his hope that other distillers will follow suit and African juniper can become a cash crop like tea or coffee. “At the moment, African juniper has a zero dollar value, but it could be worth £100m in 10 years,” he says. “If Beefeater make an African juniper gin then there is £10m of juniper and the money goes straight to the people on the ground.” The idea to create the world’s first African juniper gin came to Brennan when he was sitting around drinking Bombay with friends. After taking a closer look at the bottle they’d held many times, Brennan and friends were struck by the irony that many of the botanicals, which hail from Africa, are shipped to London for somebody to distil and sent back to Africa as a finished product. Brennan then found Jorgensen – who he playfully calls the “distilling Yoda” – and both discovered juniperus procera. While botanicals are often the most talked about thing when it comes to gin – there’s almost a game of one-upmanship at times with who can use the most or the most extreme – few, if any, talk about the juniper, which legally has to be the prominent flavour. “We don’t want to speak negatively about other companies,” Brennan continues, “but you just don’t hear much about the juniper and there’s a reason: it all comes in 50kg bags from a commodity broker, rather than anyone having a true connection to it. Juniper makes up 90% of a gin and it should be that terroir, rather than a chilli or a citrus botanical, which defines the gin.” African juniper berries grow on a tree – rather than a bush – that is between 10-15 metres in height. The tree, which lives for hundreds of years, only grows at high altitudes (above 1,500 metres) around the equatorial zones. You can tell the juniper is in season, at the end of the short rains, when the baboons start eating it. It is earthier and nuttier than the more commonly used European juniper, juniperus communis. “If you think about it, the best juniper comes from the Mediterranean south, it doesn’t come from the Black Forest or even Scotland because it gets more sun,” Brennan says. “It’s like tomatoes from the Mediterranean: more sun, more flavour, more richness – it’s the same with juniper as well.” In addition to distilling the native juniper green, Jorgensen adopts a pillowcase technique. The Master Distiller finely grinds the botanicals and puts them into a pillowcase and soaks them in warm alcohol overnight. This “grown-up teabag” extracts the primary terroir flavours, and ensures they aren't lost during the distilling process. At Cambridge Distillery, Lowe is a staunch advocate for terroir – or as he terms it, typicity – in spirits. “The difference between the good and the great wines really is the notion of typicity and expressiveness and a sense of place and that’s universally true,” he explains. The Master Distiller points to Champagne, Burgundy and Bordeaux, and the rare whisky gems from Islay, Speyside, and more nuanced examples from Japan. “And then gin,” he says with a mischievous smile. “Well here’s a problem: juniper, coriander, liquorice, orris, citrus and angelica – there is no one place where all six of those things grow. And yet, if you just go and grab a bottle from the supermarket it will be made from juniper, coriander, liquorice, orris, citrus and angelica. Why?” He holds up the miniature copper still model. “So here we have a confirmation of our process and our philosophy. Our philosophy was simple: why can’t you make a gin that’s really from a place? And just because no-one had, it didn’t mean it couldn’t be done. It just meant no-one had done it yet.” The team at Procera is equally determined. “I’m an irreverent person,” Brennan says with a laugh. “Roger’s an irreverent person, and the team, we’re irreverent. We don’t just say let’s do things the way everyone is doing it. Because why would we use European juniper? Why do we use dry juniper? Green juniper is fundamentally better. Fresh products make better gin.” Brennan says he hopes others will adopt the same logic when they see the quality of the product and consumers’ willingness to pay more than the current glass ceiling of £40 per bottle. Something Lowe echoes: “This isn’t stuff that is being dreamt up around a boardroom. And we’ve never been in a position where we’re working down to a price point. We work up to a quality point and that’s it. “It does have the side effect that a lot of our products are more expensive than the contemporary set of gins that are out there but I’ve never been of a mind to dictate to people what’s too expensive. “I think that’s been what held these guys back for a really long time,” Lowe says with the pot still aloft. “If you ask everyone out there: are you making the best decision or are you making the most economically viable decision? They have got to be honest about it. “Flavour is a fashion. Quality is an enduring feature. And there will always be those who graduate out of these fashion cycles and come and seek quality. “I’m not in any way intimidated by what other people do around the gin industry. Either it will be part of the fashion trend, which is not our natural ecosystem, or they will join us on our mission to improve quality – and that’s got to be a good thing, hasn’t it?” Browse our range of gins or read more Editorial 

After countless headlines prophesying the end of the gin boom, the category's growth has finally slowed. Holly Motion talks to two innovators who, through reimagining the distillation process, have produced gins that should stand the test of time

Exploring life after the gin craze with two innovators who are reimagining the distillation process, Procera and Cambridge Distillery 

Two mavericks rectifying gin's biggest problem

After the craze: reinventing gin

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