Unlike many wine-lovers, I came across Occidental before Kistler. I worked for a company that imported some of its early vintages – and they were like nothing I’d ever tasted. These translucent Pinot Noirs glimmered, but their pastel-pale shade was nothing but a nudge and wink at the Burgundies that inspired them. Aromatics leapt from the glass – floral and febrile, but it was the vivid, intense, crystalline purity of the palate that I found so beguiling. Seeing where these wines are made – on the brink of the Pacific, where ocean breezes lash at the vines, and thick fog grasps the dramatic, undulating landscape – only made them all the more enchanting. Even today, 18 years after Steve Kistler first put down vines here, the region is sparsely planted – with Occidental one of a handful of pioneers of the outer reaches of the Sonoma Coast. The area was long deemed too cold to ripen fruit, with dairy the main industry – and fields of grazing cattle and sheep are still interspersed with plots of vines. Occidental’s vineyards – now 85 acres in total – now neighbour those of Platt, Littorai and Joseph Phelps’s Quarter Moon site, sitting at 500 feet above sea level – a modest altitude when you consider some of Napa’s mountain districts have parcels above 2,000 feet. But it’s their proximity to the ocean (which is just five miles away) that makes the climate here so cool – and damp. Leaf-pulling and spraying are key to managing disease pressure – unfortunately making organic farming almost impossible. “We want the purity of fruit to shine,” Catherine (Cate) Kistler says. She joined her father, Steve, six years ago, working as his Assistant Winemaker – just one element that makes the venture a true family business. Not in the way that Walmart or Ford are a family business, but in the hand-to-mouth, everyone-mucks-in, this-is-both-their-livelihood-and-legacy kind of way. It’s a “tight little universe” where they work, live and farm, Cate explains. This is one reason that Steve stepped away from the iconic winery that he’d created in 1978 – Kistler had shifted and grown, becoming something larger than he’d ever anticipated, or necessarily wanted.  Kistler had humble beginnings – with Steve making the wines in what was essentially a wooden shack, and living upstairs. That building – up in the Mayacamas – was consumed by the fires in 2020, and today Kistler works with around 300 acres (including their own vines and those farmed by growers for them). The investment of Bill Price (a man whose first major move in the wine industry was buying, and later selling, Beringer) has added further gloss to a winery that has become one of California’s cult names. If that makes it sound like there’s been wholesale change, that’s far from the truth – a clear succession plan has ensured only the gentlest of evolutions at Kistler, and ensured the producer maintains its position at the top. Jason Kesner – who describes himself as a “vine and yeast shepherd” – is the man at the helm today. He joined the team in 2008 (aged 40), working alongside Steve for close to a decade before taking the reins.  Although born on the East Coast, Kesner grew up around wine. He moved out to California aged eight, where his mother had taken a job as Head Microbiologist at Robert Mondavi, and his soon-to-be stepfather worked as VP of Vineyard Operations – the smells and sounds of a working winery firmly familiar. Despite his early initiation to the industry, he studied cultural anthropology and left both the area and industry. He was eventually lured back, working first for Francis Ford Coppola (the man behind Inglenook’s revival), but in a non-wine role – managing his special projects. Via Coppola’s poker games, Kesner connected with Pat Kuleto and ended up planting vineyards for him, before finding himself at Hudson (his “graduate school for Chardonnay production”). This prestigious name features on bottles from the likes of Aubert, Kongsgaard, Cakebread, Failla and Ramey – and Kesner got to work with all of them, growing top-tier fruit for 34 clients, including Steve Kistler. And Steve was different. He was, Kesner says, “very, very focused”, “hyper-intelligent, borderline genius” and – along with his business partner, the late Mark Bixler – thought about things on a different level. When the duo started Kistler in the 1970s, working with a single clone and single sites, no one else was doing it – with his unparalleled energy and intent, Steve created something profound. Although Kesner had already worked closely with Steve at Hudson, it was only when he arrived at Kistler in 2008 that he realised how differently Steve operated. “I had jumped into a different timeline and a different pace,” Kesner tells me. “Steve and I had conversations that, quite literally, spanned years.” These conversations would be picked up each vintage, just a handful of sentences on a topic expressed until the next season. For Kesner, this long-term vision was what set Kistler apart: “It’s not about the people who are doing it at the moment. It’s about everything that’s come before and it’s about everything that will come after.” The Kistler evolution has been slow, but it has happened – past their phase of “embracing the cocaine ’90s” (“If you weren’t, you weren’t paying attention,” Kesner says), with a shift toward earlier picking, native ferments and reduction in new oak (from 50% down to around 38% across the range today) – but without sacrificing the seductive, silken style that defines their Chardonnay. “Our job is to polish the jewel,” Kesner says. “The diamond doesn’t need to be re-cut.” The vines are also gradually gaining in age (currently averaging a spritely 35 years), which is only improving the wines further. Kesner is continuing Steve’s work and the philosophy remains true to the original concept. “The best and highest use of a given site is when you're guiding it, not driving it,” he says, pointing to Mother Nature (rather than Bill Price) as the ultimate boss. He loathes the title “winemaker” – fully aware that it’s an entire team behind Kistler. “There are 56 people who are dedicated to the production of these wines. They’re out there pruning in January and then they’re going to be out there picking for this year in October. And it’s because of that really powerful group of people that we’re able to do what we do.” Meanwhile, out on the coast, Steve is continuing his own quest for terroir. Occidental, Cate tells me, is all about exploring “what this ridge means”. The yields at Occidental, overlooking the Pacific, are tiny, maxing out at around two tons/acre. The work is painstaking, with careful canopy management and spraying to avoid mildews, and steep slopes that need to be hand-hoed to manage the weeds. And, as at Kistler, the Pinot Noirs here are all made identically – so it is the site, rather than hand of the maker, that shines through. Be that though it may, it takes exceptional talent to make wines like this. “[Steve] is yet again 30 years ahead of everybody in California,” Kesner says. “It might take the American palate a while to catch up with them, but I firmly believe those will be recognised as some of the best Pinot Noirs in the world. Hands down.” Steve’s an elusive character – and seems happiest tucked away in his remote corner of the Sonoma Coast, away from the limelight. “He’s not a man of many words,” Kesner says, although suggests that working with Cate has drawn him out of his shell a little. Cate talks about him unsurprisingly lovingly, but doesn’t shy away from admitting there are challenges to the “weird and wonderful world” of family business. Harvard-educated, she’s quick-witted and sharp, and has clearly inherited her father’s passion for wine. Not only is he clearly deeply embedded in everything Occidental, but his interest goes beyond vine-growing, with what I suspect is an enviable collection of his own, from the alluring line-ups of Grand Cru Burgundy that I’ve glimpsed on Cate’s Instagram. It takes something rather extraordinary to be willing to give up your name, to start from scratch, all over again, with a new winery and new vineyards. But there’s a reason that his longtime vineyard manager (Ruben Molinar) and cellar master (Raymundo Abarca) left Kistler with Steve in 2017; and it’s a tribute to the man. Now Molinar and Abarca’s children are working alongside Steve’s – and the family is growing. But Cate and Steve don’t want to create Kistler 2.0. They’re developing another ranch, but they don’t want the project to become so big that they’re no longer doing most of the work themselves (“We’ve seen that movie,” Cate jests). The first vintage of Occidental was only 2011, but the wines are already making their mark. Steve’s legacy at Kistler lives on, safely being shepherded by Kesner and his team, but it’s also being re-born at Occidental, and set to be carried forward by Cate. “Wine is my dad’s world,” Cate tells me. And it’s quite a world – one that anyone tasting his wines is fortunate to be part of. Browse all Occidental and Kistler listings, or read more about California

Kistler’s Chardonnays are the stuff of legend – but now Steve Kistler has a new project, Occidental, crafting Pinot Noir on the outer reaches of the Sonoma Coast. Sophie Thorpe explores the winemaker’s legacy and these two very special estates

Kistler Chardonnay is the stuff of legend – but now Steve has a new project, Occidental. We explore his legacy and the two special Sonoma wine estates today

Kistler & Occidental – site expression in Sonoma

In pursuit of Sonoma’s true identity: Kistler and Occidental

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

From humble beginnings in Beaujolais in the 1980s, the natural wine movement has become a global force. But what influence has it had just north in Burgundy’s long-established, terroir-focused appellations? Simon J Woolf explores the blurred line between classical and natural winegrowing

From Beaujolais to Burgundy, how has the natural wine movement shaped a terroir-driven region? For FONDATA Simon J Woolf explores the changing landscape.

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

Nature vs. Nurture: The quest for Burgundy’s true identity

Quiet, even subdued, cautious, the Neal Martin on my screen is quite different to the garrulous character I’d imagined from his writing. On the page (or more often these days, the screen), Martin pokes fun at the wine industry, his articles often opening with satirical fiction that doesn’t hold back.  His reports and tasting notes are littered with music references (think Primal Scream and The Smiths rather than Wagner and Bach), and mentions that are sometimes pointedly popular – his first Bordeaux en primeur report for the Wine Advocate (taking over from Robert Parker) opened with a line from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. On our call, however, each word feels deliberate and considered, confident, but with a definite wariness that doesn’t quite fade.  Aged 50, the Vinous writer’s trajectory to wine stardom is unusual. Born in Essex, Martin grew up in a household that didn’t drink wine, so nor did he. In fact, he had no interest in it and blagged his way into the industry. In 1996, having lived in Japan, he applied for a role sourcing wines for a subsidiary of Japan Airlines: the only hitch that he didn’t know anything about wine at the time.  “I lied my way through the interview. I went to an off-licence the night before. Memorised some of the labels. I just reeled off a couple of names… [they] thought I was into wine and gave me the job,” he tells me, still rather bemused by their decision. Coincidentally Martin returned to the same shop last year, where unbeknown to him, his tale lives on as local offy legend – the famous wine taster that got his start right there in Leigh-on-Sea (with the owners even deeming him worthy of several selfies).  Unashamedly a terrible employee, he spent much of his time in his role for Japan Airlines starting his wine writing career (although it also sounds like there was a fair amount of lunching too). “I was kind of bored one lunchtime, bought a book on computer coding. I found I could make a webpage, and just kind of built the original wine-journal.com when I should have been working,” he says. From the novelty of creating a site, he started writing his own tasting notes. At that time the great wine writers were Michael Broadbent, Steven Spurrier and Hugh Johnson – English gentlemen, in short; charming, wonderful, but – for many – unrelatable, very “high culture”, as Martin puts it. He set out to be “more down-to-earth, funny, irreverent”.   “At the time, there was nobody else really doing that. There was this huge audience that liked to drink Bordeaux – but also liked Radiohead.” It struck a chord – and soon his self-built site was getting over 500,000 hits per month. No wonder therefore that in 2006 Robert Parker – then still at the height of his fame – approached the music-minded Englishman to join the Wine Advocate team.   Of course, Parker was renowned for not just the power of his palate and revolutionary points system, but for his personal tastes. Many argue that his preference for intensely ripe, high-octane, new-oak-aged styles shifted the entire world of wine – pushing producers to craft wines that would earn his favour. “Especially more to the end of his career, he had a certain palate… but people always forget that he reviewed German wines and Alsace and so on. So it becomes a little bit of a cliché,” Martin says of his once mentor.  The world of flavour is undeniably subjective, yet Parker was – by some – damned for just that, daring to express his personal preference. Total impartiality when it comes to the matter of taste seems impossible. After I ask whether or not he feels there’s room for bias in wine writing, Martin is clear: “I think a critic should stand up for what they believe in. Anyone can say the First Growths are great, DRC is great. I’d rather read someone who has a definite view on something, whether they like natural wines, or orange wines. Stand up for what you believe in. Then it’s up to the reader to decide.”  In fact, he goes as far to say, it’s potentially the lack of difference in views that has led to wine criticism becoming “a bit beige” in recent years – because now it’s a career, something upon which people depend for their livelihood. “It’s more of a risk if you say this famous name didn’t produce a great wine,” Martin notes. The danger of losing access to wines that are far beyond most critics’ budgets is a threat to the independence of wine writing, but also a massive obstacle to new voices in the industry. It’s an especial challenge given many of the wines Martin reviews – in particular older vintages – might only be pulled out at private dinners, hosted in producers’ homes. The very nature of wine – limited in production and fleeting in its consumption – leads to a reliance on the hospitality of its makers. Martin argues that for that exact reason the most independent “critics” are arguably those he describes as the “grands amateurs” – those who can afford to buy the world’s finest wines, and therefore say what they want.   Martin, however, feels there’s a line to be found where he can maintain distance yet be friendly – and, importantly, speak freely. He highlights Laurent Ponsot’s 2015s – which he gave relatively scathing scores – but, having known Laurent for many years, Martin was happy to tell the vigneron outright that he thought they were picked too late.  As for Martin, he had a lucky start with access to unbelievable wines in what he deems a “golden era” for fine wine in the 1990s, when top Burgundy and First Growths remained affordable for the many – and were poured freely by the trade. “I’ve never taken that for granted. Some of the wines I drink… they’re what my friends earn in three or four months. I never drink a wine and I’m blasé about it. But I’ve been around long enough to say what I think.”   Preserving his voice has always been of key importance to Martin – not willing to compromise on keeping his distinctively tongue-in-cheek tone, but also offer something more than just a tasting note. “When I joined Parker, it was an easy decision – he was a kind of god. But at the same time I wanted to make sure I could still write in the way I wrote,” he tells me. “Anyone can taste the wines and add a number, but for me it’s more interesting to create something that’s interesting, gives you insight… that’s the challenge: to write something people don’t expect,” Martin says. Does he feel he’s achieving that? His answer: “When my primeur report comes out, read the first three paragraphs and let me know.” [We spoke at the end of April, just before the report was published.]  For Martin, his love of music is integral to his work. Indeed, it seems that way – the record player and stacks of vinyl visible behind him on our Zoom call, his Instagram feed almost equally split between sleeve covers and labels – and he feels that it makes him a better writer. He looks back to Hugh Johnson (an avid gardener) or Michael Broadbent (pianist and art enthusiast) for precedent. “Wine can be a boring subject – but it’s when you put it with other things that it becomes more interesting,” he says.  Case in point is his recent article on Grand Mayne, he tells me: “It’s more about time, and parenthood, and… kind of sad in a way. To me, that’s the kind of counterbalance to the dryness about wine. It smells of strawberries and it’s 92 points. There’s the other side to the story – that’s the harder part to write, but for me it’s more satisfying.”  Indeed, he even self-published his book Pomerol (in 2012) to avoid the unwelcome interference of editors. In 2017, Martin made the leap to Vinous – joining fellow Wine Advocate alumnus Antonio Galloni’s new venture, and while he’s kept his voice, he’s also had to learn how to be edited “which was… quite a challenge for me at first,” he admits. “But actually now it’s something I really needed. I think they make better articles, it makes me think a bit more about writing.”  There have been a lot of bottles over the years (Vinous alone holds over 21,000 of his tasting notes), but it was a bottle of 1982 Montrose that started everything. “It wasn’t the best wine I’ve ever had by a long way… It’s a disappointing 1982,” he says. “Enjoy with modest expectations” reads his note from 2017 (88 points – upgraded to 91 points at his most recent tasting in 2018). Disappointing it may be, but it’s the bottle that made him sit up and take wine seriously, realising why people obsessed over it – although he’s clear that, for him, wine isn’t everything.  “Wine is my job – if it didn’t pay I couldn’t do it. I love wine, but I don’t think I’m obsessed with it. I don’t drink wine every day, and it doesn’t bother me if I don’t. If you think wine is everything, you’re missing something,” he says, frankly. I wonder how much this perspective has been shaped by Martin’s quadruple bypass surgery two years ago – a skirmish with the other side that has forced a visibly drastic lifestyle change, and about which he has been vocal.  In Martin’s own words, it’s a “bizarre set of circumstances” that set him on his wine-lined path, yet here he is, his pen and palate working in combination to make him one of the world’s most influential wine writers. While the golden era that allowed him to enter the industry might be over, he feels that – despite now being “very, very expensive” – in some ways wine is more accessible than ever.  “I meet so many more people from so many walks of life. I love it when you sit around the table and everyone’s from different countries. But as soon as you put a wine in front of them – everyone’s on the same level.” While one can’t argue that Martin champions the “everyman” reviewing the world’s finest wines, it’s remarkable in many ways that he hasn’t erred from his original purpose. Though the Essex-born critic doesn’t seem comfortable under the spotlight, on the page he’s at ease – free to fight against the pomposity of wine, with an irreverence and knowing self-ridicule that has put him front and centre in the industry – whether he likes it or not.  Read more Editorial 

Neal Martin – now of Vinous, previously the Wine Advocate – is one of the world’s leading wine writers. Sophie Thorpe talks to the determinedly off-beat critic about his path into wine and why there’s much more to life than brilliant bottles

Neal Martin – now of Vinous, previously the Wine Advocate – on his path into wine and why there’s much more to life than brilliant bottles

Neal Martin, striking a chord

Neal Martin: striking a chord

Rome’s Baths of Caracalla fell into ruin in the 6th century. This illustrated reconstruction appeared in Hutchinson’s History of the Nations, published in 1915. Credit: Classic Images (Alamy Stock Photo). It took a shock to the system on the scale of the Covid-19 pandemic to demonstrate how much our lives can be reshaped by the humblest of objects. When restaurants, hotels, cafés and night clubs have all been closed for months on end – and when we are excluded even from each other’s homes – then park benches and patio heaters become stand-ins for the more elaborate architecture of everyday life that usually enable the interactions we depend on to function as social beings. For much of 2020, only the most rudimentary tools for conviviality were left to us. This works better at some times, than others. On a warm sunny day, all it takes to create an instant convivial space is a bench. This simple structure is the means for people to meet, share a view, a conversation, and perhaps a picnic. Add a back, arms, and a USB charger plus a Wi-Fi connection to the bench, and the proposition grows layers of complexity. It has become a people-attractor and a conversation starter too. This last year has helped us to understand better how to appreciate, through their absence, the things that make us the most human: being together, sharing food, drink and conversation, and marking the key moments in life. While we were forced into isolation, our attempts to replicate some of these experiences, with the use of a screen and a fitful broadband connection, showed us how inadequate they inevitably are. The experience suggests that social change, when it comes, is about an acceleration of what already exists – more than it is about a complete reinvention. Buying more online than we ever did in department stores is going to be a permanent shift. Some of us are less likely to fly to Australia for 24 hours for a business meeting than we were in 2019. But there are other things that will not change. We will still want to celebrate birthdays and weddings in the company of others. We will always want to meet our friends and look for chances to make new ones. And we enjoy doing all those things in the kind of spaces and places that make the most of the moment, which can make the seemingly routine into an occasion. Even at the basic level of the park bench, there are nuances to deal with. Chatting side by side is not the same experience as a face-to-face conversation. However, for some people, direct eye contact is as aggressive as an all-caps text message. It is why a walk in the park can be the best way to share a secret, and why Sigmund Freud conducted his consultations from behind the back of his couch. What we sit on is as significant as how we sit. In the average western living room in the 1960s, the armchair was the seat of power, occupied by family patriarchs. The matriarch, if she was lucky, got a slightly smaller version to herself. The sofa was designed in the same style, just large enough for two, and was for the use of supplicant sons-in-law. As the domestic world has expanded, so the sofa has taken on the dominant role over every other piece of domestic furniture. Sofas have been getting bigger for some time and are now reaching the size of lifeboats. They’re expected to cope with everything from conversation to work, assuming multiple roles as stand-in dining table, desk and bed. Social spaces, from the most intimate scale to the grandest, form an essential part of both our personal domestic worlds – in which we share our privacy with a selected group of friends and family – and the public one that we all share. It is a scaled sequence that runs all the way from a candlelit interior with a couple of chairs, a plain wooden table with two wine glasses, to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan, which, with its heroic iron-roofed arcade, has a strong claim to be regarded as the mother of all shopping malls. When it opened in 1877, the newly empowered bourgeoisie (in their straw boaters and stiff detachable collars) took to it as the setting for their daily promenades on the way to and from the Duomo, Milan’s cathedral, where they celebrated Mass, or en route to a performance of a Verdi opera at La Scala. Stopping to take coffee and pastries, they would meet each other for an aperitif at Biffi or dinner at Savini, and explore the exotic wares that the shops in the Galleria had to offer. As futurist artist Umberto Boccioni demonstrated in his painting from 1910, Riot in the Galleria, there was a darker side to such spaces. He portrayed the agitated response of a turbulent crowd of well-dressed spectators to the sudden violence of a fight between two women – sex workers perhaps. The disturbing scene, depicted in pointilliste style (and based on an incident that actually took place), is bathed in lurid electric light, evoking the frenzied atmosphere of this giant outdoor room and its extraordinary impact on the behaviour of a mass society. An unintended consequence of the lockdown has been the enforcement of the monogamy-based model of the nuclear family. It made the year particularly difficult for all those who don’t subscribe to it. We will need places we can dress up for again, places we can show off in, even places in which we can behave badly. The painting is, in some senses, a reminder that urban life is essentially about tolerance. Complex spaces have always been a vital part of urban life. Almost 2,000 years ago, the Romans built the Baths of Caracalla on a lavish scale, with three separate pools, libraries and gymnasia – and gardens large enough to accommodate 1,600 people at a time in comfort. Its mosaic and marble floors, its frescoes and sculptures made it one of Rome’s essential landmarks, not only as a monument to the glory of the emperor who built it – though it certainly was that – but also as a place to be used by people, day and night. Its magnificence, and the sense of the joy of a great shared civic space, inspired the American architect Charles McKim when he designed New York’s Pennsylvania Station, one the most sublime railway stations ever built. The central waiting room, barbarously destroyed 50 years after it opened, was a convincing recreation of the baths of Caracalla that lifted the spirits of anyone who passed through it. The months of isolation have taught us how important shared spaces of all kinds are to the way that we live. They are the places in which we meet each other to celebrate the important rituals of life, as well as to pursue the seemingly trivial (actually essential) compulsion to gossip about one another. As an essentially self-conscious species, we need alibis to give ourselves permission to be convivial. We construct reasons to meet each other, like the 19th century clubs of Pall Mall, or their democratic paraphrase – with its provision of gender segregation, and games room, and its mix of intimacy and ceremony – the Victorian pub full of mirrors and cut glass. Or in today’s context, a bowling alley configured to allow players and their friends to sit at a table, order food and drinks, and watch each other play, and to hear each other converse. Some public spaces do better at conviviality than others. The Las Vegas casino, for example, is designed to be the opposite of convivial. Slot machines on an industrial scale obviate the need for any form of human interaction. With its glass dome, and 25 miles of bookshelves, the old round reading room at the British Museum is certainly a very special space, although it has now lost its intellectual raison d’être and has become a dead monument. In its day, a reader’s ticket conferred membership of an exclusive club that included Oscar Wilde, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and George Orwell. But as the museum’s insistence on silence suggests – beyond unspoken flirtation over the book stacks – it was not a place that was fundamentally about conviviality. The Berghain Club, the raw, concrete world capital of techno music based in a redundant power station in Friedrichshain, in what was once East Berlin, is another very different kind of public space, and – in its own way – an equally spectacular social space. It has a pickier door policy than the British Museum but a similarly committed membership. In this case, the limit on conviviality is not silence, but the sheer volume of sound that makes the 18-metre-high main spaces vibrate, and which makes conversation inconceivable. A truly convivial space needs to work on multiple levels, to offer a variety of zones, some of which can encourage concentration, and others that can be distracting. Some may be more intimate than others. It’s a drive that is leading to an interesting range of cross-fertilisation. Cinemas that serve food more ambitious than popcorn and hot dogs are being equipped with sofas instead of tip-up seats. Health spas come with restaurants. However, not all convivial spaces encourage multiple uses. Orchestration and control are part of the experience at those English clubs that frown on members showing any signs of working, to the extent of asking them to put away notebook and pencil – never mind laptops – over lunch. Some aspects of what we have learned from the last year will colour life well into the future. The private dining room is a long-standing restaurant tradition, which has been given a new lease of life. We can also expect to see signs of change in the workplace. The Silicon Valley model has aspired to look as domestic as possible, furnished with sofas and kitchen tables, surrounded by vintage and deliberately non-matching chairs. A year of working at home is likely to encourage a more formal environment. But while we continually try to find new tools to make conviviality possible, the objectives remain the same. In a year in which all our assumptions about how we live together have been turned upside down, the world’s designers and architects have had to face the challenge of how to deal with the impact of the pandemic on our homes and our cities. As city centres empty out, and people avoid crowds, how can we find ways to socialise? 
Deyan Sudjic asked four leading designers and architects to explore the future directions that conviviality can take for FONDATA. John Pawson Architect John Pawson has always focused on the idea of designing the architecture of conviviality. In his recently released Home Farm Cooking book, produced with his wife Catherine and published by Phaidon, we see what matters most. Every Pawson interior is designed with how it will feel to use it in mind – is it to be enjoyed by somebody on their own, or with others? He takes away the distractions and lets us focus on how we use and feel in a room. He makes some spaces in which to read and to concentrate, others in which to share the preparation of a meal, and yet another to enjoy the result in company. Intrinsic in his philosophy is the importance of creating a setting where one can appreciate light at different times of the day – whether it is the shades of white as revealed by degrees of sunlight or the warming effect of firelight by night. johnpawson.com AB Rogers Ab Rogers was inspired by the spontaneous street life of the neighbourhood in 
East London in which he lives and works to come up with a range of furniturelike structures to give social spontaneity a helping hand. “Whether it’s planned 
or serendipitous, we wanted to design a set of colourful pieces that could help 
to turn a momentary catch-up on the street into an impromptu drinks party, 
anchored by a tuned-up bollard. Or make a surprise anniversary dinner possible 
under a street lamp … or make a breath of fresh air turn into a long lunch with 
new friends at a long table under the trees.”  abrogers.com Paloma Strelitz Paloma Strelitz, an architect, and co-founder of the Turner Prize winning 
collective Assemble, took an overview of how shopping streets might recover 
from lockdown, to generate new life: “convivial, accessible, sustainable and 
enjoyable for all”. The experience of negotiating streets in which precautions 
against the pandemic had caused restaurants and food shops to migrate to 
the pavement, made her think about ways to make this a permanent quality.
“It’s an opportunity to empower local business. Shops could open their 
facades to the street, creating an expanded space of public interaction, and 
daily theatre.” She would keep the car in its place, with priority for pedestrians and bikes, 
and banned altogether at weekends. What were once parking places would 
become green borders, combining play space, raised planters, flower beds 
and trees, allowing the street to become a promenade. Meanwhile the street 
would be animated not just by cafés, but studios and workshops putting the 
making process on show. Oh, and a mobile bar too.  assemblestudio.co.uk Jon Marshall  Jon Marshall, an industrial design partner at Pentagram in London, found himself 
thinking about ways to bring together two very different kinds of object: a hamper, 
designed to carry utensils food and drink securely, and a shooting stick. “They 
aren’t really about shooting,” he explains. “The shooting stick is actually a very 
convenient way of carrying the means to sit anywhere with you.”  The hamper allows for the sense of anticipation that comes from preparing for 
a pleasurable occasion. The two objects have very different aesthetics – one is 
vaguely mechanical, the other has a kind and rustic quality. For Marshall, the idea 
of the shared walk – with the chance of stopping for a picnic – is the very essence 
of conviviality. pentagram.com/about/jon-marshall This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

The past year has seen a huge change in our ability to interact, and opportunities to be social. Deyan Sudjic considers the importance of conviviality for human beings – and the public spaces we design.

Deyan Sudjic considers the importance of conviviality for human beings – and the public spaces we design.

FONDATA: The Importance of Being Convivial

The Importance of Being Convivial  

Last year Alessandro Mori completed his 47th vintage at Il Marroneto in Montalcino. Now aged 60, Il Marroneto has been his life’s work. Despite the challenges, his passion for winemaking has never wavered and when he speaks about the estate and its wines today, he sounds as giddy as the boy who first arrived at the winery, aged just 14. He discovered Il Marroneto in 1975. At that time, it was just a farm on the northern slopes of Montalcino, with a few vines growing alongside olive trees and a small orchard. His father was so taken by the view – stretching out 60km across the valley floor towards Siena, his hometown – he bought the property the next day. The entire family – a young Mori, his brother and their parents – would spend their weekends tending the vineyard, which they planted on arrival. Initially just half a hectare, this site would become Madonna delle Grazie – Brunello’s most lauded vineyard today. Those first few years working alongside his family were some of Mori’s happiest days – and would shape the rest of his life. Il Marroneto remained a family hobby, and when he finished school, Mori became a lawyer. It was only in 1994, aged 33, that he decided life behind a desk wasn’t for him. “I had to express myself,” says Mori, “so I decided to continue to live the life I started with my parents and my brother.” He moved to Montalcino with his wife and new-born baby, living and sleeping in one room. At the time, Il Marroneto was only producing 3,300 bottles a year. It was all very financially tight at the beginning. “It became a big problem for me,” admits Mori. “I only slept two to three hours a night, kept awake thinking how could I make this work? I was full of worry, but also I was happy because I loved my work. I really loved my work.” Mori explains how this lifestyle change brought him a welcome sense of freedom. “There is soul in what I do every day,” he says. “There is a soul to the region too. This work gives me freedom, freedom from all the everyday life lived today. The order you have to follow. I am free from this in my mind.” But Mori’s passion is more than just the freedom it has given him. He’s always felt the work he was doing, the wine he was producing, was something important. He was carrying on a tradition that stretches back thousands of years and that brought a sense of purpose and responsibility. After all these years Mori remains amazingly humble considering his success. If you have ever read an interview with Mori or had the pleasure of visiting him, he never fails to mention his debt to his teachers. These two wise men – the late Mario Cortevesio and Giulio Gambelli – are legends in winemaking circles, and they taught Mori everything he needed to know to make great Sangiovese. Mori was fortunate to have such mentors – especially when most were looking outside the region for expertise. As Brunello di Montalcino gained recognition, investment flooded the region. There were fewer than 50 wineries when Mori first arrived, but now there are 250. “The first thing these people do is look for a doctor in oenology and agronomy – to plant the vineyard and build the cellar,” says a bemused Mori.  New arrivals, looking to make their mark, rarely speak to people who have grown grapes in the region for decades, instead hiring outsiders – many of whom have never even been to Tuscany. “Now these people are using concrete eggs, amphora and oak from Austria,” he laughs, “but no one goes to the old people that live here and asks them, what is the way of our forefathers?” But that is exactly what his father did – looking to the village elders. In return they got the eyes and ears of first Cortevesio and then Gambelli. Coretvesio and Gambelli had an extraordinary influence on winemaking in Tuscany. “They were like two brothers,” says Mori. “Born in the same year, they studied together, they worked their whole lives together and they died within two months of each other.” They would split their time between Chianti and Montalcino. For Mori, they were his most important teachers when it came to making Sangiovese. Despite Cortevesio largely focusing on the Chianti region, for the first seven years at Il Marroneto it was Cortevesio who was their consultant (due to a friendship with Mori’s father). Mori remembers that when he was just 14, Cortevesio used to visit the farm and share his wisdom with him and his brother. “To make good wine, you need respect,” Cortevesio would say. “Respect, respect, respect – everywhere there must be respect! Respect the animals, the plants, the place, the people. You are starting to grow a grape that took more than 3,000 years to become perfect in this area, so you respect the grape!” Cortevesio was adamant it was the wonders of Sangiovese that lay behind the region’s great artists (“the real important guys that passed before us,” says Mori); Sangiovese had fuelled Da Vinci to paint La Giaconda (the Mona Lisa), Boccaccio to write Decamerone and Giotto to design the Campanile – the iconic gothic belltower of Florence’s cathedral. Speaking with vignerons today, often the emphasis is on work in the vineyard – believing that is where great wine is made. But Mori likes to contradict that claim: “Wine is born in the cellar,” he says defiantly. “The hand of the man, his actions, are the secret of everything. I use the same techniques as our forefathers. They didn’t have yeasts to start fermentations. They didn’t have sulphur. They used natural methods.” Mori explains that Cortevesio and Gambelli believed it was possible to make precise wines using traditional methods – but only if the vigneron was fastidious in everything they did. Right from the start it was Cortevesio’s influence – and his mantra “passion, precision and patience” – that promoted such a traditional approach at Il Marroneto. To make wine in this way requires a lot of hard work in the winery – indeed Cortevesio was fastidious about cleanliness in the winery. Mori remembers constantly cleaning barrels and the cellar to try to win his respect. In the early days, despite Mori’s best attempts, Cortevesio would still think the cellar was dirty. He would taste the wine and say, “It’s tired.” As Cortevesio got older, he suffered with pain in his throat following an operation on his neck. It became difficult for him to speak and so he rarely did. He famously used to communicate with a smile, recalls Mori, and even that was difficult for him. Mori remembers the day he first smiled after tasting Il Marroneto, calling the wine “precise”, the finest compliment any vigneron could hope to hear when judging a wine, Mori believes. While Cortevesio became largely mute, Gambelli – who hunted almost daily – was completely deaf. After 10 years, Gambelli took over consulting for Il Marroneto (from 1985) and continued to visit up until 1993. Like Cortevesio, Gambelli had a maniacal approach to cleanliness and extolled monastic-like patience when ageing the wine. Mori was amazed by how this duo – one mute, the other deaf – could communicate. While both famous for saying very little, what they did say mattered – and their legacy, the lessons they shared with Mori, lives on today. After 17 years of tutelage under Cortevesio and Gambelli, Mori went his own way. “The wine of Marroneto remains the wine of Cortevesio and Gambelli because I am their pupil,” says Mori. “I continue to make the wine as they taught me – but with my hand.” The biggest change for Mori was the introduction of the Madonna delle Grazie cuvée. Often considered the region’s finest wine, it is the only Brunello to have been awarded multiple 100-point scores from the Wine Advocate – and universally loved by critics and afficionados around the world. The wine comes from the estate’s oldest and original vineyard – the one he worked as a child – and is made completely differently to Marroneto’s classic Brunello. Mori continues to make the traditional Brunello exactly as he did when he was 14. This “true” Brunello “requires a lot of movement in order to extract the best parts of the grape – the pulp that sits one millimetre under the skin,” explains Mori, “this is where you find the best anthocyanins, the polyphenolics, the complex fruity smells. The first 48 hours following harvest extracting these are key.” Mori and his team are up for two days solid, constantly working the must. Mori comically compares it to the Big Bang. “The grape material explodes, the material goes everywhere; it is the birth of the universe, and the wine is born.” After 48 hours, they stop and the must – thanks to all the agitation and natural humidity created in the winery – immediately starts fermenting. After just a few hours, the must has heated up to 34-35˚C and sometimes reaches 40˚C. These are not temperatures ever mentioned in modern wineries, but Mori knows what he is doing. “Sangiovese likes to fly high like an eagle when fermenting,” he says, “it is important for the characteristics of the Sangiovese chemically to fix the volatile smells.” At these sorts of temperatures, the fermentation is over in a week. Mori deliberately makes Madonna delle Grazie completely differently – and contradicts all that he does with his classic Brunello cuvée, such is the quality of the grapes from this special vineyard. When the grapes arrive at the winery, the fruit is left alone. The fermentation is much slower and much cooler (between 28-30˚C), lasting 20-25 days. It is, in short, totally the opposite. “With the Madonna delle Grazie, to our surprise, we found no power,” says Mori, “but a complexity in which the Sangiovese is similar to that of Pinot Noir – the technique brings elegance.” “Every part of the Madonna is high (the acidity, the tannins, the alcohol, the polyphenolics, the anthocyanins, the fruity characters, all are high, but without the power –  altogether it makes a complex wine. Together it makes for an extraordinary equilibrium.” Mori has been perfecting his techniques over the last 27 years, but two years ago it was his turn to become the teacher as his son – Iacopo – joined him in the winery during the pandemic. “Now I try to let my son learn this kind of traditional winemaking – not simply as Gambelli and Cortevesio taught me, but Gambelli, Cortevesio with the hand of Alessandro,” he says. “Today, he is more careful in the cellar than I am. Sometimes a little too much,” laughs Mori. He has obviously taught him well. Mori has also been imparting his knowledge to Emilio Parri – his cellar hand and protégé, who has been working in the cellar since he was 18. Overriding everything, Mori’s job as a teacher, he believes, is to “transmit the passion”. Mori still has a strong bond with his wine – he talks to it every day. When leaving the winery he shouts down to the cellar – “Ciao ragazzi, see you tomorrow!” Mori’s underlying philosophy for making great wine is to make wine with sentiment. “You have a relationship with the wine – the more you give to the wine, it gives it you back 10 times more. You see the wine grow up like a child, it is fantastic.” Encouraging this relationship, encouraging both Iacopo and Parri to fall in love with the work and the wine is his goal. With Mori’s support, his son has created a new cuvée, the stunning Rosso di Montalcino Selezione Iacopo. Iacopo took different proportions of wines ageing in the cellar to concoct his own blend. The 2019 was the first limited release and has already been highly praised by the critics (Eric Guido wrote, “The word ‘wow’ does not do this justice.”). While Mori thinks his son could afford to relax a bit and “take it easy” – the skills he and Parri are showing in the cellar means perhaps it is Mori, after 47 years, who can now start to relax. While Mori contemplates his retirement, albeit just for 30 seconds, he knows he will never really leave. Like Gambelli and Cortevesio before him, he will share the ways of his forefathers with anyone in Montalcino who will listen. Explore all current Il Marroneto listings or read more Editorial 

Alessandro Mori has produced every vintage in Il Marroneto’s 47-year history. As he prepares to hand this legacy to the next generation, we caught up with him to pause and consider his teachers – two legendary Tuscan figures that helped establish Il Marroneto as one of Montalcino’s top estates

Alessandro Mori of Il Marroneto’s reflects on his legacy and that of two Tuscan legends, Gambelli and Cortevesio.

The savants of Sangiovese, Il Marroneto

The savants of Sangiovese: Il Marroneto

Winemaker Jessica Servet has certainly been busy since our last visit to Hegarty Chamans, an enchanting vineyard in the hills of the Minervois. The winery’s success over the last few years and conversion to biodynamics has earned them an enviable reputation – both abroad and locally. Servet has since been elected deputy mayor of the local village and asked to take the lead on environmental sustainability issues in the wider district. Once a team of outsiders – with the estate founded by Englishman Sir John Hegarty and his wife Philippa, they are now increasingly influential in the region. But this wasn’t always the case: Hegarty Chamans has always seen itself as the “black sheep” of the Minervois.  From the outset it had a very clear goal to promote organic principles, which back in 2002 was radical for the region. The estate was also keen to produce wines of a certain style, wines that were elegant and very pure, resisting what Servet describes as “the make-up” of products that can be (and are) widely used in the region to affect the style and flavour profile of the wines. “People want the wines very ripe but with acidity,” Servet explains, “so they simply pick late and add acidity in the winery. This is something we are strongly against. We want to produce a balance in the wine without manipulation.” In the southern French heat, it can be tricky to produce wines that are fully ripe, while also keeping the alcohol in check and retaining freshness. Servet explains the key to their success is not to push the vines too hard. “You look around and some vignerons are willing to push their vines to the extreme to maximise yield, 80 to 90 hl/ha is not unusual for the region. The vines are weak, susceptible to uneven ripening and disease and finding balance in the wine is not easy. We realised we had to drop right down to 25 to 30 hl/ha to find that natural balance.”  She goes on to explain this approach produced a wine style that initially was deemed “not Minervois enough”. Their wines had even been rejected by the appellation at tasting (to carry the appellation’s name, wines have to be presented to a tasting panel).  The irony is that their purist attempts to reflect the vineyard were seen as atypical of the region. This rejection, while unhelpful, did not steer them off course. Thankfully in more recent years their philosophy and the success of the wines both locally and further afield has seen their approach become influential in what is a true representation of Minervois, or
perhaps what is more important for Servet, a true representation of the Hegarty Chamans vineyards. It is a very particular site and not dissimilar to the likes of the secluded wineries of Ch. Rayas, further north in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, or even the secluded vineyard of Soldera in Tuscany. What they all have in common, alongside low yields, is a belief that great vineyard sites need biodiversity to produce great wine.  All these vineyards are surrounded by forests that not only protect the vineyard from chemical infiltration from neighbouring sites, but benefit from a rich ecosystem that protects soil health and the vine’s natural resistance to disease, extending its natural life. The ultimate goal is to have a vineyard in perfect self-sustaining health. Servet believes this rich biodiversity is key to the vineyard working with its surrounding environment. Animals are a fundamental part of this: the estate raises a small flock of sheep which eliminates the weeds which grow between the vines and provides natural fertiliser, supplemented by other organic manures.  They also keep bees and prepare their own composts which are energised using specific biodynamic preparations. After spreading on agricultural soils, they encourage microbiological life and the mineral and organic richness which Servet believes is at the source of the strong terroir expression found in the wines. Beyond Hegarty Chamans, Servet is also encouraging others to employ a sustainable approach. In the region, all three of the main wineries are now organic and her latest domestic project is to organise a communal composting system for all residents living in the region.  Hegarty Chamans’ top cuvée, Black Knight, comes from the estate’s finest vineyards and is made only in the best vintages. We were fortunate to taste the 2016 on a number of occasions earlier this year, from barrel and following bottling (which is exclusively in magnum). We were blown away by the quality, the textural richness of the wine, the layering of the tannins and the purity of fruit – which is really special. It certainly has the signature elegance the winery has always promoted above anything else, but there is Minervois power too. Servet knows in the run up to harvest whether there will be a Black Knight cuvée – and in 2016, it proved to be a very easy decision. “We had enough rain in the spring to see us through the summer with very steady weather, no heat spikes and very even ripening, it was the most relaxed season I can remember,” she explains. The cuvée is made typically from the same favoured plots. Syrah, which makes up 80% of the blend, always comes from the Rabbit vineyard. “It's special due to the particular exposition of the vineyard and the effects of a distinct red and white clay in the soil. It produces an unbelievable freshness to the Syrah from this site,” says Servet.  The Carignan (typically around 10% of the blend) always comes from the oldest vines on the entire property, high up on the hill above the winery, 60 to 70 years in age and offering consistency every year. The Grenache, however, is not always from the same site, and is often chosen after vinification.  “I know the flavour profile I am looking for and when I find it, it goes in. The best expression of Grenache is based on picking it at exactly the right time. It gives you incredibly pure strawberry jam flavour with white pepper. When you capture both that sweet and spicy flavour in the wine you know you have got it right,” explains Servet. Using only natural yeast, the grapes go through fermentation and undergo a four-week maceration with gentle extraction, with the wine kept at a low temperature to retain aromatics. Only the free-run juice used for Black Knight – again retaining the elegance in the wine. The wine is then aged in a mix of one, two and three-year-old 300-litre barriques, Stockinger and Séguin Moreau barrels for 22-24 months. It is this long élevage that creates the wonderful layered texture in the wine. “There are lots of tannins in the wine and it needs this time to fully integrate in barrel,” Servet says. As I push further to understand the secret behind this cuvée, Servet admits there is always a sense of mystery in winemaking. A lot of the time her work is done on instinct and how she feels. Servet explains that if she is in a bad mood, she doesn't go near the wines. "There is energy here and I trust in that. I feel it in the vineyards and I feel it in the winery.” There is certainly a bit of magic that goes on in winemaking and the vineyards of Hegarty Chamans are certainly special – as you can feel in the wine. The 2016 Black Knight is the finest cuvée we have tasted from the property, and it is fast becoming one of the most exciting wines from the south of France.  Find out more about Hegarty Chamans and browse all listings

Ahead of the latest release of Hegarty Chamans’ top cuvée, Black Knight, we caught up with Winemaker Jessica Servet to find out more about what makes this secluded vineyard in the hills of the Minervois so special

Winemaker Jessica Servet talks about what makes the secluded vineyard of Hegarty Chamans’ top wine cuvée Black Knight in the hills of Minervois so special. 

Making a mark in the Minervois

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

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

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

Tasting through six decades of Ch. Clos de Sarpe 

Six decades of Clos de Sarpe 

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