Xiao-Li Meng, Whipple V. N. Jones Professor of Statistics at Harvard and Founding Editor-in-Chief of Harvard Data Science Review, was inspired by a student to combine wine and statistics—leading to insights far beyond what they ever expected.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Seeking simplicity in statistics, complexity in wine, and everything else in fortune cookies 

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  

It’s not every day that you get to taste wines made over half a century ago – but earlier this month I got to trace CVNE’s flagship Imperial Gran Reserva all the way back to the 1947 vintage. Victor Urrutia, the fifth generation of his family to take the helm of this legendary Rioja producer, put together a tasting of what he called “the dirty dozen” – lining up 12 vintages of Imperial. The wines were chosen to show how the wine speaks across a range of vintages – not just the most famous, but the hot, the cold, the mighty and the mediocre.  CVNE has been making wine in Rioja Alta since 1879, so – even going back to 1947 – this tasting offered just a snapshot of its history. Imperial was created in the early 20th century (1917 is the earliest vintage Urrutia himself has tasted), conceived as “super Rioja”, Urrutia explained. The idea was to make the best wine possible, regardless of its commercial potential, at a time when Rioja didn’t have the prestige of today. Around 50,000 bottles are produced, but – importantly – Imperial isn’t made in every vintage, with the quality of the fruit in some years not meeting CVNE’s stringent standards (there was no 2003, 2006 or 2013, for example, and there won’t be a 2023 either).  For Urrutia, the goal with Imperial now is to reflect each vintage, and fine-tune the wine rather than look for revolution. The early vintages are their benchmark and inspiration. Across the vintages, however, Urrutia points to a “churchy” nose – something he finds is distinctly Imperial and reminiscent of the winery.  It’s easy, perhaps, to forget how well Rioja ages – and not just over a decade or two, but over half a century. The oldest vintage in this tasting, the 1947, was undoubtedly the star – a wine that has retained its freshness, with delicate aromatics and a beautifully long, pure, resolved palate. The entire flight impressed – with the quality of Imperial shining through. Some of Rioja’s legendary vintages featured (the 1970 and 1959, which sit alongside the likes of 1982 and 1964 in the history books), but my personal favourites were the aforementioned 1947, the still compact 2004 (named Wine Spectator’s Wine of the Year in 2013), the brooding 2011 and pretty, elegant 2018.   The Imperial vineyards  The fruit for Imperial Gran Reserva comes from CVNE’s best vineyards, all over 40 years in age and almost all bush vines, yielding around 4,000kg/ha (equivalent to circa 25hl/ha or less than 1.5 tons/acre). The parcels all sit close to the Cantabrian mountains, at around 500-600 metres’ altitude, and on poor but cool soils (clay and limestone) – lending the wines great freshness, even in hot and dry years, explains longtime Technical Director María Larrea.  The village of Villalba de Rioja has been the backbone of the wine since its conception. This village was where the Real de Asúa brothers (who founded CVNE) first bought vineyards, four kilometres from Haro. The vineyards are steep and south-facing, exposed to the winds and some of the vines therefore have to be trellised (cordón Royat), but it brings acidity and freshness to the wine – something that is essential for its ageing potential. Parcels in the villages of Briones and Torremontalbo were added later, in the 1960s. Briones has richer soils, gentle slopes and a warmer climate, giving structure and body to the wine, while Torremontalbo has steep, stony slopes with calcareous soils and a significant diurnal shift, adding minerality and finesse to the blend.  The Imperial blend  The blend has shifted over the years, with the wine originally around 40% Garnacha and 40% Tempranillo, with the remaining 20% Graciano and Mazuelo. The old vineyards were field blends, with the varieties interplanted and harvested together, meaning mixed ripeness levels – something that arguably brought balance and complexity to the wines, even if some of the fruit wouldn’t have been ripe. Nowadays, each variety is planted separately at CVNE – allowing them more control and precision, harvesting each grape at the perfect moment and crafting a blend in the winery.  There was a move away from Garnacha in the 1970s, with more and more Tempranillo planted instead. Garnacha was less appreciated, seen as a workhorse, an impression that was only reenforced when lesser, high-yielding clones were planted in the 1980s and 1990s. As Larrea also noted, Garnacha is much more prone to coulure and millerandage (poor flowering and fruit-set), which may have been another factor in its decline. There was also a time, Urrutia explained, when Bordeaux was the reference point for fine wine, and they looked to imitate the region, favouring Tempranillo for its darker colour versus the more thin-skinned and therefore pale Grenache. Today, the blend is dominated by Tempranillo (with the 2017 and 2018 Imperial both 85% Tempranillo), but Grenache is undergoing a revival across Rioja and – provided they can have the right clonal material and/or older vineyards – it may contribute more to the blend in time.  The proportion of Graciano and Mazuelo has been reduced slightly, but Larrea emphasises how important the two grapes are in the face of climate change. Mazuelo (aka Carignan/Cariñena) provides structure and colour, while Graciano contributes acidity and aromatic complexity.  The winemaking  Although she joined CVNE in 1991, María Larrea took over the winemaking for Imperial with the 2005 vintage, following on from Basilio Izquierdo, who had been running things for over 30 years (since 1973). Before Izquierdo came Ezequiel García, known as “El Brujo” (“The Wizard”), winemaker for CVNE for over three decades (he returned briefly in 2014 to recreate their legendary white, Monopole).  Across the three winemakers and almost 70 years, surprisingly little has changed. The winemaking here remains extremely traditional, although technology has allowed the team to monitor the wines more closely, and for better winery hygiene, as in most regions. Fermentation remains indigenous, although it’s no longer spontaneous – the wines have been inoculated with a selected strain of their indigenous yeast since the early 2010s (with some experiments in the 1990s). Traditionally fermentation was in concrete tank, however this moved to oak in the 1990s, with one lone vintage (1994) fermented in stainless steel when the vats hadn’t arrived in time.  The wines used to be stored in barrel and only bottled when they were sold, so some older vintages of Imperial spent over a decade in barrel, while today the wine normally stays in barrel for between two and three years. (The bottling dates for each of the vintages is included below – the 1947 wasn’t bottled until 1960!) Originally the oak was all American, simply because that is what they had access to via their historic trade routes, and the barrels were kept for decades (Larrea remembers using 40-year-old barrels when she arrived in the 1990s). CVNE gradually started introducing French oak in the 1980s, with around 30% French oak used in the 1990s and around 60-70% today, with the remainder American.   The wines: tasting eight decades of CVNE Imperial  A note on the bottles themselves: older vintages are in green glass, however they moved to brown glass around 10-15 years ago.  2018 Imperial Gran Reserva: This was a real highlight of the vertical. It is very youthful still, fruit-forward, yet with amazing finesse and delicacy. The nose is precise with dainty aromatics of spice, graphite and florals alongside the crystalline fruit. The palate is juicy and lithe, pure, silken and fresh with savoury tobacco and dried red berries filling the mouth-watering finish. Beautiful and very open, even now. Fermented in oak, 14% alcohol and bottled July 2021.  2017 Imperial Gran Reserva: Frosts swept across much of Europe in late April in 2017, although the rest of the season was relatively warm, producing a tiny crop of concentrated fruit. It’s a drastically different wine to the 2018, yet still with great freshness and a floral lift alongside ripe, sweet red fruit. The palate is tight, much less approachable than the 2018, with compact tannins, a bite of crunchy acidity and a grip of firm tannins, while smoky tones that fill the finish. Decant to enjoy now, but this will be even better with a couple more years in bottle. Fermented in oak, 14% alcohol and bottled July 2020.  2015 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 2015 Imperial is dark and intense, layered with rich bramble fruit, cedar, tobacco, spice and something meaty – a hint of biltong, perhaps. The palate echoes the concentration of the nose, with chewy tannins and a line of acidity that cuts through its intensity. Powerful, almost stern, with more dried fruit coming out with air, the finish is long and savoury, with a touch of red miso. Fermented in oak, 14.5% alcohol and bottled June 2018.  2011 Imperial Gran Reserva: Another standout in the vertical, the 2011 Imperial offers a dark and pure nose, still surprisingly primary with black cherry and cassis fruit, lifted by sweet spicy perfume. The palate is silken and pure, still so youthful, flowing across the tongue, framed by firm but integrated tannins. It’s concentrated and long, with floral aromatics dancing on the juicy finish. Hard to resist with great balance. Fermented in oak, 13.5% alcohol and bottled July 2014.  2009 Imperial Gran Reserva: This is a very serious Imperial now at a lovely stage of maturity – with savoury undergrowth and spicy notes sitting alongside the vibrant dark berry fruit. The palate is intense yet with a softness to it, despite the chewy framework of tannins. It’s juicy and expressive, with smoky, spicy, tobacco notes playing on the finish, and just the slightest hint of leather starting to appear. Fermented in oak, 13.8% alcohol and bottled January 2013.  2004 Imperial Gran Reserva: From “a textbook vintage” in CVNE CEO Victor Urrutia’s words, the 2004 is shining. Pencil shavings and bacon complement ripe, dark fruit. The palate is tight and compact, yet with a juiciness that elongates the whole thing, with acidity that drives through to the long finish. The tannins are supple and soft, integrated with the fruit, but still offer a grip on the finish. Bright and effortlessly balanced. Fermented in oak, 13.8% alcohol and bottled October 2008.  1994 Imperial Gran Reserva: This is an intriguing vintage of Imperial, the only one ever to have been fermented in stainless steel as they were switching from cement to wood, but the new vats didn’t arrive in time for the vintage. It was also served at the wedding of Spain’s Crown Prince, who later became King Felipe VI. After the 2004, this marks a shift towards wines dominated by tertiary notes, although there’s still plenty of fruit here. The nose is spicy with mushroom and undergrowth alongside incense and leathery tones. The palate is laden with umami – with fresh leather and dried berry fruit – as well as dried strawberries, supple tannins and refreshing acidity. Fermented in stainless steel, 13.16% alcohol and bottled June 1998.  1980 Imperial Gran Reserva: As CEO Victor Urrutia said, 1980 was “a shit vintage” – and has always been in the shadow of 1981 and 1982. Tasting the wine today, that’s probably fair – however it’s still an impressive wine. The nose has a distinctly herbal, menthol edge to the sweet fruit – macerated strawberries, with a balsamic hint. The tannins still offer bite, while the fruit shifts to darker, more bramble tones towards the finish. Fermented in concrete, 13.4% alcohol and bottled May 1985.  1970 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 1970 vintage was hot and produced powerful wines – earning it a reputation as one of Rioja’s finest vintages. After over 50 years, the wine is intensely savoury – combining soy, marmite and barnyard tones with intense, dark fruit. With air, the wine offers layers of spice (almost reminiscent of paprika), bacon frazzles and smoked almonds, complementing the concentrated core of fruit. It’s intense yet balanced, with bright acidity that keeps everything fresh and fills the long finish. Fermented in concrete, 12.97% alcohol and bottled March 1975.  1968 Imperial Gran Reserva: From a more difficult vintage, the 1968 Imperial has a charming nose that seamlessly combines savoury and sweet – with earthy richness that sits alongside incense-inflected berry fruit and a pleasing herbal note. The palate is elegant and vibrant, with plenty of fruit still driving through its core, while more savoury, smoky notes dominate the finish. Fermented in concrete, 12.7% alcohol and bottled April 1974.  1959 Imperial Gran Reserva: The 1959 vintage is another of Rioja’s most lauded, although I suspect this bottle was not showing its best. There’s a plushness and intensity to the palate, with a sharp drive of acidity, while the nose is dominated by leather, black liquorice and barnyard. Fermented in concrete, 13% alcohol and bottled February 1968.  1947 Imperial Gran Reserva: An amazing wine to tasted, the 1947 CVNE Imperial has a reputation – one that this bottle more than lived up to. Coffee and tobacco notes with bright fruit – ripe red cherry and raspberry, as well as florals, incense, black tea and sage, alongside smoky perfume. It’s long and fresh on the palate, seamless and fully resolved but pure and persistent, with a Bovril edge to the finish which is vibrant and long. Gorgeous now – drink it while you have the chance. Fermented in concrete, 12.4% alcohol and bottled August 1960.  Explore all CVNE listings, including a range of back-vintages of Imperial Gran Reserva, or read more Editorial 

Earlier this month, CVNE hosted a once-in-a-lifetime tasting of their Imperial Gran Reserva. Sophie Thorpe explores what makes the wine so special and how it has evolved over eight decades 

Exploring CVNE’s flagship Gran Reserva Rioja, Imperial, back to 1947 at a once-in-a-lifetime tasting with CEO Victor Urrutia 

Tasting CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva Rioja 2018-1947 

An icon through the ages: CVNE’s Imperial Gran Reserva 

Ch. Haut-Brion is one of the oldest and best-known names in fine wine. The Bordeaux First Growth estate was created by Jean de Pontac, back in 1533, and its wines were among the first to be exported. Records detail 169 bottles of the wine (then as “Hobriono”) served to guests in 1660 by King Charles II. Just a few years later, on 10th April 1663, Samuel Pepys wrote in his diary that he had drunk “a sort of French wine called Ho-Bryan [sic] that hath a good and most particular taste I never met with”.   
While Ch. Haut-Brion is the oldest known estate in Bordeaux to bottle and label its wine as a Grand Cru, bearing both name and terroir – the name “Haut-Brion” has an historic attachment to a fair few other winemaking estates in the Graves region. The name Haut-Brion roughly translates as hillock and refers to the raised gravel hills found in the surrounding vineyards. It is these distinct raised, Günzian gravel soils that have provided such ideal conditions for grape growing over the last 500 years or so – providing the vines with much-needed drainage in Bordeaux’s marshy flatlands. Below the deep gravel lies a bedrock of clay which locks in the moisture, releasing it only when required in the drier summer months. This terroir is the secret behind the vineyards’ historic levels of consistency. 
Other famous châteaux that share the Haut-Brion name are all situated in the Graves region, just south of Bordeaux’s city centre. Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, situated immediately across the road from Ch. Haut-Brion, with neighbouring vineyards, is the most famous, while Ch. les Carmes Haut-Brion is situated just to its north and Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion to its south.
Controversially Ch. Larrivet Haut-Brion is not close to the other properties, but further south, near Ch. Smith Haut Lafitte. The property changed its name from La Rivette to Ch. Haut-Brion Larrivet in 1874, and it was only following a lawsuit, filed by Ch. Haut-Brion in 1949, that the château was forced to change its name to Larrivet Haut-Brion. (Neither Les Carmes de Haut-Brion or Larrivet Haut-Brion have a connection to Ch. Haut-Brion and the wider Clarence Dillon portfolio.) 
Today, Ch. Haut-Brion and neighbouring Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion are the two flagship estates of Domaine Clarence Dillon. Clarence Dillon was an American immigrant, who made his fortune as a financial broker on Wall Street in the 1920s. With French ancestors and a passion for French gastronomy (which included him taking an introductory course at the famous Paris cooking school, Le Cordon Bleu), he spent much of his spare time in France. In 1935, he eventually persuaded the current owner, André Gilbert, to sell him Ch. Haut-Brion, his favourite wine estate, and the property has remained in Dillon the family ever since. 
Clarence Dillon’s granddaughter, Joan Dillon, and her second husband Philippe de Noailles, Duke of Mouchy, expanded their holdings in the region, when they purchased Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion in 1983. It was following this acquisition that some famous neighbouring châteaux were absorbed into the portfolio and some wines discontinued, with the fruit instead used for Haut-Brion or La Mission Haut-Brion. 
The range as it stood in 1983 included the Grand Vins Haut-Brion and Haut-Brion Blanc, La Mission Haut-Brion and their famous white wine, Laville Haut-Brion. In addition to this, Ch. Haut-Brion produced a second red wine called Bahans Haut-Brion and a second white wine called Les Plantiers Haut-Brion. At Ch. La Mission Haut-Brion they produced a second red wine called La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion and also the red wine of Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion. 
In 2008 the fourth generation of the Clarence Dillon family, Prince Robert de Luxembourg took control of the estate, and a flurry of name changes took place, however the fruit sources have remained stable. From the 2008 vintage, Les Plantiers Haut-Brion was renamed La Clarté de Haut-Brion, while Bahans Haut-Brion became Le Clarence de Haut-Brion from the 2007 vintage. Laville Haut-Brion, La Mission’s famed white wine, was returned back to La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc from the 2009 vintage. 
For the Prince, the name changes were mainly a way to simplify the range for collectors. In fact, La Mission’s top white had originally been called La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc when first produced in 1923, however the winery didn’t feel the quality was on a par with the red and so changed the name to Laville Haut-Brion (after the lieu-dit where the white grapes were grown) in the 1930s. Bahans Haut-Brion had also taken its name from its lieu-dit; the name change reflected that it had become a second wine, not a cuvée from a separate vineyard (and paid tribute to Prince Robert’s gread-grandfather). 
Perhaps the biggest casualty in the development of the Haut-Brion properties was the discontinuation of Ch. la Tour Haut-Brion – with the last vintage 2005. Before Clarence Dillon bought the property in 1983, a portion of the grapes of the four-hectare estate went into the Grand Vin of La Mission Haut-Brion, while the rest was bottled as La Tour Haut-Brion.  Clarence Dillon bottled fruit from all four hectares of the property separately for a time, and it gained its own strong following – known for consistently producing memorable, age-worthy wines that defied its relatively low price point. But, in 2005, Domaine Clarence Dillon decided to put all the fruit into the second wine of La Mission Haut-Brion – La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion – and Ch. La Tour Haut-Brion was no more. 
Between the 1950s and 2012, an additional wine – Domaine de la Passion Haut-Brion or Domaine Allary Haut-Brion – was made. The wine has an interesting story, relating to a parcel of vines in the heart of the Haut-Brion vineyard, but owned by the Allary family. The Allary family didn’t make wine, but rented the vines to Haut-Brion, who paid them back by bottling some wine – which otherwise would have been Haut-Brion’s Grand Vin or second wine – under a special label, Domaine de la Passion Haut-Brion.  This was produced from 1954 to 1978. In 1979, EU law forbid the same wine to be bottled under a different label, so between 1979 and 2007, the fruit from these vines went into the second wine of Haut-Brion (then known as Bahans Haut-Brion). From 2008, the Allary family took back control of the vines and produced their own wine. Made by a different winemaking team managed by Stéphane Derenoncourt, the wine was bottled under a new label, Domaine Allary Haut-Brion. This lasted just five vintages until 2012, when Clarence Dillon finally bought the land from the family and the wine was discontinued. 
In 2011, the fourth generation of the Dillon family, Prince Robert de Luxemburg, branched out beyond the Graves region to buy Ch. Tertre Daugay in Saint-Emilion along with the vineyards of neighbouring Ch. l’Arrosée. From the two estates, he created Quintus. Ideally situated next to Ch. Bélair-Monange and Ch. Angélus, the vineyards are situated on a limestone hillock in the south-western end of the Saint-Emilion plateau.  In 2021, Domaine Clarence Dillon bought Ch. Grand Pontet, another 14 hectares of top Saint-Emilion terroir to further expand the Quintus estate. With the viticulture and winemaking at Quintus all under the control of the talented Haut-Brion team, it’s not surprising that Quintus has quickly gained its own following of collectors. Alongside the Grand Vin, a second wine Le Dragon de Quintus (first produced in 2011) and a third wine Saint-Emilion de Quintus (first produced in 2014) are made.

These various lost properties and wines are becoming harder to find, but offer a fascinating way to explore the full DNA of the modern-day Haut-Brion, La Mission Haut-Brion and Quintus. 
Your quick guide to the Haut-Brion wines
 Allary Haut-Brion (Domaine): made between 2008 and 2012 by a separate winemaking team from a parcel of vines in the heart of the Haut-Brion site (which is now owned by Haut-Brion) Bahans Haut-Brion: the second wine of Ch. Haut-Brion, first made in 1976 and renamed Le Clarence de Haut-Brion from the 2007 vintage Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (red) of Ch. Haut-Brion, which dates back to the 16th century Haut-Brion Blanc: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. Haut-Brion, first made in 1916  La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion: La Mission Haut-Brion’s second wine, introduced in 1991 La Clarté de Haut-Brion: the name for the second white wine of Ch. Haut-Brion from the 2008 vintage (previously Les Plantiers Haut-Brion Blanc) La Mission Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (red) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion which has been made since the 16th century La Mission Haut-Brion Blanc: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, first made in 1923 under this name, before being renamed Laville Haut-Brion in the 1930s, and reclaiming its name once more from 2009  La Passion Haut-Brion (Domaine de): a bottling of Haut-Brion or Bahans Haut-Brion under a different label (from 1955 to its last vintage in 1978) La Tour Haut-Brion: a separate property owned by Clarence Dillon since 1983 (last vintage 2005); the fruit is now used for La Mission Haut-Brion’s second wine, La Chapelle de la Mission Haut-Brion Laville Haut-Brion: the Grand Vin (white) of Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion, renamed la Mission Haut-Brion Blanc in 2009 (as it was originally known when first made, prior to the 1930s) Le Clarence de Haut-Brion: the name for Ch. Haut-Brion’s second (red) wine since the 2007 vintage (previously known as Bahans Haut-Brion) Les Plantiers Haut-Brion Blanc: the second white wine of Ch. Haut-Brion, renamed La Clarté de Haut-Brion from the 2008 vintage Explore all current listings of Ch. Haut-Brion, Ch. La Mission Haut-Brion, Quintus, La Passion Haut-Brion and La Tour Haut-Brion or read more Editorial 

Since the Clarence Dillon family bought Ch. Haut-Brion in 1935 and neighbouring Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and La Tour Haut-Brion 48 years later, the properties have become some of Bordeaux’s most collectable. We explore the genealogy of these illustrious estates – and their lost wines 

Exploring the genealogy of the Bordeaux First Growth Ch. la Mission Haut-Brion and its siblings La Tour Haut-Brion

The lost wines of Haut-Brion

A prince’s kiss rouses the cursed princess from a century-long slumber in Sleeping Beauty
but the man responsible for Bordeaux’s long-overdue reawakening was not a prince (this being the French Republic after all) but Alain Juppé, France’s former Prime Minister.  Bordeaux had been comatose, earning it the nickname la belle endormie, but the indefatigable politician has given the city the kiss of life. Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2007, it is now the most desirable place to live in France and was voted “European Best Destination 2015’. Bordeaux's renaissance is a real-life fairytale. Bordeaux was a “melancholy, unwelcoming place” just 20 years ago but the arrival of Alan
Juppé as mayor in 1995 has transformed the city’s fortunes, making its centre as elegant as its wines. Blackened buildings and abandoned warehouses are now a thing of the past and, with the arrival of the high-speed rail link, connecting the city to Paris in just two hours, living in Bordeaux is as aspirational as drinking its first growths.” When Juppé was elected as mayor in 1995, Bordeaux was not the modern and vibrant place it is today. Deputy mayor Stephan Delaux, who worked alongside Juppé for more than two decades, admits: “Bordeaux had a reputation as a melancholy, unwelcoming town. The town wasn’t modern – that is to say that in the town centre, cars, trucks, buses, car parks dominated. The building fronts were black, the waterfront was a relic of a once-busy
port; the warehouses [on the waterfront] were empty. The people of the city no longer knew they lived by a river – there was no life there.” He paints a rather depressing picture but throughout its history, Bordeaux’s sons have
portrayed the city in a none-too-flattering light: the novels of Nobel-prize-winning writer François Mauriac (1885-1970) whose bust now stands in the leafy public gardens, depicted Bordeaux and the surrounding areas as a bleak and uptight place to live in the early 20th century. Similarly, one of Alfred Smith’s (1854-1932) best-known works ‘Le Tramway devant les Quinconces par temps de pluie’ depicts a grey, wet day on the banks of the Garonne, umbrellas up and those without hurrying, heads bowed. It’s not a place you would have aspired to live.  Things didn’t get much better during the 20th century: local tour guide Veronique Baggio recalls a ramshackle apartment she lived in in the 1980s. “The building’s bathroom was in the attic so I had to leave my apartment to use it.  At that time the city was trying to push locals to improve the inside of buildings [to improve living conditions].  It wasn’t until the late 1990s that they started to focus on cleaning up the outside of the buildings and the public places.” Today, the buildings are impeccable – a mass sandblasting effort has unveiled the natural caramel and blonde tones of the local limestone, which were long hidden. Here and there, a few reminders of the past can be seen along its narrow streets: a blackened façade, as if smeared with charcoal.  Yet the renaissance of Bordeaux required more than a spit and polish. The length of the city’s riverbank had long been hidden by a line of ugly warehouses designed to cater to the needs of a port city. Since the 19th century, sugar and spices from far-flung places were unloaded to be reloaded by local timber and wine. The commercial port moved away in the 1970s from the city centre but the warehouses remained, as did the businesses that catered for the all-male docking crews.  Charles Sichel, export director of Maison Sichel, a wine merchant in the Chartrons district since 1883, explains:  “20 years ago there were a few seedy bars [on the quais] and where the new bridge is [Pont Chaban-Delmas] there were working girls. It was interesting taking customers out to lunch when there were girls standing in the doorways waiting for business – it was quite something – but I can’t remember them ever saying anything!” How times change. The waterfront is now the playground of the Bordelais, filled with joggers,
cyclists and prams promenading along its length; a place for concerts, festivals and open-air markets.  It is a sunny day and a Viking cruise liner lounges at the edge of the city centre overlooking children skipping in the water mirror, a slick of water that, as its name implies, reflects the classical architecture of the Place de la Bourse (Stock Exchange Square). It has become Bordeaux’s iconic postcard picture (and an unwitting urban water park) and represents the new face of the city – clean, bright and, dare I say it, fun.  The reawakening of the city has been noticed far beyond the city’s ring road; it has become the most desirable place to live in France, according to a survey commissioned by the Observatoire du Bonheur in 2015. Asked in which French city they would most like
to live, nearly one in five respondents answered Bordeaux – ahead of Montpellier, Toulouse and streets ahead of Paris.  Just an hour’s drive from the beaches of the Atlantic and three hours to the ski slopes of the Pyrenees, Bordeaux is now within commuting distance of Paris. A high-speed rail link (TGV) cuts the travel time between the two cities from more than three hours to two hours and five minutes in July 2017.  The spruce-up now continues beyond the city centre. Gliding north along the quai past Sichel’s office in the Chartrons district, the tram has started to deposit an unprecedented number of tourists in the Bacalan district. It’s certainly not the prettiest of suburbs, home to run-down docks, abandoned factories and a huge concrete mass that was once a submarine base, but the Juppé magic dust is now being sprinkled here and the opening of the Cité du Vin in June 2016, a towering sphere of gold and silver in a Frank Gehry meets Zaha Hadid-construction, is a pivotal part of its future. Tourists  - and most locals -  have had no reason to come here but that’s changing with 421,000 visitors walking through its doors in 2018. La belle endormie has woken up but the city continues to dream big. Sichel is rightly proud of his hometown. “Now, every time my customers come here they all comment on how beautiful the area has become. Juppé has turned this city around.” Explore more Editorial

Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2007, it is now the most desirable place to live in France and was voted “European Best Destination 2015’. We explore the renaissance of Bordeaux 

Exploring the renaissance of Bordeaux, from being named a UNESCO World Heritage site to being crowned the most desirable place to live in France 

Bordeaux revival - the city's transformation

Bordeaux revival: A reinvention of the city

The benefit of hindsight tells us this story did not end happily ever after, but for the 750
million people tuning in to the wedding of Lady Diana Spencer and the Prince of Wales, the day was fit for a fairy-tale complete with gold-encrusted carriage, silk slippers and trumpet fanfares aplenty.   The Champagne of choice? Magnums of Dom Pérignon 1961–  Diana’s birth year and a legendary vintage. The 600 bottles were disgorged in March 1981, just four months before Diana took the long walk down the aisle at St Paul’s cathedral but the quality of this 50/50 Chardonnay/Pinot Noir blend had long been appreciated: it is the only Champagne to have been awarded six stars by the late Michael Broadbent in his vintage guide – the maximum was five – while sparkling wine expert Tom Stevenson called it “the best Dom Pérignon I have ever tasted”. It wasn’t just Champagne that made wine fit for royalty in 1961. The warm, dry summer produced wines that had the Bordelais salivating from the first crush. In his annual
vintage report, Bordeaux négociant Peter Sichel, said:  “We have no doubts at all about the quality of this vintage. The wines are dark in colour, firm and complete in composition
and classic in flavour…they are great wines ranking with the 1928’s, 1929’s and 1945’s.” Despite the evident quality, there wasn’t much of it to go around: an intense cold spell at
the end of May made a huge dent in yields and this caused massive headaches. Bordeaux was far from wealthy at this time and the sur souche system was still in operation, which meant producers sold part of their crop before a grape had been harvested. It helped with cashflow and kept the bank manager far from the château gates but the system backfired in 1961 when nature turned against the vines: there was hardly any fruit; some châteaux couldn’t fulfil contracts and had to reimburse their customers for failure to supply.  Under the stable ownership of American financier Clarence Dillon, however, there were no such concerns at Château Haut-Brion. Instead, 1961 will be remembered as the “ripe and concentrated” debut vintage for Jean-Bernard Delmas who took over from his father and made the revolutionary step of introducing stainless steel fermentation tanks.  His son Jean-Philippe was handed the winemaking reins in 2004 and explains that the introduction of tanks brought greater precision to Haut-Brion. He tasted the 1961 earlier this year and recalls: “It was powerful, complex, so rich in tannins, ample, fleshy and complete. A pinnacle in quality, slightly similar to our 1989, that can still age and flourish for several decades. 1961 and 1989 are really the best made by my father.” The year 1961 will also be remembered as a killer year for the northern Rhône. Paul Jaboulet Ainé’s Hermitage La Chapelle, a cuvee that takes its name from the pint-sized chapel on top of the Hermitage hill, was lauded by wine critic Robert Parker and played no small part in creating a semi-mythical status. “This is unquestionably one of the greatest wines made in the twentieth century,” he declared. “In the two dozen tastings where I have had the 1961 La Chapelle, I rated it 100 points twenty times,” which would give it a sum total of 2000 Parker points. Heading further south through the Mont Blanc tunnel, the conditions that produced a stunning Rhône season made this the vintage of the decade in Piedmont. It is even a
strong contender for vintage of the century. According to Angelo Gaja, the makers of Barolo and Barbaresco would have to wait until 1970 for a vintage in the same league and then, like buses, they had another the following year (although some would argue the quality of 1967 was in a similar league).  By 1961, the staunch traditional Barolo maker, Bartolo Mascarello, already had 40-odd vintages under his belt and it would prove to be one of the vintages of a lifetime. While fully mature, it continues to drink well, although it’s not one for long-term cellaring at nearly 60 years old.  The late Mascarello’s unwavering commitment to long maceration times and traditional aging in large format Slovenian oak (botti) in the face of a modernist Barolo movement continues under the guardianship of his daughter Maria-Teresa. Fashions have come and gone since Mascarello first made this wine but it’s clear that he knew how to capture the greatness of his sites And if it ain’t broke… Explore more Editorial

In conversation amongst collectors and critics around the world, 1961 is certainly a vintage that piques a lot of interest. It was a vintage that arguably produced some of the finest bottles of the century. In the latest installment in our Vintage Series, we explore the vintage of 1961.

According to collectors and critics around the world, 1961 is a vintage that produced some of the finest bottles of the century. We explore the golden year

Exploring the 1961 vintage globally 

A year in wine: 1961

Saint-Emilion has been hitting the headlines. And not in the way it would like to. In July, just after the region’s châteaux submitted applications for the 2022 classification, two of the region’s four Premier Cru Classé A estates – Chx Cheval Blanc and Ausone – announced that they would be withdrawing from the classification system. This week sees a dispute over the 2012 classification enter the courts – with accusations that the results were fixed. The Médoc’s leading names were ranked in 1855 – with but one change (Ch. Mouton Rothschild's promotion) in 1973. The classification was uncomplicated, with no fussing over terroir, tastings or winemaking talent; it was based purely on price. It’s hard to believe that it remains relevant today – but, while of course there are properties that stand out, it’s more or less accepted, and reflective. Across the river in Saint-Emilion, they wanted something different. Something fairer. A system that flexed with an estate’s waxing and waning. The ambition was – and is – laudable. The reality, well… The classification is overseen by the Institut National des Appellations d’Origine (INAO) – the body responsible for France’s appellation system. The concept was mooted in the 1950s, with the first list published in 1955. The idea was that it would be re-drawn every 10 years – both to be more democratic and provide an incentive for long-term quality. Unlike the Left Bank’s system, it would assess terroir and include a tasting of the wines. The aim was, and is – as a spokesperson for the INAO told me, to help consumers distinguish between the region’s many properties and help “maintain a level of excellence”. The classification is based on a scoring system out of 20, with the breakdown of scores different to qualify for Grand Cru Classé (requiring a minimum 14 points) versus Premier Grand Cru Classé (requiring a minimum 16). In 2012, the possible points for Premier Grand Cru Classé were broken down thus: 30% based on the quality of the wine – with a tasting of 15 vintages; 30% on the estate’s terroir; 35% on the property’s renown (both national and international), promotion and distribution; and the remaining 5% on viticulture, vinification and traceability. Even the first, 1955 list was disputed, changed just three years later, then again two months later, before settling on 63 Grands Crus Classés and 12 of the elite Premiers Grands Crus Classés. The very best of this latter group were named “Premier Grand Cru Classé A” (the rest Premier Grand Cru Classé B) – with just two making the cut, Chx Ausone and Cheval Blanc. Since 1958 the region’s wines have been re-classified regularly – if not quite on the 10-year cycle forecast, in 1969, 1986, 1996, 2006 and then 2012. But there has always been an undercurrent of discontent. In 2006, five properties filed lawsuits and the ruling was declared invalid, with the 1996 classification reinstated. For the 2012 classification, the INAO seemed determined to clean things up. The tastings and site inspections were, for the first time, outsourced by the INAO, with wine professionals from other regions (Burgundy, the Rhône, Champagne, the Loire and Provence) roped in – including Marcel Guigal and Robert Drouhin. A company called Qualisud was to handle the tastings, while Bureau Veritas would take on visiting the estates. These independent authorities would, they thought, make it indisputable. The result was two new Premiers Grands Crus Classés A estates – with Chx Angélus and Pavie; while Larcis Ducasse, La Mondotte, Pavie Macquin, Troplong Mondot and Valandraud all promoted to Premier Grand Cru Classé B, and significant changes to the Grands Crus Classés (with a new total of 64 estates). But of course that wasn’t the end of it. Enter Chx Corbin-Michotte, Croque-Michotte and La Tour du Pin Figeac. The latter two had applied for and hoped to be promoted to Grand Cru Classé, while Corbin-Michotte was demoted in the 2012 rankings. They argue that the decision against them was “incomprehensible”, challenging the criteria for classification and insisting that two individuals – Hubert de Boüard (of Ch. Angélus) and Philippe Castéja (of Ch. TrotteVieille) – had “undue influence” with their roles within the INAO. It’s alleged that de Boüard was “present at all stages of the process elaborating the 2012 classification” (with it implied he influenced the ranking not only of Angélus but seven properties for which he consulted), while Castéja “pulled strings” to guarantee TrotteVieille’s Premier Grand Cru Classé status. The case went to administrative court, however the plaintiffs lost in 2015. They appealed, but lost again in 2019. And now they’re taking it to the criminal courts, with jail time and a fine of up to €500,000 on the cards for the accused. When I asked Frédéric Castéja – Philippe’s son and General Director of Borie Manoux – about the accusations, he told me: “I can only tell you that the Attorney General has dropped all accusations against [my father] and stated that he was not concerned at all with this so-called ‘influence’.” “When it comes to a public ranking, the level of controversy is as high as the stakes,” the INAO told me. It’s unsurprising, perhaps, given the impact the classification can have on an estate’s bottom line. After their promotion in 2012, Chx Pavie and Angélus saw instant price hikes: 2012 Angélus was released at 30% more than the 2011 en primeur, while Pavie went up 58%. That’s big bucks. And beyond the actual wine, it’s the land prices that really rocket. It wasn’t just these three (relatively minor) properties that seemed dissatisfied. Rumour has it that each year, the Médoc’s First Growths, Cheval Blanc, Ausone and Pétrus (“the group of nine”) all meet to taste the latest vintage. After Pavie and Angélus became newly minted First Growths, the group reportedly preferred to restrict the group to the original set. And in 2012 Ch. Ausone quietly removed the classification from its labels – a hint at what was to come. Eric Morain – one of the lawyers representing the three disgruntled estates – has commented that the classification has become “a system that sells the brand and no longer the grape”. La Revue du Vin de France’s 2021 Man of the Year, the attorney is a specialist in the world of wine and has earned a reputation for standing up for the little guys. He was instrumental in establishing the Syndicat de Défense des Vins Naturels (which introduced the Vin Méthode Nature trademark last year – a formal definition for natural wine in France), and has defended several wronged natural wine producers, such as Olivier Cousin and Alexandre Bain. Morain’s latest crusade, however, is against two goliaths – with connections and deep pockets. “The classification was thought out and developed and judged by people who had a direct interest. The rules were not the same for everyone,” Morain said on email to me. De Boüard and Castéja should have recused themselves, he argues. For Chx Corbin-Michotte, Croque-Michotte and La Tour du Pin Figeac (“They aren’t notable, just winegrowers who do their job well,” Morain says), this isn’t about money. They just want someone to admit they were wronged, unfairly excluded from the ranking. “Will they be convicted?” Bordeaux expert Jane Anson pondered, “I would imagine not, but I guess we will all have to wait and see...” For her, the drama is an unnecessary distraction “from the excellence of the wines and the entire classification”. In the meantime, the process for the 2022 classification has been rumbling on, with applications submitted this summer. Some changes have been made, again trying to make the classification – once and for all – watertight. Independent third party Bureau Veritas is now in charge of both tastings and site inspections, and the weighting of the tasting element has been increased for the Premiers Grands Crus Classés (bringing it in line with the weighting for the Grands Crus Classés) – worth 50% of the score (previously 30%) – while the portion for a property’s terroir has been reduced to just 10% (previously 30%). The puzzle is why the criteria remain different for a Premier Grand Cru Classé versus a Grand Cru Classé – something for which I haven’t been able to find an answer. Given estates need to score 17 for the heralded Premier Grand Cru Classé A, 16 for Premier Grand Cru Classé B and 14 for Grand Cru Classé, why make things even more complicated and declare that, for example in 2022, the quality of terroir has more significance for a Grand Cru Classé than a Premier Grand Cru Classé estate (20% versus 10% for the latter)? To make it into the upper echelons of the Premiers Grands Crus Classés, reputation is considered key – and this is a sticking point for many. While reputation, promotion and distribution represents 20% for the Grands Crus Classés, it stands for 35% of a property’s score for Premier Grand Cru Classé status. Including elements such as wine tourism, social media, PR and the accessibility of an estate, it has prompted remarks that the size of a winery’s car park has more relevance than the quality of its soils. The INAO emphasises that the criteria are very similar to those of the original classification in the 1950s. Reputation has always been included, they argue – they are simply adapting this to the modern day. Either way, it’s a minor element, they assure me – with, for example, social media representing just 0.3 points, or 1.5% of the final score, while wine tourism makes up a mere 1%. This hasn’t soothed the worries of the region’s two original Premiers Grands Crus Classés A properties, Ausone and Cheval Blanc. News broke soon after applications for the classification closed on June 30th that the prestigious estates had not submitted anything. When I spoke to both estates ahead of en primeur (April this year), the responses were interesting. Pierre-Olivier Clouet, Technical Director at Ch. Cheval Blanc, noted it was “a touchy question” before he continued. “We believe it’s quite difficult in 2021 to classify the wine like in 1855. This is not the same period this is not the same price per hectare, it is not the same price per bottle… Producing an outstanding wine is difficult on paper,” he said. “We don’t produce wine for the critics, for the classification – we make wine for the wine lover. Premier Grand Cru Classé A, Premier Grand Cru Classé B, Grand Cru Classé… we are Cheval Blanc, that’s it.” When I enquired whether he felt a wine’s distribution should have as much weighting as its terroir, he shrugged and smiled: “The answer is in the question.” Pauline Vauthier of Ch. Ausone was less willing to broach the topic, not wanting to be embroiled in the debate. “What counts is the quality of the product,” she said – making very clear that that is where the estate’s focus lies. “There are many classifications and they’re difficult for the public to understand. Ausone prefers to communicate about the quality of its wine.” She added: “[The 2012 classification] created much controversy, and that will certainly be the case with 2022.” When the news broke in July that both estates were withdrawing (along with sibling estates, La Clotte and Quinault l’Enclos), Pierre Lurton (Director of Ch. Cheval Blanc) and Clouet told Terre de Vins that there wasn’t enough emphasis on “the terroir, the wine, the history”. Edouard Vauthier (Ch. Ausone) explained, “Since 2012, some criteria added are not linked into the wine itself anymore. Some people apply for the classification for economic reasons more than quality and the respect of the terroir.” He highlighted that many of their customers hadn’t even noticed that “Premier Grand Cru Classé A” was no longer on the label. Indeed, why would they? Interestingly, these estates agree with Eric Morain on this. For Morain, the tasting component should represent much more – and as long as it counts for so little, “the classification will mean nothing”. The two behemoths are their own brands – brands that are much stronger than that of Saint-Emilion Premier Grand Cru Classé A. The loser, sadly, is set to be the classification itself, and its top-tier properties – which will no longer benefit from Cheval Blanc and Ausone’s halo effect. Of course, the INAO was keen to emphasise that – whether classified or not – the two estates would always be closely associated with the region, and that there were plenty of other estates that eagerly submitted applications. “Ausone and Cheval Blanc have always been driving forces behind the appellation and I hope will remain so,” Frédéric Castéja told me. “The risk is that at the next occasion other top estates (meaning other First Growths) do the same, then if too many leading estates leave, the classification is meaningless.” Morain – unsurprisingly given his campaign against the classification – is damning about its fate. Ausone and Cheval Blanc’s departure is, for him, “a symptom of a system on its last legs”. So is the 2022 ranking set to be the Saint-Emilion classification’s swansong? Perhaps – the more important question is maybe if it matters. “Saint-Emilion has so many châteaux (by far the most of any of the prestigious appellations) that there is a definite benefit to have some way of distinguishing the best wines,” Jane Anson said. “I fully agree with the principles, in fact think the idea of a renewable classification is very much consumer-driven and provides an incentive to estates to keep investing etc, but I think it has become unworkable.” And that is the problem – the theory is excellent, but how can it be put into practice? While the classification sounds helpful in principle, for most people, I suspect it isn’t. There’s too much confusion with Grand Cru, Grand Cru Classé and Premier Grand Cru Classé A or B. Unlike the Médoc’s straightforward numbering of First to Fifth Growth, it is not – to the uninitiated – immediately clear which is meant to be better than the other. Price and branding of an individual estate will be the more important differentiator. Talking to other producers in the region, few have answers – and few wish to champion the system’s survival. I asked Noëmie Durantou Reilhac – of Denis Durantou estates – whether she’d ever wish to see something similar in Pomerol. The answer was a firm no (“definitely”). “What really saddens me is seeing some plots in Saint-Emilion Grand Cru that are truly devastated,” she tells me. When I ask Nicolas Glumineau at Pichon Comtesse in Pauillac – a producer with a little distance – about his thoughts on it, he’s quick to quip: “That’s why we have an 1855 [classification] that we never move.” More seriously, he thinks the decade cycle is problematic. “I have this feeling that one classification every 10 years is probably too fast, too frequent. Probably 25 years – one generation could be enough.” Of course applying for the classification is voluntary – and not everyone does. Ch. Tertre Rôteboeuf, notably, has never played the game – despite the high quality of its wines. (The property is also renowned for handling its own distribution, outside the négociant system.) Ch. Haut-Brion owner Prince Robert of Luxembourg recently highlighted a benefit to being outside the classification – announcing his plans to expand Quintus with vineyards from the recently bought Ch. Grand Pontet. And this really gets to the point of what could make the Saint-Emilion classification work. As Anson said to me, “Saint-Emilion is the only classification in Bordeaux that includes the notion of terroir (and in fact taste) and that is also linked to a specific piece of land.” A classified property can’t automatically include new vineyards – unlike estates on the Left Bank. The classification is admirable in many ways – but how can you really quantify excellence? Is it ever really possible to pin down the true quality of a wine, or estate, with such exactitude? Is the picture not more nebulous than points can ever paint? “All classifications are correct as long as all players clearly know the rules,” Frédéric Castéja noted. “One must remember that classifications are always the picture of the past, but of course confirm the potential of the estate.” For Saint-Emilion, even the past feels in flux – discussed and debated. What the future holds is hard to say – but, for now, we’ll wait to see what’s in store for the class of 2022. Read more about Editorial  Since this article was published, Hubert de Boüard was found guilty of having undue influence in the 2012 Saint-Emilion classification. He was fined €40,000 and has not appealed the charge. Two properties, Ch. Croix de Labrie and Ch. Tour Saint-Christophe, are taking the INAO to court over their applications for the 2022 classification. In January 2022, Ch. Angélus announced it too was leaving the Saint-Emilion classification, stating the system had become a "vecteur d'antagonisme et d'instabilité". This leaves Ch. Pavie as the only remaining Premier Grand Cru Classé A estate. September 2022: the new classification has been unveiled, with Ch. Figeac promoted to Premier Grand Cru Classé A, alongside Ch. Pavie.

Saint-Emilion’s classification is in crisis – embroiled in court cases and controversy. But why? And does it matter? Sophie Thorpe investigates

Saint-Emilion’s classification is in crisis after leading names abandoned the system. We talk to Ausone, Cheval Blanc, Angelus and more about the controversy

Investigating Saint-Emilion's classification

Class act: Saint-Emilion

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