When the Bordeaux Chamber of Commerce ranked Bordeaux’s leading estates by price for the Exposition Universelle in Paris in 1855, I doubt they anticipated we’d still be using it over 150 years later. Napoleon III had asked the team to put together an exhibition for the world fair, and the Chamber of Commerce neatly passed the buck to the region’s courtiers or brokers, asking them to create a list of the region’s best wines, broken into five tiers. They did so in just two weeks, basing the list almost exclusively on price.  The original classification ranked 58 properties, from First to Fifth Growth, or Premier to Cinquième Cru Classé (with Cru Classé literally translating as “classed/classified growth”). At the very top of this quality pyramid was Ch. Lafite, deemed the “premier des premiers” of the time. The properties were almost exclusively in the Médoc, with Ch. Haut-Brion in Pessac-Léognan the one exception.  It is often said that there has only been one change since the 1855 classification’s creation, however that’s not quite true. Ch. Cantemerle was added in 1856 (having been left out of the original ranking by accident). Ch. Pichon split in two, the Léoville estate into three and Batailley was also divided – but two properties also merged (Pouget and Pouget Lassale), while Dubignon was absorbed entirely by other addresses. Interestingly, Ch. Gloria consists exclusively of vineyards that were classified originally, although the château wasn’t classified in 1855.   The most significant change, and the one most often mentioned, was in 1973 when Ch. Mouton Rothschild was upgraded to First Growth status. The property had only just been acquired by the Rothschild family in the 1850s, so was intially ranked as a Second Growth but Baron Philippe de Rothschild made it is life mission to get it officially recognised as one of the Left Bank’s five leading addresses. For years the property’s labels had read “Premier ne puis, second ne daigne, Mouton suis” (“First I cannot be, second I do not deign to be, Mouton I am”), which was changed to “Premier je suis, second je fus, Mouton ne change” (“First I am, second I was, Mouton doesn’t change”) after the Baron’s bid was successful, and the estate’s premiership was legally recognised.  There are 61 estates in today’s classification, with five First Growths, 14 Second Growths, 14 Third Growths, 10 Fourth Growths and 18 Fifth Growths. Unlike in Saint-Emilion’s classification, a property is free to buy and sell vineyards, with their expansion or contraction not impacting their classed growth status.  Although the classification has never been reviewed, it remains largely (and surprisingly) accurate – the premium price associated with higher status and quality seemingly providing sufficient incentive for producers, and the market effectively deciding on a property’s status.  Today there is also an unofficial group known as the “super seconds” – estates that are thought to produce wines that are as good as those of the First Growths. This includes Pichon Baron, Pichon Comtesse, Lynch-Bages, Léoville Las Cases, Léoville Barton, Ducru-Beaucaillou, Cos d’Estournel, Montrose, Palmer, Pontet-Canet and La Mission Haut-Brion.  While we tend to consider only the red wines of the northern Gironde in reference to the 1855 classification, the sweet whites of Sauternes and Barsac were also ranked. The wines were only put into two classes, with 21 estates included. Nine estates were deemed worthy of First Growth status, 11 as Second Growths, with Ch. d’Yquem earning its own special category as “Premier Cru Supérieur”.  As with the red classification, the number of estates has grown as they have divided over the years (such as the Doisy estates), with one disappearing entirely (Pexoto – its vineyards are now part of Ch. Rabaud-Promis). There have otherwise been no changes.  The sweet wine classification is of little consequence today, however the estates collectively represent 45% of the surface area of Sauternes and Barsac, and produce 30% of the area’s wines today.  Beyond the 1855 classification, the Left Bank also has its Crus Bourgeois and Crus Artisan, as well as the 1959 Graves classification (read more about these here). The Right Bank still only has the Saint-Emilion classification – one that has caused enough controversy to put Pomerol off doing anything similar. None, however, have come close to having the influence of the 1855 classification – a remarkable ranking that has defined Bordeaux for generations, and was arguably instrumental in its success as a fine wine region.  Find a full break-down of the classifications below, read more about Bordeaux or browse all Bordeaux listings The 1855 classification Premiers Crus Classés or First Growths Ch. Lafite-Rothschild  Ch. Latour  Ch. Margaux  Ch. Mouton Rothschild (upgraded in 1973)  Ch. Haut-Brion Deuxièmes Crus Classés or Second Growths  Ch. Rauzan-Ségla  Ch. Rauzan-Gassies  Ch. Léoville Las Cases  Ch. Léoville-Poyferré  Ch. Léoville Barton  Ch. Durfort-Vivens  Ch. Gruaud Larose  Ch. Lascombes  Ch. Brane-Cantenac  Ch. Pichon Baron  Ch. Pichon Longueville Comtesse de Lalande  Ch. Ducru-Beaucaillou  Cos d’Estournel  Ch. Montrose Troisièmes Crus Classés or Third Growths Ch. Kirwan  Ch. d’Issan  Ch. Lagrange  Ch. Langoa Barton  Ch. Giscours  Ch. Malescot Saint-Exupéry  Ch. Boyd-Cantenac  Ch. Cantenac Brown  Ch. Palmer  Ch. la Lagune  Ch. Desmirail  Calon Ségur  Ch. Ferrière  Ch. Marquis d’Alesme  Quatrièmes Crus Classés or Fourth Growths Ch. Saint-Pierre  Ch. Talbot  Ch. Branaire-Ducru  Ch. Duhart-Milon  Ch. Pouget  Ch. la Tour Carnet  Ch. Lafon-Rochet  Ch. Beychevelle  Ch. Prieuré-Lichine  Ch. Marquis de Terme  Cinquièmes Crus Classés or Fifth Growths Ch. Pontet-Canet  Ch. Batailley  Ch. Haut-Batailley  Ch. Grand-Puy-Lacoste  Ch. Grand-Puy Ducasse  Ch. Lynch-Bages  Ch. Lynch-Moussas  Ch. Dauzac  Ch. d’Armailhac  Ch. du Tertre  Ch. Haut-Bages Libéral  Ch. Pédesclaux  Ch. Belgrave  Ch. de Camensac  Ch. Cos Labory  Ch. Clerc Milon  Ch. Croizet-Bages  Ch. Cantemerle The unofficial Super Seconds Cos d’Estournel  Ducru-Beaucaillou  La Mission Haut-Brion.  Léoville Barton  Léoville Las Cases  Lynch-Bages  Montrose  Palmer  Pichon Baron  Pichon Comtesse  Pontet-Canet  The 1855 Sauternes and Barsac classification Premier Cru Supérieur Ch. d’Yquem Premier Cru Ch. la Tour Blanche  Ch. Lafaurie-Peyraguey  Clos Haut-Peyraguey  Ch. de Rayne Vigneau  Ch. Suduiraut  Ch. Coutet  Ch. Climens  Ch. Guiraud  Ch. Rieussec  Ch. Rabaud-Promis  Ch. Sigalas Rabaud  Deuxièmes Crus Ch. de Myrat  Ch. Doisy Daëne  Ch. Doisy-Dubroca  Ch. Doisy-Védrines  Ch. d’Arche  Ch. Filhot  Ch. Broustet  Ch. Nairac  Ch. Caillou  Ch. Suau  Ch. de Malle  Ch. Romer du Hayot  Ch. Romer  Ch. Lamothe   Ch. Lamothe-Guignard 

The 1855 classification of Bordeaux’s top châteaux remains as important today as when it was first created in the 19th century. Here’s everything you need to know about the famous ranking

Everything you need to know about the 1855 classification in Bordeaux – the historic ranking of the Left Bank’s top wine estates

Your guide to Bordeaux’s 1855 classification

Your guide to the 1855 classification

Looking out across the Côte d’Or, the astute might notice a few more gaps amongst the rows of vines than normal. Dig a little deeper, listening to nervous murmurs in cellars around the region, and you’ll hear that there’s trouble below the surface – with a once-favoured rootstock the culprit.  We like to imagine the life of a Burgundian vigneron as one of the happiest in the world; a bucolic existence in the vineyards, or else surrounded by casks, vats and bottles of their gorgeous bottles. We rather enjoy the product ourselves – despite the occasional irritations of a corked or otherwise flawed bottle resulting in a failed experience. Still, the only loss is of that specific bottle. Sometimes there can be clouds in a vigneron’s life, storm clouds. A hailstorm might destroy the crop in one sector of a vineyard: that cuvée disappears off the map for a whole year, the vigneron’s work for the season destroyed in a single half hour. Or, though we have not seen this for many years, an entire vintage may be compromised by torrential rain throughout the harvest. It is hard to imagine what it can be like to lose a whole year’s crop in one go, but how much worse must it be when there is an existential threat to the life of the vine itself. Two recent threats have been the disease esca, known as the black goo in some parts of the world, and flavescence dorée. Both can bring rapid mortality to individual vines, but can be treated. Now there is a new and insidious problem to contend with: one of the key rootstocks widely used in Burgundy seems to be giving up on the job. The 161/49C rootstock has been the favourite for a generation here. The C stands for Couderc, specifically Georges Couderc who bred this rootstock as far back as 1888, shortly after it had become apparent that only vines grafted on to American non-vitis vinifera rootstocks could resist the phylloxera beetle. It is a Berlandieri x Riparia cross, designed to be relatively resistant to active limestone (very important in Burgundy), and is not over-productive: indeed, it has been such an obvious choice for producers looking for quality over quantity that it has been exceptionally widely planted in Burgundy of late. But 161/49C is giving up on its job. The failures were first seen in the south and south-west of France, and are now widespread in Burgundy. The damage was mostly done with more recent plantings: which may have given rise to the theory of the rootstock having intrinsically degenerated. However, another explanation has emerged, that the younger vines do not have deep enough root systems to be able to search out underground water, whereas the old vines with established root systems appear to be able to carry on serenely. The story is still unfolding and I doubt that we have all the answers yet. I learn from Pl@ntGrape that 161/49C is theoretically relatively resistant to drought, a view which may very well be changing. Whereas discussions with vignerons a few years ago were based around the assumption that this rootstock which had been so good was suddenly failing, as if it had run out of energy entirely or else the mother plant had contracted some sort of disease, the view most commonly heard is that this rootstock cannot manage the new hotter, drier conditions. In almost every cellar, a question about 161/49C yields a glum response. Yes, we are suffering. At first vignerons pulled out damaged vines and replaced them individually, but when each following year the losses multiplied further, the bullet of ripping out the whole plot has to be bitten – demoralising, expensive and with repercussions for years to come. You need to leave the plot fallow for at least two years (wise old heads say five to seven years) before replanting. The first mini-crop arrives three years later and the vine does not really reach maturity for 20 years. Antoine Jobard is pulling out a plot of Meursault Genevrières that he only planted in 2017. Cyrielle Rousseau adds an additional nuance: a plot of Clos de la Roche recently replanted with three separate clones, all on 161/49C rootstock is suffering much worse in relation to one of the three clones compared to the others. A further headache is that it is not clear what to plant instead. Among its close siblings – other Berlandieri x Riparia crosses – are 420A, 5BB and Teleki 5C which are all now being widely trialled in place of 161/49C: but the worry persists that these too may develop the same issues. Others are looking at 41B – quite widely used in Chablis – which dislikes drought but does not die of it according to Roger Saumaize (Pouilly-Fuissé), or 3309 which is tricky where there is a high active limestone content. François Lumpp in Givry has switched to 363 Montpellier though he noted pithily (and I have cleaned it up a bit!), “When you buy stuff that’s rubbish, you find out too late: whether it’s the cork, the barrel or the cuttings from the nursery.” Solutions will be found: a rootstock that can cope with drought, doesn’t mind a bit of limestone, is later rather than earlier ripening, and allows the vine to deliver fine quality grapes. Auditions are being held now! One thing is sure – smart producers are going to hedge their bets by settling on a mix of different options, to avoid having all their grapes in one basket. Jasper Morris – the man behind Inside Burgundy – is a Master of Wine and leading Burgundy expert, living, working and writing in the region.

Leading Burgundy expert and Inside Burgundy author Jasper Morris MW investigates a rootstock causing trouble in Burgundy

Jasper Morris MW on rootstock in Burgundy

The root of the matter

Claude Giraud (owner of Champagne Henri Giraud) – 1999 La Romanée-Conti, Grand Cru, Domaine de la Romanée-Conti “We always spend Christmas with the family and everyone brings a bottle they want to share. This bottle is first and foremost a Grand Cru of Pinot Noir, and we love the Grands Crus of Pinot Noir in both Champagne and Burgundy. Following a bottle of our own Grand Cru – Hommage au Pinot Noir and an MV10 Champagne, of which both would have benefited from a few years of aging, I will serve the Romanée-Conti. I like to drink these wines quite early in the meal, their fragrance, their voluptuousness, and their precision make me happy to continue the meal. This bottle is also a memory of the person who gave it to me on one of my trips to Japan. I will call my friend on this occasion. Because wine is that – beyond a taste, it's a story, a bond of friendship, a touch of humanity that we so badly need for these end of year celebrations.” Sébastien le Golvet (winemaker at Champagne Henri Giraud) – 2011 Único, Vega Sicilia, Ribera del Duero “Christmas with the family at the Girauds is a string of bottles, each more extraordinary than the last. Thanks to my wife Anne (one of Claude Giraud's daughters) I had the chance to discover some great wines. These wines inspire me every day when I am in the vineyards or in the cellar. They make me want to surpass myself and always go further in precision and excellence. Vega Sicilia is one of those first great Spanish wines which made a deep impression on me. I like them old, after 20 years, 30 or more because this is really where Vega Sicilia fully expresses itself. And then I recently drank in Mexico a bottle of 2011 Vega Sicilia and I was amazed. It is so young and already so beautiful! I told myself that I couldn't keep this secret to myself, I wanted to share it with my family. So, coming back from this trip, I immediately put some in my cellar. And the first bottle will be for Christmas.” Tod Mostero (Dominus) – 2005 Riesling Auslese, Graacher Himmelreich, Joh. Jos. Prüm, Mosel “It is finally feeling cold enough here for the subtle fruit and mineral shades of a Joh. Jos. Prüm Graacher Himmelreich Auslese 2005, which may pair well with a grape and quail dish I love at Christmas time. I like to travel in my mind and tell stories with my family at the holidays. This bottle was offered to me by Michael Grimm (our distributor in Germany) and his family shortly after I returned to California in 2007. He and his family have become close over the years. I will also remember Bordeaux, my spiritual family in Libourne, and the gravelly earth and creamy tones of Pomerol soils with a 1982 La Fleur-Pétrus or the pillar of beauty, 2009 Trotanoy – bottles offered to me by Christian Moueix to celebrate the end of year. It is fun to pour a wine and talk to loved ones of the people and places in the bottle.” Gaia Gaja (Gaja) – 1961 Barbaresco, Gaja “This Christmas more than ever the family will gather in full, at my parents' house to celebrate Christmas together. I can’t wait. It will be a long day of celebration, cooking and enjoying each other’s company. Several wines will accompany us throughout the day and surely will be inspiring to the memories. In particular, I am excited to share a magnum of Barbaresco 1961 because this year we are celebrating the 60th anniversary of my father’s great career and this wine was his first step – the first vintage made by him when he was just 21!” Thomas Duroux (Ch. Palmer) – 2009 Malvasia delle Lipari Passito, Caravaglio, Sicily “In July 2011, I went for the first time to Salina, one of the seven Aeolian Islands. I had a little knowledge of the wines produced there but I did not know Antonino Caravaglio. We spent a lot of time together and I had a chance to taste several Malvasia from his estate. I took the hydro-foil ferry back to Sicily along with six bottles of his 2009 Malvasia delle Lipari. This sweet wine, made with dried berries from Malvasia grape variety develop extraordinary aromas with age, such as rosemary bush and dried apricot. This is really something that does not exist anywhere else. I plan to open the first bottle this Christmas and this wine will be my second daughter Gabrielle’s, born in 2009, first sip of wine!” Chris Riesbeck (Westland Distillery) – Garryana Edition 6 “For the holidays, I love to go with big Sherried malts during the colder months – our latest Garryana Edition 6 is just absolutely wonderful. It combines what I love in Sherry (dried fruits) with classic Garry Oak notes of ginger, clove, barbecue smoke. We used quite a bit of ex-Calvados and fruit brandy casks as well, so it’s this fantastic bouquet of candied fruit and smoke (not peat). Aside from that, I have a running obsession with large format (three-litre for the win!) during the holidays. It’s such a fun treat to share those sorts of things with loved ones. This year I’ve pulled a three-litre bottle of Marcel Lapierre Raisins Gaulois 2017 out of the cellar to celebrate.” Francesco Ripaccioli (Canalicchio di Sopra) – 2013 Chianti Classico Riserva, Vigna del Sorbo, Fontodi “One of the bottles that I will definitely open this Christmas will be Fontodi’s Chianti Classico Riserva Vigna del Sorbo 2013 in magnum. This bottle is so special for me for many reasons, for sure it is one of the greatest wines I ever tried, but behind this, there is a family (the Manetti family) and a man, Giovanni Manetti, who at the beginning of my journey in the world of wine was a great sponsor for me, granting me his friendship and his continuous support. Fontodi has been, and still is today the greatest example of how a family-run estate can stay local, while thinking global. I love the 2013 vintage in all of Tuscany and also Piedmont. The wines mature very slow and this is the sign for me of a great vintage. But we can now already start to enjoy something from it for sure.” Frédéric Weber (Bouchard Père & Fils) – 1999 Beaune-Grèves, Premier Cru, Le Vigne de l’Enfant Jésus, Bouchard Père & Fils “Christmas day is the perfect day to celebrate this wine, so it is an easy choice for me. This is a great wine, from an appellation that today is still too underrated. Historically the top wines from Beaune were the most expensive in Burgundy and can compete with some of the finest. I have chosen 1999 because this was in fact the first bottle I bought from the domaine when I joined Bouchard in 2002. It is a fantastic vintage for Burgundy and is drinking beautifully now. I am looking forward to sharing it with my family this Christmas.” Rebecca Jago (The Last Drop) – The Last Drop Très Vieux Pineau des Charentes “This Christmas, we’ll be opening a magnum of Pol Roger I was kindly given last year but further lockdown meant we just didn’t have the company to drink it all! We have a mix of family and friends for Christmas Day and we’ll open a bottle of Newton’s unfiltered Chardonnay (my husband’s favourite), and some Ch. Talbot 2000. And, with the Christmas pudding, I’ll be opening my bottle of our incredible 100-year-old Pineau des Charentes: I can’t wait to share it with our loved ones. As evening falls, a small glass of Tom’s Blend No 1 for a moment of quiet reflection and memories of my much-missed parents.” Martin Donatsch (Donatsch) – 2016 Grüner Veltliner Smaragd, Honivogl, Franz Hirtzberger, Wachau “My motto: It's better to drink a few great wines than to unwrap a lot of presents. Unfortunately, it will be a sad Christmas for us, as it will be the first without my mum. She sadly passed away in the summer after a hard fight with cancer. So, we will be drinking one of her favourite wines in her memory. She loved Grüner Veltliner from Austria, so there will certainly be a Honivogl from our friends Hirtzbergers in the Wachau, which my mother loved so much. For red wine we will have some of our favourites, a 2011 Romanée-Saint-Vivant from Romanée-Conti and a 1989 Haut-Brion. Noblet and Delmas were for us the best cellarmasters ever on this planet. They both inspire me again and again when I drink their wines. For the sweet end, it will be Yquem again... I drink Yquem maybe three or four times a year. But at Christmas, this world-class sweet wine is always a must! Which vintages we open, I decide spontaneously shortly before Christmas but I’m thinking it will most likely be 1999.” David Stewart MBE (The Balvenie) – Balvenie PortWood 21 Year Old "I would probably have a couple of glasses of white wine, generally a Chenin Blanc from South Africa. We've visited a number of vineyards near Cape Town in Stellenbosch. In the evening I would pour myself a couple of drams of Balvenie PortWood 21YO, my favourite, whilst watching Call the Midwife." Read more Editorial

After many of us were not able to see extended family and friends last year, this festive break will seem that much more special. We caught up with some of our favourite winemakers and distillers and asked them what top bottles they will be opening to celebrate this Christmas – and why

We find out the special bottles some of our favourite winemakers and distillers are uncorking this Christmas

What producers are drinking this Christmas

One hundred years ago, two men, inspired by the Scottish distilling tradition, produced the first Japanese whisky. In the years that have followed, the category’s fortunes – much like its founders’ relationship – have been turbulent.    The story begins in 1923 when pharmaceutical wholesaler turned Spanish wine importer Shinjiro Torii invested his family fortune in building the Yamazaki distillery, against their advice. Torii enlisted the help of wet-behind-the-ears chemist Masataka Taketsuru – who had spent time learning his craft in Scotland – to lead production on their first whisky, Suntory Shirofuda, which was released in 1929. The two men did not see eye to eye and parted ways following the dismal reception of Shirofuda. Taketsuru famously went on to found the other great Japanese whisky producer, Nikka, and their fierce rivalry persisted. This is one of the reasons Japanese distilleries, to this day, blend in-house rather than trade liquid. Despite this rocky start, the Japanese domestic whisky market looked bullish by the late 1930s – Yamazaki’s next whisky (Suntory Kakubin, released in 1937) was more warmly received and Taketsuru successfully re-entered the scene with his first whisky, Nikka Yoichi, in 1940.  Fast forward to the early 1980s and the category was in fine fettle – Suntory and Nikka had both released their first single malt expressions and there was plenty of cause for optimism. But this prosperity sadly did not last as a steep decline in consumption caused the Japanese whisky market to splutter and almost entirely stall, resulting in many distilleries, including Karuizawa, being forced to close their doors. Both Yamazaki and Nikka managed to stay afloat but their output was significantly reduced as the economy and category stagnated, marking a bleak 25-year chapter in Japanese whisky’s history.   When demand was reignited around the mid-to-late 2000s, it largely came from Europe. A perfect storm caused this spike in interest, including wider interest in Japan (think Bill Murray in Lost in Translation), the resurgence of the Highball cocktail (circa 2007) and Suntory’s Yamazaki Single Malt Sherry Cask 2013 being named the world’s best in 2014 – a first for the category. Around this time, the world was also introduced to Ichiro Akuto’s highly collectable Card Series and the lost distilling icon, Karuizawa. “The mad scramble for crumbs on the Japanese whisky scene is something nobody could have predicted,” acclaimed Japanese whisky writer and Ghost Series independent bottler Stefan Van Eycken tells me. “In the space of 10 years, the situation went from being able to buy a whole range of single-cask Japanese whiskies at a big electronics chain for peanuts to bottles not even reaching the shelves of liquor stores anymore. “Even I, who had been exploring the Japanese whisky scene in the ‘dark ages’, couldn’t have predicted that,” he says matter-of-factly. “If I could have, I would have rented a van, bought up all the bottlings that were available for purchase and I could have retired by now.” Yumi Yoshikawa joined the team at Chichibu in 2013 after a two-year stint in Scotland, first working in the Highlander Inn in Craigellachie – which will require little introduction for spirits journalists or enthusiasts – and at the Bruichladdich Distillery on Islay. “People didn’t know the value of aged [Japanese] whisky back then,” Yoshikawa tells me. “Or that Japan had a long whisky history,” she adds. Somebody who was instrumental in educating the world on these two points is Marcin Miller, a man whose fortitude dragged Karuizawa out of obscurity. The genteel and thoroughly entertaining former Whisky Magazine Editor turned drinks entrepreneur, recalls the landscape when he and business partner David Croll first tasted those fateful Karuizawa single casks in the early 2000s.  “The most common complaint [from whisky enthusiasts] at the time would seem to be that it's all very well for me tasting this stuff but we never get to see any where we are in Western Europe or Northern America,” he recalls. So the two men set about changing this by buying the remaining stock from the then-lost Karuizawa, bottling it, and making it available to the masses – with resounding success. It’s a gross misapprehension – held by many – that the duo meandered into a meeting room, tasted a parcel of Karuizawa, bought it on the spot, and bottled it shortly after, grinning like Cheshire cats as the coffers swelled. In truth, it was four and a half years of negotiation and countless sleepless nights during the process. When pallets of casks from the ghost distillery in a nascent whisky market were finally shipped to them, there was no guarantee the wider whisky world would be interested. “Whatever anyone says, it really was not easy…” He trails off, transported to that time, and all the challenges the pair transversed when bringing the mature Japanese whisky from a then-unknown producer to its now almost mythic status.  Miller talks of the “extraordinary, phenomenal effect” Karuizawa had on him. Croll, Miller and acclaimed drinks writer Dave Broom – who has since quite literally written the book on Japanese whisky – initially tasted 69 single-cask Karuizawa samples. “I would have bottled any of those casks,” Miller says, a fond smile warming his face. If it hadn’t been for Croll, who had lived in Japan for 30 years and owned a successful drinks business, Miller says they likely never would have got a foot in the door at Karuizawa – or secured the exclusive distribution rights of the much-lauded Chichibu and Hanyu. “I dare say Karuizawa would have been blended away into big plastic five-litre tubs of supermarket whisky,” Miller says reticently. When Van Eycken moved to Japan around the same time as Miller and Co were negotiating the Karuizawa deal, he hadn’t even realised whisky was being produced there. Japanese whisky consumption and production were at an all-time low and the general feeling, he says, was that the whisky made in Japan was “cheap and good for getting a buzz when going out, but that the good stuff – that you would savour – was Scotch, and Bourbon, to a lesser extent”. The intrepid Van Eycken was taken aback by the quality of the long-aged liquids he sampled on his travels and couldn’t understand why this sentiment wasn’t shared domestically or further afield. When Japanese whisky’s popularity did finally begin to soar, he was perfectly placed to fill the knowledge chasm with his widely acclaimed Nonjatta website and, later, his seminal work Whisky Rising – a fully updated second edition of which came out earlier this year.  “When I wrote the original edition in 2016, there were 14 active distilleries in Japan,” he says. “Fast forward to mid-2022 and there were 41 active distilleries (and even more in the progress of getting ready to distil),” Van Eycken tells me. All of the new distilleries, he says, are attempting to follow the so-called “craft model” with a single pair of pot stills and fairly limited production. The inspiration, of course, being Ichiro Akuto and his incredible accomplishments over the past 15 years at Chichibu. “But not everyone can be an Ichiro – though most new distillers are certainly hoping to be equally successful, if not more, than Ichiro,” he adds. Several of these new distilleries are located in and around the town of Karuizawa. “My personal feeling is that it doesn’t make a lot of sense to try and compete with the legend that is the (old) Karuizawa distillery,” Van Eycken is quick to add. “The liquid that was made there turned out to be something very special, and not only by design. I have had the dubious pleasure of tasting the new-make from the old Karuizawa distillery and it was absolutely foul.  “But during the maturation process, over 20, 30, 40 years, something magical happened. Some of this can be explained, but most of it is a hermetic mystery. We simply cannot know why decades later this harsh spirit transformed into a sublime whisky (in most cases). Even if you wanted to replicate this whisky – or aspects of it – you couldn’t.  “And hoping to match the quality of the (original) Karuizawa whisky… well, it’s good to aim high but it's a bit like naming your kid Roger Federer in the hope that he would turn into a tennis player of the same calibre. Why would you want to put that sort of pressure on the kid?”  Miller is humility personified and doesn’t want to come across as a wizened cynic or, in his words, “boring old fart”, but he’s not confident that all the country’s new distilleries are set for success. “I think people are now trying to replicate the business success but without the foundation of the liquid. They are selling Japanese whisky futures but who knows what the liquid is going to be like because it's not just A + B = C.” There is a cautionary tale in the annals of Scottish whisky distilling that Japanese producers might be wise to heed. Scotch has famously fallen victim to its own success – with booms and busts resulting in whisky lakes, or lochs, that have crippled the industry and forced mass distillery closures. In so faithfully replicating Scotch, there is a real danger Japan will find itself back in the 1980s when the likes of Karuizawa were shuttered. This time, however, there would be many more casualties.      “For the time being, the Japanese whisky scene continues to be marked by an unbridled optimism,” Van Eycken adds. “Distillers price their (invariably young) whiskies very high (compared with similarly established whisky markets around the world) and consumers snap up the bottles regardless of the (sometimes unjustifiably) high prices.”  This price war is one of the reasons Miller et al sold their remaining stock of Karuizawa, which had initially been priced fairly but wasn’t the case when they left the scene. The 1960 Karuizawa, for example, which yielded 41 bottles was released circa 2014 for £12,500. Within a decade, those same bottles were easily reaching $375,000. “That's not a bad return in 10 years,” Miller says caustically. “But that's not why we did it. If that had been our motivation, we'd have just held on to it and had 41 times that.” For those still in the industry – and disciples of it – there is a real push to protect the integrity of Japanese whisky and futureproof it. Yoshikawa picks up the point, outlining that the few have muddied the water for the many: “The rapid publicity and the reputation of Japanese whisky have led to its use of excessive PR strategies, even when this is not in line with the facts of the product.” For these reasons, she is an advocate of more stringent regulations, like the ones announced by the Japan Spirits and Liqueurs Makers Association in 2021 which aims to restrict certain practices – like labelling whisky that isn’t actually from Japan as Japanese whisky – akin to those enshrined and strongly policed in Scotland. But she, like many, thinks these could go further and believe it is important to continue scrutinising the practices of the small and larger players, ensuring there is greater transparency and less “skullduggery”, as Van Eycken puts it. As the ink dries on the past 100 years of Japanese whisky, no one knows what the next century might entail – but there's plenty of excitement. The landscape will undoubtedly change once more, and new giants and legends will likely emerge. For whisky enthusiasts, the challenge – as always – will be pre-empting the plot twists and securing bottles before they become little more than folklore.  Browse all Japanese whisky or read more editorial

As Japanese whisky enters its 100th year, producers are in a mad scramble to build the next legend. Holly Motion assesses whether previous fairytale endings can be repeated – and ponders if those individuals attempting to stand on the shoulders of giants might have a great fall

Exploring the epic story of Japanese whisky – from its genesis, to rebirth and future – as it celebrates its centenary.

100 years of Japanese whisky

A modern epic: 100 years of Japanese whisky

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

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

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

Two mavericks rectifying gin's biggest problem

After the craze: reinventing gin

It’s often noted that Burgundians know nothing about Bordeaux and its wines – and vice versa. This is an exaggeration, though it retains a nugget of truth. These two great French wine regions are poles apart culturally. This is not a novel observation. Indeed, Jean-Robert Pitte, a professor at the Sorbonne, wrote an entire book, Bordeaux Bourgogne: Histoire d’une rivalité (2016), on this very theme. Just a couple of examples. In Bordeaux you will encounter people with names such as Basile, Vanessa, Diana or Jennifer – that would be inconceivable in Burgundy. This may be to do with the fact that Aquitaine was English-owned for centuries, or it may be that some Bordelais believe that an English name confers a certain cachet. At celebrations organized by the Chevaliers du Tastevin at Clos de Vougeot, and just about anywhere where Burgundy’s wines are praised and consumed, the ban bourguignon is an unavoidable part of the proceedings. It entails raising both arms in the air and twisting them in time to a raucous ditty with the words ‘Lala, lala, lalalala layla, lala, lala, la, la, la’. Can you imagine such a thing at Haut-Brion? Another striking difference is that Burgundy excludes, while Bordeaux includes, at least in terms of embracing those it considers helpful to its promotion, such as merchants, auctioneers and journalists. I have visited Burgundy and its growers every year for over three decades and can count on the fingers of two hands the number of times I have been invited to stay for lunch, let alone dinner. Without fail, a 10.30am appointment will come to an end at noon, and the visitor will be politely shown the door. Hungry after a morning of tastings? That’s your problem, monsieur. I used to find this irksome but soon came to understand that for the Burgundian, noon is the time when family members return to the homestead from pruning or tractoring or delivering bottles. It’s the sacred lunch hour, and outsiders have no place. You can taste from every barrel in the cellar, but that hospitality doesn’t extend to the dining room. It’s the exact opposite in Bordeaux, where it’s assumed that a visitor with a late-morning appointment will stay for lunch. Indeed, when researching one of my books in Saint-Emilion, I was amazed to find that my programme, organised with enthusiasm by the local syndicat, included lunch and dinner every day, weekends included. The Bordeaux proprietor will usually use the occasion not just to offer a fine meal, but to open some older vintages for the delectation of the visitor. The Burgundian really couldn’t care less. On one occasion, a grower with whom I spent a morning to research a profile for a magazine, had suggested, when I made the appointment, that I might like to stay for lunch. With pleasure, I responded, hoping that a mature Richebourg might be brought up from the cellar for my appreciation. But sur place, when I had completed my interview, it was clear that the owner had completely forgotten his offer. (However, after an embarrassing few minutes all around, his wife did rustle up a rather good meal.) Born to be hospitable Burgundy’s wine culture is about the nuances of terroir; Bordeaux is about selling wine that’s produced in far larger quantities than from patchwork Burgundy, and all those who can serve that purpose are corralled into a network of hospitality. A lunch will always take the same form. Coats and bags are deposited in the hallway of the château and one is led into a salon, where a small table supports a bottle of Champagne (often Pol Roger, sometimes Bollinger) and some glasses.  In comes the butler or maid (often on hire from the local traiteur, or caterer) with a plate of gougères or roundels of toast with foie gras to stimulate the appetite. Then the host rises to his (and occasionally her) feet and leads the way into the dining room. Lunch is invariably a butler-service event, so guests must calculate how much meat or veg to convey onto one’s plate without either appearing greedy or depriving others of their fair share. The dishes are always replenished, however, so seconds are in order. No need to panic. If the aim is to impress, it usually succeeds. In contrast, the Burgundians en fête are after a good time. Other than the rather forced jollity of the Chevaliers du Tastevin dinners, usually accompanied by indifferent wines, the highlight of the Burgundian wine calendar is the Paulée de Meursault (other paulées are available, but all agree that Meursault does it best). This is in effect a giant bottle party. Each producer, who may be accompanied by family or guests, will bring a basket stacked with a few bottles or magnums of a venerable or prized vintage. These will be poured and later circulated in the course of a five-hour lunch. Those lucky enough to attend can often taste spectacular rarities. This is not the Bordeaux way. At a formal dinner, for example during the en primeur tastings or Vinexpo, invited merchants or journalists will find themselves at a large round table in the company of two or three château owners or winemakers. They will have brought bottles – often very fine bottles – that will, in due course, be delivered to your table. There’s a certain amount of swapping with other tables to provide more variety, and certain journalists, towards the end of the evening, will be seen roving the room in search of wines to try on distant tables. (I plead guilty.) Here again, the aim is to impress. Brigades of waiters and waitresses, quite often students from a local catering college, will swoop in from the kitchen with such efficiency that a few hundred guests can be served almost simultaneously. Moreover, the food will usually be excellent, provided by one of the many highly professional traiteurs who flourish in Bordeaux. Access is the name of the game. The privileged guest, sipping Champagne or Sauternes during the prolonged apéritif hour before a grand Bordeaux dinner, will be in the company of dozens of château owners. Reach out a hand, even to someone you’ve never seen before but vaguely recognize, and it will instantly be shaken: ‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’ Everyone present is within the magic circle. You have been appointed, like it or not, as an ambassador for Bordeaux. Over 20 years ago I was present, along with 400 other guests, at the Fête des Vendanges, a great feast organized each year before the harvest by a leading château. I could see from the menu that 1985 Haut-Brion was to be the final wine of the evening, but what I hadn’t anticipated was that it was to be served in magnums only. Moreover, on a very warm evening each magnum had been lightly chilled before serving to ensure that it would retain
its freshness and digestibility in the glass. Other blandishments include guests of honour who are often prima donnas or celebrated actresses. Who wouldn’t want to be around when, as once happened, Gina Lollobrigida was escorted between the tables by the château owner? These feats of generosity, glamour and service are to be observed at all such events in Bordeaux. If you’re lucky enough to be present, it’s hard not to experience a wave of self-satisfaction. This warm embrace of the wine trade is not extended to mere consumers, of course. Although châteaux are more open to visitors than they were in the past, most wine tourists making their way up the roads that connect Margaux to Saint-Julien and Pauillac are confronted by closed gates or notices that read ‘by appointment only’. Some 25 years ago a delegation of Bordeaux worthies came to London to ask friendly journalists (over a good lunch, of course) what they could do improve the image of their region. ‘Try opening your gates,’ was my suggestion, and it did not go down particularly well. Fees, factotums and fixers Oeno-tourism has been slow to come to Bordeaux. Showcase châteaux such as Pavie, Smith Haut Lafitte or Lynch-Bages have become adept at offering tours and tastings, though at a price. A fee is understandable, as the cost of staffing the tours and the wines to be poured needs to be recouped. Napa does it differently. Visitors are courted, and the customary tasting fee will be refunded if you buy a bottle or two. In Australia, the ‘cellar door’ is always open for visitors to enjoy the wines and other merchandising. However, in Bordeaux, most prestigious châteaux make little effort to welcome visitors.  In Burgundy, top growers sell to a band of importers and perhaps a few private customers and restaurants. In Bordeaux, châteaux sell to négociants, who distribute their wines worldwide. Châteaux have no direct influence over who sells or buys their wines. That’s why it’s important to have influential writers and critics on their side. A high score from a wine guru may just persuade a group of merchants or consumers to buy Château X in preference to Château Y. And the other way around the following year. No wonder top châteaux treat the media with affection and respect. Consultants, too, form part of the hype machine. They are rarely present in Burgundy, where savoir-faire is passed down (not always successfully) from one generation to the next. But in regions such as Tuscany or Bordeaux, where estate owners are often rich and enthusiastic but short on expertise, the consultant is an essential member of the team. Nothing wrong with hiring good advice, of course. But choosing the right consultant also adds lustre to the estate. In Italy, take on Carlo Ferrini or Riccardo Cotarella and you can be certain, at the very least, of media attention. In Bordeaux, the consultant is more than an adviser on viticulture or vinification, suggesting how high your canopy should be or which coopers are best suited to your style of wine. They have influence too. Michel Rolland, notoriously, had the ear of Robert Parker for many years. This was perfectly understandable because, broadly speaking, they liked the same style of wine. I once asked a château owner with a group of properties why he had chosen a particular consultant rather than another of similar renown. ‘He’s good at what he does,’ was the reply, ‘but he also has a track record of getting his clients’ wines onto airline lists.’ Many of the older generation of consultants were invisible. In decades of visits to Bordeaux, I never encountered Jacques Boissenot, who advised most of the top estates of the Médoc, or Gilles Pauquet in Saint-Emilion. Others, such as Stéphane Derenoncourt, court importers and the press assiduously, with regular tastings that provide a showcase for all their clients. Wine writers like, for sound reasons, to be on close terms with consultants such as Derenoncourt, as they can be invaluable sources of information. Save time and score it? Admission to the magic circle of Bordeaux carries its own risks. I doubt there is much corruption as such – no wine writer of any importance would, I assume, be foolish enough to accept backhanders in exchange for favourable ratings – but what has happened is that independent assessment has been almost abandoned. And there are stories of bribes, often in the form of a few cases of wine, being offered. Newly minted bloggers would be particularly susceptible to a helping hand. Back in the 1980s or even 1990s revered critics such as Robert Parker would not hesitate to give a poor score to a wine he considered below standard. These days a poor score has become close to inconceivable. A score below 90 has become the equivalent of a smack in the face. In an article some years ago I predicted the scores that the major critics would give the 2014 vintage when, a few months later, the wines became available for tasting En Primeur.  My educated guesses, made without tasting a single wine, were alarmingly accurate. That, simply put, is because critics now score the brand and not the wine. No one is going to rate a first growth or scarce Pomerol at below 96; likewise, no obscure fifth growth or Côte de Bordeaux red, however fine, will ever be scored at 93 or higher. Bordeaux has succeeded in imposing its own self-valuations on its critics. Price has become equated with quality, as has been the case since the 18th century. This is why new owners of certain properties relentlessly push up their prices, because this is the best way to confer prestige on the wines. For Bordeaux as a whole, it may be a costly business organizing lavish dinners with superlative vintages, but it has paid off in establishing a group of wines as safely within the band of the world’s most appreciated and sought-after. For the wine critic, it’s a tricky balance. Without access, an article or vintage assessment becomes impossible. I am not immune. To research my own publications on Bordeaux, I have accepted offers to stay at comfortable châteaux for extended periods. I do my best not to let my judgment be swayed by this quid pro quo (which I disclose), but one can never be certain. Schmooze or you lose? It’s not only the wine press that is courted and pampered. Top châteaux will lay on lavish feasts for négociants and brokers too. Corinne Mentzelopoulos of Château Margaux once described such events as a way of thanking the Bordeaux wine trade for their success in selling her wines (not an arduous task, I would have thought). She intimated that it was also a way of keeping the trade on her side. Selling top claret in a great vintage is a doddle (except when grotesquely overpriced); selling the same label in a mediocre year such as 2013 is another matter. Maintaining brand loyalty – to Brand Bordeaux and individual châteaux – is crucial. By 2020 the region was having to face the threat of USA tariffs, the cold shoulder from China, the uncertainties of Brexit for the important British market, not to mention the growing climatic vagaries bringing drought, frost and hail in their wake.  Other challenges are stylistic rather than economic. A colleague who is involved in assessing the wine lists of top restaurants worldwide notes that there are a growing number of such lists that ostentatiously scorn Bordeaux in favour of, usually, ‘natural’ or other styles considered trendy. This is sommelier-driven, and Bordeaux producers and merchants are not always aware of how old-fashioned and stuffy their offerings appear to sommeliers (and their clients) in search of novelty rather than reliability. It’s hard for individual châteaux to promote their wines worldwide since they don’t know precisely who is buying their superb wines. In contrast, their Napa Valley equivalents stage auctions and other events targeted very precisely at super-rich clients and social media. Australia has its highly regarded agricultural shows, awarding medals that confer more prestige than most medals from wine competitions.  Bordeaux doesn’t have such marketing opportunities at its disposal, which is why generic marketing campaigns, prestigious tasting events, and the assiduous wooing of the media are such necessary tools. Whether they will continue to be effective as they have been in the past is undoubtedly open to question. On Bordeaux: Tales of the Unexpected from the World’s Greatest Wine Region – an anthology of writing on Bordeaux with a foreword by Jane Anson – is published by Académie du Vin Library and available now.  Explore more Editorial 

Bordeaux and Burgundy couldn’t be much more different. In this extract from Académie du Vin Library’s new publication On Bordeaux, Stephen Brook considers how the two regions market themselves – asking whether wooing the world’s press is enough to keep Bordeaux in pole position

Stephen Brook considers how the Bordeaux and Burgundy wine regions market themselves 

Bordeaux, Burgundy wines and building the hype

Bordeaux, Burgundy and building the hype

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

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

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

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

Journalist and author Dylan Jones talks to some of the world’s most revered wine critics and writers about what they do, how they do it, and how their lives – or rather lifestyles – have changed as a result of the global pandemic

Dylan Jones talks to some of the world’s most revered wine critics and writers about what they do, how they do it, and the impact of the global pandemic

FONDATA: The Worth of Wisdom

The Worth of Wisdom 

Lancelot-Royer

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