I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

Sitting opposite us, the dark-suited, dark-haired figure waved an elegant hand at the bottle of white Burgundy which he’d just fished out of a carrier bag and planted on the table with the air of a conjuror at a party. “You’ll like this,” he said; it was a statement, not a suggestion, delivered in a faint accent with American overtones and a hint of gutturality. In this totally unremarkable West London pub, a bottle of Meursault looked as out of place as a KGB officer. Which he was. We did like it, of course, who wouldn’t? It made the greasy steak and chips almost bearable, and was one of the best wines I’d ever tasted at that point in my life. I was 33 that year, 1978, and as a newish BBC foreign correspondent I wasn’t particularly well paid. He’d brought the Meursault with him to show us how sophisticated he was, and to counter the blandness of the food. But why had he suggested The Mitre as a place for lunch? It was handy for the Soviet embassy up the road, certainly; but I realised that the real attraction for him was the high-backed seats that enclosed our table and kept our conversation private. Sergei was a major in the KGB, masquerading as a press attaché. The habit of secrecy was deeply ingrained in him. The Meursault started to work on my companion, a gossipy, amusing, slightly naïve BBC executive. It worked on me, too, but under the influence of alcohol I tend to go quiet and introverted. Not so Harry. He delivered the brief lecture about Soviet harassment of our Moscow correspondent which he’d been planning. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t make Sergei burst into tears. On the contrary. “Ah, yes, the famous Declan.” Sergei managed to put the accent on the second syllable. “Such good Russian. A pity he wastes his time hanging around those drop-outs and wastrels.” I was particularly impressed by ‘wastrels’. “I suppose you mean dissidents,” I said, pushing my glass across for more Meursault. The label read ‘1968’; the Soviet embassy must have had a superb cellar. Sergei laughed scornfully and poured. “I hear Declan’s marriage isn’t going so good now,” he said. “Ah, no, his wife left him for an airline pilot,” Harry replied, giggling. I kicked him sharply: you didn’t feed personal details about your colleagues to KGB officers. “What?” Harry said, looking at me. We saw the bottle out. Sometimes I think I can still taste that rich, green-gold collection of butter, almond, citrus and, could it have been, or is it just my imagination after more than 40 years, hints of bracken and mayflower. At the end, we stood up and shook hands. “So you’ll go easy on Declan from now on?” Harry said. “Well, Declan must stop creating bad propaganda against the Soviet Union.” He had a good ear: this time the accent was on the first syllable. Sergei turned in the direction of the embassy, and we headed back to Television Centre. “Bloody good wine those Russkies can afford,” Harry said, and gave his high-pitched laugh.For journalists and spies, booze is a famous lubricant, a fuel, even. I came from a teetotal background, yet when I started as a foreign correspondent I soon found myself ordering a glass of single malt as a means of self-protection, while someone I was trying to pump for information opened up and talked in a way he or she never would if I’d ordered a Britvic orange. Yet there were exceptions. In Belfast and Derry, where I started my reporting career, the leaders of the Provisional IRA were mostly ultra-Catholic and never drank a drop; and as I branched out and began reporting on the Middle East, I found that organisations like Hezbollah and the followers of the Ayatollah were as teetotal as I had once been. There were no bars to meet them in, either. Fortunately, though, cities like Cairo and Beirut were more sophisticated. I soon found that anywhere with a sizeable Christian population, Egypt and Lebanon, of course, but also Syria, Iraq and westernised countries like Turkey and Pakistan, made allowances for thirsty westerners and permitted them to drink, even if in cities like Peshawar you had to sign a big leather volume and register yourself as an alcoholic. The bar in the old Commodore Hotel in Beirut was a wonderful centre for professional alcoholics of this kind. I first went there in June 1982, when West Beirut was under hourly attack from Israeli planes and tanks, and there were no shelters to protect us. The presiding spirit of the place was a correspondent called Chris Drake, a hospitable soul who dispensed booze and information even-handedly. When the barrage was going on, it would have been suicidal to leave the Commodore, and the building shuddered to every nearby explosion. Chris Drake had a parrot, and when the bar was packed in the evening with journalists glad to still be alive, it would imitate the sound of a shell in flight with startling accuracy. Most of the people there, not me, thank God, had walked into the bar on their first night, heard the parrot’s hugely convincing whistle, and thrown themselves on the floor shouting “Incoming!”. There would be a roar of laughter, and someone would help them up and offer them a glass of arak, an infusion of grapes and the seeds of the anise plant. I acquired a real taste for arak at that time, and I still think of that slightly oily, metallic, liquorice-tasting liquid hitting the back of my throat and burning its way down. A few years later, during another upsurge of fighting, the Commodore was heavily shelled by the Syrian army. The building was destroyed, and no trace of the parrot was ever found. When peace was restored and there was money around, the Commodore was rebuilt, much bigger and more glitzy, but the architect designed a new bar precisely where the old one had once been. You can still see the space on the floor where many a famous journalist measured his length when the parrot did its party trick. I took my wife and 13-year-old son there a couple of years ago, and one afternoon, when the bar was empty, my son insisted on re-enacting the whole thing. In China, things were different. Meetings with underground figures usually took place at their homes or outdoors, given the fear of surveillance. I often chose Ritan Park in Beijing, where teahouses served pu-erh tea and offered a discreet place to talk. By contrast, official meetings required alcohol, specifically Maotai, a fierce baijiu distilled from sorghum at over 50% ABV. At one banquet, after being insulted by a local Party official, I tried to outdrink him. The plan failed, he had help, but we still ended the night collapsed together, singing in two languages. The next day, I was told this had enhanced British prestige. Countries where alcohol is banned present different challenges. In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, I smuggled in a 27-year-old bottle of Laphroaig disguised as Fanta, only to pour it down the toilet when soldiers began searching rooms for alcohol. They never entered mine. After the fall of the Soviet Union, I tried to track Sergei down but never found him. Before that, though, I had taken my revenge by signing him up to every unwanted mailing list I could find, encyclopaedias, dubious magazines, and more inventive subscriptions besides. It made me feel very good.And yet, if I imagine meeting him again, I always picture the same thing: Sergei standing in the doorway, holding a superb bottle of Meursault. For that, at least, I’ve always been grateful. This article was written by John Simpson, who reflects on his experiences reporting across the world, and the role alcohol has played in the art of face-to-face reconnaissance. Illustrations by Natsko Seki. Originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson reflects on reporting from conflict zones, recalling memorable bars, encounters and the role alcohol plays in the subtle art of face-to-face reconnaissance.

BBC world affairs editor John Simpson on bars, encounters and how alcohol shapes reporting, trust and intelligence gathering worldwide.

John Simpson on bars, spies and the art of reporting

Refuge,  refreshment & reconnaissance

Dalmore, Mortlach and Macallan fetch tens of thousands of pounds at auction today – but they likely wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for an independent bottler. In times of great economic hardship, Gordon & MacPhail provided cash-strapped distilleries with much-needed capital when they secured new-make spirit to mature and bottle as a single malt, rather than a blend. “The world was so focused on blends in the 1970s that to get the financial return on the malts was really challenging,” Gordon & MacPhail’s Director of Prestige Stephen Rankin says. To put that into perspective, a bottle of 35-year-old Macallan from 1937 that would fetch approximately £32,000 in today’s market would sell for a mere £4.54 then. A top-end blend might sell for £2. Rankin says if it wasn’t for his forebears’ patience and foresight, 50-, 60-, and 70-year-old bottlings wouldn’t be available today. “It’s not just matching spirit with oak,” he explains. “It’s actually matching the spirit with the oak and then time and the patience.”   The Gordon & MacPhail name has endured where countless others have not. Today, the fourth generation can pull out samples dating back nine decades from more than 100 distilleries. “It’s that lineage that stands us apart,” Rankin says. “As a company we have had this incredible respect for whisky and depth of relationships forged from 1895.”   “Business was done on the strength of a handshake when my father started the company in the 1940s,” Fred Hamilton Laing – Douglas Laing & Co Chairman and second-generation family member – says. “And so many of our filling programmes still continue today because there was a trust given and a confidence that there would be no abuse of the stock.” If it wasn’t for the “fairly substantial” stocks Laing’s father had built up since the 1950s then the Scottish independent blenders and bottlers might not have survived the 1990s financial crash in Asia Pacific. “All of a sudden our blended business was made very difficult to continue. We were constantly adding to our stocks of grain and malt whisky for these blends, so it was a survival instinct that took us into the single cask business in the year 2000.” This business proved to be “very good” and steadied the ship. Laing says it was with great delight the company was able to come back into the blending business with Big Peat in 2009, much to the dismay of the “crusty old men in the industry”. This launch, looking at younger, slightly more rebellious whisky consumers heralded a new era for the company and brought them full circle. It was the filling programme’s breadth of stock and the relationships with the distilleries that allowed Douglas Laing to carry out the same process for Big Peat and Scallywag into the Scottish Highlands for Timorous Beastie, into the Lowlands with the Epicurean, into the Campbeltown area with the Gauldrons, onto the Island distilleries with Rock Island and introduce the Remarkable Regional Malts. “It’s a busy game,” Laing adds.  Fledgling in comparison, That Boutique-y Whisky Company stormed onto the independent bottling scene in 2012 with their 50cl illustrated bottles. “We are all about throwing fun back into whisky,” Head of Whisky Sam Simmons says. “We take the whisky very seriously, but we don’t take ourselves seriously.” The goal here is simple: curate delicious whiskies you would never see from an official bottling. This disruptive attitude has led to a cult-like following which Simmons readily acknowledges “doesn’t speak to everybody”. The Boutique-y whiskies might originate from around the world, but they are all bottled in the Scottish tradition – bought direct from the distiller or from brokers and other independent bottlers. The retail price is always calculated from the cost of the liquid rather than market value or cost. “The kind of whiskies we want to bottle may not be delicious to everybody, but they are the kind of whiskies that make you say: you got to try this,” Simmons adds. When it comes to bottling exquisite liquids, few ventures are as compelling as “curators of the most remarkable spirits”, The Last Drop Distillers. “I really love the word remarkable,” Managing Director Rebecca Jago says with a smile. “Because it is not saying it is the oldest or the best even, but that it is intrinsically delicious. If I gave you a glass of something from The Last Drop, I would want you to find it as delightful as someone who has been nosing spirits for 50 years.” The company started by Rebecca’s father Tom and his long-term friend James Espey OBE in 2008 is somewhat unique in that it crosses category. The two drinks industry icons initially set out to bottle single malts, but that all changed when they tasted a certain 47-year-old blended Scotch. From that day onwards, the two men – who had previously developed the likes of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and Chivas 18 – broadened their brief to seek out exceptional old parcels of any amazing spirit. By the time the company was sold to Sazerac in 2016, The Last Drop had released seven remarkable liquids and both Espey and Jago’s daughters (Beanie Geraedts-Espey and Rebecca Jago) had joined the business. In addition to being a source of great pride for the two founders, the acquisition also brought new freedoms and opportunities for the team. The US drinks group backing enabled The Last Drop to source stock for immediate release, granted them a greater ability to lay down stock and create their own libraries of future stock, and gave them the opportunity to venture into liquid creation. “I think finding treasure is not just about uncovering it,” Jago says. “It would be disingenuous to suggest that we’re Indiana Jones in Scotland, going and hunting out that barrel that is hidden at the back of the cellar because it is not,” Jago says. As romantic as the image might be, every single barrel of Scotch whisky of any age, of any sort, is known about by HMRC.  “We can talk about some of the lovely discoveries that we have genuinely been party to,” Jago adds. “Going back to the very first release of three unassuming barrels of an old blend. The treasure in that was the liquid inside. It had perhaps been discounted or forgotten about.” Or the “genuine discovery” of a Cognac barrel that had been lying untouched in an outhouse for over 70 years that was happened upon by a family member doing renovation work at the distillery. “I think that is the sort of ultimate Indiana Jones story,” Jago adds, “not by us, but we were fortunate enough to be there and I suppose our story of making the liquid the hero is sufficiently compelling that they are prepared to let us put it in a bottle.” All four bottlers, whether in their infancy or maturity, are bound by a sense of honour and wanting to do right by the liquid. And everyone benefits.   Browse all Scotch whisky or read more Editorial 

From traditional single malt Scotch to the weird-and-wonderful and everything in between, there’s every chance an independent bottler had a hand in bringing this liquid to your lips. Holly Motion spoke to four bottlers about the important role they play in the spirits world

Exploring the history of independent bottling with Gordon & MacPhail, Last Drop Distillers, That Boutique-y Whisky Company and Douglas Laing & Co,

Exploring the world of independent bottling 

Message in a bottle

After speaking with some of the foremost fine tea experts in the western world, a few things are immediately apparent. Fine tea is complex. There are undoubtedly parallels with the world of fine wine. And, almost without exception, the best examples are incredibly hard to source this side of Asia. It is also an incredibly tricky subject to learn more about if you, like me, don’t speak Chinese or Japanese. A quick stroke of the key will yield information on fine tea and where to find it. But your best bet is either boarding a plane to Asia (which is currently not without its difficulties) or finding somebody who has spent years immersing themselves in the fine tea world – they’ll likely speak the local dialect. “People are very literate when it comes to fine wine and whisky,” Jameel Lalani is quick to tell me, “not so literate when it comes to tea, although it is completely applicable.” When he set up his specialist single-batch tea business, Lalani & Co, 11 years ago, Lalani was very deliberate in borrowing the language of fine wine. “Tea is much like wine,” he explains, “it’s a drink of the terroir. Everything you do from when you choose the land and the seeds and the people you are going to work with is going to affect the flavour.” The choice of varietal, distance above sea level and picking season are also of the utmost importance. Lalani says tea is his drink, and has been since the age of four. He hasn’t looked back since tasting green tea for the first time while holidaying in North Africa as a child. One of the magical things about fine tea, I’m learning, is the paths people have taken into it. Burgundy expert and Master of Wine Jasper Morris, for example, was introduced to the world of fine tea in New Zealand, of all places, by a blind Taiwanese winemaker. From that day onwards, Morris attended Chinese tea ceremonies and swotted up on all things fine tea whenever the opportunity arose on wine trips to China and Japan. “I absolutely love it and drink it all day – from first getting up through to after dinner,” he enthuses. Fine tea is now a real passion of his, frequently hosting tasting and writing on the subject. Timothy d’Offay’s induction began while studying Japanese in Kyoto in the early 1990s. He’s been a disciple ever since – writing numerous fine tea books (in English and Japanese) and establishing one of the most highly regarded fine tea shops, Postcard Teas, in the process. Many years later, d’Offay says he is still learning, and it’s one of the things he loves most about the fine tea world. “It’s so disconnected,” d’Offay says. “Whereas specialty coffee is a world industry now and you can drink a similar product with a similar style in Sydney, Seoul, London or San Francisco, tea isn’t like that. Tea is very, very regional and very local. The predominant sales of the fine teas are local, in China in particular. “And the Chinese tea world is so different from even other countries like Japan that get their tea culture originally from China. It’s so vast.” Morris says things we have learned from wine – soil, subsoil, drainage etc – matter a great deal in fine tea. “In the Wuyi Mountains, for example, each individual mountain has its own character,” he explains, “so the underlying rock is crucial. Then also, instead of the grape variety, the cultivar of tea can make a difference as well. How and when you pick it – again a parallel – and how and when you process it.” D’Offay says wine and tea are both at the pinnacles – wine in the west, tea in the east – and despite the groundswell of appreciation for fine tea, many still struggle to shake misconceptions and get their heads around the complexities. “You’re always learning,” he says. “Probably the biggest barrier people have is a concept of what tea is,” Morris adds. “If somebody says black tea to you, they probably mean they don’t want milk in it, but there is a style of tea which we loosely call black. In fact, in China it’s more likely to be called red tea than black tea – that sort of dark tea – but there are white teas, yellow teas (which are pretty rare), red teas, green teas, and a lot depends on the season things are picked. “So, if, for example, we switch from China to India to Darjeeling. Darjeeling is in fact a type of tea which is much much more similar to Chinese tea than it is to the rest of Indian tea. If you get a first flush Darjeeling, it’s almost almost not quite a green tea, and that’s a tea that I adore and buy in big quantities.” Another hangover from old is the misconception surrounding price and what one should pay for quality. “One of the challenges in the tea world is that the mass market has demanded tea at a very low price,” Lalani says. “Some of these terroirs are phenomenal but the market says we want our tea cheap and quick. And that’s kind of like if you went to Bordeaux and you said I’d like your wine for €3.60 a bottle. What are you going to do? It doesn’t give you enough room. So what happens is the quality just goes down because you have to produce in quantity.” When purchasing fine tea, there are good resources online but d’Offay cautions: “Buyer beware.” Some enthusiasts, he explains, have a vested interest and commercial gains tied to your purchase. “The more you pay doesn’t mean that you’ll like the tea more. It’s very important to find out what you like first, before spending a lot of money online.” He says there is no right thing, just like with wine. “It’s a wide field and often your taste will not coincide with somebody else’s, so it’s really important to taste a lot of tea and find out what you like.” On this, Morris says it’s the same as when buying wine. “You just need to be buying it from somebody you trust – both for their taste and their integrity. Then let them guide you down the learning curve. And as with wine, there are some brilliant teas which may just not suit your palate.” If you are interested in getting into tea, d’Offay advises spending more money on tea and less money on the tea-making equipment. “You really need very basic tea equipment,” he explains. For Chinese teas, d’Offay says a Gaiwan – lidded cup – or a simple brewer is a good starting point. Porcelain, he says, is quite robust and glass is ok. You don’t, for example, need Yixing (the exquisite teapot pronounced yee-shing) to start with. He says he did a tasting with some “pretty good teas” with two mugs and a strainer recently. But is quick to add: “I’m not recommending that everyone brews in one mug and strains in another mug, but it is better than wasting a lot of money on really fancy stuff.” It’s always a good idea to ask questions and look for certain things when purchasing fine tea, Lalani says. “Most of the tea that gets produced gets blended – it will be picked, it will be sold to a brand, they will blend it up and it will sit on a shelf somewhere with their brand on it and that’s it. You may know where it’s from, for example, you might know what you’re buying is a Darjeeling, you may know the season – they might tell you it’s a first flush or a second flush. But it could be a blend of any number of different batches. It could be a blend of any number of different producers. It could be a blend of any number of different vintages. So the less information they give you, the less you know what’s in it.” Taking the time to make an educated purchase is a vital step, so too is the time spent learning how to prepare tea correctly. For this, Lalani has the shorthand: leaf, dose, temperature, time, decant. “Like with any of your passions, it’s going to take a bit longer,” he explains. “If you want to get a suit made, you can’t walk out with it the same day – you’ve got to wait six to eight weeks but it’s worth it. If you want to get into fine wine, you’re going to need some better glassware, you’re going to need temperature-controlled storage and you’re going to need to invest your time in a bit of knowledge.” He continues: “When you get into chocolate, you can’t buy it for 50 pence a bar, you’ve got to pay £5 to £10 a bar for a craft-made chocolate – another one of my passions – and it’s worth it.  "So, with tea, you can’t brew the bag – excuse my language – in hot water for 10 seconds, but it only takes three to five minutes to do it well – less time than it takes to make a cocktail. But it’s worth it and the rewards are enormous.” We second that. Everything you need to know about purchasing and preparing fine tea Location, location, location: When it comes to buying tea, you need to know where it was grown – particular regions have particular styles. It’s also important to know the producer and the name of the garden. Seasons matter: Tea is grown pretty much all year round. A leaf picked in the premium spring season is going to be better than a leaf picked in the rainy season. As a quick rule of thumb, look for things like first flush, second flush or spring season. It’s usually the early part of the year when you get the better quality. This is true of Japan, Taiwan and India. Vintage picks: Look for the vintage. This will give you some indication if you should be drinking it young and fresh or aged. Some teas, like the first flush season Darjeeling, are best when young and fresh –drink them as quickly as you can. Some teas, like certain white teas or oolongs from Taiwan, are great if aged. If you buy them young, you’d expect to buy them at a young price, but then if they’ve been intentionally aged, then their value – and price – will increase. So you might buy something from 2015 or 2000 or 1998, for example, where you’ll be paying a premium, but it has been aged and likely improved in flavour. Brewing to perfection: A useful shorthand for how to prepare your tea is leaf, dose, temperature, time, decant. It’s important you follow the instructions regarding the volume of leaves and temperature of water the particular tea you have purchased requires (on many modern kettles you can set the temperature, making this element very simple). There should be ample information about this on the packaging. Lalani wholeheartedly recommends purchasing precision scales to ensure you have the precise quantity of leaves every time. Balance scales cost circa £10. Essential kit: While d’Offay says a temperature-controlled kettle isn’t a must to start with, Lalani suggests it’s a worthwhile purchase at approximately £40. Both say you should be mindful with lower-temperature teas and ensure it’s the desired strength and taste. Lalani also thinks a single-pour tea pot is a wise investment. The Alethea, sold at Lalani & Co, is a beautiful and practical single-serving vessel.  Read more Editorial

The fine tea world is a treasure trove of discovery. As beguiling and complex as any wine or spirit, this enchanting liquid steeped in history can be incredibly confusing to master. Holly Motion talks to a handful of fine tea aficionados about why it's well worth investing the time.

Exploring the world of fine tea: beguiling and complex as any wine or spirit, and why it's well worth investing the time

Exploring the world of fine tea

The time for tea: next-level brews

“We take risks every day,” Vanessa Martin says to me. If you didn’t know we were standing in a winery, you might think Martin was a fighter pilot, a firewoman or perhaps a double agent. The two women standing in front of me, Martin and her colleague Chantal Uldry, aren’t necessarily the image of risk-takers – but through their hands have passed thousands of bottles of one of the world’s most precious wines: Ch. d’Yquem. It might not be life or death, but this liquid is so prized that it can seem it.  The lone Sauternes or Barsac estate to be declared a Premier Cru Supérieur in 1855, Ch. d’Yquem has a long history stretching back to the Middle Ages. The wine crafted from this property, at the highest point in Sauternes, has been lauded for centuries. It was savoured by the likes of Thomas Jefferson in the 1800s, while Jay-Z and Beyoncé visited late last year. The property and its wines are the stuff of legend, sought out by wine lovers and collectors around the world.  Production of this sweet nectar is painstaking – the vines cared for meticulously through the year, and the fruit only harvested if Mother Nature provides the right conditions for botrytis cinerea, aka “noble rot” to develop. If everything is in their favour, with just the right amount of moisture and heat at the right time, this fungus will work its way into the bunches of grapes, piercing the skin, concentrating the acid and sugar in the grapes, as well as lending its own distinctive spicy, marmalade aromas. Yquem’s team will pass through the vines up to six times, picking individual bunches and berries that are ready. Yields are miniscule, with approximately just one glass of wine made by each vine.  Once the fruit has made its way into the winery, been pressed, fermented and aged in barrel, with only the best selected for the final blend, the wine must be bottled and labelled – prepared for its début in the world. And this is where Martin and Uldry come in, part of the team who ensures that every bottle that leaves the premises is worthy of the Ch. d’Yquem name.   “We seek perfection,” Martin tells me. She has been working at the estate for two decades, having started out in the vineyards before moving into the winery, having worked with the property’s longtime winemaker Sandrine Garbay on the vinification as well as bottling and labelling, and now under the current Maître de Chai Toni El Khawand. Martin, like Uldry, is local – and wine is the region’s trade. Her parents worked amongst the vines, so she followed in their footsteps. But she didn’t love it, she found the yearly cycle repetitive – doing the same thing year in, year out – and asked to move. “This job, it changes every day,” she tells me, of her role in the winery. “I see different people every day; my work changes every day.” Watching the team work is remarkable. While much is mechanised today, everything is checked by a human member of the team. Martin takes a bottle off the line to check a label, whips out a tape measure and tuts before carefully peeling the back label off and reapplying it one millimetre further up the bottle. I watch one of their colleagues lining up a ruler against a double-magnum (all the large formats are still labelled by hand), re-applying a label five times to ensure it is just right. At another station, a woman delicately rolls each bottle in translucent tissue paper, wrapping each one with the same soft touch, before gently laying each one in a case.  Uldry was set to retire at the end of last year, after 23 years at Ch. d’Yquem. Like Martin, she’s seen much change at the estate, with its evolution under LVMH (Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessy), who have invested greatly since they purchased the property in 1999. She recalls how they used to wash the bottles by hand, and the machinery was much clunkier – whereas now it is a very slick operation, with standards higher than ever before.  There was a period when the château did a lot of reconditioning – old vintages would be sent back to them to be checked, authenticated, topped up and re-corked, as well as possibly re-labelled, before being sent back to a merchant or collector. As such, both Martin and Uldry have seen some extraordinarily old bottles, and – luckily for them – had the chance to taste some of them. Martin tasted 1921, while Uldry’s experience stretches back to the 1904 vintage – wines that they struggle to find words to describe. I recall Sandrine Garbay telling me about a bottle from the 19th century that was in a cellar in Spain, but was accidentally broken, and the sommelier team urgently called the château, cradling the bottle as they drove up to Bordeaux, desperate to save the precious wine.  “It's a source of pride that these bottles go all over the world,” Uldry says, when I ask about the ultimate destination of the wine that passes through their hands. They’re well aware of the value of the wine they’re handling, the impact of any breakage, and how crucial their role is. It is, after all, the final step for these bottles before they leave the estate, heading out into the world as ambassadors for the Yquem legacy. And many of the bottles, if not most, of the 2021 vintage (which has just been released) will outlive those that made it. As Martin says, their work isn’t about today – but tomorrow: “We’re leaving it for the generations that follow.” Explore all current listings of Ch. d’Yquem or read more about Bordeaux  

To craft world-class wine, every stage of production demands an obsessive attention to detail – and it’s just so at Ch. d’Yquem. In the latest instalment of our series taking you behind the scenes in Bordeaux, we talk to those who ensure every bottle of liquid gold is nothing less than perfect 

Exploring the art and craft of labelling each and every bottle of liquid gold from top Sauternes estate, Ch. d’Yquem – the world’s best sweet wine 

Gilding the future at Ch. d’Yquem

 Gilding the future: Ch. d’Yquem    

Rum has been positioned as the next big thing. The one to watch. The spirits category to steal market share from Scotch whisky and the sure-bet to clean up when that gin bubble finally bursts. These claims have been made for the past five years, if not longer. When you look at the figures, which don’t tell the whole story but are a good starting point, rum has been in rude health since 2018 when sales in the UK surpassed the £1 billion mark for the first time. This same year, a rum was named the best spirit at one of the most prestigious blind tasting competitions for the first time. Rum, for many, had finally arrived. “What has changed in the industry is what we can bring to market,” Master Distiller Richard Seale says, in a typically matter-of-fact and non-marketeer way. “So, it is not so much that we are changed in our rum making but today we can think to invest in very old rums, we can think to release cask strength rums, we can offer more specialised rums like pot still or pure cane juice rums and we can think about non-traditional markets – like the Far East. Twenty years ago the market for any of this was extremely limited.” Seale’s family-owned Foursquare Distillery in Barbados was the winner of the aforementioned 2018 blind tasting and the awards have continued to rain down on them since. While always destined to join the family business, Seale says that didn’t necessarily mean a career in rum, other than to sell. “What happened was the year I officially joined, my father made the biggest acquisition we had ever made in acquiring the Martin Doorly and Alleyne Arthur brands. This made for two big changes: one, we would have to invest in aged stocks as these were premium brands and two, we would start exporting. This naturally drew my focus.” Rum has been produced in the Caribbean for centuries. Historically, the new-make was sold to brokers and blenders in much the same way as Scotch whisky. Whereas Scotch distilleries started to bottle single malts from the 1970s, most rum producers wouldn’t have the epiphany to move away from a purely bulk model for another 20 years. It was from this time that rum brands as we know them began to appear in the European market. El Dorado from Guyana, for example, had been produced for centuries before it was marketed for the first time in the early 1990s. Similarly, Hampden Estate, which had been producing rum since 1753, only came to market in 2018. Legendary Trinidadian rum Caroni never actually saw the light of day as a brand in the traditional sense before it closed for good in 2003. “The rum category has changed out of all recognition,” Ken Grier, Creative Director at Colombian brand Dictador, says. “It has progressed from a white and dark mixable spirit to a premium spirit aged in good quality oak casks.” The reason for this progress is down to a multitude of factors – one of which is the realisation that rum has tremendous breadth and depth. “People have realised the rum world has a beautiful range of quality liquid to offer at the top end (rather than just the stock-standard ‘every bar has a bottle of this’ at the low end) and it has encouraged the rum-curious to be more adventurous,” Mitch Wilson, Black Tot Global Brand Ambassador, says. “We’re even starting to lead astray some of our more open-minded whisky brethren who are used to having to pay several times the price for a bottle of their favourite malts,” he adds. Wilson says better access to rums and rum makers have also contributed to this seed change. During the pandemic, the world in many ways got smaller and rum makers who had previously shied away from using technology were forced to embrace it (wifi permitting) to ensure their survival. He says thousands of people came together to discuss sugarcane spirits and meaningful connections were established between rum producers in the Caribbean and their ever-growing appreciators. Physical access to rums has also changed in recent years. Historically, French markets would predominantly sell rhum Agricole (made from sugarcane juice) from the likes of Martinique and Guadeloupe, and English speaking countries would typically sell rums from Barbados and other Caribbean islands, limiting the discovery of rums. As this has shifted, so too has the understanding and appreciation of rum. Similarly, social media has narrowed the gulf and empowered distilleries and rum enthusiasts to disseminate accurate information on rum and campaign against perceived wrongdoings. “In any spirits category there are many different levels of quality available,” Wilson explains. “I firmly believe that anyone who loves spirits but doesn’t love rum yet, just hasn’t tried the right rum for them. Perhaps their perceptions are skewed by some cheap bottle of rum they had when they were younger, or the fact that the average pub or supermarket might not offer a particularly premium selection (especially when considered next to the other spirits offerings).” Now things are changing, Wilson believes everybody has the chance to explore the very best of each spirits category and not just the “commercial rank and file” if they are willing to spend a little more on quality liquid. And rum is no different. “There are some exceptional rums that are of comparable quality to their favourite spirits,” he adds. In the same way whisky has its hard-core enthusiasts who are authorities on the subject in their own right, certain rums have developed a cult following which has driven up the cost of bottlings of certain styles from certain distilleries. High ester rums, for example, are a source of great fervour among rum fans. Jamaica is arguably the godfather of this style, with Réunion Island and a few other French territories also famed for this funky rum that in many cases wasn’t produced for consumption. Part of its appeal, according to Daniele Bondi from La Maison & Velier, is that high esters satiate in a way that whisky currently does not – on the matter of fermentation. “Historically, whisky has never spoken about raw materials or about the fermentation,” Bondi says. “Whisky normally speaks about the ageing, the master blender, and the magic. Here it is more a matter of raw materials so it is another point of view.” This point of difference and palate-altering taste is gaining in popularity. Bondi and others are quick to caution that it might be unwise to follow high ester count alone, in the same way whisky fans have pursued age statements. “It’s important not to chase the highest level of ester regardless the quality,” he says. “Esters are classified by quantity, and we know that connoisseurs love numbers on label, like for the ageing, where the worst mistake is the highest number equals the best. Also in ester amount this is a mistake: what is important is the balance of the product.” Another comparison that can be drawn with the whisky world and collectability is mothballed and closed distilleries. There have been several significant closures in the rum world – Caroni arguably being the most devastating to rum enthusiasts almost 20 years ago. Blends from closed distilleries, proprietary bottlings from a single distillery, and rums that have been produced via methods that have long since been lost have all become collectors’ items and driven scarcity in the category. While there is a market for these collectors’ items, Wilson feels true excitement towards rums that are currently flying under the radar. “You can get tremendous rums for incredible value and have something really enjoyable to explore,” he adds. “This may not always be the case though – we are already starting to see incredible demand for rums like Foursquare, Velier, and Caroni bottlings, all of which command multiple times their retail price at auction mere days after they are launched and sold out. “Even with the demand for rum going up, it is still incredible value when compared to liquid of a similar quality from the whisky categories.” For many reasons, we’re in the eye of a perfect storm for rum. Its high quality credentials, point of difference, and the tireless campaigning of certain individuals to put an end to the nefarious practices of some, ensure that rum is finally having its time in the sunshine. “If ever there was a time to build your rum collection, it was 10 years ago,” Wilson says. “The next best time is right now.” Explore rum or read more Editorial

Rum is one of the most misunderstood spirits categories. Burdened with less-than-premium associations of pirates and insipid cocktails, it’s taken a long time for the authentic, remarkable liquid to break through the malaise

Exploring how rum has grappled with misconceptions and finally started to be taken seriously for its authentic, remarkable liquid.

The evolution of rum

America’s native spirit has never been in greater demand. After years in the doldrums with production at record lows of 500,000 barrels per year, Bourbon is experiencing one of the greatest Cinderella stories in the modern spirits industry era. At last count, the number of barrels maturing in the United States had swelled to 10.3 million per year, which is a whopping 436% increase since 1999.   The reasons for the pendulum swinging back in Bourbon’s favour are multiple. The introduction of the first single-barrel Bourbon from the mid-1980s, coupled with the classic cocktail revival in the late ’90s to early ’00s, started to pique interest. Within a few short years, the Old Fashioned cocktail and brands like Blanton’s and Pappy Van Winkle were appearing front and centre in some of the biggest TV shows and films in America. Drinkers and the wider whiskey world were starting to wake up to the fact that Bourbon was a seriously good spirit. Producers couldn’t fill barrels fast enough. There was new dawn for high-priced, collectable American whiskey – and bottlings were soon like gold dust.   “Right now, in Kentucky, if I go to a liquor store, I can’t find our products on the shelves,” Drew Mayville tells me. “They are all gone. People have bought them or they don’t even make it to the shelf.”  Mayville has worked in the alcohol industry for over four decades, for the first 23 years at Seagram’s (before “it was put up for sale and my bubble burst”) and for the past 18 years at Sazerac, which produces some of the most coveted Bourbons on the market (think Pappy’s, Blanton’s, E H Taylor and Eagle Rare) at its Buffalo Trace distillery in Kentucky.   “People think [the Bourbon boom] happened overnight but it didn’t,” the Master Blender and Director of Quality says.   “I would say about 10 or 15 years ago it started to make its cycle back to favour,” he adds. “Even Pappy Van Winkle, which is one of the most sought-after Bourbons that we make, didn’t happen overnight.”   Mayville has witnessed the cyclical nature of drinking trends throughout his career and seen the various booms and busts in the United States as tastes moved from dark spirits to white spirits and back again. He believes one of the reasons Bourbon is so popular right now is largely down to its approachability.   “American whiskey tends to be very palatable,” Mayville explains in his Canadian drawl. “Scotch is more of a learned taste; lots of people drink Scotch around the world because they are so used to it.  “Part of the reason that Bourbon is very palatable is the corn. It provides a lot of that sweet fruitiness,” Mayville adds.   In order to be called Bourbon, the spirit needs to be made from at least 51% corn. The second grain in 95% of Bourbon produced is rye, which gives it a spiciness. The other 5% of Bourbon has wheat in place of rye – these wheated Bourbons are softer, as the fruit notes from the corn are accentuated by the addition of wheat. (Straight rye whiskey is also made from corn and rye, but with the rye dominating, meaning it can’t be classed as Bourbon.)   Contrary to popular belief, Bourbon can be made anywhere in the United States but 95% of Bourbon is produced in Kentucky. Bourbon must be distilled no higher than 160 proof (80% alcohol) and matured in newly charred oak barrels.   Despite its current popularity, Bourbon does have a long distilling tradition; it was first produced in Kentucky in the 1780s when distillers discovered charring barrels mellowed corn whiskey. After a strong start, Bourbon struggled during the two World Wars and was heavily affected by the temperance movement and Prohibition in the United States. Sales recovered by the middle of the century and American whiskey entered something of a golden age in the 1950s.  Unfortunately, this prosperous period was short-lived when drinkers once again turned their backs on brown spirits in favour of white spirits in the 1960s and early ’70s, kickstarting the vodka revolution that has only recently started to wane. This about-turn resulted in the first American whiskey surplus – known as a lake in world whiskey and loch in Scotland. Producers were left with gallons upon gallons of surplus whiskey and inevitable closures followed.   “We kinda skipped a generation and now we’re going back that way,” Mayville says stoically.  Now, with sales more buoyant than ever, there is a rush to ramp up production – fast. Sazerac is in the process of spending an eye-watering $1.2 billion on the Buffalo Trace distillery in Frankfort, Kentucky. A new column still, cookers and boilers are all being installed to double capacity. New, 60,000-barrel warehouses – the largest in Kentucky – are also being built every four or five months, at a cost of circa $30 million. This is scale on an unprecedented level.   Buffalo Trace is not alone in this endeavour. Producers of Old Forester and Woodford Reserve Brown-Forman are increasing their distillery space, and the makers of Four Roses have spent more than $50 million on expansion. Global spirits behemoth Diageo has also invested a reported $115 million on a new distillery and four warehouses with a total capacity of 330,000 barrels for its Bulleit Bourbon and other, as yet unannounced American whiskey brands.  “We’ve been making more and more every single year but it’s just never enough,” Mayville tells me.   “It’s a lot of money and it’s a big risk because if people don’t buy the product in 10 years from now, you’re going to have a lake of whiskey,” Mayville adds with knowing caution.   It’s hard to imagine the current Bourbon boom going bust when producers are showing such confidence in the category and bottlings such as Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve can sell on the secondary market for upwards $20,000, but there are no guarantees.   For Mayville, this change in fortunes is a real boon but his real focus is on the quality of the liquid and innovation at the stills – the sales figures are somebody else’s concern.    “The part that really excites someone who has been around as long as I have is doing new things and innovation,” he says with glee. Much to this industry veteran’s delight, this creativity is championed at the very top of his organisation.   “We can go away, do experimentations, spend money, and not even tell anyone – and it’s actually encouraged,” he says, still clearly unable to believe his good fortune.  Mayville says the American drinks market is great at keeping him honest, always expecting something that wows and excites them.  “We’re always, always trying to innovate, embrace that change, and try and make better products,” he adds.“ We run so many different experiments, trying to make better whiskeys. It’s hard to list them because there are so many. There are thousands of barrels ageing right now that are experiments.”   One of his most recent experiments was the Colonel EH Taylor 4 Grain, which was named one of the best whiskeys in the world in 2017 by Jim Murray in his Whisky Bible.    “You can’t predict exactly what’s going to happen,” the Master Blender says humbly. “We’re doing so many experiments – another one could well be one of the best whiskeys in the world.”   With creative genius like Mayville at the helm of some of these distilleries, continually striving for quality, it’s hard to see the Bourbon gold rush ending any time soon. One thing that is for sure, though, is whiskey lovers and collectors will continue to scramble for what little Bourbon there is on the market until distillers can mine their liquid gold. Browse all American whiskey or read more Editorial 

After some very challenging years, American whiskey producers feel like they’ve struck gold. Demand for Bourbon is at an all-time high and distillers can’t pump out enough liquid to meet a seemingly unquenchable thirst. Holly Motion investigates the Bourbon boom 

Exploring the reasons for the current Bourbon boom in the United States with Buffalo Trace’s Drew Mayville, who produces Pappy Van Winkle, Blanton’s and more

Exploring the Bourbon whiskey boom

Gold rush: the Bourbon boom

Bordeaux 2023  Unsurprisingly, our coverage of the latest Bordeaux vintage was top of the most-read list this year. From our first look, our full report and breakdown of the year by commune to our round-up of what the critics were saying about the vintage, there’s no doubt that Bordeaux 2023 caught your attention.  Read all our coverage of the vintage here  Burgundy  The allure of the Côte d’Or and its expressions of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir don’t look set to fade. With the release of the latest vintage from Burgundy always straddling New Year, our most-read features included coverage of both 2022 (with our summary of what the critics thought of the year) as well as our first look at the 2023 vintage, which we’re currently immersed in, as well as Jasper Morris MW’s feature for FONDATA on eight domaines to watch and our essential guide to the region.  Read all Burgundy features  Advocating for change: William Kelley  In under a decade, William Kelley has gone from an unknown academic to one of the wine world’s most familiar faces and influential voices. Now in situ as the Wine Advocate’s Editor-in-Chief, we sat down with the wine critic and winemaker to talk about his accidental career and his plans for the publication.  Read more  Rino Fontana: a collector like no other  Named by Antonio Galloni as his Wine Personality of the Year in 2023, Rino Fontana is a collector like no other. He has been squirrelling away Piedmont’s treasures since he started visiting the region’s wineries in the 1980s. But he has eyes only for one grape: Nebbiolo. We sat down to talk about his journey into wine, extraordinary cellar and obsession with this regal variety.   Read more  Telmo Rodríguez: the eternal battle  Over the last three decades, Telmo Rodríguez has relentlessly fought for Spain’s vinous heritage, forging a new face for the nation’s wines. We caught up with the indefatigable winemaker to talk about his eternal battle to right previous wrongs and Matallana, his most ambitious project to date.  Read more  See what was popular last year or read more Editorial 

From in-depth vintage reports to interviews with the industry’s leading names, we’ve published a whole host of features over the course of 2024. Of it all, however, these were the stories that proved most popular

The most popular wine and spirits features we published in 2024 – as chosen by you, from detailed vintage reports to deep-dive interviews 

The biggest wine and spirits stories of 2024 

The biggest stories of 2024 

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